The artist arrives in Rome

A Day in Rome 1 The train arrived at Termini station. I had traveled from Croatia, through Venice, with a brief stop at a Mexican architect’s place during the Architecture Biennale. I arrived in Rome with a bag full of clothes, my arms weighed down with large rolls of paper, and the bodies of young muses I had painted in bikinis over the summer. I called Dani’s number. I couldn’t reach Raffaella no matter how many times I tried. If I didn’t get through to her, I had no idea where I would stay, let alone how I would have my exhibition. I might have to take the train back to Croatia. The only other number I had was her producer friend. He wasn’t in Rome either, but at least he picked up the phone from Hong Kong, where he was. He told me Raffaella was expecting me and explained how to take the bus across Rome to the place she had arranged for me—a wild house full of her friends. But he wasn’t there. Did I want his much better apartment instead? No? Okay. The gallery was just down the street from the house. “Get on the bus and ask them to drop you off at Chiesa Nuova.” 2 With my hands full, I got on the bus, which rolled me over the city and spat me out like a lost tourist in front of a white church. 3 The house was on the fifth floor of a terracotta-colored building. Everyone in Betty’s house was expecting me. Betty’s house was home to a group of Buddhists, the teenage daughters of a South American ambassador in exile, an artist, and all kinds of traveling writers, musicians, and world wanderers. Raffaella would sometimes rent out her own place to tourists for a small fortune and take up a bed at Betty’s instead. The apartment was grand, one of those old aristocratic flats with terracotta floors, high ceilings, walls lined with books and travel maps. Chandeliers, cobwebs, and souvenirs from all over the world hung from the ceiling. Every room except the kitchen had large wooden bunk beds built into them. And at the center of it all was the kitchen, with a five-meter-long table. 4 They were all waiting for me. Raffaella had told them I was a special guest and had left me her gallery assistant’s number. In London, no one waits, so I called her. She arrived on a scooter and opened the gallery, chattering in rapid Italian. The space where I was supposed to have my exhibition was a complete mess—dead plants, boxes of old shoes, piles of magazines, books, and clothes. It looked like a deep, chaotic flea market and smelled of dampness and the desperate need to be cleared out. I expected the assistant to clean it up, but instead, she just handed me the keys, hopped back on her scooter, and disappeared. 5 If my exhibition was going to be in that space, I decided, then the space would have to be transformed. I started carrying out all the old shoes, stacks of newspapers, and heaps of clothes to the dumpster. After I cleared the first room, the assistant reappeared, shrieking into her phone, frantically signaling that I wasn’t allowed to throw anything away. She led me downstairs, where a series of basements spiraled deep beneath the gallery like a snail’s shell. She helped me haul all the junk into the belly of this beast—dark, windowless, with no electricity. Once I had cleared several rooms, I bought white paint and set to work covering the walls. And when the walls were clean, I began to paint. 6 My first models were the girls in exile.