Pura sang


When I first arrived at Son Blanc it was like entering paradise.  I savoured everything, drunk on the good omens. Your father drove unhurriedly, his pride inflated. He wanted me to be impregnated with the raw beauty of the island at first light. We were tired from the journey and didn’t talk much. I didn’t yet know that that would be the general tone of our life together and, trustingly, I filled my eyes with the calm that I find strange even now.


In Barcelona everything had been easy. After a time suffering in a destructive relationship at last I had found the perfect man. Disgustingly conventional, he took me in his altruistic arms and I loved to make out that I was the easy-going woman. We bought dresses together, tried out new restaurants, went on long weekends in Europe. It was all nights in the relais châteaux, Un Jardin de la Mediterranée perfume and eating petit fours. It was all so stupidly French. For the first time I was able to escape from myself and even my brain was turning cute. That’s when your father said those words: Leave everything and let’s get married… and that’s when I made my mistake.


I painted as if painting were the only possible way out, but at every attempt the canvas pulled back from me:  you useless girl, what have you got yourself into? I couldn’t understand how I had let myself be won over by the idea of living in a place that now seemed unbearably artificial or, to be more precise, infinitely boring. So I prayed that something would happen. It’s a shame my prayer was answered. Now, looking at it from a distance, I think it would have been better if nothing at all had happened. But it did: you were born.


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