After the great success of the Madame Arcati night at the Ghetto Club here I think I'll become a DJ or something. I plainly have a talent for orchestrating a mood, and foreign parts are better suited to my temperament.
Before the frenzy we viewed Molly P's new paintings in the club's upstairs gallery: an experience in bold abstract expressionist erotica swirls. When I return to the UK I'll put up some images for you to scrutinise.
The club itself is a labyrinthine and multi-floored warren of kitschy art and hidden dark places and decorated bars. The owner, Sonia, is a Russian princess, I am told. She wore a folded silk red polka dot kerchief in her back pocket and led the handclapping of things that pleased her: a curious habit which I really like. She is a Queen of Gothic in her deviant leathers and I can't imagine what goes on in the early hours. One of her staff Monika showed me her Adam and Eve homage to Rubens: I think being an artist is a condition of employment there.
I'm not going to waste my time describing Split - just Google the guides for the fucking adjectives. Molly wanted a green handbag so she selected one at a market near the club and I bought it for her. She then asked for a pair of scissors and vandalised the bag by cutting away a strap which left a hole in the side of it. So I bought her another bag, yellow this time, which had caught her eye. Earlier, in the taxi to Ghetto, we had argued about my Dignitas piece. "That was the most disgraceful piece you've ever written," she said as a fan of the place in Switzerland. Eventually I said I would assist her suicide by throwing her out of the car. That seemed to resolve our differences.
Back at the Meridien, I got up to speed on the goss. Steven Spielberg recently stopped by in his yacht for an electricity top-up from the hotel mains. He paid with his platinum. Then there was rapper Little Kim whose management wanted her booked suites repainted all in black. However they settled just for black towels when presented with the estimated costs. I liked the story of the Moroccan princess whose armada descended on the hotel demanding the presidential suite. The occupants were booted out and compensated with a luxury yacht at a cost to the hotel of 35,000 Euros a week. Then there was the Russian oligarch who wanted the presidential suite and wouldn't accept no for an answer. Even when he offered to pay the occupant guests three times the hotel rate he was rebuffed. Tom Cruise is left unmolested though the locals comment on his lack of height. When Molly took a walk on the prom in her robes, the torpid sun sizzlers came to life and clapped.
Today, Croatia's cultural elite are paying court to her with a cruise to the island of Brach (Brač) and then a visit to the Ghetto for a gawp at the paintings followed by a party there. She and her entourage are staying in Croatia till Tuesday but I have to fly back tomorrow. I shall have more to say and will put up photos.