Moving to Cyprus
As fate would have it, everything changed thanks to a whimsical twist of events. My husband and I had been toying with the idea of emigrating for about five years, but the notion had lingered languidly, lacking any compelling push. Our vacation to Cyprus took an unexpected turn when COVID-19 caught us off guard. My husband decided to stay and explore this island, while I hopped on the last flight back to our children, household, and my business. None of us imagined then that we’d be apart for a whopping three months; it all seemed transient and destined to resolve quickly.
After the initial two weeks, we made the decision to relocate permanently. I began pondering what I’d like to pursue in this new setting, realizing that perhaps art wasn’t my true calling, given the lack of growth and my inability to leap to a higher plane. I announced my departure from the art scene to my artists, wished them well, and embarked on a mission to save the tiny Mediterranean island from pollution by establishing an eco-friendly tire recycling plant. I had a business plan, after all! I sourced suppliers, delved into tire recycling fractions, and even connected with people eager to buy colorful rubber crumbs by the ton!
But then, His Majesty Serendipity played another of his capricious pranks on me. When we shipped all our belongings, along with our car, in a container, I discovered upon arrival that my agent had sent his brother, Tony, as his replacement. It was Tony who asked that fateful question: “What do you do?”
Naturally, I launched into an exposition of my new project, ardently disavowing any lingering desire to dabble in art. However, Tony requested assistance in organizing an exhibition for his friend — a painter. And, oh, that piqued my interest. The challenge of curating something extraordinary amidst strict constraints on mobility, limits on gatherings, and the like, took precedence over my previous convictions. We took the plunge.
There was no extravagant publicity, no hordes of photographers; the artist himself battled severe depressive schizophrenia, a torment that echoed in his work. Yet, surprisingly, it all worked. Despite the odds, especially the bans on assembling crowds, our modest studio was teeming with people, with a queue spilling onto the street. The artist tirelessly narrated his artistry to each fresh wave of visitors, explaining the nuanced distinctions between one depressively black stroke and another. And I observed. I observed and became increasingly convinced that I truly loved this. Even in such adverse conditions, if we could produce something remarkable and compelling that drew people in, then it was important, something worth pursuing.