AT THE FIRST of the Flamingo’s many blue pools, two figures lay on chaises, bundled in coats, faces up to the sun. Vivienne Pink with her pink leather jacket up to her neck and Val Gold, spy, housemate back in Toronto, with his old Irish sheep sweater were the only ones at the pool.
Val pulled out two postcards from his grey jacket. One the head of Picasso, the other the head of Van Gogh. “Look, this is all you need to know.” He tapped the head of Picasso. “Okay, this is Pablo the Spaniard’s self-portrait. He paints himself – I mean, I love this, don’t get me wrong, but look how he portrays himself – like the primitive art he loved then. He looks African, he looks like a totem, his features erased to a mask. He looks like something iconic you would find in wood, in the Nile region, from p
