attend the 1964 Cannes Film Festival with them.
Her father, Melvin Jacobs, was president of Technicolor International at the time. It was a
magical trip and not at all like the penny-pinching one I’d experienced when on my own
in Rome and determined to stay within my personal budget. We stayed in the luxurious
Carlton Hotel in Cannes, the Son Vida in Palma, Majorca—which is the capital city of
the Balearic Islands in Spain and offered us a fascinating fusion of history, architecture
and vibrant nightlife—and temporarily in the President’s Suite of the Hilton Hotel on the
Thames in London. We were wined and dined and romanced, and I was utterly enchanted
by the beauty that soon filled dozens of blank canvases in my mind.
Either Mr. Jacobs or our hosts paid for everything, and Joanie and I enjoyed dressing
in our finest. I was grateful and wise enough to know it was a trip of a lifetime for a non-
movie star. My ego inflated more than it should have when I was introduced time and
again as “the famous American artist, Carol Larkin.” I still have a photograph that
appeared in the Cannes newspaper where my name was spelled Caril.
A DIVINE ACCIDENT
In l965, my parents were still helping me out financially, but my lifestyle no longer
suited theirs when I had friends over many evenings and weekends. “It’s time for you to
get a real job, Carol,” they said on more than one occasion. “You’re a very talented artist.
We can’t deny that, but your efforts have become an expensive hobby you can’t afford
for the lifestyle you want to lead. You’re throwing away your future. You’re an adult. It’s
time to make decisions that will make you more independent. You’ll only do that if you
move out again.”
They were absolutely right. If Casey could work in a bank, I could find meaningful
work, too. I had been procrastinating. What if I failed? Again.
The stress was enough to cause another sugar craving.
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