My grandparents used to have a small finca with a pool, on an overgrown hillside by the coast in Andalusia. I went there sometimes during summer vacation as a kid, together with them, my parents and my brothers. There was always at least one dog. The most adventurous part of the day was when we climbed down the old craggy staircase to the beach to collect these little shards from old tiles that had been sanded down by the patient tide of the sea. I still look for them whenever I’m at a beach, but I only keep the rare ones with the colored ornaments on the back. They tickle the same spot in my mind as an encounter with a ladybug or a squirrel. Sometimes, in the evenings, I lightened the atmosphere with a little clumsy Flamenco dance on the terrace. A consequence of my short-sighted generosity in gifting a lifetime supply of vouchers, whenever I felt like it was time to switch it up from my dinosaur paintings. There was such a warmth, calmness and familiarity in this place that should stay with me alongside all further destinations I would be about to travel to. Despite my outstanding performance in Spanish folk dance, I think my family and friends have always had a feeling about me becoming more of an artist one day.