Rabat Studio: Yous’ 50-Meter Canvas Odyssey | Morocco

Morocco – A Self-Imposed Art Monastery (With Better Tea Than Dali’s)

Let’s be honest: locking yourself in a whitewashed Moroccan studio with a 50-meter canvas roll is either genius or a cry for help. Turns out it was both.

For almost three years, I played chess with myself on a linen battlefield longer than a blue whale. Just me, 180 centimeters of vertical real estate (the perfect height to paint without bending), and enough raw rosemary oil to drown a donkey.

Why This Was My "Dali in Portlligat" Phase (Minima the Mustache)

Like Salvador’s seaside shack outside Barcelona, my Rabat studio became:

A sacred madhouse where logic took naps

A laboratory for reckless pigment experiments

A shrine to solitude (though Dali had Gala to bring him snacks; I had my loving lab named Luna)

Key differences:
✅ My melting clocks were metaphorical (see: sleep schedule)
✅ Instead of a lobster phone, I had an iphone (turned off)
✅ Dali had his paranoia; I had a genuine fear of running out of Prussian blue

The Roll That Ruled My Life

📏 The Math:

50 meters = Half a soccer pitch

1.8m height = Exactly tall enough to remind me I’m not Michelangelo

3 years = 1,095 days of asking "Why didn’t I just buy normal-sized canvases?"

🎨 The Method:

Stretch a section (while swearing)

Paint until it felt true (or the light died)

Roll it like a medieval Torah of my own bad decisions

Repeat until my back demanded a chiropractor and a priest

What Emerged When the World Went Mute

The Girl Expo – All my exes’ zodiac signs in henna-filtered oil (kidding… mostly)

La Fleur – Flowers that could survive hot Moroccan summers

Quadruplicity – Proof that time is fake and I was winning

"You haven’t lived until you’ve argued with a canvas longer than your childhood self."

Rabat’s Gifts to Future Me

Villa Luna was born here (like a phoenix, but with more back pain)

I now measure life in meters painted (still better than Bitcoin)