I cherish these letters Prince wrote to me during the first few months of our strange and wonderful dialogue. I’ve kept them all these years in a photo album along with ticket stubs, press clippings, and other memorabilia. I look at them and see two kindred spirits who instantly recognized each other. It’s clear in his letters that our ongoing conversation was an oasis for him—U seem so kind and unaffected by this heartless planet—a sanctuary unspoiled by sexual tension or the politics of sucking up. For me, this relationship was the opportunity to step out of my ordinary world into a rarified existence in which life itself is a work of art. It had never occurred to me that each shoe and rock and handwritten letter is an opportunity to express yourself—or it’s just one more of a million little things that don’t. It’s up to you. But why would you choose to create a life from a pile of little things that don’t actively matter to you?
This was an amazing moment in the music industry—almost as pivotal as the moment we’re in now. Music videos had gained traction, making megastars of certain people, including Prince, who had a stellar sense of style on top of his music. The MTV of the early 1980s was full of random concert footage, slightly cheesy record company demos, and a whole lot of experimentation. The MTV of the 1990s had gotten a lot more sophisticated. The audience had been trained to expect visuals that were just as good as sound when it came to production values. This was Prince’s world when I entered it. I wanted to learn all about this technical part of the music business, and he loved teaching me about it. Something I learned about him in the subsequent years was that work was his way of dealing with whatever was wrong or painful or disappointing in his life. He made art—musical, theatrical, and visual. He lost himself in the act of creation. That’s something we had in common, so I never questioned it. I was thrilled to follow him down the creative rabbit hole. In that moment, all that mattered was the soaring sense of happiness I felt every time I received a letter from him. The more out-of-this-world it was, the better I liked it.
… If u like and if it’s ok by Nellie, maybe we could fly away 2 Jupiter. I hear the food is good there. If not, u can cook. But only as a last resort. Don’t bring any clothes—only your dancing costumes. During the day u can wear my clothes. We can go swimming in their ocean 2. They say all water there is pink. Imagine that. All water in Stockholm are tears. I miss u. So I cry giraffe tears.
Gilbert just called. I missed the last flight so I’ll send this off tomorrow. I’ll call U anyway 2night. I can’t wait 2 hear U.
Love & ,
Prince
After Germany, the Nude Tour continued to Sweden. Prince called me from Stockholm and said, “I’m playing Switzerland this week. Do you and your mom want to come?”
“Absolutely!” My heart was already out the door.
Ten minutes later, his security person called and told me our tickets would be waiting for us at the airport. Jan and I had been bumped up to first class a few times when we were flying as unaccompanied minors, but this was my first actual first-class ticket—and with a Mercedes waiting to pick me up at baggage claim. Once again, the bodyguard greeted us in the lobby. Mama and I waited for a while, and then a note arrived. It was written in pencil on a sheet torn from a spiral notebook, which was unusual for him. It said:
Hi! don’t look so good cuz I’m sick, but I’ll get dressed and come get u in a little while. If u 2 need anything, please let one of my guys know and they will fix u up. So happy u are here O.K. safe & sound.
P
A little while later, he called and spoke with Mama. He apologized for the wait and asked her how the flight was, and they made small talk for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then she handed me the phone. He said he still wasn’t feeling well, so rather than come out to see us, he just wanted me to come in for a while. He asked if that was all right with Mama, and Mama wasn’t going to stand in my way, that was for sure.
When I went into his room, he was sitting on one end of a big sofa, listening to music. The suite looked almost identical to the room in Frankfurt, thanks to the foo foo master’s magic touch. He was as put together as he had been the first time I saw him—meticulously trimmed beard, flawless skin, perfect eyeliner—but he did seem a bit subdued. Something was off from his usual vibrant energy.
I sat cross-legged (“dancer style”) at the other end of the sofa, and he said, “I have a confession to make. I’ve been having Gilbert call you because I don’t know how to pronounce your name. I didn’t want to say it until I could say it correctly.”
I was so touched by that. People almost never know how to pronounce my name, and most of them either stomp right on in and say it wrong without caring, or they avoid it like it’s a swear word. This was particularly upsetting to me when I started school in first grade, having no idea that my name was any different from Jan’s. I came home upset because my teacher kept calling me “Garcia,” while she called the rest of the children by their first names. This didn’t sit well with Mama. I was one of very few Latin children in the class, and she wasn’t about to put up with anything that smelled like discrimination. She went over to the school the next morning and told the teacher, “Unless you’re going to call all the other children by their last names, I suggest you learn how to pronounce my daughter’s name. I won’t have her singled out.” Then she schooled my teacher on how to say it, and I was used to explaining it the same way.