Jimmy Showman, born Jaime Horrach Lillo, holds a piece of costume jewelry in the palm of his hand. “This isn’t plastic, it’s jet,” he clarifies while searching with his eyes for a hanger full of party dresses. Bright colors mix with feathers and sequins. The ground floor in Palma where he has moved is full of paintings, portraits, and remnants of a life on stage that won’t fit inside a house. Part of his wardrobe and his memories sleep in two storage units. Past 80 years old, Jimmy talks about the stage as if he had just come out of the dressing room. For more than half a century, he dressed as a woman to perform, without ever considering that it expressed a hidden identity. “I have always been me. I would finish performing, take everything off, and go out with a clean face. Heels, I almost never wore them, because they didn’t suit me well. Breasts, neither, unless the act required it, and sometimes I would go out without them because I had forgotten them. I would say to the audience: ‘Oh, I’ve left my tits in the dressing room again!’. And it was true.”