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Abstract

. Lyrics detailed hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm. And muses were not for keeps. An inordinate number of anguished love songs are about saying goodbye.Muse-making is a seductive business. It feeds into some deep desire, to comfort, to nurture, to inspire — and I think it is a worthy occupation if shared — if the Muse is also an Artist, whatever her art. If he brings her breakfast in bed.Some of the world’s greatest artists were the world’s greatest muse breakers. August Rodin modeled Camille Claudel, a sculptor in her own right and an influence on Rodin.Her sculpted head of Rodin is famously exhibited, and other works of hers have risen in estimation. The problem is her artistic career was short-lived. After her breakup with Rodin, Claudel’s family committed her to an institution for thirty years. Whether or not she was insane is long debated.Pablo Picasso had multiple muses. Francoise Gilot, the mother of Paloma and Claude Picasso, is a centenarian whose work is exhibited in major museums and fetches high figures. Her biographical sketches include, often within the first sentence, her relationship to Picasso.She wrote one of the defining biographies of Picasso, which details the stormy creativity, relationship, and abuse. She has outlived him by almost fifty years while creating her own body of work.<h2 id="1de3">Muse is an undesirable role unless it is o

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n one’s terms.</h2>A muse might hold the overcoat or the briefcase as audience members cluster about him, after the big event. The muse’s role might be to field phone calls, make excuses, or talk about him — not yourself — as if you are merely the placeholder, the intermediary, invisible. The muse may not be amused at all, but indignant. Whoops, does this being to sound personal?I admire Georgia O’Keeffe. Alfred Stieglitz showed her early artwork in his influential New York gallery but also exhibited — without her prior knowledge — some of his hundreds of photos of Georgia, luminescent nudes, the curves of her body, the elongated strength of her hands.Dressed, O’Keeffe preferred black and white clothing that covered instead of draped; her face without makeup and her hair pulled back. The lines on her face deepened with her character and reputation. She married Stieglitz, they lived apart; she painted her New York pictures, her southwest bleached bones, and landscapes, her giant flowers with pistils and stamens.Now, I think, we venerate Georgia O’Keeffe, her paintings over six decades, and remember only as side-bar her discoverer, her husband.How delightful that the next generation finds joy in the artwork of partnership. Either one can carry or hold the briefcase. Both can sing the songs. And it’s so long, Marianne; or maybe it’s so long, Leonard and Marianne.</article></body>

A “Muse” is often Exploited

The history of women who were men’s muses does not amuse

It is easy to love a sun-drenched Greek island, blue Aegean Sea, the bohemian life of writing and drinking wine, and making love.

In the recent documentary about Leonard Cohen and Marianne, she was blonde and tanned and oh so young. He was dark and bronzed and oh so handsome. He had a little trust fund, and simple life on Hydra could be had cheaply.

There are the Leonard Cohen songs, of course. For those of a certain age, Cohen’s songs were the soundtrack to our teens, our twenties, our times of angst and young love, the lyrics meant intimately for you. That was his great secret; this dark, brooding artist sang directly to you.

Which, of course, was untrue.

It is hard work, being a muse.

It’s the role to which women were elevated or relegated. Women were seldom full-blown artists in their own right, but we could cook dinner, pour wine, and comfort the man after his frustrating day of broken attempts at the poem, the song’s lost arc, the hashed stroke of the brush.

Muses warmed his bed and his coffee and were rewarded by deep gazes into their eyes. Lyrics detailed hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm. And muses were not for keeps. An inordinate number of anguished love songs are about saying goodbye.

Muse-making is a seductive business. It feeds into some deep desire, to comfort, to nurture, to inspire — and I think it is a worthy occupation if shared — if the Muse is also an Artist, whatever her art. If he brings her breakfast in bed.

Some of the world’s greatest artists were the world’s greatest muse breakers. August Rodin modeled Camille Claudel, a sculptor in her own right and an influence on Rodin.

Her sculpted head of Rodin is famously exhibited, and other works of hers have risen in estimation. The problem is her artistic career was short-lived. After her breakup with Rodin, Claudel’s family committed her to an institution for thirty years. Whether or not she was insane is long debated.

Pablo Picasso had multiple muses. Francoise Gilot, the mother of Paloma and Claude Picasso, is a centenarian whose work is exhibited in major museums and fetches high figures. Her biographical sketches include, often within the first sentence, her relationship to Picasso.

She wrote one of the defining biographies of Picasso, which details the stormy creativity, relationship, and abuse. She has outlived him by almost fifty years while creating her own body of work.

Muse is an undesirable role unless it is on one’s terms.

A muse might hold the overcoat or the briefcase as audience members cluster about him, after the big event. The muse’s role might be to field phone calls, make excuses, or talk about him — not yourself — as if you are merely the placeholder, the intermediary, invisible. The muse may not be amused at all, but indignant. Whoops, does this being to sound personal?

I admire Georgia O’Keeffe. Alfred Stieglitz showed her early artwork in his influential New York gallery but also exhibited — without her prior knowledge — some of his hundreds of photos of Georgia, luminescent nudes, the curves of her body, the elongated strength of her hands.

Dressed, O’Keeffe preferred black and white clothing that covered instead of draped; her face without makeup and her hair pulled back. The lines on her face deepened with her character and reputation. She married Stieglitz, they lived apart; she painted her New York pictures, her southwest bleached bones, and landscapes, her giant flowers with pistils and stamens.

Now, I think, we venerate Georgia O’Keeffe, her paintings over six decades, and remember only as side-bar her discoverer, her husband.

How delightful that the next generation finds joy in the artwork of partnership. Either one can carry or hold the briefcase. Both can sing the songs. And it’s so long, Marianne; or maybe it’s so long, Leonard and Marianne.