“Does the muse/love of an artist see themselves as more important than they may actually be to their artist/lover? Do we all to do this? Are our egos built in a way that we see ourselves in a brighter light despite ourselves? Being loved by an artist is often romanticized. Why should something be plain when something can be built up to be grand? Are circumstances and situations exaggerated in a relationship with an artist, whether on the side of the muse to the artist, OR is the artist responsible for building up the relationship therefore the “muse” now sees things through the beautiful light the artist has cast around the relationship?
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As a lover of an artist does one try to shield their lover from the inevitable pain and suffering that is an artists’ life? An artist needs suffering – does the lover try to take that suffering away out of love? Does this cause strife in a relationship? In a relationship between two artists perhaps the two can learn to embrace the suffering but must be strong enough to not let themselves and the relationship succumb to that suffering (-which I imagine would be quite hard).”
I found this written on a page of paper folded inside my copy of “My life with Pablo Neruda”. I had a hard time resisting editing my own words, which I admittedly did, ever so slightly. I wanted to keep the clearly off the cuff flow of my words but edit out some of the more cringeworthy bits. While reading Matilde’s words my mind took me to thoughts of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, of Picasso and his many lovers, to so many prominent artists and their tumultuous love lives. I have more to say regarding re-reading my own words but I will get back to them at a different time.
swimming in my head 