Kate Moss, Muse.
Misia Sert, muse to Toulouse-Lautrec, Bonnard, Vuillard, Renoir, Diaghilev, Cocteau, in another time. But not the same, no. Misia survived time in the work of others and Kate on her own.
Salvador Dali and Gala, inseparable until her death. At Lucas Carton, I watched Dali lift her arm kissing it slowly from her wrist to the crook of her elbow, return it carefully and continue eating as though it hadn't happened. Their language of closeness was simply accepted. I wondered then if an entire lifetime of being the muse, the all day all night muse, overwhelmed Gala even as surrealism did not.
To muse seems especially generous and fettered with unknown expectations. Pattie Boyd, wife and muse to George Harrison and Eric Clapton, said "To have inspired Eric, and George before him, to write such music was so flattering. Yet I came to believe that although something about me might have made them put pen to paper, it was really all about them.” Not about her, and still in love with the men and the music. Her memoir, Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton and Me (link here).
(Repost from April 3 by request)