Be Muse


Threat of being a muse I started going out with a local photographer the last few summers before my second year of studies. It was a twenty-three-year-old, six-foot-harlemite called Parris. Parris did a great deal as an artists this summer: Steel sculpture, glass painting, olive wood ?but - no work was as interesting as what he made of me.

I became a muse for the first a year in the world. Strangely enough, Parris never drew me. For Parris, my dear was a five-star appearance. He used my services to keep himself in a sorry and starving year. As in the summers, this show inevitably ended.

Parris, at first slow, then suddenly, vanished from my world. It was my first thought that the phrase "muse" had been distorted into a concept of affection. At the end of this summers I often began to think about museums in the story -ona Lisa and her strange grin, Venus di Milo, Diana DIR.

If the act of life is in the world, what good is it to live? And if a lady gave God the matches before he enlightened the world. When Parris vanished, I asked myself what to think of him after everything he had made of me.

I not only mistrusted charity, I also began to mistrust the arts. One year later I carefully returned to the New York artists world. Though I wasn't like Parris, I came near him with a strong feeling of self-preservation - I would never muse again. Not a muse anymore, just a users.

is a place to make it, it's a place to live. Prior to I met Parris, sincerity was the impetus of everything I pursued: my passion, work, learning and most of the arts ?my-?my Thinking about this fact of sincerity caused a decisive epiphany that I had long overlooked: I' m an artiste too.

I' ve always been an artiste. Muse was only a small part of my art work. Frida Kahlo, who is also the most remarkable performer and icon muse. The passionate epistles Diego Rivera wrote to Kahlo were not only about the awesome natures of her beauties, but also about the tremendous strength of her loves.

Might became the decisive element in my idea of my profession as a muse. Thought is first and foremost an act of creating, and creating is the most powerful act of being. Although I'm thinking less and less of Parris now. It had been a year since he vanished, and he showed up again to tell me that he was sorry for what he was and never could be.

Said he could never thank me for the kindness I showed him when he needed it most. So we embraced each other bittersweet and broke up for probably the last one. My year in Parris had come to an end. It was not because he was his muse, but because he was humbled by the act of charity in general, just because he was not completely given back.

Always thinking naive of what Parris had made of me, I persuaded myself that the reply was ?a - a silly one. I' m not going to torment myself when I ask if this is an appropriate substitute for the kind of loving we could have done together, because the loving I gave alone was more than enough.

He was my muse, and that's enough.

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