I always knew that my third husband would be an artist.
I have done the foreigner, the business man, it’s time for an artist.
Artists have always fascinated me. Their ongoing suffering, preoccupation, fear, anxiety and nostalgia are common to me. Artists are like any other men but more honest. They will tell you things like “I am good for nobody” or “I can’t belong to you” or “I want to die” or ” I am not interested in a relationship because I hate human kind” and it´s true, we always hurt each other along the way…
Statements like this will set the bar low and prepare the ground for what is coming: just life, mere existence shaped in moments and shared ephemerally with some artist that feels ten times more, sees ten times more, suffers ten times more. Someone that announces to be selfish and harmful from day one. I´ll buy it, who wouldn’t? Finally the truth.
Artists are special beings indeed, to be preserved, loved and nurtured. To be understood, supported and most importantly: inspired. Only one kind of woman can be with or be loved by an artist: a muse, a woman strong enough to inspire during the artist´s creation / destruction process of each day, a woman that is above the mediocrities of human kind. A woman capable of playing the part and put up with the drama for a period of time regardless of its duration, a period during which the artist will feel alive, will breath fresh air, will find hope and energy to do what they do best: art.
Art in whatever form it is it’s an expression of the soul and the soul of an artist should be preserved and fed, perceived as the most expensive jewel in a jewelry store since it communicates the common feelings of a whole society at a given time.
Frida, Gala, Alfonsina, Rosalía, Isabel and thousands of others are nodding at this.