For someone who did not have time to be anyone’s muse she led an inspired life that was bound to awaken and inspire. Of course in the time of her youth women and their function in art was to be a muse. Being an artist the whole muse aspiration would hardly do for her. One of the first of her paintings I saw was the Temptation of St. Anthony.
It and she were a revelation. It was an exhibit with a few of her works and Varo and Kahlo as well. Had the impact of these three woman not drastically changed my life, there would be something deeply wrong with me and I wouldn’t deserve to know them or ever have pudding again. Or something equally as cruel. They wove their souls into their work. Work that was not taken as seriously as it demanded to be by its excellence because of their gender but whose depths echo and will echo as long as people have souls to touch.
Leonora Carrington’s death was confirmed Thursday at the age of 94. She was a painter, sculptor, writer, mother, pioneer, lover, mental asylum escapist, and really all of us. She expressed our dreams and visions better than we could hope it with her voice. Leonora Carrington did so almost all her life through her art and we are richer for it and poorer for her leaving. Any life that can make that boast is one well lived. The knowledge she was still sharing this world with me was comforting in some distant way. I miss her already.