These days, the word “muse” is tossed around lightly. To inspire a few pieces or pose for a handful of photos is often enough to earn someone the title. They’re a spark, a fleeting moment of motivation. But every so often, an artist encounters something rare, something extraordinary: a true muse. This is not just a source of inspiration—this is a revelation. A muse like this doesn’t simply inspire art; they are the art. They become the prism through which an artist’s light refracts, casting vibrant, kaleidoscopic visions that transcend mere creation.
To the artist, this muse becomes everything: life, love, purpose, and obsession. It’s intoxicating—a symphony of devotion and inspiration. But what happens when this fragile relationship isn’t nurtured? When the muse sees the artist as nothing more than a stepping stone? What happens when the artist’s fervor is met with indifference? This is a tale I know all too well.
2016 was a year of upheaval for me—a time of transformation and uncertainty. I had just hosted my first art show and was left directionless. The medium I’d dedicated five years to had grown stale; I’d fallen out of love with my craft. Without an outlet for my creativity, the world around me dulled, greying like an overcast sky. I dabbled in music, poetry, and writing, searching for something to fill the void. Photography emerged as a fleeting diversion, a pastime that hinted at the joy I once felt but never fully recaptured it.
Then came the shoot that changed everything. A friend I’d met at a Halloween party agreed to model for me. It was nothing unusual—I often photographed friends who’d never posed before, finding beauty in their unfamiliarity with the lens. My makeshift studio was nothing more than a cleared space in my childhood home. It was ordinary. It was routine. Until it wasn’t.
What I witnessed through that lens defied description. A timid girl transformed into a goddess before my eyes, each frame a glimpse into something otherworldly. My heart faltered, caught in the gravitational pull of her presence. Time dissolved. In that moment, I wasn’t just taking photos—I was standing at the altar of creation itself, granted an audience with something divine.
The hours we spent together felt infinite, yet they slipped away as quickly as they came. Afterward, we reviewed the shots together. Both of us saw something in those images we hadn’t seen before. For me, it was the rekindling of a lost flame. For her, it was a newfound confidence that began to heal old wounds.
From that day on, we became collaborators. I expressed my desire to photograph only her, and she, too, found solace in our work. She became my muse in every sense of the word. But this wasn’t just inspiration—it was obsession. My love for art returned, but it was no longer rooted in the craft itself. It was centered on her.
To capture her essence, I ventured into uncharted territory. Digital painting felt soulless, incapable of honoring the divinity I saw in her. So, I turned to watercolor—a medium as delicate and unpredictable as she was. The vibrant hues, the soft edges, the way pigments danced on paper—it was perfect. Through watercolors, I found a way to immortalize her. Every piece I created was a reflection of her beauty, her presence, her influence.
Even when my art strayed from depicting her directly, she remained its core. My ethereal, celestial style was born from those attempts to capture her essence. Every godlike figure I painted, every soft, dreamlike image—they all traced back to her.
But as the months passed, our bond grew complicated. What began as a partnership of mutual inspiration turned into something unbalanced. I poured my devotion into her, elevating her to a pedestal so high she became my entire world. She basked in the attention, rebuilding her confidence from the ruins left by others, while I mistook my infatuation for love.
Then came the breaking point.
I left town for a work trip, and when I returned, something was different. She seemed distant, her attention diverted. Soon, I learned she’d started seeing someone else. It crushed me. How could the person I’d worshipped so completely choose another? And worse, she began working with another photographer. For someone who had never known jealousy, I felt it now, sharp and unrelenting.
I tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but the cracks were showing. Our dynamic shifted. I stopped treating her like a goddess and began treating her like any other friend. The pedestal crumbled, and with it, our bond. She noticed the change, and it unsettled her. In our final argument, I admitted the truth: I had been obsessed, but I could no longer live under that illusion. It was a drastic shift that she did not take well. Our whirlwind of collaboration and connection ended abruptly. Nearly a decade has passed, and we’ve never spoken since.
Though our time together ended in pain, I remain grateful. She reignited my passion for art and taught me lessons about obsession, jealousy, and letting go. Her influence lingers in every piece I create, every brushstroke and photograph. Even this very website exists because of her. She was a muse, a cautionary tale, and a turning point in my life. While I no longer own the artwork I created of her, the memory of that time remains etched in my mind—a bittersweet reminder of the power and peril of devotion.