What's she up to now? Credit: Chris J Ratcliffe/Getty Images for Sotheby's

āOne of the main reasons I want to speak to you now is because Iāve become increasingly aware of how both of us are regarded, in relation to men,ā writes the artist Celia Paul to the late Welsh portrait painterĀ Gwen John.
āYou are always associated, in the publicās eyes, with your brother Augustus and with your lover, Auguste Rodin. I am always seen in light of my involvement with Lucian Freud,ā Paul continues. āWe are neither of us considered as artists standing alone. I hate the term āin her own rightā ā as in āartist in her own rightā ā because it suggests that we are still bound to our overshadowed lives, like freed slaves.ā
They may have painted remarkable portraits themselves, but both women are primarily known as the muses of āgreatā male artists. And Paulās new book takes the form of a series of letters to John, whose life was āstamped with a similar patternā to her own.
āI hate the word āmuseā, too, for the same limiting reason ⦠What is it about us that keeps us tethered?ā Paul undoubtedly knows the answer to this question already: she is forever seen first and foremost in terms of her association with a man, rather than judged by her own successes.
When the National Portrait Gallery, for instance, recently acquired a self-portrait by Paul (āPortrait, Eyes Loweredā), each of the news articles emphasised her ārelationship with Lucian Freud, who painted her many timesā. Similarly, Rachel Campbell-Johnston chose to open her Times article with the very same framing the artist despises: āCelia Paul was a model and muse for Lucian Freud. She is also an artist in her own right. There . . . Iāve said it. Thatās how Paul does not like to be introduced.ā
This rhetoric is not unusual: there is a long history of women being identified as partners of men, rather than as individual agents. Constance Mary Lloyd was a childrenās book writer and dedicated activist who campaigned for a womanās right to serve in parliament. But, upon marrying Oscar Wilde, she was referred to as āMrs. Oscarā in the press.
This is particularly galling when a woman has been instrumental to her partnerās success by, say, serving as a muse ā a role whose influence has been repeatedly denied by male artists. Some have actually demanded that muses who were practising artists forget their careers to exclusively serve them. We know the famous faces of these women but often nothing of their own art. Jo Nivison Hopper, for instance, frequently features in her husbandāsĀ cinematic paintings, including the downtown diner scene, āNighthawksā (1942).Ā Most people recognise this painting; but how many could call to mind one of Nivisonās?

Nivison was initially the more successful artist. In 1924 she was invited to show six watercolours at the Brooklyn Museum, alongside Georgia OāKeeffe and John Singer Sargent. Meanwhile, Hopper hadnāt sold a painting in over a decade. Nivison, wanting to support Hopper, convinced the museum to include his work in the show; this was the exhibition which launched his career, and ended hers.
That same year, Jo Nivison married Hopper. From this moment on, her diary tells the story of his abuse, which was physical as well as psychological. Her husband discouraged her from painting: āIf there can be room for only one of us, it must undoubtedly be he,ā she writes, assuming the role of studio assistant, secretary and muse, and sacrificing her own success for Hopperās.
Paul intersperses her letters to Gwen John with reflective passages; they reveal that her fate contains distressing echoes of Nivisonās. Freud attempts to control and exploit Paul; he suggests that she should act like Gwen John, who gave up her own work while having an affair with Rodin:
āHe often compared me unfavourably to Gwen John. He told me how beautiful he thought it was that she stopped painting when she was most deeply in love with Rodin because she wanted to give herself up entirely to the experience. She told Rodin, āI am not an artist, Iām your model, and I want to stay being your model for ever. Because Iām happy.ā This is how Lucian would have liked me to be. He would have loved Gwen.ā
Freudās desires reflect wider societal expectations that women should serve menās needs above their own. Nevertheless, Paul ā in contrast to John and Nivison ā refused to acquiesce to Freudās demands, living on her own and, following the birth of their son, passing childcare duties to her mother. She reveals that she always felt āresentfulā about wanting to be with Freud, as it meant spending less time on her ownĀ work.
Perhaps Paul hates the term āmuseā so much because she was forever attempting to evade the role ā which is a demanding one. As she has said before, āthe act of sitting is never passiveā. She didnāt have the time, motivation or energy to be Freudās full-time muse, if she was to become a successful artist on her own terms. āHe wanted active participationā, and she wasnāt prepared to surrender. Which perhaps makes it all the more infuriating that being Freudās muse is so often seen as the most important thing about her.
Still, forĀ someone who is so enraged by the term, Paul canāt quite seem to (or doesnāt want to) completely let her identity as Freudās muse go. In her letters she dwells on the decade in which she was āintensely involved withā the painter. And itās not the first time that he has been her subject on the page. Her first book, Self-portrait, focused on her 10-year relationship with Freud, from meeting him while a student at the Slade (she was entranced by hisĀ āeerie glowā) to the first time she posed for him and cried. Throughout, she chronicles her struggle to love someone while dedicating herself to painting.
Having already told, and sold, her story as Freudās muse, isnāt it about time that Paul moved on ā especially if she wants everyone else to? Though professing to āhateā being seen always in relation to Freud, isnāt Paul also mining that association? In her letters to John, she is still reflecting on their āconnectionā, which she canāt seem to break. And in her paintings, Paul continues to orbit Freud. For her show at the Victoria Miro in 2019, she submitted an intimate self-portrait, āLucian and Meā, in which the male painter tilts his head towards her, as if about to whisper a secret in her ear; she, too, leans in.
Does Paul want it both ways? She is complaining about the plight of the muse, while attempting to profit from that status, effectively cashing in on her association with Freud. But then, why shouldnāt she? Paul, like so many other female artists, has been overlooked and exploited by the patriarchal art world. Why not take advantage of a situation she canāt escape, even when she tries?
āThe world celebrates and rewards women who are chosen by powerful men,ā the model Emily Ratajkowski pointed out last year in her memoir, My Body. No matter what she does, she will forever be known for her debut: dancing nearly naked in the music video of Robin Thickeās āBlurred Linesā. It is practically impossible for women to escape the association, and influence, of the male gatekeepers who have āmadeā their careers; all they can do is try to reshape the narrative about their origins. Knowing that, why should we judge Ratajkowski because, to use her words, āIāve capitalised on my bodyā?
Paul, too, has been placed in an impossible situation: no matter what she does, she will be seen as Freudās muse first and an artist āin her own rightā second. Paul may as well, then, leverage this association with Freud to further her career, and identify with other women like John who have also been framed in this light. Itās clear that she, like Ratajkowski, is using the very connection that binds her for her own means.
And yet, there is more than self-aggrandisement at stake. Paul is not simply feeding the readerās fascination with the artist-muse relationship and name-dropping Freud; she is also turning the tables on art history.
In another self-portrait, āPainter and Modelā (2012), Paul sits with tubes of paint at her feet, in a huge, stained overall. She is, unmistakably, the painter. But the title coyly alludes to the lasting impact Freud, though heās not present in the painting, has had on her life. So much so that the viewer is left wondering: is Paulās final project to invert their relationship? Here, she is the protagonist, while Freud has become a supporting character in her story: an invisible muse.
Ā
Ruth Millingtonās book, Muse, is published this month.
Join the discussion
Join like minded readers that support our journalism by becoming a paid subscriber
To join the discussion in the comments, become a paid subscriber.
Join like minded readers that support our journalism, read unlimited articles and enjoy other subscriber-only benefits.
Subscribe