Burning Beauty: The Expanding Canvas of the Artist/Muse Relationship
Portrait of a Lady on Fire by Relly Coquia
The word “muse” originated in ancient Greek mythology. The nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne are known as the muses of the arts and sciences. Each of the daughters is the personification of a specific subset or medium, including dance, comedy, and astronomy. Authors dating back to the time of Ancient Greece have called upon a muse to help guide them in their writing. It’s this usage of the term muse that contemporary society refers to most often.
In our modern understanding of muses, they do not have an identity outside their relationship with the artist. Most commonly, the muse is a woman and the artist is a man. It’s a relationship that has been heavily romanticized throughout history, and some see the role of the muse as one of status. Upon closer inspection, however, this modern understanding of the artist/muse relationship is an exploitative power imbalance that favors the artist.
When the painting or poem is finished, the credit is given to the artist. It is their name that is scrawled in the corner of the frame or etched onto the placard in the museum. This implies that the piece of art was created in a vacuum and eliminates the (often) collaborative relationship between the artist and the subject. Calling the subject a muse removes the agency of their contribution to the final piece of art. It’s an artificial title of honor that ultimately disrespects the woman who is the reason the art exists.
Image Credit: MK2 Films
Céline Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire is a blazing dismantling of the artist/muse relationship. The film centers on Marianne (Noémie Merlant), an artist hired by The Countess (Valeria Golino) to paint a portrait of Héloïse (Adèle Haenel). This painting is to be sent to a Milanese nobleman who is interested in marrying Héloïse. Marianne is not the first painter The Countess has hired. Héloïse has refused to sit for the portrait because she has no desire to be married, so Marianne is tasked with painting in secret. Héloïse believes that Marianne is simply someone whose job is to accompany her on her seaside walks. Tucked away in her room, Marianne paints Héloïse from memory.
“It’s not the muse inspiring the artist, it’s the artist’s use of the muse as another tool of their craft. They become equivalent to another paintbrush in the arsenal.”
At first, Portrait of a Lady on Fire falls in line with the traditional concept of an artist and their muse. Marianne obsessively studies Héloïse: the way her hands clasp over her dress as she sits by the ocean, the curve of her ear, the color of her eyes. In the first portrait Marianne completes, Héloïse is an object. Merely existing to be observed, Héloïse is a muse. However, what sets this portrayal of a muse apart from others is that there is no romantic relationship between Héloïse and Marianne until the playing field is even. The relationship is built on trust and equality. After the first attempt at her portrait is completed, Héloïse is told of Marianne’s secret painting, but she’s convinced it looks nothing like her. Because of an ultimatum by The Countess, Héloïse finally agrees to pose for Marianne.
When Héloïse enters Marianne’s makeshift art studio for the first time, there’s a clear tonal shift between them. It’s an air of collaboration that could not exist when the artistic creation was done in secret. It’s a shift that Héloïse notices immediately and brings to Marianne’s attention when Marianne says she couldn’t imagine posing for a portrait. Héloïse tells Marianne that she already knows how it feels because they’re in the exact same position. When Marianne looks at Héloïse, it’s Héloïse who is looking back at her. Marianne is noticing and memorizing Héloïse’s features, and Héloïse is doing the same with Marianne. This scene shatters the idea that the portrait of Héloïse is the sole creation of Marianne.
This moment also exemplifies the film’s theme of observation and the power of perceiving another person. In the traditional artist/muse relationship, the observation of the muse is a place of power. The artist has the unregulated freedom to control the perception and image of the subject. It’s why Héloïse couldn’t recognize herself in Marianne’s first painting. Without input from the person the artist is attempting to capture, the art is surface level. Marianne can create a reflection of the version of Héloïse she sees, but without actually getting to know Héloïse, her portrait is simply Marianne’s idea of Héloïse. The same goes for other artists and muses. Instead of capturing the totality of the subject, an artist uses the muse as inspiration to create the version of the subject that best fits the artist’s image. It’s not the muse inspiring the artist, it’s the artist’s use of the muse as another tool of their craft. They become equivalent to another paintbrush in the arsenal.
Image Credit: MK2 Films
This portrait is not the only art that Héloïse and Marianne create together. Marianne sketches the scene of Sophie’s abortion, a small replica of Héloïse’s portrait to keep for herself in a necklace, and a nude sketch of Héloïse in one of her books. There’s also the titular painting from the opening scene. Marianne, many years later, teaches an art class where one of her students asks about a melancholic painting of a young woman whose dress is on fire. The woman is Héloïse and the scene Marianne portrayed in the painting is one she witnessed where Héloïse stood too close to a fire and her dress was briefly aflame.
Each of these pieces of art is a shrine to the time Héloïse and Marianne spent together on that isolated island. Mementos that were not created for the sake of artistry or out of the desire to be in a museum. Their purpose is far more simple, probably the most simple reason of all: remembrance. The sketch in the necklace and the one in Héloïse’s book are made by Marianne to be tangible reminders of their feelings. When there’s a relationship as intense and whirlwind as theirs, the fear of forgetting is always lurking in the shadows. There’s a desire for proof that it wasn’t all a dream or a fantasy, and the need to protect it from becoming nothing more than a hazy memory. It’s the same reason we take photos of our friends and family during important moments. When our memories fail us or try to trick us, we have concrete proof of existence.
Proof of life and love at the end of the eighteenth century, when Portrait of a Lady on Fire takes place, feels all the more urgent. Marianne tells her class that she only saw Héloïse twice after their time on the island. Once was merely a portrait of Héloïse and her daughter at an exhibition. The other was at a concert where Marianne saw Héloïse across the theatre, but they never spoke. Until those two moments, Marianne had no means of finding Héloïse or knowing what was happening in her life. It’s difficult to imagine now, when anyone can go on Instagram and find out what their ex is doing at any given moment, but that’s why Marianne’s dedication to creating art strictly for herself and Héloïse is vital to the longevity of their memories.
Queer love has always been hidden in the margins of history. Even though lesbian period pieces have recently become a bit of an inside joke in the queer and film communities, there’s something comforting in seeing queer love throughout time. Portrait of a Lady on Fire is one of the finest of this subgenre because of the respect given to the main characters. The film doesn’t gawk at them or portray them as a one-in-a-million occurrence. Instead, they’re just one of the lucky ones who found someone to love.
The reality of that world, though, is that it’s simply not a possibility for them to be together. So their love exists in the margins as well. In the portrait of Héloïse and her daughter that Marianne comes across in the art exhibition, Marianne notices the book in Héloïse’s lap. She has it open so that the page number, 28, is visible. It’s the one that Marianne had drawn in the sketch for Héloïse all those years ago. It’s a shot in the dark on Héloïse’s part, not knowing if Marianne would ever find her way to see this painting, but maybe it wasn’t for Marianne after all. Maybe the decision was simply for Héloïse and her attempt to have this portrait capture the totality of who she is. Even when a love story is over, it doesn’t always lose its importance for the people involved. That’s why Héloïse included page 28 in her portrait and why Marianne keeps sketching Héloïse’s profile. The number of ways the two of them memorialize their love is simply an attempt to create artifacts. Small examples of proof that they were real, their feelings had weight, and their love does not deserve to be forgotten.
Image Credit: MK2 Films
In a sense, even before the relationship becomes romantic, the audience has a feeling that Marianne and Héloïse are doomed. It’s mirrored in the film’s use of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Over dinner, Héloïse, Sophie, and Marianne read the myth and have a lively debate about whether Orpheus’ decision to turn around was selfish. They end up at varying places on the spectrum and the myth returns as Marianne is leaving The Countess’ house for good. When Marianne makes it to the front door, Héloïse, in the film’s only instance of using the informal toi, asks Marianne to turn around. Marianne and the audience briefly see Héloïse one last time before she’s symbolically sent to the Greek underworld forever.
Héloïse calls out to Marianne because she’d rather they get one last look at each other before their fairytale ends. Is it the realist’s choice or the romantic’s? Does it matter when it’s real life and not a story? When you know your relationship has gone as far as life will let it, wouldn’t you rather steal one last glance? Just because something is doomed doesn’t make the loss hurt any less.
As a film, Portrait of a Lady on Fire exemplifies its theme of concretizing the love between two women. Sciamma identifies as gay and has been open about her past relationship with Haenel, who plays Héloïse. It’s no secret that Portrait of a Lady on Fire was written with Haenel in mind, and Sciamma has mentioned that she wanted to celebrate the beauty of their relationship. Despite the fact that they are no longer romantically linked, the two remain good friends. Portrait of a Lady on Fire is an ode to how a loving, supportive relationship can help an individual grow into a more self-actualized version of themself. Even more magically, this film is inspired by truth. In creating this film, Sciamma has simultaneously thanked Haenel for her impact and tangibly demonstrated what Haenel meant to her.
“Do all lovers feel they're inventing something?” Héloïse asks. That question is answered long before it’s even asked. In the film’s first scene of the painting Marianne created, it’s evident that art is a means of invention. There has surely been a painting of a woman on fire before, but to Marianne, it’s brand new. The same is true for the audience. Héloïse and Marianne are simply an updated queer version of Orpheus and Eurydice, but it feels revelatory. Love is creation, innovation, and invention. Art is simply humanity’s means of documenting it.
