I will be watching it if I can, because the central theme of my first novel I Am a Muse is exactly that: an exploration of the intense and all-consuming relationship of an artist and his muse.
In the book, Alda Thunberg has spent forty heady years as the Perfect Muse for her husband, painter and sculptor Alastair Maynard. After his passing, she herself is barely alive: his death has deprived her of her raison d'être; she has been his muse and inspiration for so long that on his disappearance, she is left hollow and disembodied. Even though Alda is herself an artist, she realises that she has neglected her own practice for so long that she finds herself unable to create again.
Can those who inspire be in turn inspired?
Does being a muse equates to surrendering yourself to another, more powerful talent and forgetting yourself in the process?
As we follow writer Dan Brigstoke's work on Alastair's biography, we snatch a few glimpses of Alda and Alastair's life before the painter's demise, and we begin to realise how complex the relationship between an artist and their muse can be.