I don’t know what his deal is. He’s got a sort of Pygmalion thing going on with his Muse, who he might have carved into being. And she always seems to be having exactly none of his nonsense.
These two are part of a larger cadre that includes poet, patron, and painter.
They all seem most at home when they are scribbled on restaurant tablecloths.
I don't yet know quite what to make of them.
