There is a very special quality to the rapport between an artist and his muse. In the summer of 1954, I was Picasso's. He was 72 and already a very famous artist. I was 19, beautiful, blonde but also shy and immature. What developed between us was more like the relationship between godfather and god-daughter, rather than the frisson of two lovers.
I lived in the small town of Vallauris near Cannes. My English boyfriend, the painter and sculptor Toby Jellinek, had a workshop near Picasso's studio and we had friends who had a pottery opposite it. We used to sit on its roof, chatting, like you do when you're young, so Picasso would certainly have seen me around.