Until the end she never stopped. Whether in the un-self-conscious doodles on the telephone pad, epic surreal frescos, a cat mask for Margot Fonteyn or a perfume bottle; she dismantles each manifesto, every construct of ‘the artist’, or what it means to be ‘a women’…or a surrealist…or a muse. Her work is not about any of this…it just is. George Melly called her “the lethal yet irresistible sphinx, the vampire we would most like to visit us.” Germaine Greer writes “Fini was convinced that she was inventing her own ideal of femininity: sensual, powerful, merciless. To a jaundiced eye, it is more of the same: huge hair, virginal breasts, tiny waists, long legs, Barbie before Barbie.” Like with Vreeland or Isabella Blow, the artifice and the glamour came absolutely naturally. The lie that tells the truth. She didn’t invent herself … she just was. Leonor Fini did not talk about having sex, or throwing a party, or making a painting. She got on and did it.