She was one of the first, no one else cared. A pioneer. Artists came for dinner and stayed, live in the guest house and painted. Most couldn't make a living, or give their art away. Sophisticated people did not buy art, did not consort with artists. No one bought art, it had no value. It was not part of the cultural tradition. No one really remembers what it was like, artists were people wasting their lives, outcasts, embarrassments to their families. She had eyes wide open and knew she was caught in a moment, that what they were creating mattered. She could feel the new world grinding against the old. She gave support, salons, parties, introductions, food and a place to sleep. It took guts, stamina, vision. It made people uncomfortable. She was a western woman in a veiled land, a distracted mother of three, eccentric, an oddball, a foreigner. Then the queen started supporting the arts, there was excitement in the air, then history threw everyone a monkey wrench. 

She brought the art to the west, along with artifacts and antiquities that gave it context. She started galleries, worked with academics, institutions, museums. She spread the word. From the time she was a young and followed her husband to a foreign, ancient land, till her early death she carried the torch. Few people stake a claim, dig in and stand by what they believe, she was one. You think it's glamorous till you have to pay for storage because no one thinks it's anything special. Friends nod and eyes glaze. Revolution and upheaval sour the mind. Friends stop calling. Then life happens and the vision becomes a burden. Till enough time passes.