Surrealist Sighting

It was sometime in the mid 70′s, and I must have been 7 or 8 years old. My brother Chris was 11 or 12. We were two New York kids, lucky enough to find ourselves in a tiny chocolate shop on 57th Street, a couple of doors down from the old Russian Tea Room. Our fantastic mother was prepared to buy us any chocolates we wanted. Oh . . yes! Wooo hooo! It doesn’t get any better than that! Righteous Mom.

Chris and I were in a chocolate-dipped, toasted coconut, creme-filled, sugar-coated, nuts, nougat, caramels, and sweets heaven, literally like kids in a candy store! What to choose, what to choose. How about a hundred of everything? But my Mom suddenly got distracted by a strange man who was also in the store. A really odd, eccentric looking character. He wore a weird hat, a weird cape (yes, a cape!), and carried a cane. Weird moustache, weird face. Weird all around. Why did my Mommy care about this freak, I thought. We’re supposed to be buying chocolates!!!! How dare she direct her attention elsewhere. The nerve of that woman. But she kept eyeing him. Watching him.

My mother, as I have mentioned before on this blog, is an artist. In addition, she is probably the sharpest and quickest observer of recognizing famous figures in public places of anyone I’ve ever known. She spots people like a hawk. In crowds. In restaurants. On the streets of New York. So clearly she knew who this man was. Ok fine, Chris and I thought. The man is famous in some way. Big whoop. Can we get candy already???? My brother and I were going into sugar withdrawal symptoms at this point! The weird little man paid for his purchase, and walked out of the store with his bag of chocolates. My Mom had not attempted to speak to him, as he was not especially approachable. He just left the store, and walked out onto 57th Street. “That was Salvador Dali”, my Mom said. Huh? Dali who? Neither my brother nor I knew or cared who he was other than the jerk who delayed our candy indulgence. Can we get chocolates now, Mom?? Damn.

Yes, that was our little “brush with greatness”. Encountering Salvador Dali in a tiny chocolate shop which, sadly, is no longer there. Given how our city has changed, it’s probably some wireless T-Mobile store now. Or a Domino’s Pizza take-out.

Like all the famous artists I feature here on Museworthy, Salvador Dali had a muse; his wife, Gala. By all accounts, Gala, the daughter of Russian intellectuals, was a shrewish, domineering woman who was profoundly disliked by most people who knew her. Except for Dali, who was infatuated. He even went so far as to call her “mythological”. Gala certainly inspired him artistically, as we can see in this very interesting nude painting Salvador did of her. I have to say, I’m quite intrigued by it:

 

Gala managed Dali’s career and finances, and did so ruthlessly. Her crafty tactics worked like a charm, and even Dali’s father admitted that while Gala was not the warmest, most sensitive lady on earth, she handled and promoted Salvador’s art career with a great deal of business savvy. He said that were it not for her “my son would have ended up under a bridge in Paris”. Perhaps she is reason that Dali is so well-known not just to art experts, but to the general public. He is not “just another surrealist”, but an iconic art figure of the 20th century.

My research of their marriage was, let’s say, a little discomfiting. They weren’t Ozzie and Harriet, that’s for sure. The Dalis were more like Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald on acid. I don’t know, that metaphor works for me. Just as the Dalis’ marriage seemed to work for them. And who am I to judge? Relationships are forged for all sorts of reasons. And as far as art is concerned, a muse is a muse. When an artist finds inspiration as potent and addictive and compulsive as Gala was for Salvador, you hang on to it. Because you are inexplicably drawn to it. Because you have no choice. And so, you create . . .

The Dalis:

Gala Dali died in 1982. As per her wishes, she was buried in her favorite red Christian Dior dress.
Salvador died in 1989, in his hometown of Figueres, Catalonia in Spain, just three blocks from where he was born. To me, he will always be the peculiar man who bought a bag of chocolates, in that little shop on 57th Street.

Goodbye Art School, Hello World!

The New York Studio School is casting out into the “real world” their newest class of MFA graduates in just a couple of weeks. I feel particularly close to this group of young people because they were the first class for whom I ever posed at the Studio School. They were the first ones to draw me, paint me, pose me in setups, make me laugh, share a smoke break with, drink coffee with, and embrace as the “new” model. (New to the Studio School, not new to art modeling in general). And now they are leaving, and my sensitive nature is making me feel sentimental about their rite of passage.

Art models are witnesses to many things. Our vantage point is unique in that it is a combination of active player and passive spectator. We witness the different creative processes of individual artists. We witness the inner workings of an art school. We witness the interactions between instructors and students. We witness the goings-on of the art community. We witness the personal ups and downs of artists. And we even witness some occasional gossip. So while artists work to hone their observational skills, so too do art models (but with a lot less effort!). What’s most exciting to witness, however, is the growth in the lives of up-and-coming visionaries and budding young talents. It is slowly, quietly, engrossing. After all these years of modeling full time here in New York, I still feel honored be a brief attendant in the life paths of such fresh, talented hopefuls.

I’m so proud of this Studio School class. They comprise a diverse circle of young people, among whom geographic places from England to Argentina to Cyprus to Australia to Cuba are represented. I have not seen a more dedicated, harder working group of young artists in all my experience. They toil away in that old Greenwich Village building often 12 or 13 hours a day, often exhausted and bleary-eyed, sometimes napping, grabbing meals when they can, preparing for critiques and shows, organizing lectures, researching in the library, and juggling quite a heavy workload. And all the while, they are able to remain light-hearted in spirit. They laugh a lot, which is especially a joy for me. In my experience I have seen so many “artists” assume the stereotype of the the dark, moody, aloof, “I am a tortured artist” role. Because of it, they are rude, curt, pompous, humorless, and insufferably self-important. The Art Students League, for example, is infested with such pretentious posers.

But these kids at the Studio School (yes, I call them “kids”, because I am, um, a tad older than them ) embody a much healthier and more agreeable disposition. They are optimistic, but take nothing for granted. They are smart and realistic without being cynical. They are confident, but not arrogant (Art Students League? Are you listening?) But best of all, they are creative, passionate, and have things to say.

I am especially happy for Rosanna Wright, Jollyon Carter, Liliana Perez, and Kat Savvides, the four whom I know best of the group and, as I mentioned earlier, have enjoyed many a laugh with over the past year and a half. Wherever life takes them I hope they remember me even a little, as I will certainly remember them.

You can see some examples of their work on their newly-launched websites: jollyoncarter.com, katerinarebellosavvides.com, maryclairedelony.com, paigepedri.com, ulgensemerci.com and katherineryanroth.com

I wish each and every one of them all the best in their aspirations and endeavors. And I offer my warmest, sincerest hopes that their precious artistic dreams be fully realized. Good luck guys! Love, from your model, Claudia xoxo

Summer Books, and all the “Reading Women”

My Monday afternoon class at SVA was cancelled, which happens to art models sometimes. No class, no one needs us Although I prefer to be posing, having a few hours on my hands, on a sunny spring day in New York, is not exactly unwelcome. I used the opportunity for a massive book browse to get a head start on my summer reading syllabus (haven’t used that word since college!).

I made my way down to Union Square, home to both the beloved Strand Bookstore and a mega, multi-level Barnes and Noble. Now normally I am a Strand girl. That place is pretty much a secular house of worship for New York readers. But I needed another Moleskin notepad and I knew that Barnes and Noble carries them. Plus I wanted a Starbucks Frappucino. So Barnes and Noble it was.

The browse had begun. Hmm. Where to start? My reading interests are pretty diverse, although I strongly favor non-fiction titles, and in paperback form. I find hardcovers offputting. I feel like I’m not supposed to be in possession of a hardcover, like they don’t really belong to me. They’re too “official”. They have a weighty authority that prevents me from bonding with them. A supple softcover with its soon-to-be creased pages and frayed edges, buried deep in my bag, underneath all my crap, that sucker is mine. My loyal, pliable little friend.

I took note of the significant artist biographies which I will share with my art-minded readers. No big surprises here but I’ll mention them anyway. There is the latest installment of of John Richardson’s A Life of Picasso, which has a very close-up black and white photo of Pablo’s mad face on the cover. There’s also deKooning- An American Master by Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swan. Looks like a good read. And then there’s Matisse the Master- A Life of Henri Matisse by Hilary Spurling. With all these books and artists and an art model’s blog, it’s time for one of several image breaks. Here’s Picasso’s Woman Reading from 1932. The model is his famous muse and mistress Marie-Therese Walter:

And this is Matisse’s Woman Reading With Peaches:

Some other art biography titles which are not new but seem very worthwhile are Frida Kahlo by Hayden Herrera and The Private Lives of the Impressionists by Sue Roe.

I spent a long time in the biography section without choosing an actual purchase. I just wasn’t ready yet. But I made many mental notes. I slurped on my frap as my eyes rolled up and down the shelves.

This is Robert Delaunay’s Nude Woman Reading from 1915:

Still in biography, I noticed some other mentionables which reflect my tastes. This summer I absolutely MUST get to Isabel Allende’s The Sum of Our Days and Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. Others that piqued my interest were Naked in the Marketplace: The Lives of George Sand, by Benita Eisler, and Jane Goodall- the Woman who Redefined Man by Dale Peterson. And yes, I confess, I’d like to read Lee Server’s biography of screen legend Ava Gardner Love is Nothing. Ok, so shoot me. I love those “old Hollywood” bios. All that back-stabbing and bed-hopping escapades make for a juicy read!

Renoir’s Woman Reading, 1876:

Biography was becoming a deluge of too many excellent options. I had to get out of there, so it was time for a section change. I was determined to walk out of Barnes and Noble with at least ONE book, so I made a beeline for the one title that I knew, unequivocally, that I wanted and was ready and willing to buy right then and there. It’s a book that interests me very much, called The Soul of the Rhino by Hemantha Mishra. So I found it in the Nature section, but they were only hardcovers. No softcovers yet. Damn. What to do? I was in a quandary. Do I buy a hardcover book I really want even though I’m repelled by hardcover? (yes, this is a psychological disorder at this point). Or do I wait for a softcover? I slurped my frap like a 10 year old. I stared at the book. It seemed to stare back at me. Hmmm . . . what to do?

You guessed it. I put it “on hold”, whatever that means. Instead, I took more mental notes of books that would likely make it onto my summer reading list: Being Caribou by Karsten Heuer, The Bookseller of Kabul by Asne Seierstand, and, as a tribute to the year I was born, 1968 – The Year that Rocked the World, by Mark Kurlansky (can you dig it?)

This is a monotype by Degas, called Woman Reading. Quite a departure from his usual pastels and oils:

This was all becoming too much. My hopeless indecision was embarassing. New game plan. I thought I’d forget actual “reading” for the moment and at least get a really good vegetarian cookbook that I’ve been wanting for a long time. So I headed over to that section and, well, apparently there are 5 BILLION of them! And they all looked really good! What the hell?? There was no way I’d have time to deal with this, as my free hours were evaporating and I had to get down to the Studio School for the evening sculpture class. I slurped down the last of my frap and pondered my

crippling bookstore ambivalence. The art model wants to read! The art model loves to read! She needs a good, quality book and she’s surrounded by them and yet she can’t decide which one to buy!!

 

Theodore Roussel’s The Reading Girl from 1887:

Believe it or not, I wasted even more time reading a Leopard Operating System manual, and then more time on a crochet book, and then still more time absorbed in a Rolling Stonemagazine covers photography book. What am I doing? I have sculpture class soon! Must catch the R train!

So how did all this end up? Well friends, you’ll be happy to know that I did walk out of Barnes and Noble with a purchase. No it wasn’t the Moleskin (forget all about that). It was a book. And it was a softcover. It was Ethics for the New Millenium, by the Dalai Lama. I’m happy with my choice, and I’d say my summer reading is off to a very good start.

Blogging

Hello my dear friends! I’ve been on quite a posting roll of late – as many of you have noticed- and I want you to know that it’s still very much ON even though it’s been a few days since the last one. But here at WordPress we’ve had some problems with the image uploads (as fellow WordPressers are probably aware). And my next post contains several images. Was up late last night trying to get it up, but no luck.

But I’m off to work now and will deal with it when I get home tonight. Just letting you know that Museworthy is still here! Miss you all!

Claudia xoxoxo

A Provocative Pair

As if I wasn’t proud enough to be an art model, two fellow models in Great Britain have just made me even prouder – and a little jealous! They are Tom and Magdalena, and they have started up remarkable life drawing sessions to re-create erotic and sensual poses in the spirit of Rodin. The sessions are wonderfully (and appropriately) called Rodinesque. Now I have worked doubles at Spring Studios, but they were nothing like this! These incredible models are inspiring and expressive to the max, and what an extraordinary opportunity they provide for artists; to draw a male figure and female figure posing intimately with each other. And because they are such talented models, they are able to communicate a range of moods and passions; sexual desire, deep feeling, dynamic body movement, and a lot of tenderness too. Way to go guys!

To see Tom and Magdalena in action, click on the above link and then go to “Rodinesque Poses” in the sidebar.

Vermeer’s Mystery Muse

The 2004 film Girl With a Pearl Earring explored the creation of the famous portrait masterpiece by 17th century Dutch artist Johannes Vermeer. I really enjoyed the film, and thought the casting of Scarlett Johanson as the housemaid “Griet” was a great choice. British actor Colin Firth portrayed Vermeer. But the truth is that we really don’t know who the sitter was for this celebrated work. And it’s unlikely we ever will. So much of Vermeer’s own life is unknown and shrouded in mystery. He spent his entire adulthood in the city of Delft in the Netherlands and was only a moderately successful painter during his lifetime. When he died, he left his wife and eleven children in serious financial debt.

As a huge fan of historical and biographical movies (love them!), the factual inaccuracies (uncertainties, really) of Girl With a Pearl Earring did not hinder my enjoyment of the film. Nor did it with Amadeus or Pollock and a few others. (Heard a rumor that Al Pacino is planning to star in a biopic of Salvador Dali. I hope that’s true because I’d love to see that!)

So as to the identity of the young lady, there are three possibilities – and they could ALL be wrong. But the choices are that she is either Vermeer’s eldest daughter Maria, or the daughter of his wealthy patron Pieter Van Ruijven, or, as the movie suggests, the Vermeers’ young maid Griet. Of course it is all speculation, and art historians have been grappling with this conundrum for years. You can find an excellent discussion on all this at: Girl With a Pearl Earring, Who Posed?

This is Girl With a Pearl Earring, often referred to as “the Dutch Mona Lisa”, from 1665. To see the real thing, you’ll have to go to the Mauritshuis Museum in the Hague:

Amazing. What a gaze. Looking over her shoulder. And with parted lips which is not typically seen in portraits. The painting itself is as inscrutable as its backstory. Very fitting.

This is a great opportunity to start the first-ever Museworthy poll! So, who was the sitter for Girl With a Pearl Earring?? Hey, I trust the opinions of my astute readers more than any art academic, that’s for sure. You guys are the greatest. But I suppose I should start the voting and throw in my two cents. I will say that it is NOT Vermeer’s daughter, only because it really looks like a commissioned portrait, doesn’t it? Unless Vermeer commissioned himself, it isn’t Maria. Now wasn’t that just the most brilliant analysis?

Rock Your Body

Every couple of months, a huge deal is made out of some Hollywood starlet appearing nude in a magazine, nude in a movie role, or semi-nude in a glamorous airbrushed photo spread. The entertainment coverage goes berserk, the star gets mega-publicity, and the public snatches up those magazines to gawk at what amounts to a mere glimpse of some actress’s navel, or partially exposed boob. We ever-so-jaded art models think, “Yeah? So?”. Big whoop. We simply can’t get caught up in the hype because, well, we work in the nude all day 5 or 6 days a week – and we’re offering a lot more than glimpses! Also, those carefully staged and airbrushed images are not nudity in the true sense of the word, not as artists and art models understand it. Our definition is quite different.

Good art modeling requires a great deal of body confidence. By that I don’t mean the “Look at me, I spend 15 hours a week in the gym, check out my rock-hard abs” strutting around the beach in a skimpy bathing suit kind of confidence. For an art model, the confidence stems from a complete embrace of both your unvarnished nudity and your body in movement. Art models must “surrender” to their role, and fulfill the expectation that they will not only pose nude, but pose confidently, uninhibitedly, expressively, and without the benefit of Photoshopping, flattering lighting, or the magic worked by professional hair and makeup people. We are, as they say, the “real deal”.

Recently I read an article which referred to a young actress’s “brave” decision to pose half-naked in a magazine. I chuckled when I read it. “Brave”? Is it really “brave” to put yourself in the talented hands of a Herb Ritts or Annie Leibovitz? Is it “brave” to be pampered and prepped by assistants for hours before you finally shoot the “big shot”? A shot that’s been processed, imbued with fakery and driven by vanity? (Yes, those showbizzy nude shots are vanity-driven, but in Hollywood that’s perfectly understandable). Art models, however, are working from the polar opposite of that. We actually discard our vanity. We are working for others, not others for us. Big distinction.

I’d like to share this drawing with all of you. It was done by my pal Fred Hatt. I was posing at Figureworks Gallery in Brooklyn, and if there is any place one could call a “no-frills” environment, it’s Figureworks. There isn’t even a model platform, believe it or not. The model poses on the gallery floor, with blankets and pillows of course. And you know what? It’s fantastic. I’ve done some of my best posing there. This particular drawing demonstrates the raw honesty of real nudity, and the creativity that bursts forth when one has to work in an impromptu – rather than contrived or premeditated – fashion (the artists too). This pose, with one raised arm and the other arm across my body, just sort of happened. I turned my head to the side, my legs climbed up the wall, and there it was. Fred captured it all in a fleeting 10 minutes. And the results are great! Like I say, to art model you simply have to let loose, have fun, and just rock your body . . .

Toulouse-Lautrec Smackdown

“A professional model is like a stuffed owl. These girls [in the brothel] are alive!”
- Henri de Toulouse Lautrec

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat????????????? Say again?????!!!!!!!!! A stuffed what?? Henri! What’s with the dis???? That’s really messed up. Nobody disparages my profession. Not on my watch, pal. You want to play that game? Then bring it . . . BRING IT!!!!!!!

I feel an epic conniption coming on . . . . Toulouse-Lautrec, you . . . you . . . bastard! I’m flipping out!! ::shaves head in a state of madness:: “Hahahahahaha!!!!!” ::breaks into Met Museum at 3AM with can of spray paint:: “Teehee!!!”  ::defaces all Lautrecs with wild abandon:: sssssssss “HAHAHAHAHA!!” ::shakes can. defaces more:: sssssss ::cackles like Margaret Hamilton in The WIzard of OZ:: “weeee!!!!” ::sprays Madame X just for the hell of it:: “I’m on a sick rampage! Watch out!”  ::gathers all DVDs of Can-Can and Moulin Rouge. Puts into a pile. Crushes with bulldozer:: “HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! MUWAAAAHHH!!!” ::storms into snooty French restaurant on upper East Side. Demolishes pastry cart. Stomps on eclairs:: “YEEEEEEHAH!!” ::Cackles loudly in front of patrons:: “Toulouse-Lautrec SUCKS!!!!!” ::patrons fear for their lives:: “I’m not finished!!” ::enters kitchen. Punches chef in nose:: “Au Revoir, jerk-off!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!” ::steals bottle of pinot noir. guzzles it down in one long gulp:: “I’ve lost it!! I’m batshit! STUFFED OWL!!!!” ::douses self with gasoline. Lights a match::

Ok . . . . OK . . . . So maybe I took it a little too personally. But I’m still pretty pissed. I am NO stuffed owl. That doesn’t describe what I do at all!! Stuffed owl??!! Ugh! Aaaaargh! I hate that! I’m not “alive” because I’m not a prostitute? Grrrrr! Henri, as everyone knows, had deformed legs and suffered from a genetic condition. He was also a severe alcoholic. Yes, ok, I feel bad and have genuine compassionate for his troubled life. He sought- and received – acceptance, intimacy, and support from those ladies. They were, admittedly, his muses. And that’s quite all right.

Since I am such a fair-minded person and always take the high road (stop laughing), I will still honor Toulouse-Lautrec on Museworthy because he does deserve the recognition and should make an appearance here (dammit). And I’ll do it sans hostility.

Here’s his idiot painting, called idiot Two Half-Naked Women  from the idiot year 1894 done in idiot oil on idiot cardboard. See? No hostility So this is Lautrec and his two sluts (not professional models, remember? Heaven forbid!)

 

A Sketchbook, A Scarf, and an End Table: the Seeds of Creative Expression

Who am I to keep babbling, week after week, about inspiration and creativity when I neglect to nurture my own creative impulses? It’s a constant state with me. Although I’m the art model, I want to draw and paint a little too. People encourage me to do so all the time. And I have a sketchbook. But what have I done about it? Nothing. I have an old end table that I want to restore and decorate with a mosaic inlay. I know how to do mosaic, but what have I done about this particular project? Nothing. Have I even bought the tiles or designed the template? Of course not. I want to get a flower press so I can decoratively preserve the many pretty wildflowers that grow here in my remote little corner of Queens. What have I done about it? Once again, nothing. I even saw a great flower press online on a craft supplies website. It was just begging to be ordered. Did I get out my credit card and order the damn thing? Of course not. I’m also a crocheter, with a box full of beautiful imported yarns and printouts of patterns. What have I crocheted in the last six months? Nada. I believe I have three rows of what was the early stages of a winter scarf. And now it’s April.

Projects. Ideas. Little artistic “visions”. Creative seeds. They slumber in the recesses of my mind, trapped in oblivion. They are subjugated in a most demeaning fashion to the “back of the line”, in a hierarchy of “things to do”. They sit there . . . waiting. Waiting for their “turn”. Waiting to be called but only after “higher priority” things are taken care of first, like “get car inspected”, “replace burned out lightbulbs in basement”, “call Alexis at Cooper Union”, and “do tax returns” (which I did today, by the way).

It’s only the last few days that I’ve had an epiphany of sorts. Why do I, a very dedicated artists’ model whose passion for her work is deep and unshakable, harbor this procrastinating attitude toward other creative things I really, really want to do? Why can’t I “pounce” into them the way I “pounce” into a pose? I think I know why. It’s because I separate them in my mind. I demote them to another “category”, and make the false assumption that the inspiring feeling, though enjoyable, will be of a lower grade than that of my modeling. Thus the motivation is less focused, fleeting even. I get all psyched for a day or two, and then, poof, it’s gone – temporarily. Whereas my desire to do art modeling never goes anywhere. It never even takes a nap.

But I seem to require a separate catalyst for those other forms of creativity, one that has enough staying power so that I can at least carry the thing out to its completion. It’s my own fault because it’s in my head; this notion that doing some sketching, or mixed media or a stencil on my bedroom wall or restoring an old wooden end table, that they’re all “nice ideas” that genuinely interest me, but they’re not the same as art modeling, and therefore cannot hold up against such stiff competition. Or can they???

The joy and excitement of an idea hatching, an emotion poking its way out of its shell, a vision hungering to be conveyed – they’re all fluid and transmutable. They exist regardless of a chosen medium or craft, style, skill, or technique. Those are mere vehicles, and are really just incidental to the impulse; the desire to communicate something, to express something, to create something of beauty. Doesn’t matter if it manifests itself in painting a jewelry box, embroidering a pillow, molding a clay sculpture, or doing a series of graceful, inspiring gesture poses for 20 glorious minutes on a modeling platform. It’s all the same thing.

I want to restore that end table. I want to very much. It’s lovely, but I can make it lovelier. And how I will cherish it when it’s done.

Here’s an interview snippet from the late, great John Lennon- a man I have worshipped my whole life and am kind of in love with (sorry, Yoko, but he’s MiNE! He’s MINE I tell ya!). He has such a soothing, sexy voice, and I could listen to him for hours. Here’s a touch of wisdom and philosophy on the creative process from John. I just love the way he pronounces the word “records”:

“I Pose, Therefore I Am”

Figurative artists are awesome! They’re awesome mainly because they love the human body. They’re doubly awesome because were it not for them, I wouldn’t be employed. (Well, I’d still have the Illustration Department at FIT ) The human figure is an astounding collection of shapes, lines, textures, and colors. And they’re all organic and sentient. Really, that’s all the material one needs to create a compelling work of art, is it not?

Sure there exists a painting philosophy that likes to cram model setups full of inanimate props. I have been posed many times amid a sea of bottles, vases, draped fabrics, guitars, plastic grapes and peaches, bamboo rods, baskets, fans, fake plants and trees, and much more. Now I confess I’m not a big prop person. I never even use those posing sticks employed by many models (males mostly) for drawing groups. I hate those sticks. They throw off my balance. I know they’re supposed to facilitate the model’s balance and stabilize them during the pose. But for me they have just the opposite effect. I’m much steadier on my own two legs thank you very much.

I find especially dramatic the figurative work that has the simplest of compositions – in other words, the model and just the model, undistracted, unenhanced, the “acoustic” version if you will. “Less is more”, as they say. The dynamics of the painting originate from the model, in a beautiful harmony that comes together from the pose, the body itself, the aura, energy, and personality emanating from the life subject – the best subject there is.

I’m so thrilled to post this image of a painting by my dear friend Tai Hung Lin. Tai has been studying with Sharon Sprung for over five years, and man does it show! The model is, guess who? Yes, yours truly. And I adore this painting because it has a kind of existential quality; a lone woman in reflection and rumination, and a gentle touch of passivity with the bowed head. Very interesting, and powerful in its simplicity. This painting is the perfect example of my earlier point, that a work of art need not be crowded with a lot of frivolous hoopla to create interest. Why would you need to “create” interest when you have a life model as your subject?

Here I am through the gifted eyes of Tai. This piece was done in Sharon Sprung’s class at the National Academy, spring 2007:

Truth in Advertising

The elements of this old Apple ad are so perfectly applicable to this blog that I couldn’t resist. Art, individualism, eccentricity, and the iconoclasm that pushes new ideas and creative innovations. Oh yeah, and some inspiration too.

Here’s both Pablo Picasso and Steve Jobs showing off in the name of self-promotion. (Can’t imagine either of those guys engaging in such a thing, can you? ) Anyway, the clip is pretty cool. You probably remember it from Apple’s “Think Different” ad campaign many years ago:

 

Island Muses – Gauguin’s Tahitian Dreams

The spring is slow in coming here in New York. Not warm enough yet for my taste. Rainy, cloudy, even a tad dreary. So to lift my seasonal doldrums, I turn to the one and only Paul Gauguin – a guy who really knew how to seek out warmer climates.

I love this Post-Impressionist artist. I have for a long time. I’m not sure if I’m correct, but I’ve always sensed a bit of underratedness surrounding Gauguin’s reputation. (Is underratedness a word? Hmm . . not according to my spellcheck) In the trajectory of his life, we see the force of inspiration played out perfectly. Gauguin was living the life of a regular family man; married with five children, employed as a stockbroker. He had a love of art since childhood which could not be suppressed even into his adulthood. Frustrated and unfulfilled by his middle-class lifestyle, Gauguin abandoned his wife and children to pursue art, his true calling. Now this was not the most honorable choice and I don’t mean to defend a grown man’s decision to desert his family. It’s unfortunate, really. But I suppose when one feels he is living an unbearably discontented life, and a searing passion dwells inside them that’s just aching to come out, painful choices are made.

In the 1890s, after a time spent painting in Paris, Gauguin’s itinerant nature led him to French Polynesia, to the island of Tahiti. There, he found his paradise. In a complete rejection of Western European tastes, values, and conventions, Gauguin embraced the primitive purity of the island existence. He was inspired by the colors, sounds, and native peoples of these islands – especially the women. And who can blame him? They are earthy and arresting. Immersed in this exotic world, Gauguin produced some of the most bold, intense, uncompromising works of art we’ve seen. These are not subtle, nuanced paintings, but potent creations, fueled by the power and vivid beauty of his surroundings.

I am a color person. I respond to it. In this Gauguin piece, Two Tahitian Women, I perceive the sun-kissed skin and warm glow of these alluring women, their bond with nature and sea, flora and fauna. I’m guessing Gauguin always had a lot of burnt sienna squeezed onto his palette.

Ok, guys – my friends in the blogosphere – all you fellow creatives who drop by this site; artists, writers, photographers, art models, illustrators. What do you say we cancel all scheduled work for the next six months or so, get on a plane and fly off to Tahiti? In Gauguin’s portrayal, it looks so seductive. Ripe fruit, blue waters, green plants, tropical flowers, seahsells and sand. Are you with me? This restless muse will lead the way . . .

Hazard Pay?

For the past two weeks I’ve been posing for Sharon Sprung’s painting class at the National Academy. It’s going really well, as always. The class has me down on my knees – literally! But it’s a very different, unusual pose, and the red kneecaps are the least of my concerns.

Today, on a five minute break, I was walking around the studio when I hit my head against the protruding part of an easel. OUCH! But no big deal. I did another 20 minute pose session, stood up to stretch my legs, walked around again to chitchat and socialize with the artists and BANG! I hit my head again! Same easel. Same side of my head.

Is an art studio a hazardous working environment or am I just a klutz? Probably a little of both. There is some truth to the former for sure. When a room is crammed full of boxes, chairs, stools, platforms, easels, canvases, turpentine and oil bottles, minor catastrophes are bound to happen. Over the years, I’ve experienced my share. I once slipped when stepping on an unstable, improperly placed block that was functioning as a step. I had a near-miss when a spotlight came crashing down and almost hit me while I was posing. I had a chair arm break off under me. I’ve been accidentally poked by artists’ paintbrushes, and inadvertently sat down on exposed thumbtacks with my bare ass. Yes, OUCH!

Ah, the indignities an art model must endure. But my all-time favorite is the curious, mysterious art class phenomenon which is the discovery of wayward paint on my clothes. My clothes. I’m not even wearing them during class! They are folded and sitting in a pile, next to my bag in the corner, innocently minding their own business. When I get dressed after class I find paint on my jeans. How the hell did it get there? And it’s always cadmium yellow for some strange reason.

As for my own klutziness, the truth is I fell only once. I don’t mean a stumble or a quick balance adjustment (those are normal). I mean a bona-fide fall. It was about two years ago during a drawing class at the Art Students League. I didn’t hurt myself badly. I just picked myself up and showed everyone what I can do. Nice little metaphor for life right there.

As for an art model’s perilous working conditions, I don’t think we exactly qualify for hazard pay. When I think of what other people have to face on the job on a daily basis – coal miners, construction workers, mass transit track workers, firemen – to say that art models are relatively safe is a huge understatement!

I love my work so much that a scrape here, a stubbed toe there, a charcoal smudge, a splinter, a bruise, are all worth it to me, in exchange for the joys and rewards of being an artists’ model. So honestly I can’t complain. From firsthand experience, I know that life could be far, far worse.