Interlopers
I’m so glad now that I have my cool new digital camera, because I can document all the unique experiences, peculiarities, surroundings and chaotic goings-on in the daily life of an artist’s model.
Like today, for example, there I was at Spring Studios, posing for the afternoon drawing session, when these four idiots walked in and asked to speak with Minerva, the director. They wanted to audition for work as art models. They did. But Minerva decided not to hire them, because they were a little stiff:
Better luck next time, you clowns! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!
Five Centuries of Women in Art
Women, women, women. Can’t live with them, can’t create great art without them. Right guys? 
If you don’t believe me, watch this fantastic video that has been viewed millions of times on YouTube. A beautiful montage, it covers 500 years of famous female portraits and portrait details from the great works. See how many you can recognize. I did ok, but was stumped on a few. I see Botticelli, DaVinci, Raphael, Durer, Ingres, Manet, Renior, Matisse, Picasso. Hey, wait a second! How come I’m not in there?? Dammit.
I’m surprised Vermeer isn’t there. And Madame X is missing!! Oh boo hoo!!! Now my whole weekend is ruined! (sarcasm, folks). Would like to have seen Frida though. That’s an oversight I sincerely miss. And Degas would have been nice too.
But who cares. The video is creative, inspired, and lovely to watch. So enjoy “Women in Art”!
Doing Double Duty
Well, I’ve had a full week of art modeling. And even though tomorrow is Friday, my work still won’t be done, as I am booked to pose at Spring Studios for the afternoon session, which is doubles. Yes, that’s two models for the price of one.
Doubles can be tricky for models. Chemistry is essential. I’ve worked doubles that went smashingly well, and others that were awkward and frustrating. Very frustrating. It’s all in the pairing. In my case, I am an extrovert who tends to work much better with other extroverts. The reason is communication. Two models posing together must be able to communicate well and be equally expressive. If not, the artists will notice the disparity, the inconsistency, the giant gulf between the two models. And then the whole point of working from two models is lost. I mean, why bother? Is it just to have two bodies on the stage? Or two human beings, interacting, communicating, putting the same amount of effort and creativity into their poses? I think most artists would say the latter.
The model I’m posing with on Saturday is a guy I’ve done doubles with before. I’m sorry to say that it wasn’t one of those great chemistry situations. But we’ll see what happens. Between now and then, I’ll have to come up with some enterprising and proactive ideas to make it work. He and I have to get through the whole afternoon, and pose together for 4 1/2 hours. Fasten your seatbelts!
Philip Pearlstein is one artist who sure knows something about working with two or more models. In his long and still active career, he has created many distinctive paintings and drawings of nude life models, in pairs and even threes. They are excellent examples of the opportunities for interesting composition and perspective that multiple figures provide.
Pearlstein gave a lecture recently at the New York Studio School. I really wanted to attend, but I had to work that night at SVA. I miss everything :sob:. But I would have liked to meet him. I hear he’s a cool guy.
This is Philip Pearlstein’s Two Nudes in Studio, from 1965:
Strength Tip for Art Models
Those who practice yoga, pilates, or just good old-fashioned strength training, are familiar with the term “core”. In pilates it’s often called “powerhouse”. Call it whatever you want, it all means basically the same thing: the human torso and the muscles within. Why don’t we just say “abs”?
No part of the body is more worth the time and effort to strengthen than the abdominals. And for an art model, it is the single biggest favor you can do for yourself if you want to perform with poise, stability, and endurance. Yes, I know, doing crunches can be a drag. I do mine, but I confess I have to muster up the motivation. But I never regret it, because the abdominals are an amazing reservoir of strength, energy, and stamina. Art models should use them, abuse them, and exploit them to their advantage. Why? Because your abs can take it, that’s why. Like a good boxer can take a punch. They are daring you to “bring it on”. So bring it! It’s ok.
Let’s say a model takes a pose where the body’s weight is on one leg. If she “activates” her core, some of that weight is alleviated. It’s not visible to the eyes of the artists, but the model feels it inside. There is an incredible “lifting” effect that takes place when the abs snap into action, like it’s absorbing the movement of the body to spare the limbs. Shouldering some of the load, so to speak.
When settling into a long pose, art models should ask themselves, how will I delegate the “strength” for this pose? Your body might be asymmetrical, or leaning on something, or twisted, or whatever. That’s all fine, but it’s not the point. The larger question is, what does human anatomy provide me with? Where is my most dependable reserve of strength? A foot? Eh. So-so. An elbow? Bone. Forget it. An ankle? NEVER!! Bad, bad idea always. A thigh? Not bad. Quads are strong muscles. But they’re not centrally located on your body. A forearm? Well, if you’re leaning then that’s going to find its way into your shoulder blade and deltoid pretty fast. Not so great. Hands? Practically worthless. There’s just so much strength one can have in their hands. And fingers will go numb and the next thing you know they will be slipping out from under you.
The abs. The core. That’s your body’s workhorse. Let it work. Activate the core and the effects throughout the rest of the body will amaze you. Your core is perfectly equipped to carry your weight, stabilize you, balance you, and concentrate the energy of your body. Concerned that your abs will be sore afterwards? Sure, maybe. It’s happened to me. But consider the other options and put them up against your sturdy abdominal muscles. They look like bench players. Second fiddle. Who do you trust to pull you through a 40 minute pose? Your triceps, or your rectus abdominus? No contest, my friends.
I am pretty strong in my rectus abdominus and transverse abdominus. Less so in my obliques. But through yoga and pilates and moderate weight training, I am able to rely on my abs enough to get me through full time art modeling.
I’m not suggesting, by the way, that art models should have six-pack abs. Not at all. Abs can be plenty strong without looking ripped. The “teaser” move in pliates is one of my favorites. I like it much better than crunches. It’s a fabulous exercise because it strengthens the deep abdominals, and that’s why they don’t produce “ripped” results. You’ll get some definition in the transverse, but more importantly, very strong, controlled abs.
The Pilates Teaser:
Venus Envy
It’s due time I get out of the 20th century on this blog, artwise at least. Matisse and Rodin and Picasso and Dali and that whole gang have been running the show for many posts now. But the Renaissance is calling, haunting me in my sleep, harassing me in my dreams, and nagging me to acknowledge the musworthiness of the great Florentine age. Also, the stimulating art history discussions over at The Best Artists blog recently has inspired me to get with the program. So get with the program I will.
Great art by a great artist from a great muse will mark my long overdue foray into the Renaissance. You all know Sandro Botticelli. And you all know his 1482 masterpiece The Birth of Venus. But do you all know the life model for this famous piece? You will now. She was Simonetta Cattaneo de Vespucci, wife of Marco Vespucci (distant cousin of Amerigo Vespucci) and mistress of Guiliano de Medici who was the younger brother of Lorenzo. They called her “La Bella Simonetta”, and I’m jealous already. Considered the most beautiful woman in all of Florence, Simonetta attracted the admiration of every Medici man, Florentine man, and Botticelli himself, who was beyond smitten.
One of Botticelli’s portraits of the lovely Simonetta:
While organizing this post, I learned a couple of things I never knew about The Birth of Venus. One is that it was done in tempera. Nice. Also, because Simonetta died tragically young at the age of 22 – probably from tuberculosis – Botticelli didn’t complete the painting until years after her death. He had to finish it without her – the exquisite muse he adored.
Simonetta Vespucci was very likely the model for Botticelli’s Primavera, and a host of other works. Like I’ve said so many times on this blog, when an artist bonds with a muse and derives powerful inspiration from her, he will use her as his subject over and over again. The old saying about variety being the spice of life, doesn’t apply to artists and their models. For them, the perfect one is preferred over an average many. Never mess with chemistry.
In an era when Catholic themes dominated the major works of art, Venus is markedly pagan. It’s miraculous that the painting escaped the wrath of Savonarola, the zealous, fanatical Dominican priest who initiated book burnings and the destruction of all art he deemed sinful and sacrilegious. Here she is, the goddess Venus emerging from the sea, with the revered, idealized image of Simonetta front and center:
Modigliani’s Muse – Jeanne Hebuterne and the “Rock Star” of Montparnasse
Live fast, die young. Although that phrase was not coined by the 20th century sculptor and painter Amadeo Modgliani it certainly could have been. History, culture, and the arts have given us many of those “tortured genius” cult figures who indulged recklessly, lived decadently, and throughout the wild times, created passionately. Then they die far too early, and soon the myth – the iconography – rises from the ashes. Think James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison. Modigliani can be called a bohemian, a lothario, the dark, moody prince of Paris. But to hell with all that. Here at Museworthy we prefer to call him the troubled lover of Jeanne Hebuterne.
Rather than examine the accuracy of the Modigliani legend – whether he really was as debauched and depraved as the myth would have us believe – let’s just assert some known truths about Modgliani. He was an alcoholic. He was a drug addict. He was sickly. As a youth in Livorno, Italy, he was afflicted with several serious illnesses; pleurisy, typhoid fever, tuberculosis. His infirm health would plague him throughout his adulthood and provide some rationale for his fatalistic attitude later in life. Modigliani was also a womanizer, which makes pretty good sense, as his dark, handsome, brooding good looks attract women even today.
A young Modigliani, around 1904:
Jeanne Hebuterne was born in Paris into a strict Roman Catholic family. She aspired to be an artist and was introduced to the vibrant Montparnasse artist community through her brother Andre, who was himself an artist. She modeled for several painters and sculptors, but soon enrolled in the Academie Colarossi for her own artistic training. There, in the spring of 1917, she met the charismatic Modigliani, who was called “Modi” by friends. Almost immediately, the couple fell deeply in love. He was 15 years her senior.
Before he met Jeanne, Modigliani had had more than his share of lovers and affairs. It was as if no woman in Paris could resist his charm and sex appeal. But with Jeanne – a shy, gentle, delicate, innocent young woman – Modigliani found the person who would come closest to a true companion, and presented his best hope for a deep and meaningful relationship. Whether his destructive habits would allow that relationship to prosper, however, was a different matter.
This is Jeanne Hebuterne. Quite a magnetic, almost confrontational, gaze for a girl described as “shy”:
Jeanne had much to deal with in addition to the high-maintenance lover that was Amadeo Modigliani. Her conservative family took tremendous issue with her romantic involvement with Modi. They objected vehemently for a few reasons. First, he was a penniless artist. Second, he was a wild living degenerate. Third, he was a Jew. So what did young Jeanne do? Did she capitulate to her family’s wishes and abandon the man she loved? Or did she defy her family to be with him? Do I even have to answer that question, folks? I think you all know the answer. Disowned by her family, off she went, to love Modigliani completely, faithfully, and ultimately to her own devastation.
Unmarried, Modi and Jeanne moved in together. They had a child, a daughter, born in November of 1918. Jeanne sat for over 20 works by Modigliani, and still found time to devote to her own art as well.
Here is one of Modigliani’s many portraits of Jeanne, in the trademark Modigliani style of elongated shapes, oval faces, and swaths of color:
And this is Jeanne’s portrait of Modigliani. For a change, the artist seen through the eyes of the muse:
If only Jeanne and Modi could have lived this way; as commonlaw husband and wife, raising children, painting and creating their art, fulfilled, inspiring each other. But there was no happily ever after. Modigliani’s drinking and substance abuse effectively sabotaged any hope for such a life. Jeanne made heroic efforts to achieve that life, to foster things of meaning, the things worth living for; children, art, and the man she loved.
Those aspirations died with too many public incidents of Modi’s bad behavior. In one particularly egregious instance, Modigliani’s temper exploded to a point where he dragged Jeanne by her hair and proceeded to bang her head into the gates of the Luxembourg Gardens. He smoked hashish, drank to excess, experienced alcohol-induced blackouts, and passed out on the streets of Paris until he was picked up by the police.
By 1920, most of Modigliani’s friends in Montparnasse were fed up with him, deserting him as hopeless and incorrigible. Only one friend refused to abandon him. That one friend was Jeanne. On the night of January 24th, the Modiglianis’ downstairs neighbor at Rue de la Grande Chaumiere, knocked on their door after not seeing them or hearing from them for days. The neighbor discovered Modigliani in bed, delirious with fever, shaking, barely conscious. Lying in bed next to him was Jeanne with her arms wrapped around him in a desperate embrace. Modi was dying of tubercular meningitis. The distraught, frightened, and confused Jeanne had not sent for a doctor. She refused to leave his side.
Modigliani passed away. He was 35 years old. Jeanne was shattered and overcome with grief. Like the bottom fell out from under her. The prospect of life without Modi was unimaginable. Or intolerable. Or both. Less than 48 hours after Modigliani died, Jeanne, who was nine months pregnant with her second child, threw herself out a fifth floor window. Actually she walked out . . . backwards. Both she and her unborn child died in the fall. Jeanne Hebuterne was just 20 years old. Her suicide was her final act of allegiance, of protest, of determination. The shy, delicate, demure girl was not so submissive after all.
Jeanne had made her wishes known that she wanted to be buried next to Modigliani. Of course, her still indignant family defied her wishes and, in yet another spiteful act against the girl even in her death, buried her in Cimetiere de Bagneaux cemetary outside of Paris. It wasn’t until ten years later that the Hebuterne family finally relented, and had Jeanne’s body moved next to Modi’s in Pere LaChaise cemetery. Who is among Modigliani’s “neighbors” in Pere Lachaise? None other than his profligate “rock star” successor Jim Morrison.
After Jeanne’s suicide, Andre Hebuterne was said to be tormented with guilt for ever having introduced his sister to Modigliani in the first place. He felt responsible for all the tragedy that ensued. And of course, over the past several decades, Modigliani’s reputation has soared, his lifestyle glamorized, his persona romanticized, all at the neglect of the woman he abused, took for granted, and couldn’t be a man for. That stops here, on the pages of Museworthy.
This is for YOU, Jeanne. Not Modi.
Art Model Funnies, Part 2
Howdy, howdy hoooo! How is everybody today? Good, I hope. In a fine mood myself. Don’t know why and won’t dissect it or probe for the reasons. Just feeling like a happy girl 
To reflect my mood, here are two more art model cartoons from my stash. Hope they put little smiles on my dear readers’ faces.
From Baloo Rex-May:
From Corne Santiago Cornejo:
For the Love of Fathers
Last month, I enjoyed putting together a post in honor of Mother’s Day. This month I would certainly not neglect Father’s Day, especially since my own father is no longer with us, having died suddenly of a stroke almost four years ago.
As crucial as our mothers are to our development, I sometimes wonder if it is a father’s character – his temperament, values, and behavior – which has an even greater impact on our lives. I don’t know. Just a theory. I’m no psychologist, that’s for sure! But it seems that fathers set the “compass” for the whole family, exerting influence and power in ways that can range dramatically from beneficial and supportive, to detrimental and demoralizing. Some of us are lucky, as I was, to have a decent, upstanding, loyal father figure whose devotion to his family was immeasurable. Others have to contend with a judgmental, narrow-minded, even bullying sort. Fathers can be heroic, and they can be destructive. They can be steadfast, and they can be irresponsible. They can be brave, and they can be cowardly. They can make us proud, and they can embarrass us to no end. In some instances, they are a little bit of everything. Whoever our fathers are, we always seem to want their approval and acceptance, even if they make our lives miserable in the process!
Paul Cezanne knew a thing or two about the power of a father’s approval . . . and disapproval. Louis-Auguste Cezanne was a wealthy businessman and banker in Aix-en-Provence in the south of France. His business ventures afforded the Cezanne family a financially secure lifestyle, one that would prove highly advantageous for Paul throughout his life. A pragmatic, unsophisticated man, Louis-Auguste did not approve of his son’s desire to pursue a life in art. He preferred that the young Paul attend law school, and in 1859 at the age of twenty, Paul did just that. But as usual when one goes against their nature, Paul was unhappy. He appealed to his father to allow him to go to Paris to study art, where his childhood friend Emile Zola had already gone in pursuit of his literary dreams. Although he made his objections known, the elder Cezanne reluctantly let him go. He even gave him an allowance and paid his travel expenses.
Paris, however, did not turn out as Paul had hoped. After six months, he was miserable and depressed. Disillusioned, he returned to Aix and worked for his father. But still he was unhappy. He was not cut out for the business world.
So he decided to to pursue his artistic aspirations again, and gave Paris one more shot. Again, Cezanne met with great obstacles. He was declined for admission to the prestigious Ecole des Beaux-Arts, and repeatedly rejected by the Salon. Also, his unrefined style, shy, introverted personality, and awkward social manners placed him as an outcast in the polished, bourgeois Parisian scene. He was a fish out of water. But he did manage to make acquaintances with the Impressionist artists like Monet, Renoir, Sisley, and Camille Pisarro, with whom he would develop a close, collaborative friendship.
In 1866, Paul Cezanne did this painting of his famously difficult father. It’s really a wonderful piece when we consider the rocky, problematic nature of their relationship. Notice how unusually large the chair is, and the tense sitting pose of his father, reflecting the gruff, no-nonsense style of a tough guy businessman. I think Cezanne clearly captured his father’s intimidating personality:
Ironically, it was the considerable inheritance that Paul Cezanne received after his father’s death which allowed him to live and paint free of financial worries. Thanks to Louis-Auguste’s hard work, his son was spared the “starving artist” lifestyle, and enjoyed years of painting comfortably at the family’s summer home. A father’s love and support can be complicated. It can come with conditions and terms. It often comes through in the end.
In memory of my father, the late Edward Hajian, musician, Brooklyn native, army veteran, loving father and husband of 44 years, Happy Father’s Day . . .
Hard Labor
It was 9:45 Thursday night. A beautiful night. Balmy, still, a perfect June evening. The setting was Manhattan’s Upper East Side under a starlit sky, streets quiet, Central Park asleep. Only a few cruising cabs disturbed the tranquility of such an exquisite New York evening. But sadly I was too tired to enjoy it. I had just come off working a triple. Yes, a triple. An art modeling triple. Three jobs in one day. Sounds rough? Well, it is. Tried as I did to absorb the ethereal qualities of such a lovely night, I just couldn’t.
I was standing at the corner of 86th Street and Fifth Avenue waiting for the crosstown bus to take me to the west side. I was wearing jeans, a grey T-shirt, and black summer sandals – articles of clothing that had been removed and put on, removed and put on again maybe ten separate times throughout the day. I had posed for one class each of drawing, sculpture, AND painting, in that order. The “trifecta”. As I waited for the bus, I could feel my spine pulling itself out of hours of compression. I could feel my right shin and ankle scrambling for circulation. I was zonked. Worn out. Totally spent. Ready for bed.
When I saw the M86 bus arriving, I slid my Metrocard out of my wallet. I was eager to get on board, then get on the subway, then onto the Long Island Railroad which would carry me back to Queens. Visions of my sheets and bed pillows danced through my head. A man had been waiting at the bus stop before me, so naturally I expected to get on after him. But when the bus pulled up in front of us, the man stepped back and, in a rare gesture of chivalry, allowed me to board the bus ahead of him. “Ladies first”, he said.
The rest of the encounter went pretty much like this:
Me: “Thanks! You’re sweet”.
Man: “Yeah, I’m still a gentleman. Tired and sweaty, but still a gentleman”.
Me: “It’s OK. I’m tired and sweaty too”.
Man: “Not as much as me, sweetheart”
Me: “I don’t know. I just worked 13 hours”. (dipped my Metrocard)
Man: “Me too! But at manual labor. Physical work, you know?” (dipped his Metrocard)
Me: “Oh yeah, I know. (smiling, putting Metrocard back in wallet) But I still might have you beat in the tired department”.
Man: “Come on! No way. OK, what do you do?”
I turned around to look at him, my tired eyes stared into his.
Me: “I’m an art model”
The man’s jaw dropped open. He stood there the bus aisle, mouth agape, speechless.
Me: “Yeah, that’s right. And I just worked 13 hours”.
Man: “Sweetheart . . . sweetheart . . . you GOT ME BEAT!”
Me: “Told ya’”. (winked)
Then we both took our seats on the bus. Two tired souls just trying to get home after a long day of “physical labor”. Rest well, my hardworking friend.
The Cat Who Lives in My Garden
She appeared a few weeks ago. Slinking through the bushes. Peering out from behind the garage. Stalking birds and squirrels to no avail. At first, the mere sight of me sent her fleeing for her life. Then I started putting out food for this sweet, angelic, homeless little cat. Now she knows who I am – the lady with the food – but still she keeps her distance; cautious, wary, on the defensive, confused as to why this person is filling a food and water bowl, pestering her to come out and play, and flinging pieces of freshly cooked chicken at her.
Friends, I LOVE this cat. I truly love her. But she doesn’t love me yet 
I’ve named her Kate, and she and I are in a “dance”. A dance of trust. I talk to her gently and lovingly, but she won’t let me get close. Kate is content to live in my garden, and seems to understand that it is the safest, most welcoming place in the neighborhood for her. She will keep me company out there while I garden, but from a distance. She will hang out while I deadhead my flowers, but from a distance. She will eyeball me as I fill the food bowl, but from a distance.
I really must get a more substantial social life or something because I’m obsessed with Kate. I worry about her at night when the tomcat bullies seek her out for lascivious activity. I worry about her now as New York is melting in a scorching heat wave. I worry about her being mistreated by a callous cat-hating neighbor. What if something happens to her when I’m not home?? Ok, so I have some paranoid tendencies. Or just a melodramatic weak spot for helpless creatures. Kate!! I’ll protect you!!
With my brand new digital camera, I snapped some pictures of her, which is hard to do with this skittish, easily spooked cat. I just wanted to share them with all of you. I’m not great with the camera yet as it’s right out of the box and I read maybe one and a half pages of the user guide, so bear with me! I’ll get better, I promise. By the way, it’s a Canon PowerShot SD1100 digital ELPH. And it’s blue and really cute! I’ll be bringing it to work with me to take some modeling/posing/art class pics to post here on the blog.
Here is Kate snuggled in her favorite spot behind the fern:
Lounging by the sundial:
Kate is cool. Kate is my feline sweetie. I don’t know where she came from, or what circumstances led to her living alone and abandoned. But something brought her to me. To my backyard – the smallest one on the block. Snug, cozy, full of sheltered little corners.
And here are some other test shots, some plants and flowers in my garden. For now, this is Kate’s “home”.
Hydrangea:
Purple geranium:
Coreopsis:
Audrey Munson – Woman in Stone
It’s time for a reality check. Although I am both a born and bred New Yorker and a busy, professional artist’s model all around town, I’d better disabuse myself of any foolish notion that I am in any way the quintessential art model of this city. Because I most certainly am not. Not by a longshot. Sure I have hung on the walls of galleries, studios, and arts clubs throughout the city. But nowhere do I appear in the historic Beaux-Arts architecture of New York. My image and figure are not immortalized atop the 40 story Municipal Building. Nor are they sculpted into the arch of the Manhattan Bridge. Neither are they in the Metropolitan Museum, outside the Customs House in Bowling Green, in the lobby of the Hotel Astor, atop the Pulitzer fountain at the former Plaza Hotel, on the Mercury dime, or outside the New York Public Library. Furthermore, I have never been named “Queen of the Artist’s Studios” or “Miss Manhattan”. Those honors belong to one model, and one model alone: Audrey Munson. SHE was New York City’s artist’s model.
If any art model tries to win a “battle of credentials” with Audrey Munson, she will lose big time, as Audrey beats all of us hands down. One of my readers, Robert, a sculptor and fellow blogger over at Dorset Sculpture, commented here recently about art models being “immortalized”. He’s right. And the great Audrey Munson embodies that idea to an incomparable degree. We are talking about a woman whose gaze stares down at this city of millions from every corner – north and south, east and west, high above, carved in granite and marble, commemorating and memorializing events both solemn and celebratory. In art and architecture, in gildings and arches and almost every public square, Audrey Munson owns this city.
Audrey Marie Munson was born in 1891, in a small town in upstate New York called Mexico, near Rochester. After her parents divorced, Audrey moved to the city with her mother where she was discovered by a photographer. He asked her to pose at the young age of fifteen. Pose nude, that is. The photographer then introduced Audrey to the sculptor Isador Konti and he too asked her to pose. Soon the young girl from upstate New York was the most popular, in-demand artist’s model in the city.
Audrey Munson, 1922:
It seems that every prominent sculptor in New York was clamoring to work with her, and Audrey Munson achieved a significant level of celebrity. She even wrote a newspaper column for a time. In 1915, American sculptor Alexander Calder selected Audrey as the featured model for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, which was held in San Francisco. Munson posed for an astonishing 3/4 of all the sculpture at that event.
Here is Audrey as The Star Maiden, one of Calder’s most famous works of her:
What’s most impressive is Audrey Munson’s role as the symbolic figure of New York City’s civic glory, it’s splendid grandeur as a vast, powerful, burgeoning metropolis. Here she is as the model for Civic Fame, the statue that sits atop the Municipal Building on Centre Street. Constructed of copper sheets over a steel frame, Audrey’s flowing figure holds a five-pointed crown in one hand to symbolize the five boroughs of New York. In the other hand she holds a shield and a laurel branch. This is the second largest statue in the city. What’s the first? Oh just a little thing called The Statue of Liberty:
This is Audrey in the Fireman’s Memorial at 100th Street and Riverside Drive. It was created of pink marble by Italian stone carver Attilio Piccirilli in 1914. I have seen this sculpture in person and it’s really beautiful:
The Melvin Memorial by Daniel Chester French, honors soldiers who died in the Civil War. It’s on view at the Metropolitan Museum:
Here is Audrey in Memory, the memorial sculpture in Straus Park at 107th Street and Broadway. It honors Ida and Isador Straus who died on the Titanic in 1912. Augustus Lukeman was the sculptor:
The Pomona Statue, by Karl Bitter, atop the Pulitzer Fountain in Grand Army Plaza, 59th Street and Fifth Avenue:
Audrey Munson went to Hollywood and tried her hand at silent films. She was the first woman to ever appear nude in a film. Her role was, appropriately, that of an artist’s model. Talk about typecasting! The name of the film was Inspiration, and that is just too perfect for me, my blog, and for art models everywhere! Inspiration indeed. Here is a still from that film:
However, Audrey’s career in films fizzled out quickly. She returned to the east coast and found that the unfair, fickle nature of fame had already “retired” her. The Beaux-Arts construction boom was over. And Audrey was left behind, forgotten so fast it was almost as if she never existed. She and her mother lived in a NYC boarding house, where Audrey took up an affair with their married landlord, Dr. Walter Wilkins. Wilkins murdered his wife to free himself for Audrey. Although Audrey and her mother had already left town and had nothing to do with the murder whatsoever, the police still tracked her down to question her. She was cleared, of course, but was forever stigmatized, the mere association of her name with the scandalous events ruined her completely. Wilkins was convicted and sentenced to die in the electric chair, but he hung himself in his prison cell before the sentence was carried out.
Back upstate in Mexico, Audrey was alienated and alone. She sold kitchen utensils door-to-door. It is speculated that the conservative-minded small town didn’t approve of the local girl who had “posed nude”. Whispers, snickers, and self-righteous moral judgments might have been too much for Audrey to handle. Feeling like an outcast, she attempted suicide, but failed. She was subsequently confined to a psychiatric facility and remained there for the rest of her life. In 1996, Audrey Munson died in that institution. She was 104 years old.
In the cruelest of ironies, Audrey Munson, the great sculptor’s model and muse, is buried in an unmarked grave in upstate New York. Yes, you read that correctly. An unmarked gravestone. Since the crime of that oversight bothers me a great deal, I will close this post with Audrey’s own words. I want her to have the last word, because her sensitive, eloquent statement expresses the purpose and heart of this blog far better than any of my own in all my posts. Her words struck me in a profound way, as if a prophesy from my predecessor. They are the perfect articulation of why I conceived Museworthy in the first place; to honor people like Audrey Munson, and the hard work and inspiration they provided to artists everywhere, lest they be forgotten. She wrote this in one of her newspaper columns:
“What becomes of the artists’ models? I am wondering if many of my readers have not stood before a masterpiece of lovely sculpture or a remarkable painting of a young girl, her very abandonment of draperies accentuating rather than diminishing her modesty and purity, and asked themselves the question, ‘Where is she now, this model who was so beautiful?’”
Blog site devoted to Audrey Munson
New York Times article “The Girl Beneath the Gilding”
Back in the Nude Groove
Hi everybody! Well, life is normal again, “normal” meaning very nude, all day, in front of people who are staring at you for hours on end, examining every contour, shade of color, and anatomical feature of you in your spanking birthday suit. In other words, I’m back to work. Yay! Summer sessions have begun, and art models can return to their jaded nakedness, crummy paychecks, scheduling confusions with model coordinators, voice-mail checking and text messaging filled breaks, obscene coffee consumption, lateness, poor room temperature control, demanding instructors, aching muscles, and semi-permanent nerve damage.
Oh, I’m just having fun with some of the quirks of my profession. You all know how wholeheartedly I love art modeling, warts and all. Although I worked a little over the break – managed to score a few jobs around town – the steady work has finally begun. For me, the re-initiation comes in the form of the New York Studio School’s famed two-week Drawing Marathon. Always an experience. The National Academy has resumed classes too, and my first booking there is this week as well, for Nicky Orbach’s Thursday painting class. Love her. Love her students. Looking forward.
I thought I’d honor the official return to full time art modeling with this great video I found on YouTube. It is a collection of fantastic life drawings by Australian artist Steve Irons. I was especially attracted to them because they are mostly quick sketches done from 1 – 3 minute short gesture poses – my personal favorites to perform as an art model. They’re fascinating to look at. Hope you enjoy them!
Seeing Stars
What do Charlton Heston and Madonna have in common? They both worked as artist’s models in their struggling pre-fame days. I know what you’re all thinking; Madonna, yeah that makes sense. But Charlton Heston?? Among others, you can also add Mata Hari, Josephine Baker, and Sean Connery to the list. (Oh, crap. Did I just type Sean Connery? Great. Now my mother is going to read it, conjure up images of a young, buff Sean Connery in the nude, pass out from swooning, and I’ll have to drive over to her house with smelling salts to revive her, dutiful daughter that I am).
However, it’s a rare celebrity who will pose nude when they are already famous – not for a sexy magazine or a film role or strictly for publicity purposes – but for the purpose of art. I came across an article on the web recently about the British fashion model Kate Moss. Apparently she is engaged to a young rocker/artist named Jamie Hince and is posing nude for several of his paintings. Looks like the “artist-muse” dimension is entering their intimate relationship, with the potential to bring extra complications, emotional turbulence, mayhem, jealousy, and eventual destruction. Hey, I’m not wishing it upon them! I’m just basing it on the iron-clad historical evidence of calamitous artist-muse relationships I chronicle so exhaustively on this blog. Just kidding, folks 
But Kate Moss has had her taste of art modeling before. In 2002, she posed for the world-renowned painter Lucien Freud, grandson of Sigmund. It seems that during an interview with a style magazine, Kate said that her one still-unfulfilled aspiration in life was to pose for Lucien Freud. Freud read the interview and soon the project was set up between the eminent artist and fashion model. Excuse me- “supermodel”.
What’s most unusal about this (besides the fact that the 70 year-old artist was reading a fashion magazine) is that Moss was pregnant when she posed. So the famously waif-thin model appears much plumper than the public is used to seeing her:
But surely when it comes to depicting celebrities and famous faces, no artist can compete with the celebrity-obsessed, mass-market art purveyor Andy Warhol. His famous photo silkscreens are iconic representations of iconic figures in pop culture: Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, Jackie O, even himself. I hesitated to post this Warhol portrait of Elizabeth Taylor because it wasn’t created from life – a fundamental requisite for all art posted on Museworthy. It’s really all I ask, is that too much? Style, artist, movement, medium don’t matter. Just be from life, dammit! But I like this one the best, and I am a fan of Liz, and I do want to make a point about celebrities as subjects for art. Plus I don’t want to be a hardass.
This is Warhol’s Liz, which sold at auction at Christie’s last November for $23 million. It was once owned by British actor Hugh Grant. Warhol used a still photograph of Taylor from her film Butterfield 8, for which she won an Academy Award.
