Trappings of Tradition – The Rap on Bouguereau
I don’t know who exactly comprises the “art establishment”, but whoever these people are, they wield an obscene amount of power. We’re talking Dick Cheney kind of power. They make or break an artist’s career. They laud or bash an artist’s reputation. Somehow they became ordained, anointed the arbiters of the art world and have the undisputed last word on which artists “matter” and which do not. Which artists are “important” and which are not. Hey, that’s some job! How do I sign up for that?
One of the many things I’ve learned in my experiences as an artist’s model, is that the art community is a very catty scene. Very catty. Like junior high school, “popular girls” clique catty. (Trust me, that’s BAD!) Sure, I understand that trends exist in culture and the arts. Sensibilities change, social attitudes shift, styles go in and out of vogue. Maybe I’m crazy, but I feel that those fickle patterns are better suited for things far more frivolous than fine art, like hairstyles and skirt lengths and coffee flavors (frappuccino anyone?).
The reputation of William-Adolphe Bouguereau has been on both sides of the coin. A 19th century French academic painter, Bouguereau’s work paid homage to classical tradition, boasted great technical ability, and idealized mythological and religious themes. He achieved enormous success in his lifetime, becoming the darling of wealthy art patrons. Bouguereau happily and unapologetically gave them what they wanted. And he made a lot of money in the process.
The art establishment marveled at his paintings. But the “avante-garde” (snobs in their own right) ridiculed him mercilessly. In Bouguereau’s day the avant-garde consisted of the Impressionists – the impudent, rebellious, oh-so-hip Impressionists. Degas and Monet openly mocked Bouguereau (meow!) and predicted that he would eventually fall out of favor, which he did. And the “fall” of Bouguereau was probably rejoiced by many. Jealousy anyone?
After his death, Bouguereau was forgotten, buried so deep in oblivion that his name and work were completely left out of art encyclopedias. He became a boring old relic. An anachronism. Reviled and dismissed. With the 20th century art scene dominated by the monumental figures of Picasso and Matisse, Bouguereau had no place. Then with the advent of the Abstract Expressionism craze and it’s proponents (another group of huge snobs), Bouguereau had zero chance of being remembered. The “art establishment”, brilliant tastemakers that they are, decided (for all the rest of us, apparently) that Bouguereau was shit. Not even worth mentioning. A tad harsh, don’t you think? The guy wasn’t exactly a no-talent hack.
Even though my own personal taste admittedly tilts toward more modern art, I’m by no means a slave to it. Nor do I care what art scholars and art critics have to say with their insufferable analyses and snooty, condescending opinions. Maybe it’s because I look at art through the eyes of an artist’s model that I feel so liberated. My standards are blissfully different from those of the “art establishment”. And thank god for that. I look at figures. I look at models. I look at poses. I look at the human body. And I love nudity. My body is my livelihood, so any artist who glorifies and captures the inherent beauty of the figure is ok in my book 
So does this mean that Bouguereau now makes it into my top ten list of favorite artists? Well, no, I wouldn’t go that far. Besides, the list is already filled to capacity. But I can’t bring myself to join the chorus of disdainful Bouguereau haters. Not after looking at some of these paintings. I see nice attention to detail, and beautiful models looking fabulous, confident, and free.
After the Bath, 1875:
Nymphs and Satyr, 1873:
Dawn, 1881:
This one is awesome! She’s floating! Love it. And I do that clasped fingers/arm stretch thing a lot, so it’s really cool to see it immortalized here. From 1884, Lost Pleiad:
But don’t feel sorry for poor forgotten Bouguereau. Like the fickle nature of fame, his artistic reputation is back on the upswing. The Art Renewal Center has resurrected the old guy and created a whole new generation of Bouguereau fans. Back on top where he started, he’s come full circle.
It’s worth noting that Bouguereau was not some passive, gutless man who painted traditionally just to please wealthy art buyers and play it conventionally safe. He really believed in what he did and held strong theories on the so-called “groundbreakers” of his day. He accused them of “wanting to succeed too fast” and “inventing new aesthetics” just to achieve that self-serving goal. Bouguereau went on to claim that the rebels were looking “just to make noise”. Hmm. Not sure I agree. Personally, I respect groundbreakers. But still something to think about.
Whatever any of us may think about William-Adolphe Bouguereau, he was a sincere artist and dedicated painter. This quote from him is a lovely testament to his commitment:
“Each day I go to my studio full of joy; in the evening when obliged to stop because of darkness I can scarcely wait for the morning to come… if I cannot give myself to my dear painting I am miserable.”
A Mets Fan in September
Fellow Mets fans – fellow sufferers – tomorrow is Sunday, September 28th. It is the last day of baseball’s regular season. It was merely a year ago, on this very weekend, that we watched, in horror and dismay, our beloved team CHOKE on their last game, and lose a spot in the playoffs. It was painful. It was an experience that made us consider arson, vandalism, even overdosing on a controlled substance. Anything to take out our frustrations. Anything to dull the pain. Now, 365 days later, we get to do it again. Yay!!!!!!
Well we wouldn’t be Mets fans if we didn’t have masochistic tendencies. Tomorrow afternoon, many nails will be bitten off, much alcohol will be consumed, and many fingers will be crossed. As usual, it’s down to the wire. Regardless of what happens, Mets fans (sickos that we are) can at least take pleasure in knowing that the Yankees will NOT be making a playoff appearance, for the first time in thirteen years. Whew! Thank god. At least we don’t have to listen to their shit.
I’m going waaaaay out on a limb by posting this video. It’s totally premature and presumptuous. But as badly as the Mets choked last year, the Yankees choked even worse in 2004, in the ALCS against the Red Sox. So I just need something to make me laugh. Mets fans will appreciate it (especially you, Steph 
) This video is pretty funny. Crude, but funny. Hey, I’m a Mets fan and I live in a state of mental torture. Cut me some slack! I’ll take anything I can get.
Happy Birthday Museworthy!!!!!!
Exactly one year ago today, I spent a special, quiet evening at home, just me and my laptop. I registered with WordPress, set up my profile, selected a theme, chose settings and preferences, and breathed life into a spark of inspiration, fulfilling a need. A need to share, to write, to laugh, to communicate, to learn, to explore, to reach out to others. Just before midnight, Museworthy was launched. Out into the vast, crowded blogosphere. On a wing and a prayer.
Now, 124 posts, 398 comments, 37, 033 total views later, Museworthy is going strong, thanks to all of you. With warm, sincere gratitude for the generous support and enthusiasm I’ve received, this is from me to you. The picture was taken by one of my dearest friends, artist and photographer Fred Hatt. To my readership, my family, my awesome commenters who keep Museworthy lively, intelligent, provocative, and fun – thank you all. Thank you.
I’d be honored if you all stay with me for another year of enjoyable times, and more great things to come. Art, beauty, creativity, humanity, passion, inspiration . . .
Love, your muse,
Claudia
xoxo
Press play
Cracking Vertebrae and Smashed Heads
The New York Studio School did a real number on me today. That place is out to get me! Actually, it’s half my fault. First, I was doing a standing pose for the afternoon drawing class. No big deal. I’ve done more standing poses than I could possibly count. They definitely test your stamina. But however taxing they can be on your back, the key to not injuring yourself is how you get out of the pose. (This applies to all poses) My reliable system for a standing has always been to lift my shoulders to open up the compression of the vertebrae – to create alleviating space between them – and then do a slow forward bend, while releasing one knee – whichever one was carrying the weight. I stay folded over for a few seconds, in a yoga forward bend, and then straighten up. Works nicely every time.
But today, my mind was distracted or still daydreaming. So when the timer went off I forgot to do my move. I just jerked my torso willy-nilly, like an idiot, and the most delightful assortment of cracking sounds emanated from my back. It was a damn bowl of Rice Krispies. crack, crack, crack, POP! Ugh. What the hell?? Friends, let me tell you what a great feeling it is to hear your already-strained vertebrae grinding against each other and snapping and cracking around like that, sounding like a Civil War battlefield. Good times! Very highly recommended.
OK, so the Studio School isn’t responsible for that one. It was my carelessness. I should’ve known better. I do know better.
Class ended and I had a 30 minute break for dinner, which, for me, consisted of a smoothie and a bag of chips. My evening class was portrait sculpture – the easiest, most undemanding art modeling assignment on the planet. The model doesn’t even have to undress. She just sits in a chair. Yes. That’s it. Sitting in a chair while sculptors scrutinize her cranium and facial features and mold them into clay.
Toward the end of class, a male student picked up his nearly-finished sculpture of my head, carried it off to a table in the back of the room, and SMASHED it down, mashing the soft clay back into a formless blob, kneading away any semblance of a human head. Complete and utter destruction. I guess it’s safe to assume he wasn’t happy with his work. Wiseass that I am, I yelled “Ouch!”. Everyone chuckled.
As if the sight of my clay-molded face being violently disfigured wasn’t traumatic enough, not ten minutes later, a female student did the exact same thing! She flipped the head upside down, and SMASHED it with even more vehemence than the previous student. Pummeled again! My features were kneaded away and pounded with fists. I was gone 
So many indignities. So little time.
Is that a Chill in the Air?
We’re at that seasonal weather stage here in New York where it’s pretty cold in the morning, moderately warm during midday, then drops to cold again at night. Mind you, I’m not a winter person at all, so for me, 62 degrees is freakin’ cold!!! I can’t help it. I was born a July baby Now where’s my Indian Summer??
As far as I’m concerned, once you have to go for that extra blanket at night (which I did yesterday), the weather is officially COLD. That’s my criteria. So I say, BRRRRRRR!!!
Just so you all don’t think I’m a freak (probably too late for that), I can offer evidence of at least one other individual who concurs with me that nippy autumn weather is upon us. Allow me to present “Oscar”, the ubiquitous anatomy skeleton of the National Academy School of Fine Arts. He was so chilly today during drawing class he had to put on his wool hat:
Black Magic from Magritte
When he was just 14 years old, Belgian surrealist Rene Magritte was forever traumatized. Suffering from depression, Magritte’s mother, Regina Bertinchamp, took her own life by drowning herself in the Sambre River near their home in Chatelet. The night of her suicide, the Magritte family walked through the darkness, following Regina’s footsteps to the river’s edge. There, the young Rene watched as his mother’s lifeless body was fished out of the water, her wet nightgown hiked over her head, covering her face. The year was 1912.
Whether you’re a fan of surrealist art or not, it’s hard to deny that the imagery and symbolism they employed have a haunting, indelible effect. Metaphorical, allegorical, and often irrational, surrealism dwells in the subconscious, inside the darkest dreams, where memories lurk, fears and neuroses run amok, and nothing is quite as it appears. I’ve always found it appropriate that the surrealism school coincided with the 20th century Sigmund Freud revolution in psychoanalysis, dream interpretation, and the like.
Shortly after his mother’s suicide, Magritte met a young girl at a local town fair while riding the carousel. They would randomly meet again years later at a botanical garden in Brussels. She was Georgette Berger, and she would eventually become Magritte’s wife, model, and muse.
During their marriage, Magritte supported Georgette and himself by designing wallpaper patterns and advertising posters. But he soon abandoned the decorative and commercial arts to pursue his own inspirations. The grief and psychology of his youth played an important role no doubt, with Magritte having produced many works of people with their heads covered in cloth. Much like the painful memory of seeing his mother being pulled from that river. A good example is his famous Les Amants.
Georgette modeled for many of Magritte’s works, among them La Magie Noire, or “Black Magic”. What an unusual painting, and one can’t help but wonder what it is Magritte is trying to communicate. Amateur that I am, I see in the “split” figure of Georgette, half earthly and half celestial. Unless the bottom half is not earth, but perhaps blood?
From 1935, this is Magritte’s La Magie Noire:
Although their marriage was far from perfect, Rene and Georgette stayed together for 45 years. They lived at the same address in Brussels until 1954 when they moved to the Paris suburbs. They had no children.
Interestingly, in spite of the tragic loss from his childhood, Magritte is considered the least “dark” of the surrealists, often incorporating irreverent humor and everyday objects – such as pipes, hats, and apples – into his work. He eschewed the hellish, nightmarish themes of his counterparts. In fact, Magritte’s imagery is so much more palatable and accessible than those of other surrealists, that his work achieved even greater popularity in the 1960s and 70s by entering the realm of pop culture. Magritte reproductions appeared on rock album covers and his name was mentioned in song lyrics by Jethro Tull and Paul Simon, just to name a few. And this is my favorite; Paul McCartney, a big admirer of Magritte, claims that it was the artist’s work who inspired the name choice “Apple” for the Beatles record label. Don’t you just love it when art and music “come together”? <— clever Beatles reference
All the Pretty Dresses
You know how some people watch the Oscars just to see the clothes? Well I’m sort of like that when it comes to Victorian art. I’ve got to hand it to all those Pre-Raphaelite and Neo-Classical British painters. They knew how to do the gossamer flowing fabric, draped semi-nude, dreamy idealized female thing better than any other gang of artists. And the silky feminine fashion show almost makes up for the studied poses and vapid facial expressions.
I confess that I’m actually a little jealous, and let me explain why. While art models are expected to pose nude most of the time, clothed poses are popular too. I have done the “street clothes” thing a lot. We’re talking very basic, casual, tank top and jeans stuff. And it looks cool. But I’m never asked to do the flowing gown, mythological maiden, lady of Pompei thing. Not ever. And I’m disappointed! Hey, I like soft colorful fabrics. I like to play dress up. I’m a feminine girly-girl. Oh sure I have a potty-mouth like a drunken sailor, flash my boobs to strangers, and spit on sidewalks, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a lady, right? (Just kidding. I never spit 
)
Yes, even I have romantic knight-in-shining-armor fantasies. I have a helpless little lass inside me. I have wistful moods and enjoy running barefoot through grassy meadows. But do I ever get the opportunity to play those roles in my art modeling? Hell no. I enter a studio for work and it’s, “Hi Claudia. Get naked and strike a hot pose. And if we find a stitch of fabric on your person we’re kicking you out of here, you got it?”. Just my offering a pretty soft scarf as an accent gets me ejected from the premises. I guess I should take it as a compliment. But once – just once – I’d like to be idealized in the classical tradition, with elegant fabrics draped around my body, wind blowing through my hair, and my mind in pensive repose. Do they think I can’t pull it off?
A common complaint with the art from this school is its lack of imagination and psychological depth. Not much gravitas to be found, it’s true. But still you have to admit that visually they are quite fetching, and the clothes are just soooo pretty!!! Told you I was a girly-girl
This is Lord Leighton’s Flaming June:
Boreas, 1902, from John William Waterhouse:
This dress rocks! I’d pose in that any day. John Godward’s Athenais, 1908:
Waterhouse again, this is Windflowers:
Busy as a Bee
So here I am, home on a Saturday night with my laptop – and a glass of wine – at my fingertips. Why am I not out socializing and carousing and painting the town red? Because I’m dead tired, that’s why. Although the Marathon is over, my own careless booking practices gave me eight consecutive days of work without a day off. It’s my fault. It all could have been avoided if only I had simply turned the page in my planner and took an overview before I wrote stuff down. But alas, I didn’t. And now I’m jammed up the wazoo, with a precious few hours to myself.
So I wanted to blog a little and check in with all of you, and give you a quick rundown of my current situation. I’ve decided to present it in one big run-on sentence. For the record, I HATE run-on sentences. They offend my punctuation-addicted soul. But my brain feels like an omelet and I’m not sharp enough to write my usual perfectly-constructed prose and dazzling narrative So read it if you dare . . .
After two weeks the Drawing Marathon came to a close at 6:00 last night Royalyne the model coordinator held traditional little “ceremony” for students faculty and models and thanked everyone and all the models individually gave us each a flower and a hand-written card said personal words about all of us for me said I was the “Picasso model” and a hard worker then I hugged and kissed Roxy and Stanley and Shari and Graham and ran off uptown to meet my mother and brother for a family dinner and quality time together catching up got home late slept like crap then got up early for a full day of drawing classes at the National Academy morning class hard work negative space exercises and blind contour so I gave them negative spaces and some good active gestures had lunch break at 12 went to bank to cash check bought veggie sandwich on Madison petted a Golden Retriever returned call from art model Piera who needed replacement for Hunter College gig went back to National for 1:00 class more short poses 20 one minute gestures putting on a show then fell asleep on hallway couch during long break curled in fetal position got roused by monitor summoned me back into room “chop chop!” instructor needed me for anatomy demo stood next to skeleton showed off my clavicle and my rib cage twisted on command bent knee on command ended with long 30 minute pose in chair and came home. Tomorrow get up early for morning session at Spring Studios then go to Fred’s place in Brooklyn for some photography after that stop at Whole Foods do some grocery shopping get the good couscous come home hopefully some stretching get to sleep early back to Studio School by 9 AM for regular semester classes.
Was that a Jack Kerouac On The Road kind of thing or just an annoying, mindless monologue? Well hopefully you all got the gist of it. But I wouldn’t dare leave you all with nothing but my inane, unintelligible ramblings. I’m not that cruel! Here’s a little Matisse for you. This is Acrobats:
See you soon, friends. And I promise to be more lucid!
Vignettes of the Drawing Marathon
The New York Studio School Drawing Marathon is winding down. Only three more days to go. Every marathon is a unique experience, each one different from the others. I’m very lucky this semester to have been assigned to the marathon class taught by Graham Nickson, the Dean of the school, and to be “co-posing” with two terrific models and friends, Roxy and Stanley. Our trio is holding court in the big drawing room, with other marathon classes taking place upstairs.
Of course, I’ve had my trusty camera with me, and have been snapping pictures on my breaks. Besides being an addictive little toy for myself, the camera really enhances my blogging by bringing you all closer to my daily work environment and experiences. And ain’t that just dandy!
On a long break the other day, I wandered around the school and noticed that every model was either texting or talking on a cell phone. Especially the male models. Case in point. This is Stanley, talking on the phone while still on the platform! He didn’t even get up from his spot:
Walking around some more I find Bill, another model, crouching in the corner of the second floor gallery talking on his cell phone, trying to be all clandestine about it. I caught you, Bill! BUSTED!
But Roxy . . . sweet Roxy. No mindless cell phone gabbing for her. She took her writing journal to her favorite spot out on the fire escape. I think she spent her break in a much more meaningful fashion than the rest of us, in moments of thoughtful contemplation and creativity:
Wide shot of our room, after the students made a mass exodus upstairs for crits. They abandoned us 
That’s Stanley and Bill chatting, with Stanley still refusing to move his ass off the modeling set-up:
These are some of the new-fangled easels that the Studio School ordered last spring. Metal and very heavy, they haven’t been well-received. Everyone seems to prefer the tall, wooden, “old-school” ones from before:
Stanley again. Need I say more?
The students return and prepare for the second half:
Models, ready and waiting to work:
Finally, I get myself back on the platform. For a while there I forgot that I’m not the official photo-documentarian, but a working model who’s supposed to be on the job! For one last picture, I took this shot of Roxy, one of the great muses of the Studio School. She’s my friend who I love, and am always proud to work side-by-side with:
Hope you all enjoyed this little glimpse into the New York art model world. Many more things planned for the blog that I’m really excited to share with all of you. What’s on deck, you ask? Well, a very special milestone for Museworthy is just around the corner, and I hope you all join me to celebrate
Sapphic Muses
My male readers – of which I have many – are going to love me for this post. Absolutely, positively LOVE me! I happily accept all forms of gratitude, with hugs and kisses most appreciated. Ah, but you guys love me already, right? Believe me, I love you too. Very, very much
This is probably irrelevant, but I’ll mention anyway that I am straight. Yes, plain old straight. Boringly straight. Rigidly and exclusively straight. Wholly hetero. Me likey men!! Woohoo!! :sends a clumsy, awkward lapdance out to male readers through blogosphere:
But straight as I am, I’m still uninhibited enough to feel completely comfortable posing nude with other female models. I’ve done it a few times and have gotten pretty touchy-feely in the process. All in the name of art, yes? I don’t have to reiterate the nearly universal opinion that the female form is considered the epitome of beauty (except by Michelangelo, but we covered that). And if one female form is beautiful, then why not two? And then why not two embracing, kissing, and caressing passionately? Sounds like the makings of a memorable, sensual, and erotic work of art. The best kind I say.
Lesbian subjects have a long, distinguished presence in art, having inspired many artists over the centuries. I found a few notable ones to share, and it’s interesting to see the different moods and varying expressive styles, determined of course by the individual sensibilities of the male artists. I personally don’t find any of these to be exploitative, but then again I don’t know the inner motivations of the artists. They were men, after all. And the subject is titillating. But I’m willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and assume that the sensuality is the inspiring element here. Unleashed, unselfconscious, liberated. And very beautiful.
One of Rodin’s famous Eros sketches, this is Temple of Love:
Toulouse-Lautrec spent an inordinate amount of time in the brothels of Paris. He was well-acquainted with the ladies there and observed a lot of intimate activity. He produced several lesbian works, and this one is discreetly titled Two Friends:
In both style and subject matter, Egon Schiele was as explicit as they come with regard to sexuality. This is Two Women Embracing:
Although I am not a fan of Gustav Courbet, I would be terribly remiss by not including him in this post. I saw this painting, The Sleepers, at the big Courbet exhibit at the Met last spring. I’d say there’s a little more than sleeping going on
Spectacle in the Sky
I was traveling home after a long, tiring work day yesterday, ensconsed in my seat on the 6:19 Long Island Railroad train out of Penn Station. I wasn’t even home yet, but the unwinding process had already begun. The train rolled under the East River, as Chopin traveled through my iPod earphones. The man in the seat next to me was reading the sports page of the NY Daily News.
After several minutes of underground tunnel darkness, we left Manhattan behind, and the train emerged back into daylight, riding along the train tracks of Queens. I looked out from my window seat and was struck by the dramatic, billowing could formations of the sky. I quickly dug my camera out of my bag, in hopes I could snap a decent shot of the dazzling scene. There I was in a fast-moving train, trying to capture a memorable sky which was receding further and further away. I felt like shouting “Stop the train!!!”. But I snapped away. Click-click-click. I didn’t even check them in my camera window for fear of wasting any seconds of precious time. I just took a leap of faith that at least ONE of them would be acceptable. There were a lot of blurry ones in the set, but this one is the best. That sky was really a sight that would have inspired Monet or Turner or Van Gogh. I’d say these clouds give those blue umbrellas a run for their money!
So keep in mind that this was taken through a commuter train window – at exactly 6:39 PM. Approaching dusk. I wish all of you were there with me to see it for yourselves:
Model’s Eye View
Here’s my question of the day: What . . . the hell . . . happened . . . to the SUMMER?????? August has come and gone, Labor Day Weekend has come and gone, the Burning Man Festival has come and gone, and now it’s back to regular, steady, responsible work mode. (Ok, I’m not sure about the “responsible” part ). I seem to recall lying on a Nantucket beach just 14 days ago, and now I’m lying on a modeling platform in the middle of the New York Studio School’s Drawing Marathon. Except now I am sans striped bikini and instead, I am nude. The only semblance of said bikini exists solely in my tan lines.
So it’s back to work, and starting with the Drawing Marathon is like gorging on a five course meal after a period of fasting. Your digestive organs aren’t ready to handle the quantity! Marathon hours are long, rigorous, and test the endurance of both students and models alike.
However, a really cool surprise greeted us yesterday as we entered the big drawing room at 9 AM sharp. In preparation for the Marathon, the school adorned the ceiling with pretty baby blue umbrellas, hanging upside down from strings stretched from wall to wall. May I just say that it looks awesome?! The Studio School is always trying out new things to create interesting effects, light and shapes. 20 blue umbrellas definitely do the trick.
There are three models – myself, Stanley, and Roxy – all posed reclining on a huge platform draped with fabrics, directly underneath the blue umbrellas. I am reclined on my back, and I get to stare up at the umbrellas all day, for eight hours a day. It’s not bad! I could think of a lot worse things to stare at all day in a workplace. It’s really quite pretty, and because there are windows in the ceiling of the studio, the light from outside filters through and illuminates the blue of the umbrellas. The effect is lovely, and it does a fine job of distracting us models from our cramping muscles and throbbing spines.
Here’s my view for the next ten days:
Since the class goes from morning until 6 PM, I watch the light change dramatically as the sun arcs over us from east to west. It really alters the whole look of the setup, since light is a very powerful thing. I’m guessing it must be an aggravation for the artists. But for me, gazing from below, it’s my own personal “Rhapsody in Blue”. And isn’t it a good thing I have Gershwin in my iPod? I’ll listen to it on the train during my morning commute to get myself in the mood .
