Sitting on Standby

Since I got dangerously close to writing soft-core porn on my previous post (sorry about that), I figured I might provide something tame and innocuous to offset the naughtiness. Take a temporary hiatus from fantasizing, trembling, and heavy breathing if you will.

Nothing is more innocuous than the art model assignment known as “standby”. All busy art schools should have a standby system as far as I’m concerned. It’s the only way to handle model no-shows and guarantee a model in every class.

Standby is simple. A model is booked for standby during any given work slot, sits and waits in the office, ready to dash off when and if the call comes in. “The call” is a panicky instructor in his/her classroom, contacting the model registry’s office to report that the model has not shown up. The office tries to locate the missing model. If it appears that the model won’t make it, the standby is sent in his/her place. Problem solved. If no call comes in within an hour, the standby model is cut and free to go. Paid for the full three hours of his/her time. Good deal

I work at SVA, aka School of Visual Arts. The model coordinator, Jim, has an efficient standby system. I like working standby at SVA. You can just hang out, read, eat, check voicemail, do a crossword puzzle, give yourself a manicure, knit, even sleep! That is if you don’t mind putting your head down on the table and snoring like a rude, lazy slob. Hey, it happens! That’s standby for you.

My favorite way to pass the time during standby is chatting with Jim, for whom I’ve been working happily and contentedly for some time now. We talk about the art modeling business, the city, share many laughs, and have a very pleasant time. Standby is cool in my book. And after the rough, restless night I just had, sitting on standby this afternoon was just what I needed to chill out, calm my anxious nerves, and find emotionally stability. (Please, who am I kidding with that last one?)

In a stupid attempt to visually document standby, I snapped pictures of the SVA Model Registry’s Office. Folks, trust me, in the state I’m in right now with all this “crush” madness, be grateful for these tame, pointless pictures. The alternatives would stigmatize Museworthy with an X-rating and degrade me into the Internet porn underworld.

Our window on West 21st Street, with the SVA street banner hanging outside:

Directly across the street, West 21st. The heart of Chelsea:

The desk of a true model coordinator, with a “pose board” of photos on the wall:

The perfect ornament to dangle from a model office. Nice pose! Something to aspire to:

Happy Halloween everyone. Enjoy!

Desire

It’s 2 AM. A cloud of “can’ts” are hanging over me. I can’t sleep. I can’t concentrate on emails from work contacts who are expecting to hear back from me (screw them). I can’t eat. I can’t envision my future in ten years. And I realize that I can’t pose in front of my crush anymore. I did today and I almost couldn’t get through it.

I’ve reached the dreaded precipice. I’m hanging on to my professional poise by a teensy hair, where the surface of my well-honed appearance of composure is being punctured from inside me, like little holes poking through, determined to expose my desire for this guy. “Stop it! Stop it!”, I kept saying to myself. Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe I’m hallucinating. But I swear I could actually see my chest fluttering during a reclining pose. I felt tingles and quivers and palpitations. I closed my eyes, my thoughts morphed into fantasies, and a soft, breathy moan almost escaped from my lips. He was sitting just a few feet away from me, out of my field of vision, which only made it feel more powerful, more sexy, and more tantalizing. You know you’re feeling true desire when such mundane things as the sound of a scratching pencil and a glimpse of a paint-splattered sneaker – upside-down and out of the corner of your eye- are enough to stir your passion, and make you want to surrender your entire self.

I’m in trouble here, everyone. I never expected that this would get to this point. The crush has this intense effect on me and I hate him. He enters the room, and I transmute into a giant surge of libido. He does this just by physically being there!. He doesn’t even have to talk! (Although he did talk to me today ) Grrr, attraction . . . oh man . . . sometimes I forget just how much it can mess with your head.

Drawing by Fred Hatt

Quotidian Notes

:sweatpants-clad, ponytailed off-duty art model saunters around the house after loading washing machine. Ignores unpaid bills on kitchen table. Searches cabinets. Munches on obscenely overpriced organic dark chocolate. Eyes computer. Wakes up sleeping MacBook. Begins arbitrary blogging:

Yo, yo!! Hello, hellooooo!! Hey, hey, hey!! Greetings and salutations! Hi friends!! Wazzup?? How is everybody? What’s new and exciting? Even though I have no post planned, no concept or theme in the offing, no discussion topic to explore, no interesting work story to share, and no image to upload, I feel like publishing something. So publish I will!

Ok, so my abdominal muscle pull is all healed. Yay! All better, and I’m happy I guess abstaining from my regular exercise routine was the wise thing to do. So now that I’ve recuperated I’m back to yoga, running, stretching, and pilates. Feeling quite fit, actually. I was very limber and creative during drawing class at SVA today. I still feel and look rather thin. Not skeletal thin, don’t worry. I’m just metabolizing efficiently, I think.

Which brings me to the topic of my diet. Massively plant-fueled. More than ever these days. Well, kind of goes along with being a vegetarian. Duh! Grains, veggies, soy protein. It’s all good. Driven mostly by ethics and compassion for animals, as many of you are probably aware. I wouldn’t presume to take a sermon-like stance on overall healthy habits, mind you, as I am known to smoke the occasional cigarette. So wouldn’t I be a big fat phony if I tried that? Yeah. Hypocrite alert! But for my reasons – humane reasons- my meals work for me just fine. No slaughter goes into my body. No cruelty. No suffering. And my energy levels are fabuloso!!

Speaking of animals, I’ve been seeing Kate around the neighborhood, everywhere but MY property. Can you believe this? I see her, I call to her, she looks at me, and she blows me off! What an ungrateful bitch! And yet, I still love her And I always will, even if she holds a grudge and refuses to get along with other encroaching, territorial felines. I’ll leave it to them to settle their differences. Ah, cat drama! Such a soap opera.

Soap opera . . . hmmm . . . to where will that phrase lead me? To the “crush” perhaps? There’s really not much to tell right now. There might be soon. (Emphasis on “might”). Ah, hell, I don’t know. Don’t hold your breath for an update because there may never be one, and I wouldn’t want any of you to die of asphyxiation. But he’s been on my mind a lot lately. Like A LOT. It was that damn post! I’m trying to wipe these thoughts of him out of my head, but to no avail. Don’t you hate that? That means you’ve really fallen for someone, right? Crap. Go away!!! Go away you cute, young, sexy, adorable artist! Vamoose, would ya’?

Watching TV, following the news, staying informed on election stuff. I’m feeling that next Tuesday will be a nail-biter. Do you think a long night awaits us? It’ll be interesting that’s for sure. Maybe we’ll see history in the making. Cool!

We took my Mom out for her birthday. Had dinner at Balthazar. For the non-New Yorkers who read Museworthy, Balthazar is a ridiculously hip and trendy restaurant in SoHo. It’s one of those loud, crowded, almost- impossible-to-get-a-reservation kind of places. But superb food and great decor. Actually does live up to its reputation. It was a fun night, and Mom enjoyed herself. I think it was the martini.

Let’s see, anything else? Oh yeah, I love you guys. Yes YOU. I’m talking to YOU! My readers. My friends. A post like this is all about my wanting to talk to you. Just talk. Say hi. Chit-chat. Converse. Check in with friends. And yes, we are friends. At least, I feel we are. And that feeling comforts me.

Ok, I just heard the washing machine spin cycle shut off. Must go transfer into the dryer. That’s right, even a nude model needs her clothes!

Bye everyone! See you soon!

Claudia
xoxo

To Elaine, With Love, From Edgar

Dear Elaine,

Your Museworthy artist’s model daughter Claudia informed me that today, October 26th, is your 73rd birthday. She also mentioned that I am your favorite artist of all time. Can’t say that I blame you, doll. I was pretty great back in the day. But I admit that I was rather arrogant, sexist, and anti-semitic. Hey, I just realized something; I was a prick! Perhaps I should atone for my bad attitude all those years.

Claudia asked me to post one of my paintings in your honor and I’m happy to do so. Now I don’t know much about this whole Internet blogging, and frankly it seems like a bunch of crap if you ask me. But I’m smart and fairly certain I can handle this “uploading” thing. Claudia said that you read her blog regularly, checking in every single day with your morning coffee to see if there’s a new post. So I will publish this image so that it will be waiting for you first thing in the morning as part of your ritual. It’s called Four Dancers, and I hope you like it.

Happy Birthday Elaine. Best wishes to you.
Sincerely,
Edgar Degas

I Love you, Mom!! Happy Birthday!!!!
Claudia

Jane Avril – Muse of the Moulin Rouge

An absent father. An alcoholic, abusive mother. A misdiagnosed mental illness and a stint in an insane asylum. Such cruel adversity to be hoisted upon a young girl in Paris. What would become of her? On paper, the neglected girl would seem doomed for a life of anonymity, unhappiness, and destitution. But a girl with tenacity and a will to survive could overcome the odds.

Born out of wedlock in the Belleville section of Paris, Jane Avril suffered brutal beatings at her mother’s hands. Although her father was a wealthy Italian aristocrat, he abandoned Jane and her mother and took no responsibiilty for his daughter’s welfare or upbringing. At the age of 16, Jane fled her home and lived in the streets, a scared and troubled runaway. When she was picked up by authorities, they determined that she was mentally impaired and placed her in the pysch ward of Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital.

But it was in that psych ward, of all unlikely places, where Jane discovered purely by chance that she possessed a certain talent; a talent for performing, for movement, for dance, for showmanship. The hospital workers organized a party for the patients. At that party, the teenage Jane got up and danced. Her spirited routine impressed everyone, and the hospital staff realized then that Jane was not mentally ill after all, but just a girl who had suffered through tremendous stress, neglect, and ill-treatment, and had to cope with it all alone. She had been deprived of love, nurturing, and an outlet for her expression. Now she had found one.

Jane was released from the hospital but did not return to her mother’s house. And who can blame her? Instead, she seized her freedom and explored Paris, determined to find her way. She performed in the dance halls and cabarets of Montmartre, and worked any day jobs she could find, such as a cashier at the World’s Fair, until she finally ended up at the creme de la creme of Paris nightclubs; the Moulin Rouge.

The timing of Jane’s arrival at the famed Moulin Rouge could not have been more opportune. The celebrated cabaret dancer Louise Weber – known by her stage name “La Goulue” – was finally stepping down after years as reigning headliner. In need of a replacement, the Moulin Rouge hired the young newcomer Jane Avril, and took a chance that she could fill the formidable shoes of the famous Louise Weber. Jane was more than up to the task and filled those shoes with ease.

Unlike the bawdy and bodacious Weber, Jane’s style was more graceful and feminine, her body more thin and lithe, her steps more nimble and smooth. Her obvious charm and appeal were an instant hit, and the regulars of Parisian nightlife warmly embraced her. Among those regulars was the artist Toulouse-Lautrec.

Jane and Lautrec would become very close friends, and possibly brief lovers. Lautrec was attracted not just to Jane’s stage presence and dance talent, but to the sadness he saw inside her, the wounds she had sustained during her difficult youth. He recognized that Jane was inherently a loner in spite of her popularity and lively profession. Jane and Lautrec were both outsiders in some respects, and this was possibly the reason they formed such a strong bond. Some of Lautrec’s most famous posters and lithographs feature Jane Avril as the subject.

Toulouse-Lautrec poster of Jane:

Toulouse-Lautrec used Jane as a model offstage as well. Here, in Divan Japonais, Jane is posed not as a dancer, but a woman dressed elegantly in black, sitting in the audience at the Divan Japonais cabaret. The Divan was a brand new club in Montmartre, decorated with a Japanese theme. The club’s owner commissioned this poster from Toulouse-Lautrec to advertise the new establishment. Lithographed posters saw a surge in popularity during the 1890s and 1900s, largely due to developments in color printing techniques. I really like this poster. I think it’s one of Lautrec’s best, and Jane makes a terrific subject:

Jane gave birth to a son and in 1910 married artist Maurice Biais. She quit dancing and moved out of Paris to live a quiet domestic life. But it was not to be. Jane’s marriage was an unhappy one, and Maurice often disappeared for days at a time. When he died in 1926, Jane was left penniless. It seemed like she had come full circle, back to a life of anonymity, poverty, and tough times. She was the lonely runaway girl all over again. Or was she?

In 1941, the elderly Jane Avril was tracked down by a persistent group of admirers. They pulled her out of obscurity to honor her with a “grand-finale” tribute in Paris. At that bittersweet event, white-haired Jane – former can-can girl and artists’ muse – got up on stage and once again performed a dance to an appreciative audience. Once again, she dazzled the crowd. Just like she did regularly at the Moulin Rouge. And just like she did back when she was 16, in that hospital pysch ward. She did it again . . . Jane did it again Can you imagine what that moment must have been like for her? To realize that she was not forgotten, that her name and career still meant something to people, that her spirit was still alive? If it were me, I’d have been a wreck! Falling apart emotionally and crying my eyes out.

The Nicole Kidman character in the 2001 film Moulin Rouge is based on Jane Avril. The real Jane died in a nursing home in 1943. She was 75 years old. She is interred at Pere-Lachaise cemetery in Paris.

Kate in Gangland

For the past week, I’ve had to restrain myself from posting a frantic, hysterical post on Museworthy. Through an enormous amount of willpower, I checked my urge to do a blog freak-out. Wait. Just wait, I told myself. Don’t jump the gun. Publish art posts, and don’t upset people.

What happened is this: my dear, beloved Kate was missing for ten days! Ten long, agonizing days. I was worried sick! I was panicky and sobbing and distressed. No sign of my girl! Not one visit to her food bowl! Where was she?? What happened to her???? I was going berserk. I rode my bike around the neighborhood looking for her. Not kidding.

Well, she finally appeared on Sunday, in the driveway, acting more timid than usual. Reluctant to set foot into my garden. For a few seconds there, i was face-to-face with her, caught by surprise. “Kate!!”, I said. “Where have you been?? I’ve missed you!!”. I tried to cajole her into the back. She stared at me with a cautious eye, contemplated her choices, and then darted away into a neighbor’s yard. Poor little thing. She’s scared of something. Intimidated by something. And I think I know what it is. It’s this guy:

His name is Monty, and he and Kate were friends for at least two months. They coexisted just fine. Monty even deferred to Kate at mealtime! I thought that was very gentlemanly. But then he pounced on Kate while she was sleeping and booted her off the property. Kate was pissed. She swiped at him good. Monty is generally a very cool cat. He’s an extrovert and quite handsome. He just started getting in Kate’s face.

Now I suspect that Kate is fed up with him and has either been evicted from the premises in some kind of feral cat turf war, or voluntarily gone into a self-imposed exile. She’s banished! And I am not happy about this. Not one bit. Cat behavior is hard to figure out. One minute they are sharing their space in harmony, the next minute it’s like “West Side Story” out there.

Here’s an old picture of Kate back in friendlier days, when she was “top cat” and Monty wasn’t being an aggressive dick:

I’m going to monitor the situation and see if Kate is able to reclaim her rightful status. I know that another neighbor puts out food for the ferals, so I assume she’s eating over there. Kate!! My angel!! Come back!! I’ll protect you! Mommy misses you

Flower Power

One time when I was posing at Spring Studio, I spent my break strolling around the room looking at the artists’ work. My friend Chuck was there, set up at his table the way he always is; massive rolls of paper strewn about his work area, his painting and drawing materials scattered about. He was finishing up his piece from my last pose, and I stood at his table and observed as he worked. The following dialogue took place, pretty much word for word:

I said, “That looks nice.”. Chuck replied, “Thanks!”. Then I asked, “What is that? Gouache?”. Chuck answered, “No. It’s some sort of opaque watercolor”.

My artist readers just got that joke. In fact, most of my readers probably got it. In the off chance that no one got it, the joke is that gouache IS opaque watercolor. And that whole exchange is just a very Chuck thing. He’s adorable, he’s sweet. And he’s actually a very expressive artist even though he gets his materials mixed up

I do, however, know another highly expressive artist who is much more aware of the unique medium that is gouache. Her name is Kathi Kirkpatrick, and she possesses not only an original and inventive style, but the talent to go along with it. A regular down at Spring Studios, Kathi always remains loyal to her artistic vision, and every time she is drawing me, I eagerly anticipate seeing the final product, because I know it will be something different, imaginative and inspired. A world apart from what the other artists are doing. Whether through composition, colors, or painting surfaces, Kathi is always conceiving something fresh and distinct. From my point of view as a model, after seeing countless drawings of me that are diagrammed, academic, and oftentimes formal and stiff, it is refreshing to see myself rendered through Kathi’s artistic lens.

Gouache has a great illustrative quality. It’s colors have a matte finish and are therefore richer than those of watercolor. Gouache covers the surface like a true paint, while transparent watercolor is a “wash”.

At the National Academy this summer, while everyone else in the class painted me as I was – propped up pillows and cushions, atop a modeling platform- Kathi placed me on a bed of flowers! With a blue sky behind me. She created a whimsical, colorful fantasy, and I am the flower girl :holds up peace sign:

By Kathi Kirkpatrick, this is Claudia’s Floral Dream, in gouache:

Leftists

Don’t let the title of this post fool you. This isn’t about Karl Marx or radical politics. No one visits Museworthy for that stuff (although I’ve resisted the urge to rant and vent on these pages a few times). No this is about something far less weighty, and probably much more interesting and engaging.

All my life, I’ve harbored a ridiculous, frivolous, and irrational jealousy (one of many!). This is really stupid, so consider yourselves warned. Are you ready for my stupidity? Ok. I’ve always wished – desperately wished – that I had been born left-handed. When I see someone pick up a pen and begin to write, I become envious when I notice that they are left-handed. See? I told you it was stupid. So how did I develop this fixation? Honestly, I have no idea. I just really dig left-handers.

Maybe it’s because lefties have the whole right brain thing going on. You know, the cool half of the brain. That’s right, I said it! Somebody had to. The magnificence of the right brain includes musical and artistic ability, imagination, spatial awareness, emotional expression. Ooooh, such good stuff! I swear, I was born incorrectly oriented. And to make matters worse, I am really right hand dominant. I can’t do crap with my left hand. I can barely write my name legibly. Now we right-handers have the left brain running the show, and that would be logic, math and science skills, language, and linear awareness. BO-ring!!! :falls asleep, snores:

I realize I’m being childish But I still respect left-handers for their impressive brain functions and their small, exclusive numbers. I think lefties comprise just 9 or 10% of the population. And that is super cool. Very subversive and non-conformist. Has that little “renegade” touch. More men are left-handed than women, and left-handedness is believed to be a hereditary gene. When you think of all the persecution left-handers once endured, back in the superstitious dark ages when they were thought to be heretics and freaks, possessed by demons and evil spirits, they’ve earned outsiders’ thick-skin and street cred. So my message to lefties is this; don’t fret about scissors and coffee mugs or your silly computer mouse. You have many great ones in your camp, and this right-hander and her art blog wants to pay you your due respect. I will even hook my left wrist over my keyboard as I type, in empathetic tribute to your struggles in a right-handed world.

One of the most famously left-handed artists was Raphael. A skilled master. A handsome ladies’ man. A giant of Renaissance art. Not exactly a bad guy for southpaws to claim as one of their own. Hey, I’d be proud. It is said that left-handed artists will often (not always) draw figures which face to the right. And this Raphael drawing is a good example of that:

Leonardo daVinci was a hyper-accomplished polymath and overall genius. Was there anything this guy couldn’t do? DaVinci was left-handed, possibly because he suffered some paralysis in his right hand. Do you think that kind of disablity would stop the guy? No way. Left-handedness in art is most discernible in drawings, specifically in the cross-hatching. In this drawing by Leonardo, Old Men, you can see the left-handedness in the cross-hatching strokes. It’s best observed by clicking on the image twice to enlarge. Beautiful technique and detail:

Michelangelo is placed in the famous left-handers list, but really he was ambidextrous. I imagine that gift would be incredibly advantageous for a sculptor. And in the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo did make Adam left-handed, touching the finger of god with his left index finger.

A more true-blue lefty was Hans Holbein the Younger, German artist of the Northern Renaissance:

Dutch draftsman and printmaker Albrecht Durer was another notable left-hander. This is Nude Woman with a Staff, pen and brown ink, 1498, with more observable cross-hatching.

If this display of art hasn’t made the case for left-handed skill and giftedness, I can offer two more words that will silence any lingering doubters: Jimi Hendrix

Rock on Jimi, and lefthanders be proud . . .

Form in Space – Giacometti, His Models, and the Human Condition

If Samuel Beckett had been a sculptor instead of a playwright, he would have been Alberto Giacometti. The Swiss-born artist has sometimes been called the “visual Beckett”, and the comparison is not just some scholarly metaphor. The two men were, in fact, very good friends and kindred spirits in many respects. When Beckett asked Giacometti to create the set design for his landmark play Waiting for Godot, Giacometti obliged, and the result was a single, lone tree. Add French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre to Giacometti’s circle of intimate friends, and you have quite the gang of intellectual thinkers, forever contemplating the human condition and man’s place in the universe. Ah, those crazy existentialists!!

Giacometti was, and still is, a significant figure in 20th century art. In my art model’s “eavesdropping” education (which is a great one, by the way), I hear him referenced quite often in studio lectures and discussions. After navigating his way through Cubism, Surrealism, Dadaism, and all the other “isms” of the art lexicon, Giacometti eventually found his trademark style in the postwar years; that style being sculptures cast in bronze, depicting thin, elongated, attenuated human figures. Devoid of mass or volume. Isolated. Alone in their space.

Like all artists, Giacometti grappled with the concept of “reality”. Is it merely pereception? And if so, whose? The viewer’s or the artist’s? Or does it have nothing to do with perception at all, but rather, the thing itself? On this metaphysical subject Giacometti said, ” The object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity”. Shit. Now I know why I got a C in philosophy. (No, it wasn’t me! It was that damn Kierkegaard! Hated that guy.)

But if you want the truth about “reality” and “intensity” with regard to Giacometti, his models would offer up their own no-nonsense definition, one that neither Beckett nor Sartre could ever elucidate. By all accounts, the great sculptor was a notorious taskmaster. The grueling posing sessions went on for hours and hours and hours, terminated only when Giacometti himself was ready to call it quits. The model is tired? Needs a stretch and a break? Not a chance. Get back on that stool, bitch! Ok, I made up the “bitch” part, but you get the idea.

Giacometti’s compulsive behavior extended beyond his treatment of models. His stubborn, obsessive nature dictated all aspects of his life, from his 80 cigarettes a day smoking habit, to his insistence on keeping his small, cramped, squalid studio even though his financial situation could have afforded him better, to his refusal to take a doctor’s advice when, in 1938, a car ran over his foot on the Place de Pyramides. The accident broke several bones, and his doctor urged Giacometti to stay off the foot so it would heal properly. He didn’t. The foot didn’t heal properly. And Giacometti walked with a limp for the rest of his life.

Giacometti’s first models were his mother Annetta and his sister Ottilia. When he moved to Paris with his brother Diego as his faithful apprentice, Giacometti continued to work from life. Flora Mayo, an American, became his model, muse, and lover. Isabel Nicholas also modeled for him, as did professional model Rita Gueyfier. But by far Giacometti’s most reliable model was his wife Annette, whom he married in 1950. She endured his arduous sculpture sessions with patience and forbearance, and it’s thus no surprise that Giacometti’s most productive artistic period took place during those years.

Standing Woman, bronze, 1959:

Later in Giacometti’s life, a new model entered the scene. She was a Parisian prostitute named Caroline, and Giacometti was clearly infatuated with her, much to Annette’s displeasure. Caroline didn’t take Giacometti’s shit, and even extinguished a cigarette right into the canvas of a painting he was working on. Although Giacometti and Annette are believed to have had an open marriage, Caroline’s presence placed an enormous strain on the relationship. In 1965, when Giacometti was on his deathbed, Annette was by his side in the hospital. When Caroline showed up unannounced, the wife and mistress had a heated confrontation, during which Annette allegedly slapped Caroline. Doubtful that Giacometti’s philosophical and intellectual explorations were of any use to him at that moment. You can’t think your way out of a predicament like that.

Loving Lennon

Yet another birthday to commemorate on this blog. Seems like I do birthdays a lot here! I’ve celebrated my own, Charlie Parker’s, Museworthy’s, and now John Lennon’s. The great Beatle would have been 68 years old today. Can you believe it?

This is the way I like to think of John – having fun, acting like a kid, enjoying himself, being silly, looking super-cool in his black jacket and fedora, cavorting around New York, his beloved, adopted city. My favorite parts are him dancing around the Central Park bandshell, and feeding the elephant at the zoo. On behalf of all of us in the Big Apple, we were proud to have you here among us, John

I love this man. I really, really love him. Happy Birthday John Lennon!! Circa 1974, here he is in Mind Games:

Aches and Pains

After three days of denial, I now concede that I’m nursing a minor – very minor – abdominal pull. Unless it’s a tear, which I hope not. That would suck.

I know how this happened. I remember the precise moment. It was during a pose I’m doing privately for an artist. Our setup is very dramatic, challenging, and rather insane. But still I should have been more careful. I was adjusting myself in a herky-jerky way, with no support for my lower back, AND I was hanging horizontally from a pole (don’t ask!). And of course with my carelessness, I pulled it. I felt that sudden sharp, shooting pain, the kind that makes you think to yourself “Oh fuuuuck!!! That’s NOT normal!”

But this is at least a good reminder to art models, athletes, and people everywhere, that no one is invulnerable to muscle injury. No one. You can be the most physically fit, toned, in shape person on the planet, you still have to be careful with your movements and how you distribute body weight in situations of exertion. Muscles are like rubberbands, it’s true. But even rubberbands can snap and break under pressure. I posted a while back about ab strength for models, and it’s now even more appropos with my little strain. As an art model, if I had to choose between an ankle injury or an ab injury, I’d probably opt for the ankle (I’ve worked with a sprained ankle! That happened from stepping off a busted curb on Columbus Avenue). Abs are your core, literally. They are your reservoir of strength. A compromised ab muscle may not make art modeling impossible, but it will certainly inhibit freedom of movement and weaken the ability for sustained strength, such as a long pose.

In the meantime I’ll just have to cope with this not-so-serious injury. It’s located in my lower ab region (the vulnerable spot for ab pulls), on the left side, and luckily it’s not disabling me in any significant way. Although the pain is generally steady, I felt it spasm a couple of times. But I’ll live. No worries. I will have to suspend my normal exercise routine so it can heal. I wanted to go running this morning, but I decided against it. Maybe someone can just kiss and make it better?

Oh, and I also have a sore elbow from banging it against a door and it hurts like a bitch. But that’s not an art modeling injury. That’s just me being an idiot klutz.

Now I have to get ready for work! Sketch class this evening. Probably no deep reclining twists for them tonight. And hopefully those good people won’t mind my face grimacing in pain. I think it makes for a beautiful portrait, don’t you?

See you all soon.

The Unrequited Art Model Crush

You have yet to rattle my composure, honey. But you’ve gotten close. Very close. For now, I hide my attraction behind the cloak of my professionalism. I bury it so you can’t see it. But it is very much alive, in my head and in my heart. And it’s all happening inside me, just a few feet away from you.

I have taken poses “for you”, but you’re unaware. I have posed standing – with poise and balance – all the time feeling weak in the knees by your presence. But you’re unaware. In a studio full of artists, I am supremely conscious of you and you alone, consumed with thoughts and fantasies of you. But again, you are unaware. So I work. And keep working. Dutifully. Like it’s just another class among the many classes I pose for – but it’s not.

I see you there. Sitting and drawing. I peek at you at every opportunity. I feel your eyes rolling over my body. My nude body. Observing every part of me. And it excites me. What are you looking at, baby? A life model? A woman? Or both? I fear that I exist only on your paper, as a subject, a practice exercise, an anatomy study. That breaks my heart Because I have needs and desires too. I am human too. I have a life off the platform. And I have thoughts about you being in that life . . .

You are serious, dedicated, and gifted. You create ink drawings that are loose and visceral. I’ve seen them. You have beautiful brown eyes. I’ve seen them too. And your smile . . . . oh, your smile

You are young. Younger than me by at least a decade. But I caught your wink, sweetie! Yes, I did. And I melted from your close, tight hug that day. I didn’t want it to end. Those two fleeting moments are all I have from you. And probably all I ever will. But maybe . . . if you ever . . . if you share my attraction . . . please . . . come to me . . . say something . . . do something. Because I will do nothing. I can’t. I won’t say a word. I’m afraid. I’m a pathetic coward.

So darling, if you want to, please, take me in your arms, put your lips on mine . . . touch me . . . caress me . . . Yes . . . It’s okay . . . I want to . . . yes . . . I say yes . . .

Dinah Washington, sing one for my honey . . . the object of my affection . .
“come to mama, come to mama do”

Juxtaposition

Since we all had such a fun and spirited time discussing and looking at the female subjects of William-Adolphe Bouguereau in the previous post, I thought I might be quite the clever girl and post a little counterpoint. I chose a few images from some of the dominant modernists who likely contributed so decisively to Bouguereau’s “demise” in the 20th century.

We’ve all agreed that art follows fashions and trends, sometimes to our pleasure, other times to our dismay. But we art lovers can also feel great satisfaction in the broad scope of art movements over the centuries, and feel awe over the sheer diversity of styles, concepts, aesthetics, and visions that have been expressed by artists. So does anything stay the same? Is anything constant? Does anything withstand the endless progression and evolution of art through the ages? The answer is yes, one thing. The female nude. And you know what that means, don’t you? It means I will continue to have a job

Here are a few contrasting depictions of female nudes, and every one of them was created just three short years after Bouguereau’s death. My how things change! The art world wastes no time.

Georges Braque, Le Grand Nu, 1908:

Marc Chagall, Red Nude, 1908:

Nude, by Picasso, again from 1908:

The revolution was underway . . .