Rainy Day Sunday
Here in New York, this last day of November is a wet one. Raining steadily since this morning, the sky is overcast and dreary, the pitter-patter hasn’t let up, and rainwater is collecting, dripping, and saturating everything in its path. But the signal strength of my Direct TV dish hasn’t been affected and that’s what’s most important, right?? I mean what would we do without TV???? 
Actually plenty. A nutcase like me, for example, tries to take pictures during such photography-unfriendly conditions. Hey, what can I say? I was bored out of my mind. Bored being cooped up in the house, bored with chores both completed and uncompleted, and longed to be outside, raining or not.
I hoped my usual backyard critters would be there; the squirrels, the birds, the feral cats. And they were out there, all day. I saw them. Tolerating the rain, mauling the birdfeeder, digging in wet dirt, and generally going about their business. Until, of course, I emerged. Then they all scattered in a panic. It was as if they knew I wanted to take their pictures and hid from me on purpose!! “Oh shit! Here she is! Quick! Hide!”. So for my rainy Sunday snapshots, having been abandoned by the critters, I was stuck with the usual and predictable “wet leaves on shrubbery” and “raindrop closeups on twigs” routine. Hey, it’s not my fault! I wanted the flock of blue jays, but they took off. 
A withered, autumn hydrangea:
This next picture actually has a funny backstory. Most of you know that I feed feral cats. Although most of the time I give them dry food, once in a while I treat them to a yummy can of soft food. The other day I opened a can and remembered later on that I left the can cover out in the garden. So I reminded myself to go pick it up. When I got home, I went out to retrieve the can cover but it was nowhere to be found. Oh well, I thought. Must have gotten blown away by the wind. Well, today I just happened to peer over the low brick retaining wall which runs along the edge of my property. I was looking for Monty. And there I spotted the wayward cat food can cover, dangling precariously on the edge, like this:
Totally cool, man! That sucker is hanging by like a millimeter! Let me remind you all that I have no idea how that cover could get to that particular spot and hang in that fashion. It is nine feet away from where I left it, plus it’s OVER a wall, and then DOWN another foot. It defies the laws of physics. It’s madness! But I suspect the cats (or raccoons) are the guilty culprits.
One wet and irritated squirrel appeared high above. He seemed pretty pissed off about his condition, but I took a picture anyway. He’s not happy:
The trunk of my favorite dogwood tree:
And one more “raindrops on twigs” for good measure. Looks like winter ice, doesn’t it? This one’s actually very nice when clicked and enlarged:
To close out this “rainy day” post, here’s a poem by Shel Silverstein, appropriately titled “Rain”:
I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.
I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can’t do a handstand–
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said–
I’m just not the same since there’s rain in my head.
“Rain in my head”, indeed 
Ain’t that the truth!
See you all soon.
Role Playing
Belated Happy Thanksgiving wishes to all my readers! I hope everyone had a great day whether your focus was on eating, ruminating, watching football, enjoying the company of family and friends, or any combination of those. I took part in all except the football watching. Now I’m not sure, but I think I came close to consuming 10 or 12 pounds of homemade cranberry sauce. Can’t help it. It’s one of my favorites!
This movie clip made me smile and chuckle. Since my personal relationship with my readers (albeit an “online” one) has been evolving and becoming more intimate over time, I actually saw a little bit of myself in Kirk Douglas’ portrayal of Vincent Van Gogh! Well let’s just say I related to his pleas, needs, and sensitivities. The word “attachments” is spoken in the dialogue, and that really struck a chord in me, since the subject just came up in comment discussion in my last post. (Love you, DougRogers).
In this scene from the 1956 film “Lust for Life”, Van Gogh is trying desperately to hang on to, deepen, and solidify his friendship with Paul Gauguin, played by Anthony Quinn. Fearing loneliness and abandonment, Vincent is reaching out to Paul, and the macho Paul is having none of it. Instead, he reacts coldly, irritated by Van Gogh’s clingy nature and lack of toughness in an often harsh, cruel world.
It is people in my real life who function as my true “Gauguins”, but just for fun I tried to place all of you in the Gauguin role. Luckily it didn’t work. Why? Because you guys are awesome!! You are warm, compassionate, and sympathetic to my troubles, feelings, and honest disclosures here on Museworthy. And I doubt that any of you would ever raise your voices angrily to me. Oh and for the record, I, as Vincent, would NEVER hurl a glass at any of your heads! A shoe, maybe. But never a glass (just kidding).
A Silent Turmoil
What’s that old saying? When it rains it pours? Isn’t that just like life. Some elevated form of consciousness and emotion has found its way into my head and heart. Well, I’m sensitive anyway. But these days my ultra-soft underbelly feels even softer than usual. Kind of like Jello. The reasons are not a mystery. First, there were my romantic frustrations, then Royalyne died, then just today I received news that another model coordinator – one I absolutely adore – is leaving his position for greener pastures. It’s a big blow and it breaks my heart, but I wish him the best of luck and success in his new job. Pile onto all that a particularly heightened state of feeling the past couple of weeks, during which I’ve been harboring very strong inexplicable attachments toward certain people, an obsessive dependency on my job (which is starting to border on a love/hate thing), and weighty thoughts about my future and larger purpose in life. Yeah, you know. Those nagging “big” thoughts. They suck. They’re such a drag. Like pulling a ball and chain around on your leg all day.
I don’t know what’s going on with me. It’s not the “beast”, thank god. That’s a whole different ballgame. What’s happening now feels like . . . strife. A quiet, simmering strife. Maybe I’m just going through a phase. But I’m ok, friends, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’m one of those people who are confused, fragile, and delicate during individual moments or days, but resilient in the long run.
I worked tonight at Spring Studios, and posing there was a good thing for me. Outwardly, I was my usual warm and vivacious self. But up on the platform, the truth was likely revealed to the ever-perceptive artists who draw there. Remember: art models can’t hide. We can try, but we really can’t. It’s just a hopeful delusion of people like us who willingly expose ourselves. You can’t expect to have the glory, attention, and admiration and then also expect the vulnerabilities and insecurities to sleep through the show. Ain’t gonna happen.
Jordan Mejias, a friend of mine who runs most of the Monday and Tuesday sessions, made two watercolors of me tonight that I thought really captured my moody, whirling inner state. You can see it in the first one especially. A touch of darkness, a touch of disquiet, a touch of something that isn’t calm, isn’t serene, isn’t at peace. A woman grappling.
The Passing of a Muse
It’s a sad, sad day. Sad for many, but uniquely sad for those of us who work as models at the New York Studio School. Royalyne Ward-Davis, our dear model coordinator, passed away last night after a hard-fought battle with cancer. I don’t even know how to approach, let alone begin, this post in her memory. I’m probably writing it too soon, since I only found out the tragic news a few hours ago. Even though we all knew this was imminent, after watching her waste away for months, it doesn’t alleviate the grief. I last saw her, spoke to her, and hung out with her on an unseasonably balmy night on 8th street in Greenwich Village a few weeks ago, at the opening reception for her art exhibit at the school.
Royalyne was as wedded to the New York Studio School as a person could be. She started there as a student many years ago, then a model, then the model coordinator. In other words, she painted there, posed there, and administrated there, her heart and soul inextricable from the school itself. She carried out her model coordinator duties, doing bookings and organizing models’ schedules, up to the last day she was capable of doing it. It was only several weeks ago that I answered my cell phone to hear Royalyne’s distinct raspy voice and north Florida accent at the other end, calling to inquire about my availability. We discussed it, then discussed chemo, then discussed the school, and then a little bit of life itself.
She was blunt, she was honest, she was genuine, she was funny as hell, she loved art with every fiber of her being, and she understood art models and their “issues” like no one else. One time last year, Royalyne and I had a verbal argument about bookings. She was being stubborn, I was being stubborn, and in disgust I slammed my planner book closed very hard in front of her face, like a giant bitch. (really wish I could take that back). When I saw her the next day, it was like the whole altercation never happened! Royalyne made a very funny joke (which I won’t share because it’s between her and I), laughed, and beamed her contagious smile (which never changed in spite of hollowed cheeks and an ashen complexion). It made me smile and laugh back. We roared in her office over our respective temperaments, the oddities of the school, and the art modeling profession in general. And we bonded in that indescribable way that models bonded with her. i can’t really explain it accurately, I’m sorry. It was just Royalyne. She was an individualist. She was memorable. She was a singular person in every way. Her personality was unlike any other.
Royalyne posed for artist Joe Santore, her longtime good friend. I have posed for Joe as well and I am profoundly honored, and humbled, to follow in Royalyne’s footsteps. I didn’t ask Joe for permission to post this image, but I highly doubt he will mind, since it is in tribute to Royalyne. And we are all very, very sad that she is no longer with us. Just trying to cope.
Royalyne, by Joe Santore, 1995:
But Royalyne has gone home. Safe trip, friend. Safe journey. Your pain is gone. Rest in peace . . .
Crying. Missing you. I’m booked at the Studio School on Wednesday. Will be there at 9 AM sharp
Shake a Leg
The current issue (Fall 2008) of American Artist Drawing Magazine features an excellent article written by my dear friend Dan Gheno. It discusses the challenges faced by artists in drawing legs, and Dan, as always, offers solutions, tips, and detailed descriptions on this efficient, yet beautiful, part of human anatomy. Our glorious gams! Brilliantly engineered, ingeniously designed for their function and, in many cases, great to look at in both men and women.
I can’t possibly add anything more to Dan’s article that would be of help to artists with their drawing. He’s got it all covered. What I can do, though, is add a little bit of art model insight to the strength, versatility and yes, expressiveness of legs. What would we do without them? Not a hell of a lot.
Art models rely heavily on their legs. I know I do. My legs are probably my best physical asset. Thanks to regular squats and lunges (well, semi-regular), they are strong enough to sustain me in long standing poses and generate dynamic movement, elegant lines, and springlike support in short poses. When I’m working, moving from quick pose to quick pose, I am always conscious of my leg muscles and try not to take them for granted. Sometimes, when I strike a one minute gesture pose in a spontaneous fashion, I feel like I’m silently communicating with them. “Thanks guys!”, I say to myself. “Hamstrings, I need you now. You’re up!”. They carry me, move me, push and pull and handle the ambitious expression and motion I demand of them. Just the sheer interplay and cooperation of the quads and hamstrings in assuming shifts in body weight, handling pressure and tension on one side while the other side takes a breather, are a testament to the beauty of our legs’ construction.
One of the many interesting points that Dan makes in his article is about the connection between the legs and pelvis. They are literally connected. A person can bend forward – or raise the leg up with a bent knee toward the torso- with the pelvis barely moving. Try it yourself. You’ll be amazed at how still the pelvis remains. But backwards motion is a different story. It’s very difficult to push your leg behind you without it bringing the pelvis back as well, up to a certain point. That’s why when I do a standing pose with one leg stepping forward, I usually lift my back leg up onto the toe (or the ball of the foot). If that back foot sits flat with the heel on the ground, the pelvis pushes back in a weird, awkward, and uncomfortable way. It’s also a strain on the calf muscle. Ballet dancers can do it easily though because they are, well, incredible. But an art model serves a much different purpose of course. The pose I just described simply looks nicer and more artistic with the back foot up on the toe. And the artists have a useful study of one leg supporting weight and the other more relaxed, which is a great drawing practice.
Drawings by Michelangelo and Caracci are among the many marvelous works you can view in Dan’s article, along with some of Dan’s own. But there is one pair of legs that doesn’t appear in Dan’s article (although he has drawn them many, many times). So here they are, as an addendum to the already impressive legs in the magazine. Hmm . . . who could these belong to? I wonder . . . 
A Life in Visuals – Tina Modotti, Politics, and the Power of Photography
Words can’t describe the positive feedback I’ve received from readers for this blog over the past year. I’m touched and overwhelmed by it. What has moved me the most is that such a wide variety of creative folks have responded with so much enthusiasm, from all corners of the globe. Among them are fine artists, illustrators, art models (and aspiring art models!) cartoonists, writers, graphic designers, sculptors, and, lately, a surge in photographers and fine art photography models. It’s amazing, and awesome! Common threads. Shared enjoyment. Collective inspiration. I read and respond to every single comment on this blog and read and respond to every single email. It gratifies me almost as much as art modeling itself.
So what is at the root of our united interest? Why do so many of us gather here on a semi-regular basis? I look at my blog stats, and I am absolutely baffled. Thrilled, but baffled. I say that with sincerest humility. I’d like to flatter myself and claim that it’s my personality , and although that might be a tiny part of it, I know it’s not at the crux of Museworthy’s attraction. No, what’s at the heart of all this is the graphic aspect. The life forms. The expression of humanity through the visual arts. Body, flesh, face, limbs, souls, and spirits. The pleasure of looking at life, whether through paint, pencil, plaster, ink, clay, or photography. The latter takes center stage today.
Yes, this post is my little “shout out” to the photographic artists and their life subjects. They are the documenters, the chroniclers, the diarists. They’ve been stopping by Museworthy, and I’m so honored to have them here. Although I don’t do photography myself, I realize more than ever how interconnected our respective fields are. Who knows? They might even liberate me from my “film phobia”.
So what better way to begin yet another new chapter for this blog than with a woman who filled both roles, and filled them with tremendous passion and intensity. She was Tina Modotti. And while I usually take the time to do thorough, detailed biographical research on my post subjects, I’ll be somewhat brief this time only because I am blown away by the images and am eager to put them up. Plus it’s late and I’m working a lot the next couple of days and refuse to let Museworthy go too long without a fresh post. Yes, I’ve developed an insane fear of “dead blog air” and have become fervent about steady blogging momentum and activity. Yeah, I know. I’m nuts.
Tina Modotti was born in Italy in 1913 and emigrated to the United States – California specifically – when she was a teenager. There she met the man who would represent the most significant relationship of her life – photographer Edward Weston. Tina became his apprentice, assistant, and lover. Together, they settled in Mexico City.
Weston photograph of Tina. Her total inhibition and comfort with her nude body before the camera jumps right out at you. She’s not just posing. She’s fully and completely there. Plus, she looks damn good.
A Communist, Tina became heavily involved in radical politics and the Mexican Communist Party. Moving in those circles she inevitably befriended who else but fellow die-hard Communist, Mexican muralist Diego Rivera. She became not only one of Diego’s favorite art models, having posed for several of his murals, but also a close friend and comrade. Yes, lover too.
Another Weston picture of Tina, White Iris. Haunting and beautiful:
I’m probably stretching here a little, but she looks – just a little – like me. Maybe? Possibly? Ah, just a tiny bit. I see a little something similar. The nose is off. But I’ll take it, whatever it is
Tina’s own photographic output occurred for a relatively brief period, between 1923 and 1930. Her commitment to political and social causes eventually consumed a great deal of her time, along with her complicated romantic life. She liked men a lot, and made no secret of it. But the one thing for which she had greater affinity than male lovers was the plight of laborers and the indigenous people of Mexico. They are the ones she chose as the predominant subjects for her photography. Daily life of the impoverished and disenfranchised.
What symbolizes hard work, struggle, and oppressed labor more than human hands? Nothing. The observant Tina knew this. Here is her photo Hands Washing:
Woman with Olla:
By the 1930s, Tina was fully immersed in radical, revolutionary politics, and surrounded herself with dissidents, avant-guardists, and vocal activists. In 1936, she went to Spain to participate in relief missions during the Spanish Civil War. She eventually returned to her beloved Mexico.
In 1942, Tina Modotti died under very suspicious circumstances. Her old friend Diego Rivera was convinced that she was murdered because of her political activities. Regardless, Tina Modotti was undoubtedly one of the most fascinating, passionate, talented, and visionary women of the 20th century.
I’d like to conclude with what is considered Tina’s most famous photograph. It’s titled simply Roses. In 1991, it was sold at auction at Sotheby’s for $165, 000, the highest price ever paid for a photograph up to that time:
Photography friends of Museworthy. Beauty. Art. Nudity. Images. And, most importantly, life subjects:
Weekend Drawing
Whew! What a week. I am beat. Really looking forward to the weekend. Need rest and rejuvenation. And yoga! Lots and lots of yoga. It’ll do me oodles of good
In the meantime, I’m posting a drawing by Jon Rettich. Who’s Jon Rettich you’re wondering? Actually you all know him whether you’re aware of it or not. You see, the very first image I ever posted on Museworthy was a drawing of me by Jon. That same image became my avatar. (You all knew my avatar was me, right?). I posed for Jon again recently at the Salmagundi Art Club and he was kind enough to send me some images. So it’s about time we revisited the artist who “christened” this blog way back when.
Always charming, always lovely to look at, like all of Jon’s drawings, this is me in colored pencil and graphite:
See you all soon!
Misfortunes of a Mistress – Marie-Thérèse Walter and “Le Reve”
In 2001, Las Vegas casino mogul Steve Wynn paid $42 million for Pablo Picasso’s famous 1932 painting Le Reve. A few years later, in 2006, Wynn was proudly showing off his prized art possession to a group of friends when, in a fit of exuberance and wild arm gesticulations, he banged his elbow into the painting, leaving a silver-dollar sized hole puncture in the canvas. What a jerk! Among the startled onlookers were Barbara Walters, and writers Nora Ephron and Nicholas Pileggi. In Ephron’s eyewitness account of the incident, she recalled that Wynn’s immediate words were, “Oh shit. Look what I’ve done!”. You know what they say, “What happens in Vegas . . . ” But wait, it gets better.
Just the day before the elbow mishap, Wynn had finalized a deal to sell Le Reve to hedge fund billionaire Steven Cohen for a whopping $139 million! Had the deal gone through, it would have been the highest price ever paid for a single work of art. But after Steve Wynn tore a gash into the painting, Cohen, naturally, reneged from the deal. Can you blame him? Would you pay 139 mil for a painting with a patch job? Wynn spent $90 thousand to repair the damage, which his insurers, Lloyd’s of London, refused to cover. Wynn sued them, and the matter was later settled out of court.
So what’s the big deal about Le Reve anyway? Well, here on Museworthy, the big deal is that the model for the painting was Picasso’s long-suffering mistress Marie-Thérèse Walter. Picasso met the pretty young blond in 1927 at the Galeries Lafayette in Paris. She was 18 years old. Picasso was 45, and still married to his wife Olga Khokhlova. Immediately, Picasso became infatuated, and he and Marie-Thérèse began a secret affair. Soon, she would become arguably Picasso’s most famous muse.
Le Reve, or “The Dream”, is said to have been painted in just one afternoon. With simplistic lines and brash colors, the painting is representative of how Picasso saw Marie-Thérèse; as an object of sex. Not an equal, not a life partner, not a wife, not even as a friend, but a plaything, a source of sexual arousal and gratification for the middle-aged artist. Picasso is hardly subtle about it either. Look closely at Marie-Thérèse’s face in the painting. What do you see there in the split at the top? Looks like a penis, right? Picasso’s penis! Classy touch there, Pablo. Ok, you’re horny for the girl. We get it! And notice that it’s she who’s doing the “dreaming”, apparently of Picasso and his member. Give me a break.
If I may throw in my two cents and offer my humble opinion, I personally don’t find this one of Picasso’s better works. I am a huge fan of Picasso, I’ve made that clear on this blog several times (don’t like the man, love the art). And when you look at the entirety of Picasso’s prolific work, especially his earlier pieces and the Blue Period, his depth, his range, etc, you are reminded, lest you forget, of what the man was truly capable of. In contrast, this painting looks weak. Garish and tacky. It looks like he’s putting one over on us and laughing his ass off. It also mocks and demeans and objectifies his muse, and that’s not cool in my book. But again, just my ever-so-humble opinion. Ok, I’ll shut up now.
In 1935, Marie-Thérèse gave birth to Picasso’s child, a daughter named Maya. Although Olga had been in the dark about Picasso’s young mistress for years, word of the baby soon got to her through a friend. It was the last straw. Olga left Picasso and moved to the south of France. Picasso, however, refused to divorce Olga, not out of his love or devotion to her mind you, but simply to avoid having to comply with France’s “division of property” divorce laws. It wasn’t until Olga died in 1955 that Picasso was “free” of her, and his money was safe.
Although Picasso maintained contact with both Marie-Thérèse and Maya and supported them financially, they never existed as a family unit. Marie-Thérèse was forever on the fringe after she had his baby. Shunted aside. Perhaps her appeal as a fresh, youthful, eager and unencumbered mistress had lost its luster as she matured and became a mother. Eventually, Picasso would meet Dora Maar, and that burgeoning relationship symbolized the official end of any significant role Marie-Thérèse would have in Picasso’s life.
In 1977, four years after Picasso’s death, Marie-Thérèse Walter hung herself in the garage of her home in France. She was 68 years old.
The Martyr and Me
Art model poses are all about “gesture”. It’s at the heart of what we do. And artists, when working from life, attempt first and foremost to capture the model’s gesture. You have no drawing if you don’t have the gesture, and then hopefully the authentic emotion and expression that accompanies it.
After spending an inordinate amount of time on Google Image search, I finally came across a work of figurative art whose gesture best reflects my mental and emotional state right now. I was a bit taken aback to discover that the theme and subject matter were totally unrelated to my personal situation. Yes, I saw myself in the pose, and the gesture. I connected with it quite powerfully, in fact. But the subject was not some forlorn and sexually-frustrated woman pining over a man, but none other than Mary Magdalene! Yikes.
Ever since my embarrassing “strike out” with the crush, my sleep pattern has been, let’s say, fitful? Restless? Discontented? Ill at ease? Yeah, all those adjectives work. When you harbor an attraction for someone and that attraction goes unfulfilled, you get pretty fidgety. All you can focus on is that nagging, unpleasant feeling of deprivation, the pent up energy that has nowhere to go, the longing to be touched and no one there to touch you, the aching that can drive you completely insane, and the sad realization that all the things you want to do with this person are taking place only in your imagination. It makes you sigh and cry. It makes you toss sheets around and compulsively re-arrange pillows. It makes you get up and water houseplants at 3:00 in the morning. It makes you open the refrigerator door and start nibbling on carrot sticks.
Now I am definitely no Biblical scholar. So I learned from some quick research that this painting by Jules-Joseph Lefebvre portrays Mary Magdalene in the years after Christ’s crucifixion, when she lived like a hermit in a cave in Saint-Baume, France. Isolated. Doing penance for past sins. Contrast these circumstances with mine, and you have a really sick bundle of disparities. Mary was contrite over bad behavior. I’m trying to partake in some. Mary purposely placed herself in seclusion. I’m trying to break out of mine. Mary was in the south of France. I am in Queens, NY. Yeah, this is too funny. And yet, the gesture of this painting suits us both!
But can someone back me up here? Is this pose, or is it not, a little erotic? Or am I just so horny that I can’t tell the difference anymore and interpreting sex in everything? Well, either way, it reminds me of myself in bed last night. I really wish I was doing an art modeling job this very moment because I’d do this pose and boy would I nail it! Kind of like the “Method” school of art modeling. Marlon Brando ain’t got nothing on me.
Here is Lefebvre’s Mary Magdalene in the Grotto, from 1876:
Lefebvre, by the way, is one of those Art Renewal Center darlings, like our old pal Bouguereau. French academic painter. Tons of female nudes and subjects. Sounds like a guy who might find his way onto Museworthy again very soon.
Disappointed and Drunk
You know when you’re out at a social event, drinking moderately, behaving normally, not slurring your words or acting like an annoying jerk, and then you get HOME and realize you’re freaking blasted? You turn the key in the door, enter the house, take off your jacket and then all of a sudden you just stumble into the next room and bump your head on something? Well, that’s the state I’m in right now. I’m really in no condition to put up a blog post, but I wanted to tell you all something.
After today, I’d say the “crush” is finito. Done. He ignored me all night tonight, which sent the signal loud and clear that he has no interest whatsoever. In three hours of socializing, he spoke to everyone except me. When I first saw him I gave him a nice, warm hello. Guess what I got in response. A mumbled “Hey”, and then he brushed on past me. Ugh. Not good. After that, I was invisible. And of course, every other person at the event greeted me and talked to me and was very happy to see me. Just not him. Painful. We just had a lovely conversation last week! What happened between then and now? I’m perplexed. But I can take a hint.
It’s a shame because I was really looking forward to seeing him tonight. I had a great story to tell him, and I don’t mean for flirting reasons. I mean a genuinely good story that he would have liked, laughed at, and appreciated. It’s too long to explain but trust me, it’s a good story.
And to make things even more exasperating, about eight or nine people told me how terrific I looked! Can you believe this??? I was dressed up a bit for this reception and I guess it showed – to everyone except the crush. Unbelievable. I feel like shit.
If I were sober I could assess the situation better, provide more details, etc. There’s a lot more to say. But right now I’m too drunk, disappointed, lonely, frustrated, and yearning for companionship. Any kind of companionship would do at this point. Some intimacy and affection would be really, really nice. But after tonight, the crush is clearly not interested in helping me out in any of those areas. And how very willing I was to reciprocate Oh well.
It’s late and I’m bored, and I have to work in the morning. With a hangover no doubt. Wanna listen to some music? I’m going to upload an mp3. Why the hell not? Let’s see if I can do this, while my computer screen spins before my eyes in a red wine-induced haze:
Here’s Loving Cup by the Rolling Stones:
It’s Raining Men
Ah, if only! Maybe I should run out out to Victoria’s Secret and make some slutty lingerie purchases. You know, just in case
No, no. What I’m really talking about is Museworthy’s blatantly sexist history. That’s right, I admit it. The bias toward the female nude on this blog has been pretty glaring, has it not? I looked at my Image Gallery page and noticed that except for a couple of Michelangelos, the artwork subjects are all women, all the time. It’s like the damn Lifetime Channel! So I want you all to know that I am aware of it and I feel bad, especially since I’ve been so fortunate to have male art models reading the blog regularly and contributing such excellent comments and insights, all of which I enjoy and appreciate immensely. So I’m sorry guys! I will make it up to you and remedy the problem starting with this post. The male nude subject is definitely nothing to be ignored. And no, it does not play second fiddle to females.
I envy male life models for many reasons, the most significant being their ability to project strength. No matter how fit and toned a female model may be, it isn’t the same. The male physique, whether buffed, semi-buffed, moderately fit or whatever, projects strength regrardless because of its anatomical characteristics. For example, the widest part of a man’s body is his shoulders, which sit atop the rest of the figure. Visually, the eye sees that width and weight at the top, which projects an image of strength and power. The male body also has straighter lines, sharper angles, and harder surfaces. More traits that go to strength. Female figures have curvier lines, a lower center of gravity (at the hips) and a higher body fat percentage; all things that render a softer, gentler, less-threatening appearance.
Let’s kick off the male nudes on Museworthy with this stunner from the titan of French Neo-Classical painting, Jacques-Louis David. From Greek mythology, this is his portrayal of Patroclus, who accompanied his good friend Achilles to the the Trojan War, where he was slain by Hector. Created in 1780, here is Patroclus, and the male form in all its strapping and virile beauty. A superb twisted pose. Amazing. And you see how the figure does all the work, all the communicating, holds all the expression and emotion? We can’t see his face. Does it matter? No.
Karma for Sarah
Allow me to devote just one more post to this extraordinary moment in history. Most bloggers have strayed temporarily from their normal topics to celebrate Barack Obama’s victory, and that is quite understandable The enthusiasm and revelry have been fun to read! I, however, have just one more thing to celebrate; the resounding defeat and rejection not only of John McCain, but of that heinous creature known as Sarah Palin. You know, the woman I was supposed to blindly relate to and bond with even though we have nothing in common other than female genitalia?
There were plenty of reasons to despise that woman: her arrogance, her stupidity, her divisive rhetoric, her snide sarcasm, her narrow ideas and provincial values (not to mention her “fingernails on a chalkboard” voice and speaking style). But the real reason for her defeat was the bad karma she incurred from her insane, ruthless positions toward animals, wildlife, the earth itself. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she seeks to rape the beautiful landscape and natural resources of Alaska, or that she denies the threats faced by polar bears, or that she proudly spews the sophomoric phrase “Drill, baby, drill!”. No, what’s worse is that she supports and condones the most barbaric hunting practice in existence.
I know why you want these animals dead, Sarah, You’re jealous of their intelligence, and their dignity:
The spirit of the wolves, dead wolves in the hereafter, in some form of cosmic retaliation, took you down Sarah. Sweet revenge. Go back to your “Real America” you bitch. And please, don’t ever, ever come back.
Art and art modeling return to Museworthy in the next post. See you all then!
Peace
January 20, 2009
:blows dust off old American History textbook. Opens back cover. Begins writing new chapter . . . :
No, it wasn’t my paltry $25 donation. Nor my lone vote in the unpredictable “toss-up” state of New York It was 62 million pairs of eyes opening wide, looking into the future, glowing with hope, envisioning better and brighter days. We did it. We actually did it. Wow.
Our new President with his late grandmother:
Press play, and get up and dance!
We the People . . .
Fasten your seatbelts. Election Day is almost upon us. Frankly, I’m disappointed that neither candidate, in the whole campaign season, addressed the specific needs and concerns of America’s artist’s models. What are we, chopped liver? Do we not love our country and pay our taxes? Oh well. Guess I should have been a plumber
I feel bad that I am not the model in this image. And I actually could have been if only I had planned ahead! My friend Fred does terrific body painting, and I could easily have asked him to adorn my nude self in the stars and stripes. Would it have been worth it, just to take one picture for the blog? To commemorate this momentous and compelling presidential election? Absolutely!! I’d do anything for Museworthy. But like I said, I didn’t plan ahead. Sorry folks.
But you will no doubt enjoy this very fine model, and her beautifully done body art. The heart shape with her hands is a nice touch:
I’m working a long, full day on Monday, which is why I’ve put this post up now. But I’ll check in for comments and hellos and see you all back here, if not Tuesday, then Wednesday for sure. In the meantime, rock the vote, everyone!!
Claudia
xoxo
