A Happy Museworthy New Year
Helloo, hellooooo!! Well here we are, on the brink of 2009. Are you guys ready?? :pops champagne, gets whacked in the eye with cork. Ouch! Motherf***er!!!:
Ok so maybe I don’t have the New Year’s touch. Honestly, I can’t say that I ever did. I have kind of a love/hate relationship with New Year’s Eve, leaning more toward hate. Ah, I don’t know. I’m not a killjoy, I swear! The whole thing is just too much pressure, too much forced revelry, too much social organizing effort, and too much cold, windy weather like we’re having here in NYC right now. Yes, it’s bone-chilling out there! I take my hat off to those brave souls who will be crammed into Times Square on this blustery, chilly evening.
I hope all of you have a nice New Year’s, whatever you choose to do. Whether it’s going out or staying in, drinking champagne or drinking hot chocolate, being in a large group or an intimate one, dancing or watching a DVD, feeling elated or feeling introspective, wearing party clothes or wearing sweatpants, just enjoy, my dear friends 
So wherever you are and however you ring in the New Year, remember that your muse is sending joyous good cheer your way, and extending warm, sincere wishes for a spectacular 2009, filled with dreams, hopes, colors, and laughter.
Peace, love, and kisses . . .
Claudia
Art in the Age of Recession
A few months ago I bumped into an artist friend at the National Academy. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and after a few minutes of hugging and kissing and the usual questions of “How have you been? What’s new?”, etc, I inquired about a lovely painting he made of me that I remembered well and was quite taken with. Suddenly, his expression changed. He looked a tad sheepish, and I was confused. “What?”, I said. “Um, I don’t have it anymore”, he answered. So my naive, positive self jumped to an optimistic conclusion. “Oh! You sold it!!” I exclaimed. That’s great!”. “No”, he replied. “I painted over it”. And then I became huffy and indignant and offended. :gasp: “You WHAT?????“. “I”m sorry Claudia,” he said, still shamefaced. “But I needed the canvas”.
Then I shifted into kidding-around mode, just to mess with him. I feigned outrage and stammered for an appropriate insult. “Why you . . . you . . . you . . . :searching for the word: . . . you rotten . . . :still searching: . . . you lousy . . . .recycler!!!!!!!.
Yeah, that told him! Not an “asshole”, not a “shithead”, not a “douchebag”, but a “recycler”. Ouch! That hurts, right? What a zinger. 
The truth is that, economic recession or not, artists are generally frugal in their habits. They will reuse painting surfaces, salvage materials, and waste nothing. I’ve seen artists drop a piece of charcoal on the floor and pick up every last broken fragment, even if it’s just a half-inch. Why bother? Because it’s a perfectly good piece of charcoal, that’s why. I’ve seen artists squeeze out paint tubes with pliers, flattening those suckers out until that last miniscule drop of pigment is extracted. Artists use both sides of paper for drawings, repair busted frames, and work with tiny stumps of pastel. And yes, they paint right over old, unwanted canvases.
I have here an example of artist recycling. I pose privately for my artist friend Janet Cook, and just before we took the holiday break she wanted to do a rough, preliminary “sketch” of an idea she’s thinking about for a future painting. So she dug up an old painting that she obviously doesn’t care about and started working. That’s me holding a chocolate box, and that’s another model behind me, slowly getting buried, gradually disappearing and receding into the art afterlife.
As an artist’s model, I have been both the buried and the burier in this re-using canvases routine. Honestly, it sucks to be buried. You think to yourself, “All my hard work, my strenuous posing, and nothing to show for it! No physical proof that it ever happened.” :sob: :sniffle: Ah, but you learn to get over it and not take it personally. Just remember, though, the next time you’re looking at a painting, the hidden image of a model might be buried under layers of the surface paint. In other words, it might actually be two paintings in one.
My post title is a bit misleading because artists always work as if there’s a recession. They’re well aware that no bailout money will ever come their way, no government “rescue” is in the offing, and that studio rent and art supplies can be costly. So they are skillful, resourceful masters of penny-pinching. An old coffee can makes a fine paintbrush holder. An old pasta sauce jar makes a fine vessel for solvent. Hey, why not? I’m a “saver” myself and think recycling is a darn good thing. I do, however, draw the line at coffee filters
My late father was a child of the Great Depression. He wasted nothing, and if he were here today he’d give enthusiastic kudos to artists and their economical practices. Hmm, perhaps the Wall Street CEOs should take some tips from thrifty artists. To them I say, better start scrimping and saving, boys! If things keep going the way they are, it won’t be long before you know what it’s like to, metaphorically, “need the canvas”.
A Woman Among Men – Berthe Morisot and the Impressionists
Few female artists managed to infiltrate the boy’s club that were the French Impressionists. American painter Mary Cassatt was one. French painter Berthe Morisot was another. A bourgeois lady who led a charmed life, Morisot’s biography, unlike so many I often write about, is remarkably drama-free. No table-dancing, no promiscuity, no children out of wedlock, no alcoholism, no nervous breakdowns. Whoa, whoa, wait a second, this is Museworthy, isn’t it? 
Berthe Morisot is largely well-known and recognized as a model subject for Edouard Manet. He painted her a total of eleven times, and the two forged a close friendship of mutual respect and affection. Manet mentored and supported Morisot although she was never his formal “pupil”. A unique French beauty, Morisot’s image is captured by Manet in this famous painting from 1872. I alternate between hot and cold when it comes to Manet, but I think that this work exemplifies portraiture at its finest. The eyes, the clothing, the brushstrokes, it’s as close to perfect as it gets:
Morisot and Manet moved in the same Impressionist circle, both becoming well-acquainted with Monet, Renoir, Pissarro and the gang. But Manet resisted the Impressionist label and refused to exhibit with the group. Morisot, on the other hand, was a true believer in the Impressionist mission, and exhibited with them regularly. A loyal adherent, Berthe promoted and participated in all the Impressionist shows, and even organized the group’s swan song in 1886.
An upper class bourgeois girl through and through, Berthe grew up in privilege and claimed an impressive bloodline. She was the granddaughter of the prolific Rococo painter Jean-Honore Fragonard. Her father was a prominent, high ranking government official who provided his three daughters with the best tutors, best homes, best of everything that 19th century Paris had to offer. And after all her education and advantages, young Berthe chose art as her life’s calling. Lucky for her, she had her family’s full support.
Morisot’s Hide and Seek:
Under the earlier influence of her friend Camille Corot, Morisot spent many years painting plein-air (outdoor) subjects. She then moved on to themes common for female artists of the day; picnics, domestic scenes, children, family members – all the tame, “safe” subjects expected of feminine “lady artists”. Men rarely appear in her work, and very few nudes. But it seems that Berthe was comfortable in the role, as she was a firm advocate of the philospohy that artists should paint the subjects with which they are most familiar, images of their daily life. So it’s no surprise that Morisot’s work reflects the pleasant, comfortable existence of a proper, bourgeois Parisian lady.
Interior:
In 1874, Morisot married Manet’s younger brother, Eugene. They had a daughter, Julie, in 1878. Julie would become one of Morisot’s favorite models. In this painting, Morisot depicts Julie with her pet greyhound, and the open composition, bright colors, and loose brushstrokes typify the Impressionist aesthetic. Looks a lot like a Renoir:
Eugene Manet died in 1892. In her widowed years Berthe Morisot continued to paint, exhibit, and maintain her friendships with Monet and Degas. Her daughter was her closest companion until Berthe died of pneumonia in 1895. The respect she had earned over her lifetime was expressed by these words from her friend Camille Pissarro upon hearing of her death, “You can hardly conceive how surprised we all were and how moved, too, by the disappearance of this distinguished woman”.
As the beneficiary of her mother’s work and legacy, Julie Manet ensured that Berthe Morisot’s place in art history was recognized, as that of a faithful disciple of the French Impressionist school.
Cooking With Claudia
Like a good Armenian girl, I made a platter of stuffed grape leaves for Christmas dinner at my mother’s house. Now I’m not a braggart by nature, but allow me to stray momentarily from my normally humble self and announce to everyone that my grape leaves this year kicked ass!!!! I’m so proud of myself I’ve made them many times before, but this batch – the Christmas 2008 batch – will go down in Hajian family history as truly memorable. Everyone gobbled them up and voiced their enthusiastic acclaim for my culinary skills. I’m so happy!
Armenian style (or Lebanese style) grape leaves are not a dish you can just “whip up” in 20 minutes. You have to chop 7 cups of onions, combine all the other ingredients in a large bowl, mix thoroughly, and then plant yourself at the kitchen table and neatly hand roll each grape leaf like a mini cigar. My filling came out incredible. Yay! White rice, onions, pine nuts, currants, fresh chopped parsley and dill, olive oil, lemon juice – yum. Place them all in a large cooking dish, fill with water, and cook in the oven for an hour and a half. Let cool on the counter. Serve with lemon wedges.
Now I ask you all, does this filling not look exquisite and delicious?
Some people (wimps) pre-cook the rice before filling the leaves. I don’t. Some people go easy on the currants (horrors!). Everybody has their own methods and preferences. But I am bound to the traditional old world Armenian recipe of my ancestors, and I wouldn’t want my grandmother to turn over in her grave at any corrupted grape leaf preparation on my part.
By the way, you know those canned grape leaves you can buy in middle eastern food stores? SUCK. Really suck. Tastless, soggy, a waste of time.
I hope everyone had, or is still having, a wonderful holiday, whichever one you celebrate. I’ll be back in a jiffy, blogging about art and art modeling as usual. Lots of great stuff on the way – artists, muses, paintings, drawings, etc. In the meantime, I love you all!
Ahimsa for the Holidays
Ahimsa. A beautiful word with a beautiful meaning. It’s a Sanskrit term for “nonviolence”. More specifically it means abstaining from killing, harming, and/or injuring another living, sentient being. Hence, nonviolence.
Those of you who visit Museworthy solely as an art blog are good to tolerate my occasional “love and compassion toward animals” posts. I sincerely thank you for abiding my digressions. If it were not an issue for which I have profound feelings, I would gladly spare you these off-topic posts. But my feelings are profound, and I am compelled to share this heart-rending, thought-provoking video with all of you.
In spite of the many vocal animal rights groups out there, society’s treatment of animals still remains a topic we’re not allowed to examine in depth. Nor are we allowed to re-think our eating habits, question the ethics of the factory farming system, or fully chastise the animal agriculture industry. Moreover, we are expected to deny our innate sense of interconnectedness with all living beings. We are taught, instead, to value cheeseburgers and hot dogs, mock vegetarians, and insist incorrectly that animals “have no feelings”. The indisputable truth is that animals are conscious and aware. They feel pain, grief, fear, loneliness, sadness. And they are defenseless against human cruelty.
To anyone who has read John Robbins’ books Diet for a New America or The Food Revolution, I’d strongly encourage you to extend your enlightenment and read Dr. Will Tuttle’s incredible book, The World Peace Diet. I just finished it myself, and I haven’t been so affected by a book in a very long time.
This video is from the Farm Sanctuary, an organization I’m proud to support. The narrator’s voice is that of Farm Sanctuary co-founder Gene Baur. A friend of mine said that the first half of this video was one of the hardest things she ever had to watch. But I assure you all that the second half – starting at 2:44 – is worth enduring the horrors of the first.
During this holiday season, remember not just the struggles and suffering of humankind, but of all our friends on earth -our fellow mortals – whose instincts to love, inhabit earth, and live free are equal to ours. Ahimsa for all.
Claudia
xoxo
Going Gently into that Good Night
My apologies to Dylan Thomas for ripping off (and slightly altering) his poem title. I couldn’t resist. I wanted to come up with my own but “seasonal affective disorder” must be clouding my normally clever, creative, and highly astute thought-processes Besides, I do want to “rage against the dying of the light”. Thanks again, Dylan.
The pagans and druids were out in full force at Stonehenge in Wiltshire, England today to observe the winter solstice. Yes, it’s December 21st, the shortest day of the year in the northern hemisphere. The astronomical phenomenon of this event has always fascinated me, as does astronomy in general (although I did poorly in the subject in school for some reason).
This is the celebration time of year, with holidays galore, commemorative feasts, festivals, and religious observances which reflect the vast spectrum of spirituality across cultures. But I have to say that the solstices are my favorites because they recognize the patterns and movements of our beautiful planet. I don’t think one must label themselves a “pagan” to acknowledge the elegance, intelligence, and awe-inspiring travels of earth through the universe.
To me, the best thing about the winter solstice is that it signals the reversal of long nights, and we begin to gradually inch toward my personal preference of longer days and shorter nights. At the beginning of this post I made a crack about seasonal affective disorder, but I was only half-joking. Maybe it’s just silly psychology, but the truth is I do feel more glum when the skies are darker, and conversely I feel more buoyant on brighter, sunnier days. I’ll go one step further – and stupider – and use my birthday as an excuse. I was born in the heart of the summer; a bona-fide “summer baby” if you will. So I suspect that long, lazy, humid days were implanted in my DNA with the sun’s alignment back in July of 1968. Works for me. Plus I prefer shorts to long pants, and that’s some hardcore, empirical, scientific proof right there.
Edward Hopper was a 20th century American realist painter. And guess what? He and I share the same birthday – July 22nd Another summer baby! Right on, Edward! And no wonder he created many paintings that feature sunlight streaming through windows. This is Morning Sun from 1952. On this winter solstice, let’s look to Hopper’s bright day to carry us through until bleak winter passes.
Art Model Funnies, Part 4
A veritable winter wonderland is taking shape here in the northeast. A steady snowfall has been blanketing us since this morning, and it’s really pretty! Of course I’m one of the lucky ones who has the day off today, and rather than deal with commuter difficulties, I get to remain happily snowed-in and nestled away in my house in Queens. I probably should go outside and shovel, but with my muscle pull still on the mend I think I’ll blow it off. Plus I’m just lazy
We’re long overdue for another installment of cartoons here on Museworthy, so here are a couple I think you’ll like.
From Dave Carpenter:
Here’s something I’d like to see; a nude ARTIST painting a nude model. Woohoo!! From Joseph Farris:
Hope you’re all doing well. See you soon, friends!
Old New York and a Private Club
New York might be one of the few American cities where one can still find vestiges of old class divisions and social strata. Metropolis of diverse millions that we are, echoes of the bygone “high society” still reverberate in places like the National Arts Club. Located at 15 Gramercy Park South, the National Arts Club was founded in 1898 with a commitment to the arts, architecture, and civic affairs. Yes the club is private, as is Gramercy Park itself (Gated and closed to the “riffraff” public, only the privileged residents of Gramercy are blessed with the key that unlocks the park’s hallowed gates. I’ll take egalitarian Central Park anyday).
So how would a commoner like an artist’s model crash such an exclusive private institution and find herself among New York’s social and cultural glitterati? By posing for their Monday night sketch group, that’s how! HAHAHAHAHA!!!!! :stuffs face with hors d’oeuvres, boozes at the bar, steals silverware, and keeps head down:
The truth is that the National Arts Club is a lovely historic place – a landmark Gothic Revival brownstone that was once the residence of New York governor Samuel J. Tilden. In 1876, Tilden ran for President but lost to Rutherford B. Hayes in spite of having won the popular vote. Inside the building, you can really feel the ghosts of past lives, the flavor of “old New York”, and envision top-hatted gentlemen and corset-wearing ladies gliding down the staircases. It’s a trippy, time-travel experience.
Mark Milroy runs the Monday night sketch, and I pose for it regularly. I worked just last night, and when I entered the building I was greeted by the Club’s spectacular annual Christmas decorations. Snooty place or not, I have to admit they do it up right! Lights everywhere, a magnificent tree in the main room, poinsettias tucked in every corner, ornaments dangling, and every festive trimming you can think of. Almost makes you forget the uppity attitude of the place.
On my break I wanted to take a few pictures, but as usual at that Club, some black tie affair was going on down on the first floor (Seems to be an event every night at that place). Unfortunately, the first floor is where all the best decorations are. A scantily clad art model with tousled hair, lurking around with a camera, wouldn’t exactly be welcome among the hoity-toity crowd sipping holiday wines and brandies. Not wanting to alarm the “Muffy” and “Buffy” people, I banished myself up on the second floor where our drawing group is held. Yes, I have a sense of decorum instilled in me by my mother. So in the name of propriety, I kept my braless, bare-legged self up at the top of the stairs.
This shot came out pretty nice. The holiday glow certainly comes through:
Standing in the same spot but straight up at the ceiling. Nice architectural detail:
Some of the National Arts Club’s distinguished past members include photographer Alfred Steiglitz, painters William Merritt Chase, George Bellows, and Robert Henri, sculptor Daniel Chester French, architect Stanford White, literary figures W.H Auden and Mark Twain, and even former Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson. Don’t think any artist models have ever made it onto that list. But at least there’s a place for us up on the second floor
Caravaggio – Bad Boy of Baroque
Some of my artist friends who revere the Baroque painter Caravaggio often complain that their hero’s reputation is too dominated by his biography and wild escapades – that Caravaggio the painter is overshadowed by Caravaggio the hell-raiser. Perhaps they have a point. But in Caravaggio’s case it’s pretty hard to ignore the personality and the exploits, as they are the stuff of legend.
To say that Caravaggio had a lengthy rap sheet is not an exaggeration. From the year 1600, his name appears in numerous police reports from Milan to Naples to Rome. Among his many criminal offenses were sword-fights (a murder among them), public brawls, assault and battery, and even a prison escape. Indeed, most of Caravaggio’s adult life was spent either as a fugitive from the law, in jail, or out on parole awaiting a pardon. The rest of his time he spent painting.
Lest I further anger my Caravaggio-worshipping friends, I’d better shift gears to a discussion of Caravaggio the artist. What does that entail? Some pretty impressive stuff as it turns out. In an era when art subjects were idealized, Caravaggio, who detested idealization, dwelled in realism and naturalism. In an era when imagery was delivered with a sublime message, Caravaggio told it like it was, warts and all. In an era when religious themes were portrayed with devout and deferential spirituality, Caravaggio painted those same religious themes with distinctly secular and earthly overtones.
With regard to painting, Caravaggio rejected the popular approach of the day which involved endless drawings, diagrams, and preparations. Instead, he worked directly from life right out of the gate. He always used models and painted exactly what he saw – flaws, defects, the whole of their humanity. If the results were vulgar and unsettling, so be it. A gnarly foot, a bloodshot eye, some saggy, wrinkled skin – none of these things were off limits to Caravaggio. His figures emerge from the shadows in dramatic chiaroscuro, almost three-dimensional, with darkness and light playing startling games of contrast with the viewer.
Caravaggio’s paintings are not for the faint of heart. If your definition of art means “pretty pictures”, better steer clear of Mr. C! He’s not your man. And if you prefer your religious art to be a source of glory, solace and spiritual uplift, again, beware Caravaggio. He won’t pander, tone down, or subdue a thing. Our delicate sensibilities and preconceived notions mean nothing to him. His martyrs and apostles are :gasp!: human. All too human. He left the beatification and canonization to his peers, while he dealt with bold truth and unvarnished reality.
Although I’ve never been a huge fan of religious art, I’m fascinated by Caravaggio’s depictions of sacred religious events. He shows them almost as if they were still frames from a documentary movie or an “eyewitness account”, rather than the static, fictionalized, “airbrushed” images we conjure up in our imaginations. Caravaggio imbues these scenes with intense urgency and an unforgiving eye. The result is some scary shit! But incredible artistic feats nevertheless.
Flagellation of Christ, 1607:
Caravaggio’s models consisted of peasants, prostitutes, and a motley crew of street characters, some of the rough crowd he ran with. But given Caravaggio’s firmly held belief in realism, his model choices make perfect sense. He also employed adolescent boys as sitters, which has contributed to much speculation of Caravaggio’s sexual proclivities.
David after having slain Goliath:
Because I’m such a wimp, I’ve selected some of the less gruesome works of Caravaggio to post here on Museworthy. I’m sorry, but the grisly scenes of gushing blood from slit necks and beheadings and human sacrifices made my skin crawl. Now you’re all mad at me and thinking “Come on, Claudia! Give us the good stuff!”. Nope. Can’t do it. Like I said, I’m a wimp. You guys will have to do your own Googling.
Sacrifice of Isaac, 1603:
It’s not all violence and bloodshed with Caravaggio. This is St. Jerome, from 1606. The cerebral old man is represented as just that, instead of a lofty, holy figure.
In 1610, fresh out of jail, Caravaggio was awaiting yet another pardon for one of his many crimes. Having missed his boat, he was stranded on the shore a few miles north of Rome. Soon he contracted a fever and died of pneumonia at the age of 36. Three days later, Caravaggio’s pardon was granted.
Urban Trauma
Well, I’ve done it again. Another day, another muscle pull. This time it really hurts. This time I had sensations of tearing, tingling, and a few sharp, excruciating spasms thrown in for good measure. Makes me long for the good old days of a simple dull ache. I arrived at the National Academy last night practically buckled over in pain. Something happened to my left internal oblique muscle, and it isn’t good 
So how does something like this happen, even to a physically fit person like myself? Here’s how; you blame the city of New York and its transit system. I was on the uptown B train which runs along the west side. Overconfident little miss queen of balance and yoga that I am, I didn’t hang onto anything and instead, stood unanchored and freestyle in the crowded rush hour subway car. My modeling bag on the ground between my feet was my only source of stability. Look Mom! No hands! As the train approached 86th Street, the conductor slammed on the brake, the train lurched, and those of us passengers with the “I’m so cool I don’t have to hang onto the bar” attitude, got tossed around like ragdolls. I hit a man and almost fell onto him. “I’m so sorry!”, I said to him. Finally the train came to a halt, I exited, and right away I felt the burning sensation on my left side. So I’m guessing the sudden, violent lurch of the B train, and my stupid refusal to grab hold of a pole, caused a muscle pull.
Then it was onto the crosstown bus, another ten ton swerving city vehicle, filled to capacity, on which I felt like I could cry out in agony and scream bloody hell. Then came the walk up Fifth Avenue, during which my normally brisk, robust gait transformed into that of a slow 80 year old woman with brittle bones and bad legs. “Ow, ow, ow, ouch!”, I kept saying under my breath. When I finally arrived to the National Academy, where I struggled to open their ridiculously heavy door, I hobbled into the lobby, threw my bags on the floor, and promptly laid down on the bench outside the office. I held my midsection and uttered anguished noises. Everyone who walked by stopped and asked,”Claudia, are you ok? Claudia? What’s wrong?”. Injured model alert! She’s down!!!
I couldn’t pose for Dan Gheno’s drawing class of all things. He’s my friend who I love, and I felt absolutely terrible about it. Everyone, including Dan, was concerned for me. They actually wanted me to go home! But I hate to disappoint people. HATE it. Even though everyone was totally understanding and sympathetic, I still feel just awful. In my mind, this is an unfortunate and unacceptable glitch which mars my normally pristine work record. Oh well. Guess I’m human after all.
I talked to my doctor today, and he told me what I already knew; that it’s likely a tear with some hemorrhaging and there’s nothing I can really do except rest and apply heat. I also told him the subway story and he said “Yep. That’ll do it”. So I had to cancel my job at FIT tonight (Another cancellation! Gee whiz. I can’t stand doing this!). But I’m determined to make it to my Friday job at the Studio School. My modeling may be awful, but at least I’ll be there.
I’d better post some art fast before I continue whining and moping like a baby and babbling on about my work ethic, my reliability, blah, blah. Yes, it’s tiresome, I know. This image will do nicely. Seems to represent how I feel; melancholy, helpless, indolent. I also chose it because it shows off the figure’s left side, which is my temporarily disabled and pain-addled side. Hey, at least she can stretch and bend over. I’m jealous!
This is Eve, by the 19th century Pre-Raphaelite poetry and book illustrator Emma Florence Harrison:
Body in Motion
Whenever I tell people I’m an artist’s model, probably nine times out of ten, the first question I’m asked is, “Wow! How do you hold still for so long?”. That curiosity is perfectly natural and expected. I obligingly give my usual stock answers: “concentration”, “mental focus”, “yoga poses and training”, “professionalism”, getting used to it after years of “experience”, yadda, yadda.
But I always try to remind people that art models “hold still” for long, sustained poses only part of the time. We possess (or are expected to possess) a repertoire of dynamic short poses, known as “gestures”. I’ve talked about gesture on this blog many times and will continue to do so until I’m blue in the face. Why? Well, they’re essential for artists to develop their drawing and observational skills and to get a feel for the human body in motion. For models, they are fun! I love doing short gesture poses. They’re my favorite of all my art model responsibilities. I could – and have – done them for entire sessions.
I have nothing against long poses per se. My only qualm is that they can start to wander into “model as inanimate prop” territory. Not always of course, but they can. Let’s just say the potential is there. Halfway through, the model senses that dreaded feeling that he/she is morphing into a “thing” – a lifeless, immobile thing that’s barely breathing. And that gets a little too close for comfort for me especially, since my strengths as a model are my expressiveness and my ability to generate a degree of excitement when I’m up on the platform. I like to move, and I enjoy it when artists capture my movement (sometimes I give them a hard time, as I’ve been known to present many a challenge!) Short poses suit me, my purpose, my figure, and my professional identity extremely well.
Short poses are generally considered either one minute, two minutes, or even five minutes long. “Ones”, “twos”, and “fives” in art model lingo. Many people consider a ten a short pose, but I don’t. Ten minutes is ample time for an artist to create an actual drawing as opposed to a sketch. Therefore a ten isn’t a true “gesture” pose in my opinion.
Here are some of Fred Hatt’s quick gesture sketches of me. These were done last Saturday morning at Figureworks Gallery in Brooklyn:
From the same session, these are more gesture sketches of me done by Randall Harris, the director of Figureworks. Even though he and Fred are very different artists, use different mediums, and were sitting at different places in the room, you can probably identify the same poses if you look carefully:
One-Woman Show
Forget the Met. Forget MoMA. Forget the Guggenheim. They ain’t got nothing on Spring Studio in SoHo. Right now, the most anticipated and inspiring art exhibit in New York is on display at Spring, and it holds great personal significance to many in our city’s art community. Spring Studio director Minerva Durham has worked tirelessly these past few weeks to organize and curate this show in memory of her dear friend, the eminent New York artist’s model Aviva Stone, who passed away a year ago. I wrote a post in her honor, accompanied by a striking, now-famous portrait of Aviva by Fred Hatt. She was adored, admired, and respected. Over this past year, she has been deeply missed. I am glad to have known Aviva personally and can say that I never once encountered her in a mood that wasn’t warm, sweet, and positive. I also felt a kinship with Aviva in that she and I were among the few “full-timers” in the art modeling profession. We are a rare breed!
Advance reviews on the show, which officially opens Sunday, December 7th, are unanimous, unmitigated raves. One of the finest Minerva has ever assembled, they’re saying. Artists were invited to submit their best drawings of Aviva, and now they are all together in one room. I can’t wait to see it myself!
A note to artists everywhere, and pay close attention: when 30 or 40 works, by different artists but of ONE model, hang in a gallery/art space all at the same time, that my friends is a “one-woman show”. An art model’s one-woman show. Yeah, that’s right. Just a reminder that the term is not the exclusive domain of artists. It doesn’t even require a flexible interpretation of the phrase or semantic trickery on my part, mind you. What’s going on down at Spring really is a one-woman show :raises pumped fist in art model solidarity:
Raymond Smith, a New Jersey-based artist, has two pieces of Aviva in the show. You can view them here, along with the rest of his online gallery. Also, my friend Jean Marcellino has a gorgeous charcoal drawing of Aviva in the show. Just a sample of the many expressive, creative, and affectionate portrayals of Aviva Stone on display in her tribute show, this is Jean’s depiction of the legendary muse:
Visit my Events and News page for more info on the Aviva exhibit.
Online memorial site for Aviva Stone.
And Aviva speaks for herself in this video profile.
A Song for Olivia
Today is my niece’s birthday. She is six years old! Sunday will be her big party bash, replete with schoolmates, games, music, singing, and probably a fattening cake.
Since Olivia’s parents – my brother and sister-in-law – are both musicians, she is being raised with a deep appreciation of music of all genres. My brother Chris especially has impeccable taste in music. He’s selective in his preferences, but for good reason.
One of Olivia’s favorite songs is “Over the Rainbow” which, on top of its immense popularity, is really a beautifully constructed song that communicates tender, optimistic sentiments. Hopeful feelings of dreams that might come true and a better world within reach. There is nothing corny or schmaltzy about that concept. If anything, we need more of it, as a bulwark against negativity and cynicism.
I am a huge fan of the late singer Eva Cassidy. For those of you who are not familiar with her, you will be now. Eva sang blues, jazz, folk, gospel, all with exquisite technique, brilliant phrasing, authenticity, and originality. And the quality of her voice is clear, sensitive, and expressive. In 1996, Eva Cassidy’s singing career was tragically cut short when she died from an aggressive form of melanoma. She was just 33 years old.
For my niece, this is Eva Cassidy’s rendition of “Over the Rainbow”. With all due respect to the great Judy Garland, this version might be the most haunting and stirring five and a half minutes of vocals I’ve ever heard.
Happy Birthday Olivia, sweetie! See you soon.
Love,
Auntie Claudie
xoxo
The Art of Beauty – Ladies of La Toilette
It was many, many years ago. My Mom was preparing for a night out with my father. Great, devoted parents that they were, they still found time to actually have a social life. (It was the swingin’ 70s after all). I, her young, curious daughter, kept her company and hung out in her bedroom as she dressed and put on her makeup. A pretty, sparkly perfume bottle on my Mom’s dresser caught my eye. I looked closer, and that’s when I read the horrifying, repellent words, “eau de toilette”. Eeeeeewwwww!! Toilette??? Sounds like “toilet”!! Eeeewwww. Mommy’s perfume comes from the toilet!!!!! Yucky!
Ok, maybe I was a silly kid. But the word “toilette” (which sounds much nicer spoken than “toilet”) really doesn’t signify anything crude or foul. Quite the contrary. It’s not a bathroom or a plumbing fixture. It’s a common, daily ritual, one that many women – especially we girly, feminine types – take delightful, diligent pleasure in.
So what is “toilette”, besides just another word of French origin that found it’s way into the English lexicon? Well, here it is:
toilette |twäˈlet|
noun [in sing. ] dated
the process of washing oneself, dressing, and attending to one’s appearance : “Emily got up to begin her morning toilette.”
ORIGIN late 17th cent.: French
Simple enough. Of course, some of us women take our beauty regimen quite seriously. Why? Well vanity is the obvious explanation. Another could be that some of us work in a profession where our face and body are looked at and studied intensely for hours on end, and therefore put great effort into maintaining our appearance. Excellent excuse! Um, I mean reason Or maybe some of us are beauty junkies, and require professional intervention to pull us out of the aisles of Sephora stores and Whole Foods Body section. I, for example, have the number of a “sponsor” stored in my cell phone. I call her with desperate pleas for help, during a relapse, like when I’m testing mascaras and powders and creams and exfoliators and overdosing on fragrance samples and falling into a delirious cosmetic stupor. “I’m at the Clinique counter in Bloomingdale’s!! Code Red!” But it’s Ok. The paramedics come, pound on my chest and give me oxygen until I come to. No problem.
The word “toilette” appears in a lot of painting titles. I’ve come across it countless times when browsing art images. Women, and nude women, in the act of their toilette has clearly been the subject of much fascination for male artists. Hmmm, I wonder why? There’s likely a “voyeurism” element at work. Peering in on a woman’s private time as she cleans and grooms herself. Also, the perception that lovely young women have nothing more substantial to do with their time than beautify themselves might come into play. I don’t mean that in some angry feminist way, honestly. Just offering an analysis based on the different cultural attitudes and views of women from decades past.
The truth is, I love these paintings, especially this one from British painter Arthur Hacker. This is Female Nude at her Toilet, from 1918:
Degas was obsessed with women in varying states of bathing, dressing, and hairbrushing. He LOVED hairbrushing. Many men have told me that they find watching a woman brush her long hair a sexy and appealing sight, even a turn-on.
Traditional toilette takes place at a dressing table, or “vanity”. These days you’d probably have to go to an antique furniture shop to find a good old-fashioned ladies’ dressing table. Being the modern girl that I am, I use the mirror in my bathroom. Not the most charming setting for a work of art, I’m sorry to say.
But Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot took it a step further and brought his rather bewitching model subject outdoors for her toilette. In the woods, under the trees. Why not? Works for me. This is Corot’s La Toilette from 1859:
Many of these toilette paintings feature not only a woman attending to her grooming needs, but hired help assisting her. Wow, now that’s what I call pampering! Check out this toilette scene from Frederic Bazille, year 1870, titled La Toilette. A beautiful painting, but way too much servitude for my taste. Not my style.
I think that the art history significance of these toilette paintings could be that they represent the beginning of “everyday life” as a subject for art. For many years, great art addressed almost exclusively religious and mythological themes. And warfare too. I don’t think it was until the 19th century that artists sought to capture ordinary people engaged in routine, ordinary acts. Women during toilette fits the bill nicely.
From 1883, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes. Wait. What’s the title? Oh that’s right. La Toilette:
Geez, is everything about hairbrushing? Seems that way. Hairbrushing, staring off into space, looking bored and disconnected. But this next one communicates something different from the previous ones, not just in style, but in the countenance of the subject. She is less passive than the others, and something is going on with her. The scene is almost confrontational. Looks like me and my toilette! I can relate.
From the German Expressionist Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, this is – what else?- La Toilette, from 1912:
