It’s been five years friends. Five years of Museworthy. I’m actually at a loss for words, which as most of you know is quite rare for me! I could repeat what I’ve said every year on these birthday posts; that I never expected this blog to have such longevity, or that it would accumulate over 150 subscribers, and receive 1,000 visitors a day from all around the globe. Or that I’d have enough topics to discuss, artwork and anecdotes to share, and spirited, illuminating discussions in the comments. All these things amaze me still, after five splendid years.
I was thinking about last year’s post and the concerns I raised about continuing to model on a full time basis. But after a fantastic, very busy year of work – and by some miracle NOT having fallen apart physically which was my fear – I look back and wonder, what the hell was I thinking? Of course I will continue art modeling! And blogging. You guys can’t get rid of me just yet
So Fred Hatt and I collaborated again in his studio and have decided on an image to share for Museworthy’s fifth. A rose-tinted photograph to match my rose-colored glasses perhaps? No. Rose-colored glasses imply unrealistic optimism. I think my optimism level is perfectly real and true and delusion-free. I am a thankful, fortunate gal.
Our music this year comes courtesy of the Beatles. Not one of their more famous songs, but a good one, recorded on the very brink of their breakup. Listen with me to “I’ve Got a Feeling”. John Lennon comes in at 2:05 and sounds adorable. Peace, love, and infinite gratitude to all of you in the Museworthy world . Thanks for reading, supporting, and sustaining this artistic little corner of the Internet.
My father is going to be a subject on this blog for the second post in a row. But this time he will be alive in a family memory, not in my distressed drawings of his grave. This story relates somewhat to a superb video I have chosen for Music Monday about the great craftsmen who make musical instruments. But first, the Hajian misadventures.
In the early 1970s our family took a vacation to California. While we were out there my dad, a professional trumpet player, wanted to visit the shop of Domenick Calicchio, an Italian immigrant and well-respected maker of fine handcrafted trumpets and other horns. Perfectly understandable. If my brother and I (nine and five respectively) were getting Disneyland and the San Diego Zoo, and my mother was getting museum visits and scenic drives up the Pacific coast, my father was surely entitled to meet a trumpet craftsman as his must-see California vacation priority. So we made our way to a less-than-spectacular section of North Hollywood. It was hot as hell that day I remember. My dad went into Calicchio’s place ready to meet the man and place an order for a horn. My mom, my brother Chris and I waited in the rental car, mistakenly assuming my dad would take no longer than 20 or 30 minutes, 40 minutes tops. But we waited. And waited. And waited. Bored out of our minds, hot and uncomfortable, stranded in a part of Hollywood in which there was absolutely nothing to do. No place to walk, no sights to see, nothing to eat! We got restless fast, especially my mother for whom patience is not a virtue. The three of us started to go nuts. How long is this taking??? It’s been over two hours!!! Mom, can we leave yet??! Where’s Daddy???!! In Mom’s defense, the woman was in hell. Trapped with two young children in the days when you couldn’t just stick a video game or portable DVD player in a kid’s hands to keep them occupied. The whole situation sucked. My brother went in to see what was going on. It turns out that Dad was having a marvelous time, talking trumpets with old man Calicchio and chatting with other trumpet players who were hanging out, comparing notes about brass, mouthpieces, etc. Musician stuff. Good stuff. Dad stuff.
My father was not a fast-paced guy. He didn’t like to rush or be rushed. He enjoyed conversing and bonding with people who interested him and could spend hours doing so. And he always made the most of unique opportunities. He knew he’d probably never be in Los Angeles again, so why not savor his time in Domenick Calicchio’s shop? That’s how his mind worked.
But friends, let me tell you. I loved my Dad deeply, as you know, but he made us wait so long it was literally HOURS! In hot LA weather. With nothing to do! We were going batshit crazy. It was freaking torture! What we should have done, in retrospect, was tell Dad we’d just leave him there while we took the car and drove around to better parts of LA. We’d pick him up later. But you know when you’re waiting for something and you’re afraid to leave because you think it will only be “another 20 minutes”, so you might as well just stay and wait it out? That kind of reasoning? I think that’s the trap we fell into. Also, we didn’t want to do any sightseeing without him. We had to wait for Dad. He was our guy.
My favorite part of that episode was how completely pissed my Mom was. She’s still pissed to this day. Bring up the Calicchio thing and she’ll say, “Oh god, please! We wasted an entire day of our vacation at that place!! Your father took forever!!”
Keep in mind that my father was just placing orders for horns. When he finally came out he didn’t have any instruments with him. Only receipts for purchases. The custom made trumpets – four I think – were shipped weeks later to our house in New York City. Dad said they were fantastic and well worth the time and visit. Oh sure, to him they were worth it! What about us? The innocent family he left stranded in a rental car in Hollywood??!! By the way, the Calicchio company is still in existence. They moved years ago from SoCal to Tulsa, Oklahoma. See a photo of old man Domenick, now deceased, on their website.
Last point before we move on. My Dad made it up to us days later when we drove up to San Francisco. He took us all on a thrilling drive on the steep, hairpin turns of Lombard Street. Chris and I were laughing and screaming like lunatics, and my father had so much fun amusing his children with crazy driving. It was awesome. We loved it, he loved it. All was forgiven for the Calicchio chapter.
Ok. On to our video. Filmmaker Dustin Cohen profiles Brooklyn-based violin maker Sam Zygmuntowicz. His commitment to craft, music, and his valued clients is evident in this excellent profile. It’s also comforting to know that the great tradition of skilled instrument-making is alive and well in this day and age. Domenick Calicchio may be gone, but the artistry of his specialized field lives. We transition from brass to strings. Enjoy this clip!
Hey gang. I apologize for not posting all week. Yesterday, March 8th, would have been my father’s 80th birthday had he lived. He died in 2004, at the age of 72. My Mom, my brother, and I went to visit his grave to bring him love and birthday wishes. It was a tough experience, sunny gorgeous 68 degree weather notwithstanding. Today I woke up in a really crummy mood and it’s showing no signs of improving.
I took a picture of Dad’s headstone with the flowers we placed there – yellow tulips and blue hyacinths. This afternoon I tried to sketch it, perhaps as a way of working through my lingering grief. I don’t know if artists avoid working when they’re emotionally miserable, but I know I can do better than this if I’m in a more positive state. Or maybe my somber mood is precisely the reason I felt the urge to sketch this scene in the first place?
You see, we never got to say goodbye to my father because he died suddenly, out of the blue. That reality has always tormented me. With feelings of sadness and frustration, I threw down some watercolor here, just to capture the general shapes and colors. There’s a large bush next to Dad’s grave on the right side, just so you know why there’s a mess of green wash there! In real life it creates a beautiful cool shade, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to try to represent it here.
Then I tried a charcoal and pastel drawing. This time I began with some semblance of a plan but I lost my focus, started crying, and gave up. The ground at the base of the headstone is uneven, so at least I managed that detail. The upper left should have indicated other headstones in the the distance, but I made a smudgy mess and didn’t bother to fix it.
I hope you’re all doing better than I am moodwise. I’ll be back real soon, in much cheerier spirits I promise!
Hello dahlings! Hope everyone’s had a good week. Just a quick post to promote the super-cool, inventive and ambitious film composer that is my big brother Chris Hajian. Chris has been out in LA for the past week promoting the new documentary “Unraveled”, for which he composed the original music. The film, directed and produced by Marc Simon, profiles Marc Dreier, an attorney under house arrest prior to sentencing, who masterminded a giant hedge fund fraud, embezzled over $400 million, and committed crimes that almost rival those of Bernie Madoff. Chris spoke often and enthusiastically about this film project while he was working on it. I cant wait to see it. Check out this review in the Hollywood Reporter, especially the last sentence which reads “Chris Hajian’s plaintive score adds to the poignancy of this American odyssey.” My brother!
As for me, I was asked by my friend Emily Rapp to write a guest post for her blog Little Seal. Gosh, I was so flattered! My first “guest post” as a blogger. And of course I am approaching it in a very serious, sincere, and conscientious way. Someone asked me to write for them. I take that as a big deal, an honor, an expectation I want to fulfill. Right now my piece is still a work-in-progress. I go to it every day, stare at it, read, stare some more, cut, add, reword and rework. The usual writing process. It’s getting there. I will let you all know when it’s published.
That’s all for now, my friends. Until next time, and for no reason whatsoever, here’s Marlon Brando shaving
Hellooooooo!! My dearest darling readers! My apologies for Museworthy”s inactivity. In Queens, NY, where I live, we were hit by a tornado! What the hell is this, Kansas? I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz It ripped through my street on Thursday afternoon and left a ton of destruction in its wake. Trees are down everywhere, cars got crushed, power lines are dangling.
So all the power is knocked out, Internet service is dead, phones are dead. Right now I’m here at Fred’s place, hanging out, charging my Blackberry and my iPod, using Fred’s computer because he’s just the coolest, most awesomest friend in the whole wide world!! We might draw and take some pictures too, that way I’m not a complete freeloader
I just wanted to let you all know what’s going on and that I am still alive. Will share tornado story and pictures when I can get back online. Unfortunately I have no idea when that will be because ConEd SUCKS!!!!!! Get our power back boys!
Cheers, everyone! And welcome to Museworthy’s 200th post!! What a trip it’s been
So after 200 posts of topics ranging from art modeling, art history, my personal ramblings, cat pictures, New York stories, and a few miscellaneous, who comes in the leader of the pack? :drumroll: Appropriately, one of the great muses I’m happy to say. Yes, the number one Museworthy post is the beautiful and tragic Jeanne Hebuterne. Coming in a close second is Michelangelo and his gender issues. And rounding out the top three is my discussion about art models and their abdominals.
Although I have nothing spectacular to commemorate this blogging milestone, I can unveil a spanking new sidebar facelift. Check it out! Can you dig it? A little neater and more organized, with more categories to reflect broader interests (mine, and hopefully some of yours). I think it’s easier for everyone to navigate, and easier for me as well. So enjoy, friends!
I want to express my sincerest thanks to all my loyal readers who visit Museworthy so regularly. You have truly made this blog what it is. And shame on me for having nothing better to offer you right now except an out-of-focus, stupid selfshot I took in the mirror of the models’ bathroom at FIT. Charming. I was going to crop out the ugly toilet in the background, but I decided to leave it in, just to disabuse you of any false illusions that an artist’s model’s life is a glamorous one
I love you all so much. Here’s one of my favorite songs by Bob Dylan.
Hugs and kisses . . .
Today, March 8th, would have been my father’s 77th birthday. Tragically, he only lived to see 72. He left us suddenly, not long after he and I had a late night phone conversation. (I was the last person to speak to him). To this day, it pains me to think that just four hours later, he was collapsed on his bedroom floor, paralyzed and unconscious from a stroke, my mother frantically calling 911. It was a very bad, harrowing event for my family. None of us have recovered
This post, however, commemorates my father’s life, not his death. I could write on and on about my father, but I assure you that one measly blog post couldn’t possibly convey the man’s complexity, character, and life story. He was so many things. He was, above all, a devoted husband and father. But a close second to those commitments was his role as a musician. A professional, working musician, who supported his family and put his children through college doing the thing he loved most: playing his trumpet.
Picasso’s Three Musicians:
Born the second child of struggling Armenian immigrants, my father worked since he was 12 years old: repairing bikes in a bicycle shop, making shakes in a luncheonette, delivering newspapers. One day in public school band class, he picked up a trumpet, and it was love at first sight.
Dad graduated from college with a degree in economics, and planned to seek employment on Wall Street. But fairly steady work doing club dates around New York City encouraged him, and my father – a very practical man by nature – made the most impractical decision of his life. He would forgo a nine to five job and make a living as a musician. To his old-fashioned family the choice seemed crazy. Why would a man with a college education pass up regular employment in the mainstream work force in favor of the erratic, unreliable music business? Why? A deep-seated passion for music, that’s why. Dad went with his gut. He gambled. He felt in his soul, that a livelihood could be found in the music world. And he did find it.
This painting by Degas is a beautiful depiction of orchestra musicians. It’s also a great example of Degas’ exceptional talent for perspective and composition. Makes you feel like you’re right there, down in the pit with the guys:
A musician’s life means working nights and weekends, never spending New Year’s Eve with your spouse, and constantly staying in touch with bookers and bandleaders. And in my father’s case, it also meant being able to perform a range of musical styles. Throughout his five decade long career, Dad played popular music, jazz, Latin, standards, even traditional Jewish music for Hasidic weddings in Brooklyn. Whatever was required of him. Some of Dad’s gigs were truly exciting (backing up Frank Sinatra was one memorable highlight), others were less glamorous. But whether he was playing the Waldorf-Astoria ballroom or a Knights of Columbus hall, my father was just happy to be working and playing the trumpet. He considered no job beneath him. Plus he had a family to support.
German Expressionist Max Beckmann made himself a horn player in this bizarre self-portrait:
With all due respect to Beckmann, I think my father was much more handsome holding his horn. Of course, I’m a little biased. Here’s a very young Dad on the bandstand, fresh out of a two year stint in the army. Circa mid-1950s:
Dad’s big break came when he was hired by the Herman Stenzler Orchestra. They performed regularly at the old Taft Hotel on 51st Street. In 1959, Dad invited a beautiful young artist to come hear him play. Her name was Elaine, and Dad dazzled her with his melodious trumpeting. Within a year, they were married
My father posing proudly with his beloved horn:
My father’s respect for the trumpet was profound. A difficult instrument to master, the trumpet’s rich tone is expressive and versatile unlike any other instrument, and is capable of vast musical range. Dad held great admiration for fellow trumpet players, and his list of favorites was diverse. It included such disparate players as Louis Armstrong, Harry James, Clifford Brown, Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Maynard Ferguson, Freddie Hubbard, Arturo Sandoval, and Wynton Marsalis. (Two guys who left my father cold were Chet Baker and Chris Botti. Aww, sorry fellas!)
LeRoy Neiman’s work of Louis Armstrong captures the power and vibrant musical energy of trumpet playing. This is Satchmo from 1976:
I had the toughest time selecting an mp3 file for this post. So many trumpet tracks could have made the cut. I decided to go with one of my Dad’s heroes, a hero to all trumpet players in fact – the phenomenal Dizzy Gillespie. Dad never stopped marveling at Dizzy’s mind-boggling technique, his virtuosity, his ability to generate excitement, play with high-speed velocity and hit thrilling high notes, all seemingly with ease. In his pre-bebop days, Dizzy Gillespie led a superb big band, and demonstrated the perfect combination of showmanship and musicianship. Dad loved that. He loved a showman who also possessed skill and artistry. Real “chops” as Dad used to put it.
This playful song is called “Cool Breeze”. Dizzy’s crisp, lively trumpet solos are a wonder. The track also contains a little scat singing, which my father always found hilarious. He liked to do his own scatting sometimes, laughing all the way through it. Wherever you are, Dad, I hope you’re listening . . . and playing along.
My father adored this old family photo. He smiled every time he saw it. A true Hajian family portrait, I scanned it specifically to post on Museworthy. (The print makes its permanent home on my refrigerator). From left to right, that’s Dad, Mom, me looking rather bewildered, and my brother Chris. The year is 1970, the occasion is my 2nd birthday, and the location is the southside of Queens. It’s very appropriate, and symbolic, that my father looms the largest of the four of us:
There are no words to describe how deeply my father is missed. Our patriarch, our provider, our friend . . . a very Museworthy man.
Dad, this is my tribute to you. Happy Birthday big guy
I really have to start getting the flu shot. I never get it and, lo and behold, I get the flu. Duh! Watch me as I put on my idiot badge :pins it to chest, struts around with thermometer in mouth: It’s the strangest thing. I came home from work on Monday, felt perfectly fine at 5:00. By 8:00 I was in bed with chills, sweats, and a 102 fever. Flu comes on with a sudden onset, hits you completely out of the blue. Before you know it you’re bedridden. I’m one of those people who never gets colds, never gets sore throats or coughs, but I’m susceptible to the flu. I’m a freak!
I’ve been stricken with flu three times in the past four years, and every time it’s been in February. The last week in February to be exact. Isn’t that weird? February isn’t my month, I guess.
But I’m already on the mend. My temperature is down to normal and my clothes are no longer sticking to me (yuck). I’m actually going to try to work the two remaining jobs I have booked this week. Then I’m free to relax over the weekend.
I’m holding out for spring, warmer weather, and fit, robust health. So instead of posting an image that reflects how I feel, I’m posting one that reflects how I want to feel: hale and hearty, sun-kissed, surrounded by things blooming and thriving, and best of all, nude without shivering
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.
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
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.
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:
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.
: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!
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”