Summer and Downtown Drawing

Helloooo friends! Looks like I’ve done it again by letting the blog lapse for too long. Well at least I left you with beautiful dragonflies :-) Since that post I’ve turned one year older. My birthday was on July 22nd and it came and went without much fanfare, which is fine. My sweet cat Jessie is suffering with asthma, poor thing. So I’ve been tending to her and giving her bronchodilators. This stiflingly hot and humid weather isn’t helping matters. Art modeling was slow in July but the jobs I did have were quite enjoyable; summer art programs for young people, a few private group sessions, and good old Spring Studio which never goes on hiatus. Now I enter the perennial art modeling dead zone that is August. As of now I believe I have a grand total of six gigs booked for the entire month, most of which are at .. Spring Studio. It’s long been my favorite venue in which to pose. Love that place.

So here’s a quickie of me created at the inimitable, one-of-a-kind underground life drawing space that is Spring Studio in the SoHo section of Manhattan. A sketch in pencil and wash by my friend Jordan Mejias. I liked this a lot when I saw it in his art pad, and Jordan was his usual “Eh, it’s okay” self. That’s Jordan. That’s many artists in fact. But over the years I’ve learned that we models often appreciate qualities in drawings that artists sometimes miss. Not always, just sometimes. Remember, WE were holding the pose. We felt it, we breathed into it, we became it in muscle and flesh and bone. So when we glance upon its capture that looks like it felt, we get it. So artists, if the model is taken with your drawing, consider it a compliment, truly. Here, Jordan got down the essential basics in five minutes. Lines and shapes, then a splash of color. Abstract, simple, and totally me … bending forward while sitting cross-legged. This is art modeling. It’s what we do :-)


The Karaoke Guy

I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately, but I’ve been listening to an inordinate amount of 80s music … and loving it all over again. The 1980s was my coming-of-age decade, the era of nostalgia for those of my generation. Malign the 80s all you want for exalting money and materialism as noble pursuits – a la Gordon Gekko in “Wall Street” – but the period nevertheless produced boatloads of notable pop culture phenomena and plenty of kick-ass songs. Maybe I’m swimming in nostalgia these days because my birthday is rapidly approaching and my subconscious is mercifully steering me away from the reality of turning 47. Whatever the reason, I’ve found myself enthusiastically singing along when Huey Lewis’s “The Power of Love” comes on the radio as I’m driving on the Long Island Expressway.

Songs of our youth inevitably carry memories. And a memory came rushing through me recently, prompted by – of course – an 80s song on the radio. That oldies station is getting quite a workout on my car radio these days! The memory is not a major one in my life. It has no significant meaning or any kind. In fact, it’s meaningless. But it is vivid. And fun. And offers a tiny, fleeting glimpse of my youthful years when I was boy-crazy, flirty, and spent a lot of time in the drinking establishments of my native Queens. A little side note, Queens is the hardest boozing borough of the city of New York. This is a 100% true statement and it’s not open to debate ;-)

So here’s the scene. It was 1989. I was 21 years old. Me and my then-boyfriend (who many years later became my husband, and then my ex-husband) were out with a gaggle of friends at a bar in Kew Gardens, Queens for karaoke night. I was probably wearing some skimpy tank top and had my hair pouffed out as big as I could get it. My stomach was filling up with pints of Guinness, and my boyfriend’s loudmouth buddy was ordering shots of Jägermeister for the group that no one ever requested but were forced to drink at gunpoint, figuratively speaking. This was not some fancy-schmancy Manhattan martini place full of suits, mind you. This was an old-school, working class joint that had been there forever – a joint that had played host to generations of electricians, mechanics, and off-duty firemen, boys who worked in their fathers’ heating and air conditioning businesses and construction companies. That kind of joint. A place where they laugh at you if you ask for a glass of chardonnay.

The Bartender, by Toulouse-Lautrec:


So the next karaoke singer stepped up to the microphone. He was super cute, maybe 24 or 25. He had brown hair and green eyes (my favorite combination) and wore jeans and one of those long-sleeved thermal shirts, dark blue. Before the music recording began, he pushed up his sleeves to reveal a tattooed arm. He was muscular, but not a meathead. And he had an unlit cigarette wedged behind his ear. It’s amazing the minuscule details one can remember. And I remember that cigarette.

And then it began. Cute green-eyed Queens guy launched into his rendition of Billy Idol’s 1982 hit “White Wedding” . . . and HE. WAS. AWESOME. Friends, you must understand, this guy rocked the house. From the moment the lyrics “Hey little sister what have you done?” flowed through his voice, every girl in the place, myself included, just stood there with our mouths open. Whoa. This guy.  After an hour of awful karaoke singers, most of whom were drunk and kept messing up the lyrics, this guy got up there and was killin’ it. He was exciting. He was a potential American Idol finalist in an age before American Idol even existed. And it kept getting better. When he got to the part of “Start agaaaiiiiinn!!”, cute guy nailed it, his voice on pitch and deep and smooth with just the right amount of rough rock and roll edges. He sang that song, dare I say, better than Billy Idol.

When the song was over, cute guy received a thunderous round of cheers and applause from the inebriated bar crowd. He flashed a smile and returned oh-so-casually to his group of friends. He snatched that cigarette from his ear and lit up. Mission accomplished.

Interior of a Tavern, by Peder Severin Kroyer:


In case any of you are wondering if I sang karaoke that night, the answer is yes. Another girl and I got up there together, because we were too chicken to go solo, and performed Blondie’s “Call Me”. It was an abomination. Cute guy was watching .. and no, he never called me. Only in my dreams ;-)

A Music Monday inspired by a Guinness-fueled karaoke night in Queens from 26 years ago. Why not? Music acts as a marker of memories, both profound and prosaic. Actually, the music memories that aren’t sappy and sentimental or wrapped up in mawkish emotion are rich and intense in their own way. I wonder what happened to Mr. White Wedding? Here’s Billy Idol … trying to sound as good as the guy from Kew Gardens :lol:


Warm thanks to Museworthy readers who expressed concern about my ear troubles and shared their own conditions and treatment tips. You’ll be happy to know that I’m feeling a great deal better and am almost at 100%! But the doctor said that I won’t be completely in the clear until allergy season has passed. So I’ll just have to handle it day by day and try not to get hooked on saline nasal spray. Seriously, have you tried this stuff? It’s so good. All-natural and very refreshing.

I’m also still very much an art model, in case I gave the false impression I’m considering giving it up. I’m not! However, it is taking its toll and I’m not getting any younger. At Spring Studio the other day when I was straightening up after doing a ten minute pose with a deep backbend, I let out an audible “Ah ah ah ah .. ow.” A guy who had been drawing close to the platform heard me and grinned. “Tough one?” he said. I laughed and said, “Maybe I’m getting too old for this!”. A yoga class this weekend might be in order. Once upon a time I used to be good at these. I’ll get it back, hopefully!

Speaking of modeling, I had a thought about the next Museworthy Art Show while I was doing a long pose at the 92nd Street Y yesterday. In a sitting twist on a low stool the idea came to me. Let me know what you think. It’s Portraits and Pets! Share your opinions/questions in the comments!

Some charcoal sketches of me by Joan Stevens created Monday night at the National Art League in Queens. Thanks Joan :-)


The Brooding Battle

Of all the personal items that were stolen from my house during the burglary last year, I’ve felt the loss of my camera most severely. A Nikon D5000 Digital SLR. Actually, let me correct that. The thief’s stealing of a silver bracelet that had great sentimental value for me (it was a gift my from my ex-boyfriend) was the most emotional loss. The police, by the way, never recovered it or any of my stuff. But the camera, which I loved, is something I miss even more than I thought I would. My other blog, The Salt Marsh, has suffered greatly because of this as it is highly dependent on nature photography. If I can’t take interesting pictures, I can’t post. So I’ve been a little bummed out about this, not to mention the other issues going on these days that never seem to improve no matter how much time passes; family strife, plus the financial strains of living in a pricey, impractical city. I could really use a vacation.

It seems like every year at this exact time – mid-spring with summer just around the corner – I get hit with impulses to make changes in my life and feel mildly tormented (is “mild” torment a thing? haha) about my future. I become consumed with contemplating the direction of my life, the interests I once wanted to pursue but never did, the relationships I wanted to preserve but was unable to, and the experiences I wanted to know but haven’t yet encountered. But surely, I still have time, don’t I? I refuse to think otherwise. And I refuse to fret 24 hrs a day when I am a living, healthy, fortunate individual who still, after 46 years, has options at her disposal.

Sketch of me by Fred Hatt created at Figureworks:


I am keenly aware that I’m not alone in having these thoughts. Some of my friends are in the same boat and we commiserate often about our frustrations. I suspect it’s natural for those of us in the “mid-life” stage to reflect and reconsider our choices throughout the years, and be eternally grateful for some while regretting others. What can you do? This is life. It’s an old story.

If I sound like I’m being cagey, or withholding “news” of some kind, well that’s somewhat true. While there is no actual “news” I am trying to make it happen. But I don’t want to jinx it. And if it doesn’t happen then I’ll simply try again, and will certainly share any new developments here on Museworthy.

I apologize for the less-than-cheerful blog post! Just needed to vent a little. I’ll try to compensate for the kvetching with some pretty pictures of my early garden plantings and blooming flowers around my house. And if it’s true that the “little things” in life can lift one’s spirits, I”ll tell you that one of these guys is visiting my bird feeder almost every day and it’s pretty awesome. Cheers friends! I’ll see you soon :-)




Yearning for Maud

Am I too late for Saint Patrick’s Day? Not according to my clock. It’s almost 9PM New York City time so I’m right in there! Would have posted earlier today but I was busy taking Mom to the doctor’s. I’m sure the patron saint of Ireland would understand :-)

I will seize any occasion to post poetry by William Butler Yeats – a longtime favorite of mine – and this day of celebrating all things Irish will do just fine. The maestro of symbolism and verse had me hooked since the first time I read the sea voyage of “Sailing to Byzantium” and its “no country for old men”, “tattered coat upon a stick”, “singing-masters of my soul”, monuments, mosaics, and “Grecian goldsmiths”. The Dublin-born Yeats is also responsible for what is probably my favorite short lyrical poem ever, “Cloths of Heaven”. I memorized it many years ago and it continues to move me … “tread softly”.

The inspiration behind that poem was Maud Gonne, Yeats’ muse and love of his life – a love that was unrequited. He proposed marriage four times .. and was rejected four times. Though she was born in England in 1866, Maud became an active revolutionary and fervent supporter of the Irish Nationalist movement, having been spurred on by the Land War and the attending civil unrest. She was also an actress and organizer of feminist causes. Of the tumultuous political climate in which she lived Maud wrote, “it is the English who are forcing war on us”.

Photo of Maud Gonne:


The intuitive Yeats sensed right away that Maud was a force to be reckoned with, and described the moment he first met her as the day “the troubling of my life began”. Gonne, a convert to Catholicism, and Yeats, a Protestant, shared an intensely strong emotional bond and had a common fascination with the occult. But Maud simply could not conceive of marrying the moody poet. Instead, she married fellow Irish Nationalist John MacBride. Yeats was crushed. The union, however, was unhappy and acrimonious. Maud and John had one son, Sean MacBride born 1904, who became a prominent figure in the IRA and later a founding member of Amnesty International.

For decades, Yeats carried a torch for Maud and agonized over her involvements with other men. His continued pain over her having escaped him is manifest in his poetry. But Maud had his number and expressed this alternate view about their relationship:

“You make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you.”

Maud telling it like it is! Damn girl. She certainly has point. Here’s an example of that beautiful, lovelorn-inspired poetry Yeats composed from of his heartache over Maud. We may not like to admit it, but loss, regret, and grief really do inspire poignant and powerful artistic expressions.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Charcoal drawing of W.B. Yeats by John Singer Sargent, 1908:


Hearing the Heart

What happens when doctors and musicologists join forces and embark on a research project? Some interesting, albeit speculative, theories are born. A couple of weeks ago, a article on the Internet grabbed my attention and, for a brief moment, set my heart aflutter <– I’m cute and clever for choosing that phrase as you will soon see. A medical journal published the article in which is it theorized that the distinctly dramatic, sometimes volatile and erratic tempos found in Beethoven’s music were caused by the composer having had a cardiac arrhythmia. My own damaged aortic valve and I became excited at the thought that the great Beethoven was a fellow member of the heart abnormalities club. It’s all I’d ever have in common with my musical hero that’s for sure. I’ll never compose brilliant music and I’ll never be German :P

But alas, none of it amounted to some newly discovered provable truth about Beethoven. As the cardiologist involved with the paper said himself, “This is entirely speculative”. Well, phooey then.

Anatomical drawing of the heart by Leonardo da Vinci:


Putting aside my childish desire to have heart issues in common with the greatest composer who ever lived (yes I’m weird), the study raises some compelling questions about the intersection of creativity and science, or artistic abilities and human biology if you will. I have nothing against scientific research and new ideas, conjectural though they often are. Much of it is quite fascinating. On the other hand, the tendency to pathologize the reasons behind artistic expression is as disillusioning as it is intriguing. It falls into the category of things that are over-analyzed to death, investigated and studied and pulled apart to no real illuminating end or purpose. And that indescribable realm in which artistic gifts take flight is a realm that science can never explain or elucidate no matter how hard it may try.

We know that Beethoven was deaf, and hardly the only deaf person who ever lived. We also know he suffered from lead poising, which was not uncommon in Beethoven’s era. And yet Beethoven was the only lead-poisoned deaf person to compose the 5th Symphony. Physical ailments, of which Beethoven had many, don’t define us exclusively. Isn’t it just possible that Beethoven’s soaring melodies, fierce tempo shifts, and complex harmonies were the result of him being, well, a musical genius? Isn’t it possible his music is “heartfelt” not due to “atrial tachycardia” but to the man’s profoundly intimate understanding of the human soul? To attribute the emotional weightiness of Beethoven’s String Quartets to a bout of “angina” strikes me as a bit unseemly.

I will, however, point out what I think is the most convincing postulation of the study. The researchers claim that because Beethoven was deaf he would have been more aware of his heartbeat. That is genuinely interesting and makes you think. Unlike the 188 years-late diagnosis of an irregular heartbeat, Beethoven’s deafness was real and without question impacted the nature of his composing as it progressed throughout his life; middle register and lower frequency notes are more perceivable in the inner ear before complete deafness sets in. High notes go first, and Beethoven began to complain about that as early as age 30.

Beethoven’s hearing aids, known as “ear trumpets”:


Oddities, illnesses, and abnormalities may or may not affect creativity. I posted previously about the alleged shrapnel lodged in the brain of Shostakovich. But the art and music survive, and how lucky we are for that. Let’s conclude this Music Monday with a video of Beethoven’s hand-written music manuscripts. They’re incredible to see, smudges, smears, erasures and all. His heart is clearly beating throughout:

Snowy Salutations

Hellooo friends! A warm thank you to those who emailed me concerned that I, and my fellow New Yorkers, would be buried under four feet of snow. Fortunately we’re not, although our friends in New England are having a much tougher time. I could wish Bostonians and their neighbors good luck in dealing with the first big blizzard of 2015 but I know they don’t need it. They’ve dealt with rigorous weather conditions many times and know the drill all too well. So hit the pubs guys! And lob a snowball or two on your walk home :-)

After a cancelled Tuesday for the storm, my final week posing at Grand Central Academy resumes Wednesday. It’s been a positive experience all around. January has also brought new sessions of private work with my friend Daniel Maidman. Art modeling, since last September, has been roaring with activity and I’m eternally grateful for this windfall period of work opportunities. Fellow freelancers know exactly what I’m talking about.

Daniel is starting a new painting of me. At our first session Daniel, as always, knew exactly what he wanted; for this piece, leaning slightly forward and to one side. And I did it for him. This is his drawing preparation:

2015-01-22 Claudia 01

I will return to more frequent blog postings in the weeks ahead. My brain is percolating with ideas! Let’s meet up here again on Monday for a new music post, shall we? In the meantime, be safe, be warm, and rejoice in the joys, kindnesses, and wonders of each new day.

Love, Claudia