Nude

When I was at Wayne State, I was a hungry student, and I did all kinds of odd jobs to fill the gaps in my income as best I could. But although tempted by significant money, I only toyed with the idea of being a model for art classes. Probably because when I was 18, in high school - I had gotten into a sort of AP drawing class. I was completely unprepared, emotionally, mentally, artistically, for a 50ish obese woman to sit on a stool, facing me with her legs not together, while I with my pencil and sketch pad was expected to draw her, surrounded by college students all drawing so confidently. I drew her crotch. I was embarrassed by my focus, lack of talent and lack of composure. I left at the break, leaving behind all the paid-for art supplies, bewildered and overwhelmed. I would like to put my arm around my 18 year old self and, gently, tell her what was to come. Poor dear that I was.

A few years later, 23, and hungry still, but (miserably) married and a thousand miles away, I did go up to the U of U and with great trepidation, signed up to model for an art class. I brought a large dark robe, changed into it in the restroom, and entered the large, dim, paint spattered concrete studio, with the platform for (oh, gods) me.

The class gathered, the kindly, soft spoken bearded professor directed me to the spot he wanted me to stand, and said something like "ready?" - I dropped the robe. It was a moment of heat and terror, and for 15 minutes I imagined myself in very Victorian clothing, corset holding my back straight, every inch of myself encased in imaginary, restrictive bombazine.

Then I was told to take a break. I slipped on my robe and went to sit - out of the center of the room. The students politely chatted with me a little, but let me have my space. I had smaller and smaller waves of uncertainty as the two hour class went on and I disrobed and posed. I began to think about what a comfortable pose was, what I could hold, and what I could not. When I modeled for the second time, I had a moment of "...hhhwwwooouuuu... " then I was fine, and ever after. I would, however, always be a model to keep my legs generally together. I am not an exhibitionist. It was a distinction the students/artists explained- see, some models did not put the robe on for breaks, and that was very uncomfortable for them.

I would soon learn the importance of the technical aspects of the job. An elbow rested on a knee is good for five minutes, but for 20-30 minutes at a time, replaced exactly, over three hours, left me with a numb forearm for over a week. Twisting positions are loved by artists, but too much and the model is going to go into spasms, and will not be able to hold long enough to be drawn. Not good for a multiple class, one position, oil painting. Any limb resting on another will cause numbness. Muscles need to be tightened then relaxed in a way that does not change the pose, in order to keep circulation going, and especially with standing poses, prevent fainting. Hair needs to be kept the same, no tying it back mid class because it is in my face. Finding a staring focus, lest the head start drifting. Getting up slowly, so I wouldn't have a leg buckle. I did have my leg buckle badly once, as I was stepping down from the platform, and the class, uncharacteristically, rushed to grab me. The day before a model had fainted, fell off the platform onto the concrete floor, got a concussion, and was taken to the hospital. They were a bit edgy about losing models.

The Professors and the students were wonderful, respectful and appreciative. I would start bringing easy to wear street clothes and would quickly dress for breaks, then quietly walk around the easels. The artists would chat with me, tell me that they loved how I was always on time, how still I was, for so long, and that my skin was luminous.

I would never comment on their work, save for a very few that I admired. They mostly drew themselves- I was the anatomical reference point. The women who were larger busted than me, drew me larger than I was. Men drew me more angular, or more to their own tastes perhaps. They expressed themselves, I was a reflection more than an object. One woman did amazing black/grey/white abstracts that I thought looked most like me of all. I wish I could remember her name, she had a distinct and powerful style.

I had to meditate to get through the sessions, because my mind would start to eat at me, race into dark places and dwell on pain. I imagined flying over countryside, dancing across water, I devised mental puzzles, did word games. Best of all was when I could simply quiet my thoughts and glow. This took the class doing much the same. The quiet filled the room, dim, except for the light on me, and I once stood for over an hour leaning against a ladder, entranced by the glow of the light shining off my skin. The paintings that day were all touched, a shared moment of enlightenment. It would happen every so often, and it was always a blessing. Once on a very hot day in July, I could feel the sweat welling up and pouring over my skin, I was a fountain, a wellspring.

I would model at other art studios in town, which paid better, though I hated the music played. But the level of respect stayed high, and I still needed the money. I would only stop after I got a job as an LPN my last year of nursing school. Finally, something that I could do that paid better- in total if not per hour. The pain was getting to be too much for me, not to mention the difficulty scheduling. I do miss that intense quiet, the studious gaze.

When I say I can stand naked in front of the world, I am being accurate. I live in my skin, exposure holds no terror for me, nor does being LOOKED AT. I am, after all, luminous.