“If anyone ever said that when we first met, that five or six years down the line, we’d see each other completely naked, I would have thought they were crazy!”
That’s what my friend Abigail (whose blessing was given to write this post) said to me after we both posed in the nude. In front of each other. Yeah, you don’t really see your friends naked much, do you? Never thought I’d see a close, personal friend in the buff, and she clearly felt the same way. Oddly enough, it wasn’t weird or smarmy or anything, and felt (to me at least) completely natural and normal. But still, how do you take a close personal friendship into clothes-off territory?
As most of you know, I’ve been figure modeling for about a year now. What was honestly once a response to a pre-midlife crisis has actually panned out into something I enjoy doing, and am completely comfortable with. And I’ve been pretty enthusiastic about it as a result.
One of the people I shared my enthusiasm was my close friend, Abigail. I’ve known Abigail for about seven years now. We met at a GWU grad school open house, and while neither of us pursued our studies there, we’ve maintained a close friendship since then. While her job keeps her extremely busy, we’re usually able to meet up every month or so for lunch over doner kebab and falafel. Invariably, the subject of modeling came up time and again, particularly when I was getting a good number of gigs.
I was regaling Abigail with some of my latest modeling experiences (namely religious zealots and the effect of ice-cold classrooms on the male physique), and I could tell that she seemed particularly interested that day, like her eyes were telegraphing the fact that she was mulling something serious.. So while I was halfheartedly munching on a particularly cardboard-y Reuben at the Corner Bakery, I told her that if she was interested, I could float her name by some people I knew to see if they had any need for new models.
Abby thought about it for a New York minute and said—hesitantly at first, but rapidly mustering more and more conviction by mid-sentence—that she’d definitely be interested.
As I’m sure you can imagine, the rest of our lunch took on a decidedly conspiratorial tenor :)
We soon parted ways, with me promising Abby that I’d reach out to a few of my contacts and let her know as soon as heard back from them. I knew that female models have a much easier time drumming up work, especially in DC, where over half of the models are male. I don’t consider that fact to be sexist in the least… more people (yours truly included) prefer to draw women, so naturally they’re in greater demand.
Well, at least that was the conventional wisdom, which was dispelled as soon as I contacted the art school I do the bulk of my work at. They were actually cutting classes, which meant they didn’t have much work for the models they did have. Shit! I figured they’d be able to land Abby some work in a heartbeat!
Undaunted, I called up the DC model guild (yes, we have a guild, of sorts!). It was established a few years ago by the curator of the Museum of Contemporary Art. He’s also a model, and because he was disappointed with the way some artists treat models (and in turn, with the unprofessional behavior exhibited by a lot of models), he formed the Guild to give prospective models the chance to learn how to model by watching experienced models, and then “audition” in front of the Guild. In this manner, new models can learn from more experienced models, and can in turn model in a safe environment (or refuse to model, if they realize that this isn’t the line of work for them—better for them to get cold feet now instead of flaking out on an art class because they realized Mother could never love them again if they did this!)
I spoke with the curator, David, and he informed me that the next guild meeting was coming up in a week and that Abby and I were more than welcome to drop in. So while I wasn’t able to get any paid work for Abby, I’d at least be able to get her “into the system,” so to speak. Models affiliated with the guild get an artist’s directory that they can use to pitch themselves to different art schools and artists. And I figured since I hadn’t been working for a while, I could always get some practice in.
So I called Abigail up, brought her up to speed, and emailed her some websites that had a good variety of poses, so she could get some inspiration for her own poses (a website I particularly like to use is Live Model Books, WHICH IS PROBABLY NOT WORKSAFE SO I WOULDN’T CLICK ON IT IF YOU REALLY LIKE YOUR JOB and can be accessed here: http://www.posespace.com/posetool/default.aspx). I also told her I’d leave the room if she decided to model, if that’d make her feel more comfortable. Our calendars were set for the following Sunday.
We met at the museum on a particularly damp Sunday afternoon. I made small talk with David, and as I was finishing up, Abby came up to me with an almost terrified look in her eyes.
“Did you see those photos in the other room?” she said, her eyes narrowing with a sense of trepidation and her voice only a hint above a whisper. “There’s some really… racy photos.”
Oh, snap! I forgot that the museum has hosted erotic art exhibits before. As far as I knew, it was all in good taste, but I headed into the main studio to be sure.
Sure enough, all I saw were a few innocuous photos, including a particularly curvy black woman lying down on a couch. Hmm… quite pedestrian, but I reckoned that if you weren’t expecting to see such photos, they might be a bit of a shock.
Please bear in mind my Famous Last Words for later.
So I told Abby that it was nothing to worry about, and that we wouldn’t be doing any sort of modeling like that. “Think classical Renaissance nudes,” I said.
The meeting started out with David giving a background on the model’s guild, the current state of modeling prospects (damn near dismal, given the economy) and offered some tips and suggestions, mostly for Abby’s sake. Then, it was time for the demo to begin, and after that, any models who wanted to could also model that day. I went back to change. I have my own model bag, and so I didn’t need to borrow any of the “house” robes that are provided for models who don’t have their own. After stowing my gear out of the way, I made my way out of the dressing room so Abby could get changed. She picked out a robe from a box and started to get ready.
As soon as she came out, her face was almost frozen in shock. “Jaaaasonnnn!” she drawled, “this robe has major BO!” with her voice sharply undergoing a decrescendo to the point where “BO” was uttered in raspy horror. Her face: like yours probably looked like when you found out where babies come from. And then watched Puppy Holocaust XXIV. On repeat. Her posture clearly indicated she was trying to channel The Force to lift her robe a few millimeters off of her skin to avoid direct funk particle contact. I had previously assured her the robes were clean, as I wore one once (about a year prior, which I apparently neglected to mention). In any event, Abby took it in good spirits, and it led to a post-modeling discussion on how the word “clean” is most definitely gender-subjective.
David got us kitted out with some drawing supplies since there was only one artist in the room and two other models, so at least we could have something to do. It was actually quite fun, as I found out I can draw (okay, so I found out I don’t draw as badly as I thought I did!). Abby and I had fun trading supplies back and forth and commenting each other’s work (namely, assuring each other that our artwork wasn’t nearly as bad as we were afraid it was).
And then we noticed we were the only people who hadn’t modeled yet. I figured that since I was the one who got Abby mixed into this modern-day Harrad Experiment, I should go first. Hoo boy! I’ve disrobed numerous times in front of strangers, and now I felt my fingers starting to tremble a bit.
“I can go leave the room if you want” Abby said, her voice conveying hints of both concern and reassurance.
“That’s okay,” I said, trying to control the slight tremor I felt working its way through my larynx. “It’s a walk in the park,” I continued, though whether I said it to reassure Abigail or myself, I wasn’t sure. In any event, I buttered her up to do this, and I figured I owed it to her as a friend to see my way through to the end.
“You sure?” she asked.
“Totally!” I said, turning my back to her so she couldn’t see any traces of doubt plastered on my face as I kicked off my flip-flops and headed up onto the platform.
Ask me in 50 years one of my top five memories that are permanently etched into my brain, and it’ll be this one: I took a deep breath, exhaled, and slowly unworked the knot on my robe and placed it off to the side. Naked, both physically and emotionally, as the day I was born.
I proceeded to do a few gesture poses and immediately started to relax and focus on counting off time. Seriously, focusing on my poses, and how long to hold them, puts me in a Zen-like state. I’m not naked. I’m not vulnerable. I just am.
Remember how I asked you to mark my Famous Last Words? For one of the longer poses, I decided to grab a stool and do a variant of Rodin’s “The Thinker.” So as I start to rest my chin on my hand, I notice something: the photos Abigail saw. Wow… I didn’t see those photos during my prior walk-around. Oh no. Noooow I see why she got a little freaked out! Wow! What an incredibly attractive, buxom, fleshy, pale-skinned brunette! She really wears that dog collar with pride as she’s getting ready to spank the blond on her firm, supple holy shit I’m feeling something stirring down below and it’s never happened to me on stage before and I’m really starting to freak out about it and oh god oh god it’s not going away and oh man Russell may not know art but he knows what he likes and he’s really liking him some modern art baseball baseball pi r squared work related stress work related stress oh thank god it’s going away do not EVER do that to me again!
I’m guessing I did damage control quickly enough for anyone to really notice because no one said anything or gave me any funny looks. But damn if I didn’t feel awkward about it.
The timer rings and I break pose, put on my robe and go get changed. I smiled and wished Abby good luck as she put her easel and pencils down and got ready for her big debut!
I’ll admit it: I took my sweetass time getting dressed because I didn’t know what I should do. Should I sketch her like I did the other models? Should I get dressed and rocket my way to the lobby where I could quaff a glass of wine and just chill? At any rate, I couldn’t just hide out in the changing area all day!
I quickly got dressed and figured I’d fetch myself a glass of wine before I had to make any decisions. Abby and I never really talked about what I’d do when it was her time to strut her stuff. I made my way to the lobby and caught a glimpse of Abby’s olive-colored skin as she was coming off of a standing pose. I poured myself a glass of red and threw it back quickly wondering what the hell I should do. Tossing the cup into the garbage, I realized that, her being my friend and me being hers, I knew exactly what to do.
I sat down and proceeded to sketch Abby, just like I did the other models. And there was nothing weird or crazy about it at all, even though we’ve known each other for years (or perhaps, as I suspect, because we’ve known each other for years). There was nothing smarmy or sordid about it, and frankly I was so engrossed in the artistic aspect of it (as I was sketching throughout the day, I began to truly appreciate the utility that a model gives to an artist) that I was more focused on issues of perspective and proportion than ZOMG nekkid wimmin!
Eventually the day came to a close and Abby and I headed out into the Georgetown rain and began to process the day’s events.
“If anyone ever said that when we first met, that five or six years down the line, we’d see each other completely naked, I would have thought they were crazy!” Abby exclaimed with a sense of disbelief.
“You were great!” I gushed apologetically. “You’re really good at it!”
“I didn’t wobble or anything, did I? I could’ve sworn I felt my arms shaking after a while!”
“Nah,” I replied. “Every time I get up on the pedestal, even the slightest move I make feels like I’m flailing my arms and legs!”
The splash of our feet in the puddles accumulating in the plaza seemed to echo off of the walls as we slowly made our way to M Street.
“I didn’t draw your penis,” Abby said almost apologetically. “I mean, I looked at it and all, but I thought it’d be a little weird drawing it.”
“That’s okay. I don’t take any offense. And, uh… I looked at your breasts. And, uh… drew ‘em, too.”
We hit M Street and proceeded to walk to the H&M, dodging corn-fed Midwestern fannypack-clad tourists and prepster Georgetown trust fund date rape allstars on the obscenely narrow Georgetown sidewalks. The sky began to turn greyer and greyer with the rapid onset of the evening hour. There was something I was about to broach with Abby, but almost intuitively, she beat me to it:
“It’s weird, but I did look at you when I wasn’t drawing.” Abby offered thoughtfully. “Mostly because when’s the next time you’re going to see someone you know naked?”
“Y’know, I was thinking the exact same thing,” genuinely surprised that she and I were on the same wavelength.
“Yeah, it’s not even sexual or anything, like if I was some kind of voyeur peeking in on you, and thought ‘OMG Jason’s totally naked’ or something like that,” she continued.
I concurred, and I had a bit of an epiphany: I realized that there was nothing wrong with appreciating someone’s body simply for what it is, no matter who it is. The human form is an incredible thing, a true work of art, and there’s nothing wrong about appreciating it as such.
Well, I’ve rambled on for far longer than I intended :) Abby, do you have anything to add?
