In 2017 I joined a handful of strangers a highly secluded backyard, doffed all our duds, covered our bodies with paint, and then sat in front of a camera. You know, for art. This isn’t something I immediately shared, except with the closest of friends. Word finally got out, of course, mostly due to my willingness to share photos and talk about it. In addition to some congratulations for my bravery, and some negative judgments, that I was willing to get naked for art and adventure’s sake prompted an artsy friend, Thomas, to catalog this tidbit for a future need.
That need arrived. Thomas asked me if I would sit as model for a figure sketching class. Nudity wasn’t absolutely required, he mentioned, just so long as most of my body’s contours were exposed for the artists to better visualize my body’s mass and proportions. Being the free-spirited and adventure-seeking individual that I am, I opted to go naked, unlike George Constanza.
For those expecting some profound revelations about the beauty of the entire experience, you’ll be sorely disappointed. There’s very little of that here. No great epiphanies. No great insights. No deep soliloquys concerning giant leaps forward along the path to body positivity. Next time, perhaps. Next time I’ll tell you all how an experience converted bodily functions into a sincere enlightenment that caused wisdom to flow out of every orifice. What I will divulge are the thoughts that entered my mind during the process of me posing and them sketching.
During the earlier points of the pose, I allowed my eyes to focus on the motion around me. However, not wanting to be a crappy model, I turned inward and held my position with a resignation borne of countless hours spent in formation as part of a time-honored military tradition we veterans call “waiting.”
Ask around of military friends and veteran relatives about that, about waiting in formation. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve stood in formation for hours just waiting.
Anyway, I digress. Moving on…
A dozen artists’ eyes canvased my unclothed figure. Muscle engagement and the room’s warmth kicked my sweat glands into overdrive. A radio playing pop music station added to the occasional shuffle of an artist in their chair and the muted sounds of charcoal against paper. Thomas’ voice complimented and guided the artists. Meanwhile, I’m seated on a stool, right heel elevated and elbow touching thigh. I’m counting down until I could stand up and stretch. People I don’t know recording my body in all its chubby glory, and I’m just eager to stretch or do some cartwheels.
I want to point out that I was literally counted seconds. With almost yogic breathing, I counted the seconds to a point and then backward. This distracted me (somewhat) from the labors of playing nude statue. Of course, the counting only worked for small stretches of time.
Breaking through posing woe distraction efforts like KoolAid Man through a brick wall, were concerns not of the usual first-time-posing variety. Rather than worry if my onlookers think I’m too portly, I worried that the artists were irritated with my twitching. Was my sweaty forehead blinding them with its reflective qualities? What if a bit of gas slipped out? What else do models think of when they assume uncomfortable poses? Lord, I’m going to be so sore tomorrow. Did they hear my stomach growl? Man, I’m so hungry right now I could eat a cow.
Eventually the session ended, thus ended my torture as well. Still in the process of reflecting, I’ll say that I immediately formed a deep respect for those who model more regularly. The experience is one I’ll repeat if asked to do so again, but I’ll prepare for things a bit differently. To fend off soreness and cramping, some potassium in the days leading up to and the morning of the sitting. I’ll stretch the morning of, too. Some music of my choosing, possibly.
However, regarding the initial bodily and mental exhaustion, my first two words that came to mind when Thomas asked me what I thought were, “that sucked.”
