Holding still for strangers
Getting over my insecurity to become a nude artists’ model
I’ve hated my body, deeply, for most of my life. I’ve hated it so much I’ve starved myself. I’ve stood in front of a mirror for up to an hour a day, desperately trying to stave off acne with products I couldn’t afford. I’ve gotten into an accident, rear ending a car at a stoplight because I was too preoccupied with the spidery varicose veins I had noticed starting to spread on my upper thigh. I’ve hated my body so much it’s verged on narcissism, a preoccupation with myself hinged on the assumption that everyone around me, from my sexual partners to my friends to strangers at the gas station, are noting my flaws. The cure for this preoccupation, I thought, was of course to try nude modeling.
A newer transplant to Savannah, I had joked with friends that I thought I could make extra money as an art model in an art town. The notion had always been romantic to me, fueled by glimpses of the occupation in movie and television scenes. There was something powerful in the image of a naked woman lying luxuriously in the middle of a classroom, the most vulnerable in the group, but essential to its activities. And of course, with a copy editor’s salary, a little money on the side never hurts.
On a recent lonely weekend, I was wandering aimlessly, trying to decide what to do with myself. I was feeling bored, which I took as a signal to watch out for any potential points of interest or opportunity. Intrigue arrived as a sign in the window of an art studio near my apartment: Models Wanted. The gig paid $25/hr, and the sign said female models were preferred. It did say something about “Muscles a plus” which made me self conscious. I’ve never been that much of a gym rat, but with the pandemic on, I’ve really fallen out of it. It was almost enough to deter me, but it felt like fate that I found this advertisement. I had been on my way to a favorite cafe when something compelled me to walk down a different street instead, and I take coincidence seriously (you have to, when you don’t take much else seriously).
I emailed the contact address, explaining that I didn’t have experience but was interested in art, and attached a photo of myself. The process for taking the photo was excruciating. The advertisement had asked for a clothed snapshot, but that left me wondering what I was supposed to sell myself as. My only experience taking photos of myself was nudes for long-distance lovers, with sultry, come-hither looks. Truth be told, you’re not so self-conscious about little rolls of fat around your armpits or pimples on your chin when you know the boys will be distracted by your bare boobs or ass. I put on a tube top, did my best to look statuesque, and gave it a go. Looking at the results, I almost didn’t send in my application. I felt more flawed than ever, but knew I had come this far, and there was no harm in trying.
I got an email back a few days later and was soon meeting with the studio owner, who explained that the job was to be a model for a life-drawing class, mostly hobbyists who liked the practice. We scheduled a time for a try-out of sorts. She gave me resources to look over that got into the nitty gritty of being an art model with example poses, and told me one professional model she knew practiced holding these sorts of poses for 20 minutes at a time while watching Netflix at home. 20 minutes is the typical maximum time an art model will hold a pose without a break.
The “try-out” was supposed to be just me and the studio owner, a chance for me to get a feel for what a shift of modeling work would be like and for her to get a sense if I would be good at it. The morning of, the owner emailed me. She said one of her longtime students was supposed to have a class that day and due to the pandemic, he hadn’t had the chance to work with a live model for a long time. She wondered if I would be ok with him sitting in.
I was encouraged by this message. It showed me she truly cared about my comfort and consent, and it also showed me that I was well-suited for this job. Because here’s the thing: I really didn’t care if the student came in. In my estimation, I was taking off my clothes for two hours, and couldn’t really be bothered about who saw me during that time. She was more concerned about my modesty than I was, and that was power. As I stood before the two of them later that day, it became clearer to me. When you’re the only naked person in the room, you frankly have more going for you. You’re the one willing to take off your clothes. You’re unashamed, and shame is the prime inhibitor of confidence, curiosity and authenticity.
To my surprise, I was also able to choose my poses. I spoke to the artists as I decided on what the next post would be, because I wanted to create interesting angles for them to paint, but it was up to me; I wasn’t just a mannequin, I was part of the creative process.
At one point in the session, the owner asked if I had been a dancer, and when I said I had taken ballet classes throughout my childhood, she said she could tell. It made me think back to my ballet days, which ended when I moved away for college. Ballet rightfully has a stereotype for having toxic body standards of extreme thinness, causing insecurity and eating disorders. In the professional scene, I think this is true, but as an ugly duckling teenager, one of the only places I felt beautiful was in ballet class. The studio was of course covered with mirrors, which in any other context, would be my nightmare, but the difference was how class made me see my body. In ballet, I wasn’t looking at myself as a woman on a sliding scale of sexual attractiveness. I was looking at myself as an artist and athlete. I wasn’t paying attention to rolls of fat on my hips, because I was focused on if my hips were in the right position for the exercises and choreography.
Ballet allowed me to stop thinking about what my body was, and instead start thinking about what it could do, which was far more important and gratifying. I felt very much the same in art modeling. I wasn’t there to be a sexual object, I was there to be an artistic object. Losing the ego that constantly tells me I am not enough lets me appreciate the pleasure of my body as it is, and that is worth much more than $25 an hour.
Barnard Street Tattler 