I love the first day of class each year. The oil paint and turpentine aromas become concentrated in August, when they close the building for the summer. I inhale its heady perfume as I click-clack across the painted wood floor in my mules, wearing my street clothes. Everything in the drawing studio at the art college is freshly painted white or pale gray for classes resuming in September, except the wooden easels. The morning light streams in the southeast-facing, floor-to-ceiling windows at an angle that diffuses some of the harshness. I’ll observe it travel across the length of the studio and disappear during the four-hour class. Usually, no one takes notice of me until I open the small door leading to my cubical and close it behind me. They’re all scoping each other out like a mob of meerkats on the savanna.
I’ve been modeling for Donahue’s drawing class and painting workshops at the art school on and off for more than twenty-five years, so I’ve worked out a little routine I follow every time. To begin with, I wear very loose clothing especially undergarments to avoid any pressure lines on my legs, back, or ankles. They’re very distracting when someone is drawing the figure. As I’ve aged, I realize this is very important. And I arrive at least fifteen minutes before class to allow myself time to disrobe and read a few pages of my current book before I pose. I need something to think about while I’m up on the stand.
It’s sort of a funny story how I got into modeling back in the seventies. My gorgeous older sister was asked to pose for a sculpture class. The post-war students were complaining about the plaster casts they’d been using to learn to draw the human form for a hundred years. The GI Bill guys wanted real, breathing flesh. They earned it, right? She did it for the cash money it paid and the flexible hours. And because of her husband who’d returned from Viet Nam suffering from stuff he couldn’t control, except her. He monitored her like she was a fugitive in witness protection, refused to let her work or give her any money of her own. They had no kids and she was bored silly hanging around their one-bedroom apartment dusting the same lamp every day. Modeling was quick money and hers alone. Anyway, she fell in love with the instructor, divorced her husband and they moved to Paris. I needed a second job, so I took over for her, but no one’s asked me to go anywhere yet.
When I’m not modeling, I play the cello, my first love. As wonderful as it would have been to land a permanent gig in a symphony orchestra or in musical theater, it’s never happened. I’ve auditioned hundreds of times, but never get the nod. A few of us from the conservatory started playing together thirty years ago and they eventually became my family. Our string quartet plays at two masses every Sunday at St. Hedwig’s plus rehearsals on Tuesday nights, as well as, the odd wedding or funeral. And I work as a soloist at a bar mitzvah every so often. I keep my weekday job at the art school my little secret. I’m afraid Father Keenan might be scandalized, titillated, or both.
I peek out of my little door and watch the new crop of kids stroll in alone or in groups of two or three. They look like such babies; it’s hard to believe they’re college students. Over the years they’ve changed, become less prudish and freer somehow, but on the first day they’re all a little nervous.
I sit down and read another chapter of Stranger in a Strange Land by Heinlein. The new century is such a confusing time for everyone. I wonder how it’ll all shake out, with the new war, technology, pandemics, global warming. It’s a lot to ponder. I hear Donahue hobble out and begin his spiel.
“Good morning. I’m Mr. Donahue and this is freshman drawing for Section D. To answer your first question: I had polio as a kid, and I can’t walk without my crutches. I’m used to it. It’s not a big deal. This year we’ll be doing a lot of figure drawing. I see everyone has newsprint pads and soft pencils or charcoal.” He looks around at the assembled group beaming. “You’re going to use a lot of paper this year. This is just the first of many pads you’ll be buying. You have to draw a lot of bodies of all different shapes and sizes to understand what you’re seeing and learn to depict the human figure.”
I love listening to Donahue talk. He’s had a rough life between the polio and his family troubles. He’s shared his story of growing up with family members in jail intermittently – his dad for burglary, his brother for manslaughter and his sister for receiving stolen goods. But he sees only beauty. He put himself through art school playing pool and poker, so I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but he’s a wonderful artist. Sometimes he draws me during class and gives me the sketches. I can look at them as my visual history from a svelte young woman to my present middle-aged rounded self. He still looks at me the same way though, with kindness. I love that.
“This is not a beauty contest,” he continues. “The bodies you’ll sketch will be young, old, fat and skinny. Your first few hundred drawings will be execrable. Don’t worry about it. Learning to portray the human form is something artists have struggled with since the caves at Lascaux, earlier even. It is a skill anyone can learn with practice and you’ll get a lot of practice this year. Keep drawing. Your drawings will get better in time.”
“Mr. Donahue will you grade every drawing?” A kid asks.
“Hi. What’s your name? I’ll learn everyone’s name in a week or so. Until then, please introduce yourself,” says Donahue.
“I’m Kevin Harris.”
“Hi, Kevin. By the way, you don’t have to dress up for class, you know.” The kid nods. “I’ll just grade the ones that aren’t totally abysmal.” He smiles at the kid. I can see him go red across his neck. “Okay, Catherine, we’re ready to begin.”
I know this part by heart, but it gives me a thrill to hear him announce my name every time. It’s like being a celebrity; I perform in the tradition of Lady Godiva. I take a few deep breaths and check that my hair is off my neck except for a few artistic tendrils.
I wait a few seconds to build the anticipation. Then I emerge wearing just my Chinese silk robe and an enigmatic smile. I feel the students’ eyes following me. This is my biggest entrance of the year, so I make the most of it. They won’t pay as much attention to me next time. And the time after that, I’ll be furniture. But today, I’m like a force field bending air and light in slow motion, as I saunter to the center of the studio.
I approach the model stand, step up with as much grace as I can manage and sit, opposite Donahue. The platform is about seven feet square and eighteen inches tall with a cube of the same height perched on top. I open my sash and let my robe cascade around me like a sigh, awaiting my instructions.
I can sense the intake of breath from most of the students, rather than hear it. Some try to act uninterested and sophisticated, but I know it’s a shock for them, a breathing naked person not a video or a centerfold in a magazine. These are seventeen and eighteen-year old art students who’ve seen hundreds of paintings or sculptures of nudes in museums and in books, but facing a live naked body is a jolt. Most of their eyes travel none too subtly from my head to my pubic area to determine if I’m a natural redhead. I am. I don’t have a clue why they all find this information so fascinating, but I’ve never modeled for a class that didn’t check that fact first thing.
When I started posing nude, I figured I’d be embarrassed and feel exposed, but for some reason I didn’t. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, like I was being open and honest with everyone for once, nothing hidden or concealed, but I remain aloof from the kids. The secret is to never talk to the students. Never let them hear your voice.
“I think we’ll do a two-hour pose, Catherine, so find a position that’s comfortable for you,” says Donahue. “Turn a little more toward me and extend your left leg. You can rest your elbow on your knee and your chin on your hand. Is that ok?” I nod. “Perfect.”
He turns to the kid, Kevin.
“Can you take this chalk and mark on the stand where Catherine’s feet are placed? Indicate where her toes are and the sides of her feet. This’ll help her get into the same pose after her breaks.”
Kevin looks at Donahue like he’s just asked him to cut off his leg, but he does what he’s asked without breaking the chalk or looking at me. I’ve seen a few young men like him before, perfectionists, overly neat and careful of his appearance, totally uptight. Art school loosens up most of them. By senior year, he’ll sport a beard, wear his clothes wrinkled and have found his soul. I much prefer him to the tortured artist types. I see one sitting behind Kevin smirking. He’s wearing all the right clothes, using all the cool jargon, no doubt, but there’s nothing inside. He’s all angst and pretension.
Before they start to draw, I concentrate on relaxing each and every joint in my body, one by one, starting at my neck and working down to my toes. If I don’t do this, I’ll start to stiffen and become very uncomfortable even though I get a break every fifteen minutes. Over time, I’ve learned how to sit or stand so that I can find the exact same position after my break, as well as, remain fairly comfortable during the pose.
That’s why Donahue keeps asking me to model. I’m no Baywatch beauty and it’s not rocket science, but I’m good at my job. During the semester, I’ll be back eight or nine times. Donahue likes to bring in a male model, Eddie who is super skinny occasionally. There’s another female model from Trinidad and one from Sweden, he uses too.
Some of these students walk into art school possessing amazing technical skills; others are admitted with a lot of desire. When I’ve been away from the class a couple of weeks, it’s interesting how some will develop proficiency and others very little. Who will become famous painters or sculptors and who will find desire is not enough? I can’t tell. But now, on the first day, no one is disillusioned, no one has found his limits, no one has reached her potential and found it wanting. Desire and optimism reign supreme today.
Also, I usually try to avoid eye contact with the students. I discovered, early on, it rattles them. This kid, Kevin accidently locks eyes with me, and looks away quickly. I feel like I’ve been accused of something.
I close my eyes and consider what Heinlein wrote about his hero, Valentine Smith as a super-intelligent creature come to earth and walking among us, while I listen to the scrape, scrape of the charcoal pencils on newsprint all around me. It sounds like the andante, the slowest part of a symphony, restful and comforting.
Layered over the sounds of drawing, I detect another noise. I raise my eyelids and scan the group of students in front of me without moving my head.
I see it. It’s Kevin, sharpening his pencil. I watch him work it around and around, as the pencil gets shorter and shorter while a noticeable pile of shavings grows beneath him on the floor.
Donahue is trolling the class, observing everyone’s first efforts, but saying nothing. It’s not as creepy as it sounds; he’s a nice guy. On the first day, he is the objective observer. In later classes, he’ll chat with each one, make suggestions and comments. He’ll have weekly critiques in which drawings of me from different viewpoints will be pinned up for review. I’m used to it now, but at first I found it strange to see thirty sketches of me on one wall.
He hovers over Kevin’s shoulder for a minute and whispers something in his ear. The kid turns red, again, poor thing, and starts to perspire visibly. I see little melon slices of sweat grow under his arms. He stands up and lurches out of the studio, pencil stub in hand.
I glance over and see Donahue grinning like a kid.
I let myself drift back to Heinlein’s ideas about a dystopian world where there are no wars and consider ordering a Waldorf salad for lunch today. I can tell it’s getting close to my break and I’m looking forward to standing up. As easy as it might seem to pose sitting still for fifteen minutes, it’s difficult and strains your muscles. I make it a habit to schedule regular massages and a yoga class weekly to stay flexible.
Kevin slinks back in, sits on his stool and starts drawing on his newsprint pad. He barely looks at me, but I can hear his pencil scratch against the paper. Donahue calls time a few minutes later and I stand, slip on my robe and stretch. I walk around the perimeter of the platform a few times to ease the kinks out of my knees and hips before I step down to floor level. It’s turned out to be a beautiful sunny day, the temperature’s just right in the studio, even for naked ladies.
A girl who must have been sitting behind almost cuts me off trying to reach Kevin, as I head for my cubical. I slow down and pretend to look at a student drawing to find out what the big emergency is.
“Kevin, what did Mr. Donahue say to you?” she demands.
He sighs and shakes his head looking at the floor. “He said only drawing students or models were allowed in his classroom. If I didn’t draw, I’d have to strip naked and pose up there.”
“He was probably joking. Do you think he meant it?” I can see she’s suppressing a smile.
“I certainly wasn’t going to challenge him.”
There’s one every year. I continue to my cubical for a sip of tea and to read a few more pages during my break. The first day is always my favorite.
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author bio:
Suzanne Martinez, initially a painter, has a BFA and an MFA. She’s studied fiction at Kenyon Review Writers Workshop and NYS Writers Institute and read her stories at the KGB Bar multiples times. She’s working on her first novel, Drawing Lessons. Her work was posted on The Drabble in November 2018 and appeared in the Hong Kong Review in the Winter 2018 edition.
This story’s featured image is by Ieva Vizule, and can be found on Unsplash.