Stripped Down: Undressed and Unashamed

With my weird sense of humor, I know I possess a great “come back” line tucked away. One that I might pull out of the recess of my brain in years to come and use for the perfect occasion. 

     One day, hopefully, many years from now, there is every chance someone may comment on how badly I’ve aged and am no longer attractive in their eyes. They may disparagingly point out my grey hair, the deep-set forehead lines, crow’s feet around my eyes, and the pounds I’ve added to my frame, and say:

“What happened to you?” “You’re no oil painting...”

 For me to reply, “Well… Yes. Yes, I am.” “…in fact, I AM a work of art.”

It's not exactly a burn, more like a childish taunt. A sharp “Nya nya nya nya nya” retort that would justify sticking out my tongue like a five-year-old. But underneath it all, it’s a subtle statement on how I view and value myself with all my flaws and imperfections.

    In my mid-forties, I challenged myself to do the unthinkable. Before a class of twenty or so, I disrobed for the first time and adopted a pose that I would be holding for the better part of six hours.

In the middle of a classroom in a well-known London art college, I was surrounded by a circle of heavy industrial wooden easels. Each one accompanied by a serious-looking student armed with a large pad of paper and a selection of graphite pencils, charcoal, oil pastels, erasers, and various paints. This was my first “gig” as a life (or figure) model. A career option I might never have considered if it wasn’t for a close friend who was a model herself.

            Susan, was moving abroad and to help her employer find a replacement, she suggested I consider filling the vacancy. For over a year, chatting over coffee, Susan casually shared her experiences. She was older than me, had long silvery locks of hair, and a ruddy skin complexion - free of all makeup. She was not stick thin, athletic, or have a toned physique. Embodying a rubenesque figure, she had a generous belly, cellulite, and real womanly curves. She unapologetically embraced food and drink as being important components of life. A free spirit in every way. I secretly admired her because she was so unlike me. She was confident and at ease with who she was. I kept thinking how incredibly brave she was to do life modelling. Susan was also a naturist so I surmised that this line of work just came easy for her.

           I would guess most women (and men) struggle with nudity on some level. We are uncomfortable in locker rooms, in saunas, showing our bodies to medically trained professionals, and for some - with our own partners. Being naked makes us feel awkward, nervous, and potential targets for laughter or judgment. It is safer to have a protective layer of cloth to hide behind and cover up our flaws. Even when we think about confronting our anxieties of public speaking, we are encouraged to imagine our audience in their underwear because it puts us (as the speaker) in a powerful, more in control and less vulnerable position. 

           Life modelling was about capturing the naked body with all its wonderful shapes and sizes, proportions and yes - imperfections. How boring would it be to have the same body types to draw, paint or sculpt day after day? A wide selection of men and women who are heavy and thin, with tattoos, piercings, and scars… young and old, able-bodied and disabled are all sought after as true body representations for art. 

  Studying anatomy and replicating it is a revered skill. When you think of a Michelangelo sculpture, you tend to marvel at the intricate veins in the hands, and the muscular and skeletal proportions carved into stone. He, and other Renaissance painters studied medical texts and even dissected corpses to learn about the physiological aspects of the body to recreate life-like art. The more I learned, the more intrigued I became. This was an opportunity for me to be part of the artistic creative process in some small way.

           It was emphasized that life modelling wasn’t sleazy or creepy. There wasn’t the “ick factor” that people often associate with being nude and getting paid for it. This was not prostitution. There was no sense of sexuality or voyeurism attached. My good friend’s personal insights made me seriously consider this work. It did feel daunting initially, but intuitively I knew I had more to gain than lose from the experience. I trusted Susan. She would never introduce me to something I would regret or feel exploited by.

“You got this!”, Susan said enthusiastically. “You can do this!” 

And with that encouragement, I applied and was assigned my first class. The fact that this was a gigantic step for me can not be overstated. I was going out of my comfort zone to face a crippling fear. The true reason for doing it went much deeper.

           Never a prude about nudity or brought up with puritanical values, my issues stemmed from personal insecurities. A lack of confidence as a teenager kept me from wearing a bikini, or shorts in the hottest summer weather. I hid from being in family photographs, opting to hold the camera instead. For most of my life, I had negative thoughts about my body. I wanted to hide in the worst way and just disappear. Like so many women, I struggled with food most of my life and avoided the scale.

Innocently sneaking my mother’s appetite-suppressant chocolate “diet candy” in the ’70s was just the start. It escalated. In my twenties, I suffered from eating disorders. I went from the extreme of self-starvation and denying myself sustenance- because I felt unworthy to eat, to devouring copious amounts of food in secret in a relentless cycle of binge/purging. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t attain the perfect size that I imposed on myself or the happy feelings I equated with losing weight. The “life would be so perfect if I just lost five more pounds” never materialized.

 My body didn't resemble the twig-like figures that the media pushed at us as being desirable. I wasn’t fat, but I wasn’t emaciated either. What I did have was body dysmorphia. Eventually, after nearly a decade and with health complications, I sought professional treatment to address the real issues of why I felt I needed to restrict all food, or engage in over-the-top comfort eating to self-soothe.

           Disrobing in front of art students who would be staring at me for hours at a time to capture every angle, with all my imperfections, was a whole other level of vulnerability. But for some reason, I was drawn to do it. I needed to confront my fears. I would never be an exhibitionist, but I could see how this might empower me in many ways and help me move forward.

           Entering the class, I was directed to undress behind a folding bamboo screen in the corner of the room. I stripped down, and put on a simple white terrycloth robe that I brought with me from home. Cords to the blinds covering the classroom windows and entrance door were pulled shut to provide privacy. This was a safe space, and I was welcomed, respected and made comfortable the minute I arrived. I was asked to take a seat and pose in a position that I felt comfortable in. Pillows were available to support me if I chose to use them, but no chaise longue sofa (as depicted in the old films of artists and their muses.) The pose would be held for quite some time, with several breaks initiated throughout the day.

   Dropping the robe, I started off holding a basic sitting fetal position – my back curved with my spine bent over my body, my head bowed, my legs drawn up near my chest and my arms wrapped around my knees loosely. I held my gaze downward with my body remaining motionless. I meditated to make the time pass by, thought about my upcoming week’s schedule, sang song lyrics in my head, and mentally created the week’s grocery list… all as a means of zoning out and keeping as still as possible.

          Over time and with more bookings and confidence, I held poses that required greater strength and endurance. Try standing and holding your arm out in front of you and see how long you can maintain it without shaking, sweating, experiencing cramps, muscle spasms, pins and needles, or outright pain as the blood drains from that area of the body. Count how long it takes before you feel the need to drop your arm by your side. It’s harder than it looks.

           My gaze during modelling sessions was fixated on a particular point in the room. If my head or body were tilted, it had to remain in that position throughout. If I was feeling discomfort or numbness, I distracted myself by thinking of “my happy place” to hold my mannequin-like stance.

            The room was quiet apart from a few random indiscriminate coughs, the humming from the indoor electric space heater, (thoughtfully placed near me to take the chill off the room), and the instructor's footsteps moving from easel to easel and quietly commenting on each student’s work. From my peripheral view, I could see the artists’ heads looking up and down between me and their giant pads of paper. Their arms scribbled. Sometimes wildly flailing about as they made over-exaggerated strokes across their pages. When breaks were announced, the instructor would draw a chalk line around my body perimeter so that the same pose, angle, and dimensions would be recreated when we resumed. During these intermissions, I would throw on my robe, and stretch as if I had just come out of an intense workout. I walk around, getting the blood circulating by shaking my arms and legs, and twisting my head to and fro to work out any kinks in my neck and shoulders. Then a toilet break, a quick cup of tea and/or eat something to keep my blood sugar levels up.

           Once the class was over, I dressed, packed up and took a seat as an observer. Students would then slowly turn their easels around for the others to see their work. Each was critiqued by the instructor. I don’t think I ever truly saw myself as “beautiful” until I witnessed the work that came out of these sessions. Each artist had their own perspective, style, and honest interpretations. Seeing myself in their work gave me a new outlook – a stark realization. The talent and abilities that came forth absolutely stunned me. Was this really me? Do I look like that? I had never viewed myself in the way others saw me. I was totally naked, devoid of clothes or props that hid any areas that I saw as imperfections, but in those moments, I discovered a new love and appreciation for my body. I was healthy and able-bodied – how amazing and wonderful is that?

           Sculpturing classes had the same effect. From lumps of dark clay in the beginning, the most incredible finished sculptures emerged - revealing “me”. I was fascinated walking into class, seeing all the sculpture tools laid out much like surgical implements before an operation. Loop and ribbon tools, sticks, knives, brushes, bowls of water, and sponges. Through meticulous pinching and pulling, digging, scraping and smoothing, the final piece emerged in what resembled a phoenix rising from the ashes. Why had I been so hung up on my appearance for years trying to reach an unattainable size for my height and frame? Why did I compare myself to others and struggle trying to live up to false ideals imposed on women?

           Stripped of clothing, laying myself bare, I gained true acceptance for who I am and gratitude for all bodies being different – but the same, in unique, and beautiful ways. I no longer model, but maybe somewhere out there, amongst the early collections of work gathering dust from now well-known artists, I live on in the art pieces I was involved in creating. I'd like to think they are my legacy. The paintings, sketches, and sculptures made in my image – and yes, maybe a few oil paintings as well.

 Perhaps one day, when I’m long gone, my adult grandchildren will say, “Wow! Grandma really was a "badass" back in the day - courageous, bold, fearless... She lived life to the full and pushed boundaries. ”

And truth be told, I can live with that.