Picture Perfect

What the hell? My past has just come flooding back, yes, that is indeed me?  

Wow, I must admit I look gorgeous. This realization pleases me and then instantly depresses me, if it was a photograph of me now with all my flaws I would sue the ass of the photographer. These days they can change a digital image to portray what they want but not back then, any imperfections removed within a moment. I scour the faces of my students. The more mature of them are looking my image in the eye and take it all in appreciating the nudity for what it was a study of the human form, or just a moment caught, it was up to the viewer to decide. The photographer’s intent would be a personal feeling to whoever was watching it was now literally out of their hands. The others in the group couldn't get past their redness or above their feet, they were the same in the sex education class. Giggles and shuffling abound, notebooks thrown at heads as they blushed over some smart asses comment. As an art teacher I expect this reaction to life models, I thought one of the mature ones might gather it was me, the others couldn’t get past my nude body, but no, none of them recognize me. The teacher part of me is delighted as I don't need a whiff of scandal, the other my ego, deflated. I looked beautiful back then, youthful, my body didn’t need an iron, it was smooth. I smile to myself, my mind is a funny thing, since the menopause has kicked in, it brings me to the weirdest of places. In those days it was my hair I used to iron for flip’s sake, not on the day I posed it seems my curves and waves on display in all their glory. I wouldn't be bothered now, anybody looking at all would be a bonus.

I let my mind wander back, time travelling through my past a smile or grimace unwittingly traversing my face. The smile at the memory of falling madly in love, and the grimace at how my love that I fell for treated me. The image captured in the frame is not how I felt, I look thoroughly relaxed, oblivious to my surroundings and creator. In reality my every pore is screaming to run, I refuse to look up at him as this day in particular I remember disliking the whole process. I never liked the enforced posturing, he would alternately paint or photograph me, wherever his muse or humor took him. It started as a bit of fun at first, two lovers exploring each other’s boundaries and he declared me as his muse. You don't know how flattering that is until you are lauded as it. My inhibitions lessened with each stroke of his paintbrush or click of his camera. Clothes getting smaller and then getting removed at each sitting until eventually none were needed. I reveled in his hungry eyes, relishing the effect I had on his paintbrush, camera and elsewhere. We took many artistic breaks, where a different flashing began and indulged in other pleasures, which I never disliked. 

I thought I was his one and only lover, I wasn’t naive enough to think I was his only model. I always assumed he loved me, and any superior models bet me only in the look department and it was my mind and personality that he fell in love with. I was content in this assumption until I arrived home from a trip three days early, undressing brazenly as I sauntered up the stairs. He could stroke me this evening but not with the brush or the camera lens although I was expecting a good licking, at least two coats. He will want to paint or photograph me he always does when I’ve been away with an urgency I never understood.

I heard them before I got anywhere to the bedroom door. One of our best buyers, always willing to pay over the odds and eager to see each new photographic or art collection, I never understood the need for a distinction in either, to me they were both art forms. Paul must be showing his more personal stuff, the stuff he said he’s never sell or publicly exhibit, there is a lot of images of me in there. It didn’t bother me that Paul may be showing the client me in various stages of undress of totally naked, I knew that particular client was homosexual and would have no sexual interest in what he was viewing. I don’t know how I knew I just did. I was going to withdraw and leave them to it, when a scream of what could only be described as sexual pleasure emitted, letting me know this was no ordinary business meeting. He had come to see Paul's etchings or photographs in the age old cliched way. Barging in they were disentangling as I approached, I snapped my images quickly, I could use them for blackmail or just for crying over if I wished. They begged and cried for my forgiveness, and I destroyed a lot of Paul's best work of me bitterly throwing whatever paint or implement that was near at them. I know he suffered the loss of them more keenly than he ever suffered the loss of me, and after a bitter and painful parting of ways for me and Paul, they both paid an exorbitant amount for my silence. It paid my way through art college.

I have spent many years trying to distance myself from Paul and those dark days. I used to redden with shame when I thought of our naughtier sittings getting into the wrong hands. It was obvious that Paul had indeed sold this one or donated it, another promise broken, or just a wee bit of revenge, I'll never know. Instead of a makeover I had a make under. Stopped wearing makeup, ditched the heels. Getting a degree my new goal. I'm interrupted from my nostalgic wandering by one of my students.

"Mrs. Cassidy?"

"Nancy, my apologies, I think I got lost in the photograph. I used to know the sitter I haven’t conversed with her in years. Let's move on."