One on One

One on one I hear you behind me.

Primal painting, panting, heaving, exaggerating, intensifying.

It does sound like you are having sex, sometimes attacking the canvas, angrily.

I can find it amusing once. But I won’t come back.

One on one with a man. You have to be very special to make that work.

He may be married, but really I am ‘the girlfriend experience’. I am a ghost of women he used to flirt with, date. But I won’t play. It doesn’t work for me energetically. It’s not why I’m an artist’s model.

Even if it’s a class; I prefer a woman leading. Very few men can approach this entirely professionally, so in the end you have to find them charming, otherwise it is obstructive. They give away what they think of you, how they find you, in subtle nuance. Like all interaction I suppose. But when you are naked, you can tell if they objectify you.

Sometimes I consciously acknowledge this with artists, so put myself at ease.

Another time – in a group of male and female older artists – where I know the men are in charge… I can’t help but do poses opposed to their girlish view of me. To fit the mould would be too cute.

Greenwich. Mean. Time.

Y.P.A.s are my favourite people to model for at the moment. That’s Young Portuguese Architects if you don’t know; not to be confused with Young British Artists – a very different bunch, not generally into life drawing, apart from Tracey Emin, but she’s not easy to get hold of right now.

The woman wants to draw me as I move in slow motion, a sort of personal variant on tai chi. Well that is like asking me to do what I love, and paying me.

Then I am to lie on a sofa with my legs up against the wall. They’re looking for a different perspective. I enjoy a head rush until my feet are bloodless.

Lounge. Assymetrically. Again I do that naturally.

High up through one way glass I see a familiar evening vista. It’s like the view from my bedroom in close up.

By the water’s edge here is much dereliction – a Greenwich waiting to rise… if money still flows.

Haxan

“It was a general belief that the witch was naked when, at night, during the so-called Witch Sabbath, she danced with the devils.

Women who wanted to participate in the ‘Sabbath’ sneaked away to the sorcerer where they could have their backs smeared with ‘witch ointment’. The witchcraft of the ointment would allow them to fly through the air.

The Witch Sabbath was a secret satanic rite to which thousands of women asserted their participation.

During the witchcraft era it was dangerous to be old and ugly, but it was not safe to be young and pretty either.

In the arc of a few centuries, over 8 million women, men and children were burnt as witches.”

Bloodlines in Bethnal Green… and the Jewish Question

Around 1911 my Great Grand-Mother, Rivkah Notlovitz, arrived on a boat in London; she’d fled pogroms in the Baltic East. She headed straight for Stamford Hill, because well you know, it is Ashkenazim HQ. She was bored after a few months however, and boarded another boat; this time for Cape Town. Her religious life over, she now gave herself to politics where an altogether new circumstance of colour presented itself.

Hush descends a shoddy shack and red runs down my leg, heat rising to my face – I forgot the bloody date!

Silence, and after 20 minutes a small pool is at my heel. I clean up.

At break, a German artist books me for an entire week. I’ve got what it takes he says. Public bleeding apparently indicating that I am in fact a woman, not a mannequin.

Pronouncing my name is often followed by, “Are you Jewish?” – by Jews and gentiles alike. Usually I’m not, though occasionally Rivkah has her uses, but technically she’s on my Father’s side, so she doesn’t actually count.

As for why I’m called Esther, well that is another story, and oddly it is related to the holocaust!

Mum grew up in East Berlin and was always an outsider from the off, because she and her family lived there for political reasons, i.e. being on the run from McCarthyism. One thing she observed in the East Germans was, they blamed the holocaust entirely on West Germans. Clearly this was propaganda, but as a child (she left aged 13) it somehow indelibly marked her. She became a dedicated housewife, and her only form of protest for something she witnessed as unjust, was released in the naming of her first born. Somehow she knew that throughout my life I would be mistaken for Jewish, time and time again.

Corpsed

Mother lay on the couch motionless; her brain removed so work could be done.

I thought I better take off her clothes to let the body breathe.

This proved hard work – a pair of tights, skirt, buttons and impossible sleeves… all that tugging, manoeuvring, even yanking down below and I’d lost track of her head. It was hanging off the side, how undignified. I slowed down to rearrange her, gently lift her head where it belonged.

As a natural position realigned I noticed a twinge of life, some left over electricity perhaps. A wave of subtle motion from her eyes to her shoulder and down the right arm. Just a moment of life, so strange, almost shocking it moved me too.

I stayed, wondering if her brain really would come back.

Defying Rationale

Some artists have noticed that I am writing boldly and they are not sure if they trust me anymore.  I have to say that comments I make about artists in my blog are part of a creative writing strand, and while inspired by life, contain fictitious elements. Subtle details are often changed partly to protect identities, and because I have an overall thread in mind which overlays reality and a bigger picture of it.

Today at the Mall, I challenged artists to be bold too; as they walked in my room they were initially confronted with my open legs. Unplanned, I worked the pose out with those present earlier, including women from whose point of view there were good angles and a fabulous grin.  It was men who took the bushy gaze, and after all, from porn they may be used to that. I was comfortable, and understand that some men, like me, sometimes enjoy creating when there is a turn on. It seems a most natural condition, and under the auspices of this life group, all may be gratified.

A latent poise is surfacing in conversation with some who draw me (and have read my words). Testing. I cannot help but feel that regardless this is drawing us closer in understanding. It may take time.

Life Club

Birdsong in the morning,  zone 6,  cemetery path and a silver haired community centre.
I face Margaret. She always gets missed out, so today I look her way. Two minutes picking her medium; charcoal in a chocolate box, or pens in an elastic? Doesn’t look at me, just feels her materials, places her pad.
And then eyes raise, lid removed. A long look, small marks. Wait; spectacles are in order, and minutes go by.
I work hard for 2 ten minute poses, arms high, toes tipped… and then dry up. Too early, close in, and cover what they’d like to see most. Senior sauce. But hey! Even protruding knees and elbows please their select number (to get in you have to make good cake).

In the 2nd half they stop me mid-stretch, frantic scribbling what could be a glamour pose.

I only came because I like Margaret (and the cake).

Wired for Work

At an advertising agency in Kensington I am surprised by how lovely the young things make me feel.
A very dry, cold ‘theatre’ room with a cheap decor, slowly fills with keen, appreciative artists. I don’t want to like them; I checked out the multinationals they represent in the portfolio down in the lobby, but these yes privileged persons, have been requesting life drawing sessions from their seniors for some time; have been starved, so this once monthly occasion is feted.
I relax, improvising with the furniture, admiring their sketches. There is a chill at first, so I naturally huddle into protective, warming, apparently sex-kitten poses! Then a quality heater is delivered, and I uncurl into passionate, open posture; I let myself be the way I really am – cute, coquettish and angularly striking.
A young man announces he modelled in Florence whilst attending classes at the world’s premier life drawing academy. I ask if it paid for his tuition and he said he was lucky to have parents covering that. But knowing that he knows what it’s like to do what I do, does make me feel much more at home.
Candles are brought to illuminate my feet and I bask in loving ambiance.
Red flows to unwind their charcoaling fingers and lubricate a love for drawing. Why do I feel so enamoured? Am I projecting the love I desire on to these rat race rabbits? If I am I’m sure they feed it back because by the end I overflow. I do not resent their commercial creed; art unites us for a short exercise in loving connection where the only touch is on paper. They allowed me to be beautiful, and even to forget about sex, which is an achievement at present!
A good model friend of mine advised me on structured meditation while modelling, to avoid unwanted thoughts and attention. I cannot instill this instantly, but something of her wise words must have sunk in – I feel like I am on a higher plane. I’ve always fallen in my own time to the rhythm of meditation, but with practise a greater discipline will work for me. I do not want my sexual appetite to get the better of me, there is more to art and life.

Re-Modelling the Past

Getting my kit off for the first time to model, was not actually the first time for me. As a teenager I worked as a stripper amongst other more dubious professions in the sex industry. It’s hard for me to relate to many women’s anxieties of weight or other physical issues; due to my background however, I’ve certainly had self esteem problems connected with my actions and society’s judgement. Loads of women dip into the sex industry to support themselves so it ought to be less taboo.

 

Trying life modelling was a revelation as it was like reclaiming my nudity in a more positive, less pressurized setting. Staying still is a challenge, but being left to your own thoughts is a far cry from performing sex acts in a dingy Soho backroom.

I came to relish the basically innocent and positive appreciation one gets from being a life model. It is not devoid of sexual undertones but these are muted and quite under control.

 

I was just in my 30s when I started life modelling so there had been a good decade since my earlier escapades. I hadn’t realised how I had become inhibited about my body, but after modelling a while I did feel more vibrant and attractive. When you are in long-term relationships or not in any at all, you can forget the thrill of being found exciting and gorgeous; so being admired in some sense by artists may restore that.

 

On a fundamental energetic level, simply having all those artists’ attention on you for several hours can give you a boost, like they are filling you with energy. As they get immersed in their painting it’s like they fall in love with natural beauty of the body and at this point it doesn’t matter what you look like. I know this apart from what they say, from having tried life drawing myself. When you see the model in a pose in which you discover beauty, the pleasure you elicit from finding a way to capture that on paper is enormous, and you feel such gratitude towards the model. Further, without knowing the model or anything about them, you can share quite an intimate moment.

The beauty of a pose may be derived from nothing conventional, but simply consist of body shapes and the way light falls and illuminates.