Lessons In Love ~ & The Tribe

Aaron's drawing as I explain something

I grew up in a tribe of spiky painted fiends. Incest rife and hardware mainlined, I passed around and broke up the Millenium. Wandered; foreign people and marrying out.

Ron Lawrence's quick watercolours

Jolted I set to slowly tracking back. The old postcode; brushing by; how to arrive? Through the female line and in the right time. Careful balances inclined.

Christine Angell's blurred vision

To harmonise old tensions – find the one who can set me straight. Him behind me, my new mate.

Angell on form

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.

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.

Clawing my way out of Hell

My lungs fill more deeply with some airborne knowledge of provision, that I am in a haven unaffected by cuts. When the ground opens in London sucking away the mulch, lucky people here will leave on a special ship.
In a lofty studio a keeper guides their brightness softly.

A young God recreates Dante’s ‘Inferno’, depicting me falling into fiery pits of hell. I hang off a ladder legs splayed, neck dangling simulating agony, it really hurts.

At the second circle for eternal lust, the strongest hurricane sweeps sinners endlessly; I reach out.

Swamp-bound I sulk  in anger; and at the 9th and ultimate Satanic hotbed I freeze in motion. Grateful to reach the end of this hellish phase, I rejoice, marveling at the imitation.