The Model
I am an artist's model. Specifically, I am Steve's model, and have been for over ten years. His house is full of bronzes I have posed for. I have spent hours with him in the tall stone studio, standing, sitting, crouching, reclining on cushions made from scraps of oriental rugs. The studio, cool in summer, warmed in winter by a huge stone woodstove and a small space heater, is as familiar to me as my own bedroom. I have memorized patterns in the rugs hanging on the walls - flowers, swastikas, insects, crabs. I have watched the ivy grow and recede in one high corner, trapped inside when Steve built the studio addition onto the house. For a long time, the clay ghost of an over life-sized bronze stood staring gently by the door - part of the arms missing, the toes crumbling. I posed for that one for two years. The seven-foot bronze now stands in Steve's back yard, watching grass grow silently, with a wondering expression.
When I arrive, we go right to work. I say "we," but of course, I just sit there. In fact, for the past several years we have worked in reclining poses -- "sleeping poses," we call them. Some curled tightly like cats, some sprawling, some looking like figures falling through space. Thanks to the cushions, I sometimes fall sound asleep in poses that end up as dramatic figure compositions. The choice of pose happens by chance. When it's time to start a new piece, I shift around this way and that, turning, twisting, arranging my limbs gracefully, as far as I can tell, while Steve paces around the model stand saying, "..hmmm….y-ess….ok…maybe…well, we can try it…" Or, after ten minutes of this with no luck, I might fling myself across the model stand in mock despair at ever finding a pose, and he will say, "Hey, wait. That's nice." I settle in, and he goes to work.
I both observe and participate in this artistic process. Steve works quickly and confidently. I watch him work and I maintain the pose, taking breaks when needed, or just stretching periodically. My body is an anatomy lesson, a display of physics, from which Steve takes notes to use in developing his own ideas. These are not portraits. You will not find my face on these figures, nor will you always see the exact proportions of my body, but from this freedom of interpretation emerges the beauty and power of Steve's work. What makes one piece more magical than another can be a mystery. Recently I posed lying on my right side, with legs extended in a long line, my torso propped up on the cushions and on my right arm. The piece was looking fine, but when Steve held it next to a gorgeous wax from several weeks ago, now ready for casting, we both saw that the current pose left something to be desired. After shifting my legs about for a few minutes, I hit on something that worked for him. The change seemed slight - just crooking the bottom knee slightly and bringing the leg forward a bit, while bending the other back a bit - but when he altered the the wax to reflect the change, the piece became lovelier and more compelling.
The artist/model relationship is often highly romanticized; in our case it is simple. He works, I pose, we talk. We have talked about nearly everything - my boyfriends, his marriage, movie critiques, business ventures, children, music, food, art. By now we preface many a tale with, "Haven't I told you this story before?" We are as familiar with each other's lives as family, but comfortably removed in that neutral space, the studio. We listen to music ranging from Mozart, Bach, Ellington or Elvis, to an entire record of variations on the "Louie Louie" song. After two hours we take an extended break for tea and treats, usually thrown together in the kitchen by Steve and presented with a flourish - crepes, cake, beignets, or the simplest and most exquisite of them all: saltine crackers with cream cheese and raspberry jam.
I have modeled for artists who didn't say a word the entire session, and students who could not look me in the eye in the hallway. Several years of modeling only for Steve and his wife, however, have spoiled me dreadfully. Snacks, music, conversation sometimes amounting to therapy - isn't this all part of making art? Towards the end of the day, Steve and I can get punchy. We crack jokes, tease each other, and carry on in a fashion wholly unsuited, I am sure, to serious art-making. The piece mentioned above, however, after two hours of hilarity, had really begun to take shape. Steve said, still laughing, "I don't really know how I did it, but I got a lot of work done today." The sculpture is beautiful - long-limbed, elegant, sensual, relaxed. I say, "That one is really nice," and he says "You say that every time, Lea."
Lea Marshall