Published by Bull+Cross, Issue 23, February 2019 and reprinted in The Gathering, WWS Anthology, November 2021. (https://www.amazon.com/Gathering-Women-Who-Submit-Anthology/dp/173324154X)
We Are All Strangers
I love the first day of class each year. The oil paint and turpentine aromas become concentrated in August, when they close the building for the summer. I inhale its heady perfume as I click-clack across the painted wood floor in my mules, wearing my street clothes. Everything in the drawing studio at the art college is freshly painted white or pale gray for classes resuming in September, except the wooden easels. The morning light streams in the southeast-facing, floor-to-ceiling windows at an angle that diffuses some of the harshness. I’ll observe it travel across the length of the studio and disappear during the four-hour class. Usually, no one takes notice of me until I open the small door leading to my cubical and close it behind me. They’re all scoping each other out like a mob of meerkats on the savanna.
I’ve been modeling for Donahue’s drawing class and painting workshops at the art school on and off for more than twenty-five years, so I’ve worked out a little routine I follow every time. To begin with, I wear very loose clothing especially undergarments to avoid any pressure lines on my legs, back, or ankles. They’re very distracting when someone is drawing the figure. As I’ve aged, I realize this is very important. And I arrive at least fifteen minutes before class to allow myself time to disrobe and read a few pages of my current book before I pose. I need something to think about while I’m up on the stand.
It’s sort of a funny story how I got into modeling back in the seventies. My gorgeous older sister was asked to pose for a sculpture class. The post-war students were complaining about the plaster casts they’d been using to learn to draw the human form for a hundred years. The GI Bill guys wanted real, breathing flesh. They earned it, right? She did it for the cash money it paid and the flexible hours. And because of her husband who’d returned from Viet Nam suffering from stuff he couldn’t control, except her. He monitored her like she was a fugitive in witness protection, refused to let her work or give her any money of her own. They had no kids and she was bored silly hanging around their one-bedroom apartment dusting the same lamp every day. Modeling was quick money and hers alone. Anyway, she fell in love with the instructor, divorced her husband and they moved to Paris. I needed a second job, so I took over for her, but no one’s asked me to go anywhere yet.
Suzanne C Martinez 