I can sense the intake of breath from most of the students, rather than hear it. Some try to act uninterested and sophisticated, but I know it’s a shock for them, a breathing naked person not a video or a centerfold in a magazine. These are seventeen and eighteen-year old art students who’ve seen hundreds of paintings or sculptures of nudes in museums and in books, but facing a live naked body is a jolt. Most of their eyes travel none too subtly from my head to my pubic area to determine if I’m a natural redhead. I am. I don’t have a clue why they all find this information so fascinating, but I’ve never modeled for a class that didn’t check that fact first thing.
When I started posing nude, I figured I’d be embarrassed and feel exposed, but for some reason I didn’t. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, like I was being open and honest with everyone for once, nothing hidden or concealed, but I remain aloof from the kids. The secret is to never talk to the students. Never let them hear your voice.
“I think we’ll do a two-hour pose, Catherine, so find a position that’s comfortable for you,” says Donahue. “Turn a little more toward me and extend your left leg. You can rest your elbow on your knee and your chin on your hand. Is that ok?” I nod. “Perfect.”
He turns to the kid, Kevin.
“Can you take this chalk and mark on the stand where Catherine’s feet are placed? Indicate where her toes are and the sides of her feet. This’ll help her get into the same pose after her breaks.”
Kevin looks at Donahue like he’s just asked him to cut off his leg, but he does what he’s asked without breaking the chalk or looking at me. I’ve seen a few young men like him before, perfectionists, overly neat and careful of his appearance, totally uptight. Art school loosens up most of them. By senior year, he’ll sport a beard, wear his clothes wrinkled and have found his soul. I much prefer him to the tortured artist types. I see one sitting behind Kevin smirking. He’s wearing all the right clothes, using all the cool jargon, no doubt, but there’s nothing inside. He’s all angst and pretension.
Suzanne C Martinez 