Sunday, May 15, 2011

**Naked Overshare Alert**

I happened across a local artist's website today and perused all of his beautiful life drawings. I poked around on his blog as well, reminding myself again of my complete and utter lack of artistic sense. I have tried to explain this lacking to the artist briefly (we frequent the same coffee place), but I don't think he really has the concept of how lost I am at art and all that encompasses. Fail. 

I'll keep trying.

Reading a blog post about the actions of the nudes he depicts caused my conscience to tap me on the shoulder again and whisper about the nude artist modeling thing. 

I know, Me...I remember...
I said I know! 

If I had or believed in a "bucket list" (hate the phrase, hated the movie, hate the concept. I prefer to call my desires "a layer"), being a nude artists model would be on it. 

I said it. 
Out loud. 

I am not *proud* of the look of my body, although I am proud of the things it has accomplished, namely creating two lives that are watching a baseball game at this moment. A woman's body is a marvelous tool, and the creation of a child is the only true magic I actually believe in. 

I let about 10 people participate in the moments immediately AFTER the birth of my children, where nursing was happening. It was chaotic and joyful and apparently i did not feel a bit concerned about being topless around a lot of folks with a baby feeding furiously from me. (The Baboos think i must have lost my mind in the photos, and keep saying "why are you smiling when you have no shirt on?). 

So, I should give my bod a break on not being Victoria's Secret perfect, right?

But no, I do not like my body in a swimsuit. Living in the Rockies lends to wool socks over spaghetti strap dresses, so the idea of bare shoulders always feels a little naked to me when summer first arrives. I almost always wear a bra, as proper ladies do. 

I'm stifled, with regard to nakedness.

I have skinny dipped, mostly alone except for those fisherman who showed up (and possibly Special Agent's boss in Montana). I didn't intend for anyone to see me, but I also wasn't shy about disrobing in the public areas. I looked around first, but...

So, what is the obsession with the nude modeling? 

I think my discomfort with being nude is part of the obsession. I don't want to BE uncomfortable, but I suppose there is a part of me that thinks that a week or two of artist modeling in the buff would strip away my idiotic fear of being nude, or being judged by others about being nude. 

The artists drawings in the link within this post are beautiful and haunting. The women are of varying ages, weight and beauty. Yet, they are all beautiful drawings. Perhaps I think I could see myself in the same lovely light if I took the leap and let go of my wool socks inhibition. 

Chris Amend

This is the point in which I wished I lived somewhere much larger, and I have even mused that I should do the artist's model work in a town I don't live in (wimp.). G-town is a very small community, and there is no way I won't run into artists who have sketched my pubic area in the coffee line, or standing in the produce section of my local grocery store. 

I also fear that some of the artists (like Chris Amend), who do these life drawings are professionals and at some point may have a beautifully drawn, yet unflattering and large sketch of me up at a public venue. Where the Mayor will be standing, giving a speech about the importance of art, with my sort of oddly displayed nude form in the background.
Deep breaths. 

Still, the thought quietly nags at me, and has since I read a book several years ago where the main character was a nude model. The nude modeling wasn't the story, but lent to the depth of the character and the work was intriguing. Since then, I have had the thought stuck in my mind that nude modeling (for artists, ahem) is something I need to do. 
In my life. 
At least once. 

Chris Amend
I want to tell the artist this, and I also want to march down to the Art Center and sign up. They have placed ads for models in the past and such. 

But I haven't. 

And maybe I won't. 
Or, maybe I will. 

My wool socks and I are still hiding in the bathroom, trying not to throw up at the thought of disrobing.