Long Poses & False Promises
Episode 01:23:2023 - Prompt: Confidence
Where confidence took me…
In the late-90s, landing a coveted bar or restaurant job in downtown Manhattan where I lived was improbable. I had no New York references, and my shaved head and piercings were yet to be in vogue. My English language skills were also in question after speaking broken German in a Berlin squat for 2.4 years.
At twenty-five, I was unemployable.
I don’t remember who introduced me to the agent, but the artist’s modeling gig was mine if I was comfortable taking off my clothes. No resumé required.
I was paid to lounge naked, still and quiet, like living furniture.
When I walked into The Art Students League, I was aware of the expectation. This wasn’t the high school for the arts where another model - a Studio 54 relic on rollerblades - asked me to ride him in front of the senior drawing class. This was The Art Students League, established in 1875. As a new model who also spent time on the other side of the sketch pad, I wanted to impress this group with a figure worthy of the masters.
The long pose is a promise.
Experienced artists value a model who presents a new challenge. Perfect features and classical beauty pale against the juxtaposition of a large ass and long torso, asymmetrical breasts and a round belly, crooked fingers, raised veins, the bony wings of a pelvis.
In a long pose your naked features remain still for extended periods of time, and after a few minutes break, you replicate the exact pose for continuity in the drawing. Once the pose is set, you cannot move - that's the deal.
Confident in my yoga body and with my upbringing in art schools, I chose to stand weight-bearing on one foot with my other pressing into a block for stability. I draped my right arm along my jutting hip while my left arm was arched over my head. Ideal for still photography or a flash pose, maybe to chisel out of marble with each limb broken down into multiple sessions, but not the Saturday long pose at The Art Students League.
As the artists went deeper into their work, materials on display, hands covered in graphite, I knew I was trapped. I looked at the clock, my breath shallow. My left hip cramped. My calf rock solid. I’m sure I wanted to cry out, but I didn’t.
I made it through the 3-hour session and spent the $30 I earned on a massage. Of course they requested me again and again, but I couldn’t repeat the performance.
Why did I suffer, not even for my own art, but for the art of others? Why did I want to be the best at something that didn’t require such a grand effort of me?
When did my confidence become a liability?
YOUR TURN: Using CONFIDENCE as a springboard, write about a situation where your confidence didn’t serve you. Don’t worry about being a “good writer”. Just get that sucker out in 150 words (basically the section above where I tell you about what is required of modeling for artists).
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Happy writing!
I got hooked on the action. The illusion of confidence. Las Vegas is a city built on the overconfident and their losses. I helped. The irony of losing the biggest bet of my life was that I wagered against the team my grandfather had laced up his 1924 sneakers to play for. Betting against family history. Basketball is the bouncing heart of the state of Indiana. Especially on the campus of the Indiana Hoosiers.
So there I was at the counter of the Bellagio sportsbook sliding four grand in cash over to the teller. “Gimme Oklahoma minus eight,” I said, certain that the Sooners would cover eight points as the favorite against the Indiana Hoosiers in the 2002 Final Four NCAA Basketball Tournament. From the jump ball on, the game was never close. Papa’s alma mater dominated the overconfident Sooners from start to finish. After that, I gave up on gambling.
Growing up, I was the neighborhood tree-climbing champ, which translated well at school to the monkey bars. Confidence, more like showing off. Of course, I got my comeuppance. One afternoon, I was zipping across the indoor monkey bars in the gym. Everyone watched, and one of my fourth-grade classmates said, "She never falls off." Even the gym instructor had moved away, so sure I wouldn't need spotting. But then sweat like baby oil covered my hands, which slid on the painted bars. I boosted up, hoping to re-firm my grip, and fell half on the mat and half off. My left elbow cracked against the gym floor. The liability: eight weeks in a cast. The cost: my pride.