Nude and human: Being a life model
I know some people’s parents walk comfortably around the house with no clothes on — but that was not our house growing up. Mum had a habit of yelling ‘nobody look!’ if she needed to get changed within view. Ironically when someone yells ‘nobody look!’ your instinct is to see what they’re yelling about, but we learnt pretty quickly to look the other way. Unfortunately, some of our friends didn’t know what was going on and copped an eye-full.
So by teenage-hood my impressions of naked bodies had been minor aberrations — a brother streaking from the bathroom to get a forgotten towel, a wardrobe malfunction revealing a glimpse of nipple or pubic hair, a brief view of an elderly lady dressing in the pool changing rooms. In high school I’d sometimes drink too much cheap wine with a couple of girl friends and we’d think it was funny to have a shower together in our undies. But comfortable, non-sexual, full nudity was not something that seemed to be part of normal life. Until I did my first life-drawing class.
My mum was an amateur artist and I’d spent plenty of time in galleries and leafing through art books — showing paintings, drawings and sculptures of nudes. We’ve all seen pictures of Michelangelo’s David and Brett Whitely’s Self portrait in the studio. Nudity in art is a long-standing and accepted tradition. But at this stage I hadn’t really grasped the difference between ‘nude’ and ‘naked’.
So, 17 years old, having never gazed at a naked body, I walked into my first life drawing session. It was part of my year 12 art class, and I’m sure most of the teenagers in the room were feeling as awkward as I was — but we were trying to be mature art-types and become comfortable outside our comfort zones. The model was a young woman, she changed privately and entered the room in a robe. We prepared our easels and drawing materials. She removed her robe and took her first pose — something dynamic for a short time to free up our arms and creativity, to get us into the flow.
To do life drawing you have to get past the labels and judgments of nakedness (sexuality, bodily functions, cultural standards of attractiveness) and just SEE. The lines and forms. The curves and shadows. The smallness of an earlobe, the expanse of a back. And reaching that point is eye-opening. Suddenly the human body has the same beauty as intricate shell or an ancient tree. You shed all the judgments and see bodies in a totally new light.
In its small way, this was probably a life changing moment (thank you, year 12 art teacher). As a teenage girl I discovered my body could be something other than a vessel for sexuality and there was another standard of beauty by which I could judge it. Rather than ‘does it look like a swimsuit model’s’ and ‘will men find it sexually attractive’, I could ask ‘does it have beautiful lines’, ‘does emotion and personality show in my posture and movements’.
We did several life drawing classes that year, and I did more at uni and after I graduated. My favourite model was a middle aged man. His body was typical of a middle-aged man - he was not any cultural ideal of attractiveness. But he’d find poses that were so inspiring to draw. I remember being so enamoured with the charcoal line creating the form of the bottom of his foot that I insisted it go into my final folio (the tutor protested, but I got a High Distinction, so ha!). I always felt such intense gratitude for the model after the classes. They offered themselves to us. It was a gift. Later I found out what that gift costs to give.
Fast forward a few years. I’m newly graduated, in a new city, trying to find work. It was harder than I expected. Dozens of interviews later, I needed to think of a Plan B. Somehow I came across the Life Model’s Society, and thought — that pays alright!
To become part of the Life Model’s Society you need to attend a training session. If you’re thinking ‘that sounds weird’ — yes, yes it is. There’s about 20 would-be models in a large room with perhaps 5 artists and a modelling teacher. Our teacher had been doing it for decades and disrobed without a second thought. He showed us some poses, talked us through what made an interesting pose vs a boring one. He talked about the difficulties of staying still for extended periods of time (it’s very, VERY hard!) and how to make it more comfortable. He talked about periods and erections. He talked about what we can and can’t be asked to do. How to maintain dignity and safety.
Usually a life model will always undress privately, but given the numbers and the space, we all just moved to edges of the large room and tried to undress as discreetly as possible. When we turned back around, we saw each other’s nakedness. Young and old, men and women, large and small, all standing there. It probably gets a 10/10 on the discomfort scale. But it was also refreshing to see what a ‘normal’ body looks like. And how much variety there is in the human form. Not everyone is 18, tall, muscular and slim. What a surprise, right?
We took turns being drawn by the artists and receiving feedback. We did our best to keep still for 20 mins at a time. Tea was served (we were wearing robes when we drank tea — we’re not monsters). It was exhausting and exhilarating. By the end of the 2 hours we had enough experience to be a professional life model. We were added to the register.
When I told my mum I was doing some life modelling she was mildly surprised and curious. Once I’d explained how it was all quite professional and the artists were very respectful, she didn’t have any issues with it. My brother was outraged though. He’d never been to a life drawing class and didn’t understand. He probably thought I was selling my body to perverts.
Were there any perverts in the classes? Maybe. But if so, they kept their pervertedness to themselves. I never felt uncomfortable (beyond the discomfort of being naked in front of a room full of fully dressed strangers who are staring at you, of course). The model always has the right to wander around (robed) in break times and critique the artworks. They all seemed like genuine artists trying to develop their skills , trying to capture my form and essence.
I was proud of them. And I was proud of myself — for providing them the opportunity, and for overcoming my fear and discomfort. It made me much more comfortable in my own skin.
If you’ve never been to a life drawing class, I highly recommend it. Leave all your bodily judgments at the door and go see how beautiful humans are.
If you’ve enjoyed reading this, check out more of my (free) Medium articles here: A little bit about me and my writing.
