The Life Model
Setting eyes on him turned me into someone I no longer recognize, a moment that will live in my memory the rest of my life. One early spring day, during my sophomore year, second semester in art class. That’s when it happened.
Last fall the first semester began with still life studies. From there, we moved on to impressionism, and finally landscapes, which included a few field trips out into the country. This semester began with the human body. The first few weeks we studied form and function, doing sketches from photographs and other works of art, learning about muscle structure and perspective in relation to different poses: sitting, standing, reclining, viewed from both front and behind. Not as easy as it sounds, especially the hands. Hands are difficult, even for guys like Michelangelo. Look at the statue of David; his hands are too large.
Today, the day we had anticipated, the day some of the girls had giggled about, we’re using a life model to draw the human form.
I arrive early, set up my easel near the windows, watch my fellow students file in and take their positions; young men and women, like myself, aspiring artist, most of us fully engaged in the study of art. The studio, a large room filled with sunlight from the wall of windows, feels warmer than usual. I learn later Mr. Reynolds had turned up the thermostat a few degrees so the model wouldn’t feel chilled.
After a brief preliminary lecture, Mr. Reynolds opens the door to an adjoining room and nods to someone inside. My anticipation heightens. I’m somewhat intimidated by recreating the image of a real person in charcoal on manila paper. The model steps into the room, draped in a knee-length robe, and takes a position on the platform centered in the room; a male, perhaps a couple years older than me, tall and lean, casually mysterious, quite composed as he lets the robe fall to the floor. I had expected a female.
