The nude model. The mention of the name is titillating, bringing thoughts of great artists who are inspired to new heights by their muses who are willing to give anything to the artists. Whenever someone hears about nude models, they think sex and erotica.
The truth is that nude modeling is grueling, mind-numbingly boring and many times excruciating. There is no glamour.
But, if you stay in the game long enough, you'll find a little of that sex and erotica.
My journey as a figure model began the Summer I was 14. I was visiting my mother's family for the summer, staying with my grandmother. My mom's sisters and brother lived with my grandmother. My Mom was significantly older than her siblings. Her brother, Jimmy, was just out of the service. Her sisters were 17, 16, and 15.
Actually, my Uncle and Aunts were mom's half-brother and sisters. They all had the same mother, my grandma, but my mom's father was not the same man as my Aunts and Uncle. And my mom was more than 10 years older than her next oldest sibling, Uncle Jimmy.
Even though they were only half-siblings, they all looked the same - rail thin, long straight dishwater blonde hair.
Uncle Jimmy looked like a typical stoner from the mid-seventies, even though now it was the mid-eighties. He was about my mom's height, which made her a relatively tall woman and him a short man. His straight, greasy long hair and shaggy beard made him look like a Jesus freak.
Oh, and one other thing. None of the four of them wore shoes, ever. I've seen all four of them running barefoot down the gravel road in front of their house. There was no way I could do that. They thought my wearing shoes was weird.
Jimmy was staying with his mother while he got himself together. I didn't know it then, but Uncle Jimmy was a pretty serious drug addict. He'd been dishonorably discharged. He worked construction now and told my grandma he was trying to save some money so he could get his own place. The truth was that he had no intention of moving out of my grandmother's house, and he didn't save any money because everything he had went to buy drugs. Everyone knew this, everyone except my grandma. I also think he might have sold drugs on the side, though I never saw him do that.
The sisters, of course were in high school, out for the summer.
There wasn't much to do at my grandmother's house. She lived out in the country and didn't have a car, so watching television was basically it. My grandmother worked all day and the sisters spent the entire day arguing. They were all professional level screamers.
Grandma's house, basically a shack, had 3 bedrooms. My grandma had a room, the screamers had a room, and Uncle Jimmy had a room. I slept on the couch in Uncle Jimmy's room. I am sure Jmmy had found the couch on the road in a ditch somewhere and dragged it home.
That summer was the first time I ever smelled pot. My mom and dad were real straight arrows, and they never got any more exotic than a Bloody Mary with Budweiser replacing the vodka, a combination I find more unusual now than I did then. I never smoked, but I basically got high every night from breathing the fumes from that couch.
On rainy days, Jimmy couldn't work his construction job, so he and I spent those days watching game shows and soaps in the living room, trying to tune out the girls' screaming.
"You know, Mickey, you'd make a great model." He had been sitting there with his eyes closed. I thought he was asleep. He'd hit his bong hard after breakfast, so I just figured he was out of it.
I was basically asleep on the couch, "Huh?"
"A figure model for life drawing, for artists." Jimmy leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and folded his hands in front of him. "You can tell you lift weights."
He was right, I had been lifting weights in our basement for the past six months, just like every other teenage boy does. In truth, I was more skinny than muscular. I did not have much in the way of developed muscles, but I was very lean. That made me look much more muscular than I actually was.
"What would I have to do Uncle Jimmy?" Jimmy noticing my muscularity was an ego boost.
"All you hafta do is be still. The artists do all the work."
"How do I get started? Does it pay?" This was sounding more interesting; all teenage boys are basically lazy.
"You can pose for art classes or for individual artists. Pay's pretty good." Uncle Jimmy was always straight with me, but his assurances about the pay weren't exactly true. "Oh yeah, and you have to take your clothes off."
"Why do I have to take my clothes off?" Honestly, that didn't really bother me, but I figured I should pretend to be a little hesitant. I didn't want him to think I was too enthusiastic.
"'Cause the artists want to draw your muscles, Mick, see the way the light changes, the shadows. Can't see that with your clothes on. If you're gonna leave your clothes on, might as well draw a mannequin."
I knew I was an exhibitionist, even then. But Uncle Jimmy didn't. I'd only met Uncle Jimmy a coupla times, and this summer was the first time we had spent any significant time together at all. I have often wondered about this and why he had mentioned figure modeling to me out of the blue. How did he know I'd be interested?
It was also kind of ironic, given the feelings I would develop for male artists (which you will read about soon) that my Uncle Jimmy, a male artist, would be the one to get me started in figure modeling.
"You're an artist, aren'tcha Uncle Jimmy?" Jimmy had started the conversation, now it felt I was the one pursuing.
"Yeah, I took some art classes in high school, but that's been years ago ...." I couldn't figure out why Jimmy was being so obtuse now. He was the one who had mentioned drawing to me.
"Grandma has your drawings and paintings all over the walls. You were really into it." I was trying to pump Jimmy up, to boost his ego like he'd boosted mine just a minute ago.
"Yeah, I guess I was, wasn't I?" Jimmy sat there for a minute, and I could see he was thinking about his glory days in high school, when he thought he was going to be a famous artist.
"So can I pose for you?" I hoped that didn't sound as desperate coming out of my mouth as it had sounded in my head.
"No way. Your Mom'd skin me alive." I already knew that Jimmy was much more scared of my Mom (and my Dad) than he was of his mom (my grandma).
"I won't tell her. Besides, she'd be just as mad at me as she was at you. Why would I tell her? What she don't know won't hurt her." I knew that would appeal to Uncle Jimmy's natural sense of rebelliousness, and I was right.