Artists Posing As Models

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Artists always think about models and imagine the ways that they can pose, but, artists never imagine themselves posing for art.  The beauty is always on the outside, radiating outward form the life of the model as they stand in perfect placement, showing what pride, or rush, or attitude is.  And, as an artist, I imagine the light shining on these beautiful models, illuminating their strength.  I imagine them, dressed, to show the place, the time, the meaning of just standing.  I imagine them, unclothed, lying on a surface, reclining on cushions, or standing with a purpose in full nudity.  This is how artists work.  But, to ask the artist themselves to do what it is the imagination says is the way to do it, then, they become shy, and hesitate, and try to think of all the ways that this request does not make sense.  It truly is not a proposition that actually, truthfully, works.

Artists spend much more time seeing and working than in bathing in the beauty of lighting.  So, I was surprised by a request from a fellow artist to pose for one of his pieces.  True, he did ask it of me in good faith, as it was to be a silhouette shot and my actual bod would be as of a shadow.  Light coming full force from behind like this, is usually flattering on the body, even if it is rotund rather than lithe and lean and long.  So, if you have guessed already, yes, I did agree to do it.

So, now, the picture of me , posing as someone in full ecstasy at the sight in front of her, while she holds a camera, is something that exists.  I did not get a good look at the final product….  But I trust my artist friend will do a good job of making it representable.  I thank him, as we all have pride that easily bruises.

I spend a lot more of my time looking at how things are.  I wonder if the colour, or if the shape, or the height of a thing….  Perhaps if even the race of a human being, all make sense.  I wonder if there is meaning to be captured in skin colour, in hair colour, in costume, or even occupation.  I am comfortable here.  Mostly, like everyone else, I am never sure that I see the truth of it all, but I am curious enough to always ask the question, and to be daring enough to find the answer, with words….  Or with sight….  Or with models who can pose the meaning int the truth of their physical pose.

Right now, it might  as well be a doctoral thesis, but I am searching through paintings, and repainting the traditional European view and stance of the beautiful woman.  The idea of the strength  of a man, and even the crises of war, rape, and death.  Sometimes, I can do it….  I can accurately recreate another view, and sometimes, I have a cartoonish outscome to something that needs grandiosity rather than humour.  Overall, the work is slow, and at often times gratifying.  Mostly I consider this work, rather quite rightly described as “experimental.”  It never truly is ever all completely satisfying.

So, to my artist friend who took a picture of me, thank you….  You posed a very accurate question  in asking if I would pose.  Yes, in my mind, when I think, I would ask a model to do the same pose….  To capture what it is an artist looks like when they are in ecstasy looking at something beautiful.  Whether I am a model…  Well, let’s just say, in my own mind, yes, as my thoughts are the model of meaning for all my work.

Secret World of Educational Societies

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“I want to see you pull yourself out of that bag!”  When my friend said this, I wanted to punch him as hard as I could in his upper right arm.  We had started the evening, close to dinner, and we had got off transit and were now walking towards Hart House.  It was an exciting evening for me, and I was imagining what it was going to be, being impressed by what it all was.

I had been carrying a big bag…  Big enough for my friends to continually call it “Elissa‘s Suitcase,” …for close to a year at that time.  I was also always digging in it to find all the little things that get lost in big bags–keys, lipstick, hand creme, mirrors, day timers, and the odd Novel that I happened to be studying.  There were also essentials that came and went, like umbrellas, extra totes, phone, transit tokens, and concert tickets.

On this particular night, we were going to “hang out” at the Hart House Graduate’s Lounge. A Jazz Band affiliated with the University’s Music Program were performing.  Friends of friends, and our friends, heard of the concert and we were all invited to go and sample the quality of the music.  Anything that is good and new, and that would make a student look smarter or richer always got my attention.  And, often, my financial support as well. So, with this mood and atmosphere, we were walking through the late spring evening chill, the night sky reaching into twilight.

When we get to the stone steps leading into the Victorian era stone building, kept warm by radiators and fireplaces, when the windows that swing open are shut, and we get into the line-up that has formed from the inside and is beginning to spill onto the stone steps.  Everyone in the line-up are our age….  Young adults….  Who have a certain type of sophistication.  That, that says, French beret on head of long hair, in leather and pants, and dark glasses (only glasses, if we don’t own those shades), even if, in North America, it is closer to being in a long shirt over leggings with hobo bag matching that cute leather jacket.  So, we fit in.  And we were excited.

The tickets to the concert were considered cheap….  Any concert any student could get into could cost over a hundred dollars…  buying not only an evening with the band, but an evening with proper acoustics, access to alcohol, and the chance to be milling with large groups of people who think like you.  So, we were thinking that having everything we could want, and paying less than fifty dollars for it was a true, “Score!”  We loved it, even before it had started!

We were excited!  We were not in line for very long.  We stood and move by inches for about five or ten minutes.  And, having our tickets checked by the ushers, we followed the sound and scent of people towards the lounge.  Once inside, there were bar stools, regular tables, and room for standers.  The lounge felt different than a regular bar because we were surrounded by wood, a heightened ceiling, and stone at intervals as well as at the fireplace. There were painted portraits of past deans and presidents.  And, I would’ve swore, the scent, alternating, of weed and vanilla cigarillos!

We preferred to sit on the bar stools, at tall, round bar tables.  It was difficult to spot, but the bar was against the wall  where we came in through the door.  My friend suggested he get us both each a beer, and I agreed.  I started rummaging in my big bag, and my friend, yet again, said in his sarcastic, derogatory tone…  “I want to see you get yourself out of that bag!”

“Oh…  You be quiet…!  And go and do your job!  It’s one beer for you and one beer for me!”  as I told him loudly, my bag fell, upside down, spilling everything of mine inside the bag on the sticky wooden slat floor.  It was my world with its secrets revealed  My things of importance, my things of worth, and all of it was getting dirty and getting dirty stares in a public drinking house.

I felt as if some random stranger had reached up my skirt and felt me up.  I felt dirty, and the situation disgusted me.  But my friend was nice.  He immediately came to his knees and began to help me pick up everything and put it back inside the bag.  As he stood up with the filled bag in hand, he said to me, “You have the best bag!  Love it!”

I wanted to say something derogatory to him…  But I didn’t.  He should know how to treat a girl who is his friend.  Betrayal is not a way to treat someone.

The rest of the evening was not bad at all.  We stayed the night and my friend was nice.  We still liked each other, and that was important….  I did not regret anything that happened.  The warmth and safety of where we were and who we were is what has kept this memory for me.  I think we will forever always be friends!  Whether or not I still have my big bag!

Thoughts I Have At 8:02PM and On

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Tree branches crawl through the air, climbing higher and higher and during a spring day, the leaves appear.

Next:

The best thing about today are the shadows left by the sun.  In the dusk, things are warm and cool, holding on, and offering an end.

At 8:12pm, my mind goes and wanders:

I fly backwards, trying hard to hold on to my hands, and they flail, grasping nothing.

Because it is dinner:

Corn bread and mashed potatoes, both baked in the open fire oven, are smokey, and can take some wine with the gravy.

 

Since it is Friday, the way work is, we are all a little short.  The last five minutes are a count down, with our minds wandering to things that don’t happen at work.  We try to occupy so that what we are doing does not put us out of time.  In any case, nothing important is ever done during the last five minutes…  At least it is me, and I leave it all at the office, and go home with no unfinished business.

I am allowed to use words on the weekend that I don’t use doing the cubicle work in the tall office building.  I can see across many shorter constructions as well as the wall that is created by the taller ones.  Surprisingly, the sun is able to find its way into my window and shine on the desk and the plant that has stayed alive because of it.  A little green in the tan-beige of the three walls that surround me, camouflage with the carpet, and walking around the floor, I am lost unless I memorize the turns and count the cubicles.

I am glad that it is so uncomfortable.  It gives me the chance to leave without guilt.  So, I am a slave of exceptional quality, and am paid a slave’s wages, which makes any weighting unnecessary, as the company and I are completely Even Steven.

But, to be fair, I am in a decent position.  I have not been cheated out of anything….  Quite contrary, I feel as if I am being overpaid for what is expected of me.  This, unfortunately, as you may have guessed, is not the perfect situation.  It leaves me under-stimulated, and I find I must find other ways to do the things I am good at.

So, now, as I type and think about now and the past, that happened and led to this moment of revelation, I think that I will have many things to explore and write about.  I will finish today’s short piece of writing with a thought:  Why do donuts and bagels have nothing in the middle?  Even now, I can’t even justify myself for eating them (They are soooo delicious!)  as a second helping!  Just because there is a hole in the middle does not make them less fattening.  I am often in trouble, as, now, in middle age, I find myself gaining everything that I eat in a wide way.

So, until the next moment….  Till next time!

Startled By The Startling

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It has happened several times already, to me, and twice just in the beginning of this year till now.  When I ride the subway, I am enclosed in a tube that travels fast in a darkened tunnel.  The noise is a din, and sometimes, the subway car will shake and rattle….  And thankfully, it has not yet rolled.

During the ride, I will sometimes turn my head to look out the window.  And, on occasion, I have seen full-grown, rotund in girth, men….  Standing inside the tunnel, inches from being brushed hard and forcefully by the subway car.  They are often in helmets and reflective vests, as well as their construction pants.  It is a startle each and every single time.

I have been reflecting on this phenomenon, and it leads me to ponder the ideas that men have about “Design.”

There is a museum in Toronto, the Museum of Contemporary Design, called the Design Exchange, that I visited around the time I first happened to spot one of the many men of the TTC standing in the tunnels….  Almost  as if I was only going to get my questions about the oddity of men’s behavior answered.

Just thinking about fifty-year-old engineers gleefully measuring out the inches in a tunnel is a funny thought.  It makes me chuckle a little, but also, to turn my “fun hat” around and think more seriously about “design.”  Building buildings and tunnels and bridges takes a lot of money.  The type of money that governments of the world hold and spend.  So, would there actually be a fifty-year-old engineer, gleefully mapping out the construction of a subway and the tunnels, just thinking in passing, of creating enough space for utility and safety…  Or…., would this engineer be without care, spending enormous amounts of money just to have some fun?

So, being unable to justify spending millions on a few extra inches, I went to the only place that was open to the public that dealt with the study of design–The Design Exchange.

The day I decided to go to the museum, was a hot, sunny, August day.  I decided to wak there from the office I work in.  It was around time to leave the office and go home for dinner, and, surprisingly, since I did not do this very often, I noted that a lot of people choose to walk a few blocks rather than stand in the heat and eventually sweat in the sauna of a transit streetcar.  It took me twenty minutes to get there.  I got reprieve from the many tall office buildings.  It was almost as if tall and large buildings are built in the new world of summer heat just to be enough shade that interior city streets can be kept cool by the buildings’ enormous shadows.  The Design Exchange is just in the south end of the Business District, and is, itself, housed in a very tall building.  It is on Toronto’s Stock Exchange street, Bay Street, which is equivalent to New York’s Wall Street.

Inside the front lobby, which was spacious with a two storey ceiling, the materials for a display on printmaking, bookbinding, and eReaders was placed near the entranceway.  It felt welcoming as the objects looked familiar and this made me think that I wouldn’t have to read all the written material and feel completely lost to the meaning.

There were many examples of print, and a history of print font, starting from the Bible to Newspapers and Magazines, and even into the digital print font that we are all now surrounded by, more than anything that is printed on paper.  The display only dealt with the international language, English, rather than any other print font of another language.  But I am sure I understand the idea of the change in font throughout history.

Inside an alcove just behind the main display was a somewhat smaller, more artistic, display of books on shelves of different heights.  It was a mini-review of the design of the book cover over the decades as the printed word became more and more accessible and saleable.  Finally, the last part I looked at was a written piece about the utility of the eReader in comparison to the longevity of the printed book.  This essay, by a prominent editor, might be floating around the internet right now in one incarnation or another.

After this gold-mine, I still had the “Store” to visit.  It was another display of objects and art that involve design.  Practically everything was in it….  If not in object form, then in the form of a picture.  No mention of money was ever made in this mini-museum display, but my understanding is that advanced civilizations are very minutely designed in everything.  This is an area of work that is rewarding, probably both monetarily and socially.  Designing things that are useful, fun, surprising, pleasing, accommodating, and, that others can find and want, is a true career.  There is no end to the work that needs to be done, and therefore no end to the job.  There will always be money in Art and Desgin.  I am thinking back to the men in the tunnel.  I am sure they find the “neatness” of being able to continue their work even when trains keep running through, and past, them, one of the reprieves of their job.  It would probably take more than double the time to do what it is they do, if they could only work when there were no trains running by.

In life, making money and having lots of friends while doing it, is truly rewarding.  It is almost a requirement in the job description to make it happen successfully.  I think I am truly envious AND jealous of all designers.  In my next life, I will become what is becoming….  A practitioner of that which rules the world.

A Day At the Cottage

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I am thinking back to late last summer.  I am sure it was late August, and how I was driving, alone, in my car.  It was not an accident that I was alone …  And dangerously so, since the time was at the night when evidence is easily lost.  But I was not thinking of criminals accosting me just as the lucky innocent one.  I was lost in thought of the day I had spent just three hours north of Toronto at a lake-front cottage.  The fact that I was also dangerously close to the limit of blood alcohol allowed while operating a motor vehicle, did not occupy my mind or my thoughts.  I actually did not feel intoxicated.

Well, I am sure it had passed midnight.  Just before I got into my car to drive off, I could hear the crickets.  The lake gave off a warm breeze, and the smell of fresh water, as it carried a fleeting scent of wood ash from our open fire just on the shore.  We were lingering on the lawn, talking, refusing to let go of the perfect day that had miraculously been made to happen.  A lot of slow words, sudden laughs, smiles, and shifting weight, back and forth, as the group of us lingered.  We were tiring, but let the energy of sun, drink, food, and fire keep us going.

The radio was tuned to Public Radio….  The talk was long over with, and now, the music of musicians, daring and experimenting, and creating the sound, the phrasing, the pause, the surprise, of some of the jazz-like instruments used for finding musical pleasure….  Well, that was what was on the radio.  I wouldn’t know if the musicians were in fact intoxicated….  But it sounded like it.

As I remember, and mention again, I was alone in my car.  It was comfortable, having been heated by the sun all day long, the interior was now cooling in the cool wind blowing from the speed of the car on the highway.  I kept looking at the speedometer even though I kept an even pressure on the gas pedal.  It was accompanied by my gaze along the highway.  There were not, few cars, but there were in fact, quite a few cars out with me.  There were many, many trucks, out when there was less congestion.  These were the things that frightened me.  The size of the trucks, the sound of their working engines, and the fact that passing a truck felt like King Kong brushing up against me.

I was in this state, probably at three in the morning.  I did not have any pressing engagements the next morning….  And, being on vacation, I was looking forward to quiet and relaxation.  I thought I would catch up with reading, with music, with friends, and with a few new recipes that I could try in the space of a few hours.  I was thinking these thoughts, again.  The first time and the last time I had thought and reviewed my list of vacation activities was the week beforehand when I was in my office at work.  Then, I was full of hope and optimism at the coming time and I was congratulating myself on organizing myself so well so as to have everything I was planning, working out well.

I would be home in an hour.  And I was feeling relaxed, which, coincidentally, was allowing me to stay awake at this unusual hour.  As I got closer to the city, there were fewer cars on the road.  Since the highway is smoother and there is more space, I began to become brave, and stepped on the gas pedal a little deeper to rush home.  I was feeling the lateness and the more than almost twenty-four hours since I last slept.  I did note to myself that I could very well pay a speeding fine of half the cost of the food and drink spent during the day, but I also thought that I would like to be at home soon.  So, foot on gas pedal, radio on loud, and a racing heart accompanied me down the last stretch of highway towards home.

The day was great.  I loved being close to earth.  Thinking about it now, six months later, I will mortgage my home three times over, and, even, if all there is left on that lake is a piece of rock, I will buy that piece of rock, and build my cottage on it!

Surprise Dinner Party

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I am surprised by guests arriving for dinner. I thought before the bell rang, that I would make something microwave safe. But the bell rang, and I smiled my surprise. I generally hate anything not scheduled as it seems there is no preparation for the work involved. Again, another surprise with these surprise guests! They brought take-out from the pizzeria.

I wonder about increasing my cholesterol level…. Is it possible to die from too much cholesterol? I often fail to understand what it is doctors are actually telling their patients. And I hesitate to change my diet without the educated and tested opinion of my professional doctor. I do not demean. In fact, I am sure doctors know the exact answer. I just fail to understand as I can’t figure out. I still regret not being able to get into medical school, and, I still pursue the habit of reading all labels including those on medication bottles. Alas! Surprise guests and the mysterious medical profession! Both are uncontrollable!

We eagerly take the pizza to the dining room. No one uses the dining room. It is the place where things that don’t belong have a space. Vases of delicate flowers and breakable containers and fruit that need to ripen, as well as the good cutlery and the good china, and the odd pictures that are framed and bought from an expensive gallery, all things that have a space in the dining room. There are all the things needed in a room and a dining room, but we don’t do more than walk past or walk through. The ripening fruit are fragrant, and remind each of us to get the daily dose of vitamins that don’t come in candies and donuts.

With all these guests meandering around the house, holding greasy pizza and cold soft drinks from the fridge, I am scattered. A greeting here, an apology there, an encouragement to guests to help themselves to anything in the fridge or pantry, and the reminder I keep telling myself to get the pot of coffee on as soon as I have a minute. I am glad that people come over, as often enough, I am alone in a big place that leaves me quiet time and peace to search my soul much too thoroughly. I am best friends with myself. It is a comfortable arrangement, but also, it is a dangerous game of trying to make a lot of things that are important to have a lot of meaning in my life. It is a lop-sided balance of happiness. I find I hesitate to share these precious things with other people, and I delve deeper into the deeper meanings that fulfill the life of acceptance and achievement.

The night carries on. People are soon screaming and laughing and the music — a jazz party — soon adds the ambiance as someone finds the radio. I have forgotten the list in my head of things I need to do to make my guests comfortable, and I am now hopping on my toes to the rhythm of bites of conversation. Everything is happy. I am carefree. And my guests do not want to leave. Saturday night means that everyone is allowed to forget the obligations of all respectable people. We will add an extra ten dollars to the babysitter’s payment when we get home, and we will even take the extra care of cleaning up our dog’s accident. It is worth these few things as people sharing pizza, pop, and the air of a little-used dining room, is precious and golden. Time does not wait for these moments or these days.

By the time the dinner party is over and the guests leave, we are all late. Like the guests, we also have to clean up the pizza boxes and take out the recycling. We have to throw away the coffee grounds and wash the wine glasses. I am tired, and I sigh in relief. Yet another surprise come and gone, and we are all alright.

I Am Remembering the Last Night

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The beauty of a silhouette.  Dark.  Moonlight.  The sudden splash of lake water.  An owl or a lark.  Swoop of wings close to my head.

Swing high. It is only the street lights.  Swing your legs harder!  Screaming laughter and I can’t make it any higher!

Beautiful Miranda.  A girl only.  Saved by Merlin, who held a triton.  Love will always fall in love.  It was the first Adam who walked on an island.  To declare it occupied.  And conquered.

Millions are a lot.  Cars drive by the bump.  Oblivious to the true meaning of electricity.  Orange cones and red stop signs held by gloved hands, hiding skin.

Who are you?  You stare as if I am naked.  It is icy and colder than you think.  Ice and water both break…….  There may be no end to the long wait.

I remember the look of love.  It is ice and smouldering masquera.  A cigar with attitude.  And an accent.  I follow it with a sense of vanilla.  This is the other room.

I am of Michaelangelo.  My bones are marble and my skin of ivory.  People will miss the target.  Mice and men will always be about the lost one left out.  It is more than a smell.  The candle wax is drying on my fingers.  It is warm.

The chance is sung in an all-about-all-people song.  We are led to follow this tantalizing hope.  A home smell of chocolate chip cookies.  Ready to crumble if touched.

Time is going by.  Time is mesmerizing.  Time is slow.  We will fail to notice the time.  I will be home by the time it is dark…….   Because when I am outside, the sun will tell the time.

Happiness is a smile.  Beauty is a circle.  Laughter is contagious.  The purple flag blows in the wind.  The fan is on.  Red.  Orange.  Green.  And Purple.  And Papa Smurf wore the red hat to match with his blue skin.

Today is late.  There are too many minutes.  The clock runs fast.  The staring is like an animal preying.  The song is beautiful.  Have a run on the Hawaiian beach.

I would like you.  The tallness dwarfs me.  Hold on to the rock.  Wind, Rain, and Waves cannot change this place.  We will stand forever.  Face of the music.

Train of tracks and fire, running on steam.  It is good to be dressed.  Keep the doors and windows open.  You may need to jump!  And watch out for guns.  I would want to be close to the engine.

The first street is truly shallow.  Fish beach themselves on the wet sand.  Waves bury the corpses with silt from the bottom of the ocean.  My feet follow and I cringe my toes into the shallow depth.

It doesn’t get salty until you reach the edges.  And then, go far.  The wind will desiccate your eyes and your mouth.  Don’t swallow!  And stand, dry bone, with sandy, brittle hair.

The male chest is smooth muscle.  Take it in black and white.  The grey picture reminds of young birthday parties where laughter and screams drown the fun with  happiness.  Sweet drinks that make me burp, and pizza and hot dogs fresh from open fires.

We wonder about the matter of time.  It must be doing something.  It can bend the universe of nothing so that the sun pulls the planets toward the centre.  The circling pull of gravity is from a black hole.  Nothingness bending to the call of time passing.

Is there a limit?  Can we get lost in space?  Or, is being inside the universe just the easiest existence?  I wonder if I will breathe faster, feel warmer, or see the love of God if I were to fly out there?

Do we see loneliness in the dark of space?  Or do  we see the scaffolding of God’s structure holding earth, the planets, and the moon, close to the centre of the sun?

Beauty is always remembered more beautiful when it is alone.  Quiet.  Sweet.  Standing.  Quiet. Full of hope, and dropping all stares for closed eyes and sighs.  Let us hum and intone the beauty and the moment.

I was there.  The fresh landscape with pine and log cabin.  Cracking of stepped-on-sticks.  Surrounded by woodland animals.  Majestic.  Clean.  Bloodless.  Free from rodents.  and litter.

This is the last night I was somewhere.  The drive took one day.  We were never there before, and have not been there again.  The beautiful smell.  The easy sight.