Naked truth: what a Norse Goddess art model taught me about bravery
What happens when a life drawing class becomes a test of courage and self-acceptance? Join as I sketch a stunning model—and battle my own perfectionism and fear along the way. Hit the ❤️ too!
How does my Russian master/teacher find people willing to pose stark naked in front of us students for hours, being objectified?
I mentally composed his ad on Craigslist as I made my initial assessment of our newest model on the dais at life drawing class: “Seeking physically beautiful models for hours of naked boredom being drawn by students. Must be comfortable with being talked about as if you aren’t there. A laser pointer will be randomly aimed at your private parts while dimensions are discussed. Nominal fee.”
The brave soul who showed up for our weekly torture session had skin the exact shade of Werther’s Chewy Caramels, and she was named after a Norse goddess. Her breasts looked like scoops of vanilla ice cream with hazelnuts on top. Her legs were so long we all had to keep revising our pictures to fit them in. Though this was her first time artist modeling, she tried to be perfectly still, hardly breathing, her whole being seeming to vibrate with an earnest intent to get it this right.
When I greeted her at the beginning of class, she'd told me that she'd recently come back to the USA from Africa, where she'd been stared at so much as the only white person that she developed a phobia of being out in public, of being noticed.
"I'm here to get over my fear of being looked at," she told me. “Desensitization. My therapist told me that this would help.”
“‘Flooding,’ they’d call it, not desensitization,” I said, happy to know something for once, since I’m a therapist too. “Desensitization is gradual exposure. Flooding is an extreme immersion in the feared situation—and yeah, sitting in front of a group, naked, with everyone staring at you—that is definitely going to be intense if you’re afraid of being seen. We’ll be gentle. Thank you for being here.”
My sister and I had missed a week of class. I was at a low point; willing to let Resistance win because at the previous class, the master announced we’d be doing a nine-hour drawing, the capstone project.
By that point, I had been unable to produce even one salvageable drawing. I was going to be spending NINE HOURS making a crappy image that would only document my shame and failure?
I couldn’t deal. I stayed home.
But the time off did me good. This week, I was ready to get back into it.
Something to remember in the war against Resistance—sometimes a retreat is okay, as long as it’s used to strategize a new approach and renew your commitment to overcome.
Things got off to a rocky start, though, when the master confused me with a new concept. Right as I was starting to quarter my paper and vivisection the Norse Goddess, he came over, took my pencil, and stood in my personal space, smelling faintly of lemons and self-discipline. “This is a seated pose. It’s almost a square.” He sketched a square on my paper. “You must establish a measured height-to-width ratio. That is more important than the midpoint with this particular composition.”
But his language, this way of conceptualizing, was foreign and reminded me too much of long-ago struggles with math and geometry. My mind refused to process his words; I literally didn’t understand what he was saying. “Height to width ratio? It’s a new way of measuring? Can you tell me again?” He explained again, making gestures with the pencil, indicating that there was some new midpoint to be found.
He said words.
He said them again.
I still couldn’t make sense of them.
I was so rattled by the time he moved on to his next victim that I fluttered around in front of my paper, afraid to make any mark on it, my confidence totally gone.
Meanwhile, the Norse Goddess sat elegantly, long legs folded into interesting angles, a counterpoint provided by her elbow. Her gaze was focused on a point somewhere off my left shoulder, but her face was turned directly toward me, and for a second her vivid eyes met mine.
There was compassion in that look, and camaraderie. Here we are, trying to do something difficult, her tiny Mona Lisa smile said. We’re in this together.
She was so ridiculously gorgeous, so sincere, trying so hard to be still and not mind our ongoing assessment of her every angle.
Our staring.
Her therapist had sent her here. She was struggling too, and her courage calmed me. Inspired me.
I stood back. Shut my eyes. Took a breath in through the nose, and let it out through the mouth. I didn’t understand what I was supposed to do, and I didn't have any confidence I could do it, but the Norse Goddess deserved that I at least try. She showed up; I would too.
I went back to what I knew: sketching what I saw. Mass. Angles. Distance. Shapes. Trying to be true to what was before me.
Miraculously, my rendering was much better, even when I stood back to assess it.
The master returned from a break and studied my initial attempt. “Very good,” he said.
Huzzah! My first words of praise!
My drawing had a look I’d begun to recognize was my “voice” on the paper: a certain idealism; a rounded delicacy and ambiguity of form that was visually pleasing and unique.
Maybe he’d fall for my bending of his rules, my rebellion against his method.
But then, he leaned in, squinting. “Wait a minute. This. Is this mark where the model’s body should end?”
“Yes,” I grimaced.
I’d done it again. Sneakily not conformed to the parameters. Therefore the drawing was off. Not accurate. Not what was really there.
But it was what I wanted to be there. An interpretation. My version of events.
I fought down tears as the master moved in to erase and redo the entire lower half of the drawing. The Norse Goddess’s legs were at least two inches longer than I’d made them, her feet bigger, her knees boulder-like masses.
Now it was accurate.
But secretly, I liked my imaginary version better.
On a break, my sister and I talked away from the others. “I don’t really know where I’m going with this class. I thought I’d stimulate my creativity and I just stimulated frustration,” I said.
“We are so product oriented, and everything has to have a purpose in this culture.” Bonny's been thinking a lot about what’s going on, too, and was doing a lot better than I learning the master’s realism technique (not that I was comparing!) “I’m starting to realize it’s all about the journey, the process. Would it be so bad if art was your hobby, and you had a hobby and were kind of bad at it?”
“I’m not sure.” I try this idea on for size; it’s uncomfortable. “Writing is a lot like visual art. I had some initial talent with writing, and then I applied myself seriously for years, hundreds of thousands of hours, before I began to be a consistently good writer. It’s an endless mountain to climb because you could always be better, learn something new with the craft. Visual arts are the same. I have a little talent, but I want to be good at it right away. I don’t know if I can accept anything less; if I can enjoy being bad at art.”
Therein lay the crux of the matter.
Standing in front of the Norse Goddess, holding my (wrong type) of pencil in hand, I was looking at another mountain.
Did I have what it took to be a mediocre hobby artist, “enjoying the journey”?
I really don’t know. I am someone who wants to be good at things, who wants my vision to come to life in whatever form I choose to express it. I’m a firstborn and a Capricorn if you believe in those things as predictors of behavior.
Whatever—I have a low tolerance for failure. I will just have to keep showing up and trying.
On her way out, the Norse Goddess smiled at me. “Thanks for being gentle,” she said. “I feel better about being seen.”
At least, I could feel good about that—and it occurred to me that I too, was allowing myself to be seen.
Don’t forget to hit the ❤️ and pass this on so I know you’re with me! Thanks so much!
Read more in this FREE series of posts on life lessons from art class:
Lessons from Life Drawing part 1
Lessons from Life Drawing Again
This put me in mind of something I learned as a music major in college back in the early '60s. Even the most radical and far-out musicians had to learn the basics before they understood enough about technique to depart from the rules and do their own thing, which was, by the way, always evolving. Sounds to me that this is what your drawing class is all about, and that being solid in technique will allow you the greatest freedom to be yourself in the long run. Don't give up, Toby. Learn what you have to learn in art class, and at home do what your heart leads you to do. Both things will lead to your best work. (Speaking as the daughter of an artist.)
“We are so product oriented, and everything has to have a purpose in this culture.” Hits a nerve. I’ve always had to have a purpose. Your response to not feeling like a success at something tried, is a learning experience: that you can quit something tried and not succeeded at. You do not need the product , you gained the learning. I’ve been there. Walked away and settled my mind about a big undertaking where I did not succeed/complete. But I had the learning. It was valuable.