It was a Tuesday evening art class, and I had no intention of drawing anything at all. I had always had a fear of drawing the human form as it is laden with so much classical art history and expectation; My involvement was to observe the creative and social processes of the art class to see what I could learn about individual artistic expression, and group creativity in a closed setting.
As I stood, experiencing the art class from the back of the group I observed the different spatial locations of the artists in relation to the model and in relation to each other, some were closer than others and some were further back or to the side. I wondered if this was an aesthetic choice or just random. The array of creative methods and styles of drawing were far more varied to what I was somehow expecting, and the differing choice of art materials quite vast. After about half an hour of observation I became immersed into the creative silence and spent some time observing the model. I felt sorry for her a strange way, just lying their as an inanimate object. But after a while it seemed to me that she was silently interacting with the group on a very subtle level regarding her body position and her own comfort. I couldn't distinguish whether this was deliberate or unconscious, neither could I fathom whether the members of the art class were aware of this process either; As I was only observing, and they were deep into the creative process of drawing I speculated about differences in perception.
It seemed to me that without moving suddenly, or disturbing her position, her eyes occasionally glanced around the group, as if to assess how much she could move without disrupting the concentration or perspective of those drawing her; Then she would move body almost imperceptibly slow, and as I watched these very subtle movements, it seemed to actually enhance my appreciation and perspective of the human form, in a sense I was looking and percieving in a new way that I had not experienced before.
At this moment I felt a distinct shift in my consciousness from social observer to creative p-art-icipant. After a further period of scrutinizing the shapes, shadows and angles of the model, I was abruptly snapped out of my reverie by the art tutor telling the group there was only about fifteen minutes left. My heart literally jumped and started racing, as I felt as if I somehow had to record and remember this aesthetic feeling and experience; and compelled so, my hands scurried about my pockets hungrily searching for something to draw with.
Having attended the class for observation rather than participation, all I could find was a few short stumps of colored pencils about 2 or 3 inches long with the ends worn down to rounded bumps. I began to panic slightly, how the hell could I draw anything with these? I had to get something down as a reminder! I found a small red notebook in another pocket that was literally falling to pieces and began frantically flicking through it, just as I was almost giving upon up on the idea I found a empty lined page near the back. I took a few deep breaths, tried to compose myself, and spent the next 14 minutes and 27 seconds trying to capture what I saw as best as I could trying not to worry about about the pressure of drawing the human form.
Hence, my very first drawing of the human form.
Afterwards, the model wandered around the art class to view each artistic attempt to portray her and I suddenly felt very self-conscious and somehow more naked than she had been herself. I had surreptitiously scanned the others attempts and they were all quite slendid. My feeble rushed attempt seemed child-like and naive in comparison; I wondered if I could escape and slink out the back entrance without anyone noticing, so as to avoid the humiliation of having to show it to anyone, let alone the model herself.
The other members of the art class unaware of my dilemma as they looked at each others work in soft tones of conversation, so I tried to make myself invisible and slowly eased myself in the direction of the door. It was at that precise moment I noticed the model, she was the centre of attention as everyone was intent upon showing their drawing to her; but now she was free to move around the gallery the tables were turned, and her attention was sharply turned upon everyone else. I noticed that as she casually progressed around the group to observe each individual drawing of herself, she never once seemed to lose sight of the entire group as a whole. Her perception was clearly engaged in a process of gestalt observation incorporating the micro and the macro elements of the scene in an attempt to see all and experience all, in relation to the creative self-discovery of viewing multiple artistic representations of herself via the creative expressions of others, a unique insight into oneself for those adventurous enough to undergo such a process.
Her perception was all encompassing, I was trapped! On two occasions as she glided from person to person in a manner seemingly random and unhurried, I tried to move slowly towards the exit. Who was I kidding! She was the master of subtle slow movements as I had plainly observed during the class! I was at the very back of the group, unseen or noticed by all others, yet each time I felt on the very verge of escape and salvation, she casually looked over directly at me, and to leave at that oint would not only be rude, but cowardly in the creative sense to boot.
I could see the inner focus of her eyes and I detected a steely gaze of determination that riveted me to the spot. I felt her inner thoughts piercing my cowardice, daring me to try and leave! Twice I felt her thoughts actually penetrate my consciousness.... "you are going nowhere until I've seen your picture of me, It's my just reward, and you will not leave until I see it". I was doomed, but I still tried to hide by mingling amongst the group in one last vain attempt to disappear in the moving melee of the group. She carried on her class viewing tour and all the while I could feel she kept me just in the edge of her sight. I was a spring-bok hiding in the African bush, trying to camouflage myself from a hunting lioness. Oh! how I understood the razor of natures' edge at that moment; Why the lioness is the primary hunter, and the male lion all slow and cumbersome. There was no escape, I had to stay and mask my fear as she looked over the last three artists' work; Eventually my poor sketch was the only one she hadn't seen and I steeled myself for the inevitable denouement of her withering critique as she moved inextricably towards me.
I could feel minute beads of sweat tickle my palms, the flush of self-embarrassment enveloped me, and I felt my social unease surface horribly; But still I refused to give up without a fight! She smiled at me disarmingly as I sheepishly tried to explain how I hadn't really drawn anything worth seeing; I hadn't much time....I was just observing really..... I don't really draw people.......I withered on trying to keep my hands casually closed around my note book, but it was futile. She looked up at me with the confidence and understanding that all attractive women seem to have, a secret code they carry through life that unlocks the hearts of all men; even men of learning who perceive themselves above the subjective vanity of appearance are undone and reduced to self-nakedness under the gaze of a beautiful woman. Her sensuality up close was breath-taking, her mere presence so close upon me magically unfurled my clasped fingers from around the notebook, and slowly she took it in her hands and opened the page of my death knell. As she glanced down at my poor reflection of her self, I shyly stole a few moments to look at her face and hair, for I knew this shared moment of creative intimacy would be as close to her as I would ever be. She was quite beautiful but not what I what think most people imagine a model a typical model to be, but in a understated way which was enhanced by her slightly pale skin and a light sprinkling of golden freckles upon her pale skin; Her shoulder-length hair shone with a deep warm sun-kissed soft red. She moved with such leisurely confidence, and spoke in a soft tone with a slight Australian lilt to her voice that was intoxicating and hypnotic.
I was now watching her desperately to gauge her reaction. I knew that if she tried to hide her disappointment at my drawing I would see her disdain, if she said it was good, nice, or interesting, I would feel her pity, there was nothing left to do except await her sentence. No matter the verdict of vaingloriousness, I prayed she would be honest with me. Now that she had ensnared me within, I hoped to learn something from my effort no matter how poor, after-all it was my first attempt, and as such, no matter how feeble, it still meant something to me in terms of creative expression. Hence, my real fear of humiliation and rejection.
As she looked up from the page, I boldly met her eyes with my own, I had to know her real thoughts and feelings regarding my drawing. I was completely surprised by the way she was looking at me! It was a look I couldn't figure out! It was neither pity nor disappointment, it wasn't admiration, nor joy, and it wasn't anything I was expecting.....I really couldn't read her facial expression or feelings at all! What did this mean I pondered? Stunned at my own inability to interpret a look that I hadn't come across before, did she like it? Was it an abomination to her? Maybe she was so offended she couldn't speak.
How strange I thought, how odd her eyes view me! I can only say she gazed at me in such a puzzling manner I was totally perplexed. A look I hadn't seen before, or since, and for the first time since she overwhelmed me, I felt a strange sense of relief. At least she hadn't laughed out loud, or smirked! That would have be horrendously crushing. So I felt almost okay, but intrigued by her response, it was the only moment during the entire evening or during our interaction that her composure seemed to shift slightly, and although I couldn't understand her look, I thought I gained a glipmse of her real inner-self as opposed to her model self. It almost felt to me as though her reaction wasn't about the picture at all. Stranger still, was the way we parted, we didn't exchange a single word after the notebook changed hands, she looked at me strangely, and I unable to interpret her response looked confusedly from her to the picture to try and work out what had happened. As I looked up at her one last time to try and figure it all out, she was gliding slowly away.....
Model, Musician, and Artist: Australian Natalie from The 491 Gallery, and The Scout Huts, Creative Communities respectively; London. 2003.
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