(via colleenmann)
Artists log: 2
30 seconds. God I hate these poses. they are too damn fast. No. I’m just too damn slow. This guy is good tho. He’s so dynamic. Great form too bad there is so much junk in the way. He’d make a better girl. He moves well. Very fluid. Better than most of those mannequins we get in here, who think their beauty will magically evoke masterpieces with a raise of their arm to the hip. Shit new pose. God thirty seconds is short. Line, line, curve, shade… New pose. Fuck this. Damn it. Ok focus. Arch, ark, swoop…alright… New pose. This works. Lets go with this. Arch, ark. swoop…arch, ark, swoop…arch, ark, swoop. Not bad. Keep it up. Arch, ark, swoosh. Aw shit! Damn it…
Artists Log: 1
The room was filling up like a pool in August. Boards, bags, and drawing pads resting on stools told me the front lines had been claimed, time to scavenge the surrounding area for a plot to call my own. I took a seat towards the back on an worn wooden stool ashed with remnants of charcoal and graphite.
The model struck her first lazy pose. Her gaze some cross between a dear caught on a highway and the sorrowful defeat of a corner girl. Arm strewn across her breasts in false modesty, as if she were now reconsidering the careful scrutiny of roughly two dozen eyes fixated on her. Taking her in, chopping her up into lines and shapes before setting the tips of their china markers to the glossy pages before them. Another gesture. She contorted her body further into poses aluminum foil would resemble after an artistic encounter with a toddler. Still her eyes remained vacant and cold.
A disheartening sight, to anyone who cared gaze upon her for what she was. Not an object, not a model, not some woman posing in front of an art class. This woman; this seemingly soulless, vacant, mechanical if nothing more woman, what could her story be? What brings her to this? Why does she wear such a weathered battered sentiment? Questions that go unanswered as she unenthusiastically moves on the stand. Pose after pose each one sullen. Her body hung stiff heavy, the way sap clings to a branch. I wondered what she was thinking. Was she wondering what we were thinking as we glanced from her to our lines and back to her, flailing our hands wildly across the pages? Probably not, she looked to distant to be brought to life by any of these critical eyes.
When the buzzers sounded it shook the silence of our melancholy. We clapped, thanked our disinterested model with the same obscurity she bestowed upon us, and closed our newsprint. Just another day at school…
