singled out on the boardwalk while walking home. Some drunk behemoth jumped her and was trying to make her his wife when some unidentified stranger objected to the wedding and messed up his plans. Little while ago, the cops caught a guy that fits the description she gave of the attacker. He was carrying some cash and a pocketwatch that both jell with her story. No ID yet on Superman. Senator held a press conference this morning from the steps of the Capitol then flew home. Landed in Charleston just a bit ago.”
“She okay?”
“Whenever a six-foot, ten-inch man repeatedly backhands the face of the spokeswoman for one of the major cosmetic lines in the country—who also happens to have been voted by the
New York Times
as one of the hundred most beautiful faces in the United States—whose face, by the way, made the cover of three of the most highly read prime-time magazines in the country—well, what do you think?”
Scenes from the night before flashed across my eyelids but the details were fuzzy.
“Doss. Where you been? What rock you been living under? Abbie Coleman goes by the professional name of Abbie Eliot.”
I knew I’d seen her somewhere before.
I hung up, called in sick to work and hung the Closed sign across my front door. I’d collect my watch and wallet when the pain subsided.
Financial problems aside, I needed a “subject” of my own. My senior project was due in two months and I had yet to land on a subject. Most students had been working on theirs for weeks. Further, it was well known around town that senior art majors paid their subjects by the hour. That, too, was a difficulty for me.
Compounding the problem was the “nude” assignment. To graduate, every senior was required to present a portfolio of twelve pieces showcasing their best work—one of which was to be a nude piece. Some of my classmates acted like they had joined the art program for this very reason: they got to hang out a sign that read something like, “Hey, I need a nude subject for my senior portfolio.” To make it seem more official and more legitimate, they’d rent out a swanky studio, drape a sheet across a wire forming a backdrop, hang a spotlight, play some new-age music and buy a bottle of wine with a screw-off cap. Then they’d schedule several “sittings” that lasted a couple of hours and included a lot of serious looks and casual small talk. Some of my classmates milked this thing for all it was worth because it was the only way they’d ever get a girl to take her clothes off. Two types of girls showed up: the first was the adventuresome freshman—sometimes a sophomore—who was stretching her wings, wanting to try something new and usually angry at her dad. She usually showed up with a friend, a little giggly and the smell of alcohol on her breath. The second was the experienced senior or first-year graduate student who showed up alone, angry at an ex-boyfriend and armed with thoughts of finding herself. Nice girls and cover girls just didn’t come knocking.
So, in truth, the problem was not finding someone, but finding the right someone. And then there was one other thing. I just had a problem with someone I didn’t know walking in and taking their clothes off. I mean, who does that? What kind of person walks into a room with a stranger, strips down to her birthday suit and stands there while you walk all over her with your eyes. I realize we’re supposed to be focused on our subject and studying the “form” but that’s just the problem: I’ve yet to meet a woman who can be reduced to a form. Form can’t be extracted from the essence like some broth reduction.
In the history of mankind, no single person yet has learned to swim by having the strokes explained. At some point, they dive in. In art, that diving has nothing to do with holding a brush, pencil or chisel. It’s something your heart does and only then will your hand follow. You, me, any artist, cannot take the beauty that is woman
“She okay?”
“Whenever a six-foot, ten-inch man repeatedly backhands the face of the spokeswoman for one of the major cosmetic lines in the country—who also happens to have been voted by the
New York Times
as one of the hundred most beautiful faces in the United States—whose face, by the way, made the cover of three of the most highly read prime-time magazines in the country—well, what do you think?”
Scenes from the night before flashed across my eyelids but the details were fuzzy.
“Doss. Where you been? What rock you been living under? Abbie Coleman goes by the professional name of Abbie Eliot.”
I knew I’d seen her somewhere before.
I hung up, called in sick to work and hung the Closed sign across my front door. I’d collect my watch and wallet when the pain subsided.
Financial problems aside, I needed a “subject” of my own. My senior project was due in two months and I had yet to land on a subject. Most students had been working on theirs for weeks. Further, it was well known around town that senior art majors paid their subjects by the hour. That, too, was a difficulty for me.
Compounding the problem was the “nude” assignment. To graduate, every senior was required to present a portfolio of twelve pieces showcasing their best work—one of which was to be a nude piece. Some of my classmates acted like they had joined the art program for this very reason: they got to hang out a sign that read something like, “Hey, I need a nude subject for my senior portfolio.” To make it seem more official and more legitimate, they’d rent out a swanky studio, drape a sheet across a wire forming a backdrop, hang a spotlight, play some new-age music and buy a bottle of wine with a screw-off cap. Then they’d schedule several “sittings” that lasted a couple of hours and included a lot of serious looks and casual small talk. Some of my classmates milked this thing for all it was worth because it was the only way they’d ever get a girl to take her clothes off. Two types of girls showed up: the first was the adventuresome freshman—sometimes a sophomore—who was stretching her wings, wanting to try something new and usually angry at her dad. She usually showed up with a friend, a little giggly and the smell of alcohol on her breath. The second was the experienced senior or first-year graduate student who showed up alone, angry at an ex-boyfriend and armed with thoughts of finding herself. Nice girls and cover girls just didn’t come knocking.
So, in truth, the problem was not finding someone, but finding the right someone. And then there was one other thing. I just had a problem with someone I didn’t know walking in and taking their clothes off. I mean, who does that? What kind of person walks into a room with a stranger, strips down to her birthday suit and stands there while you walk all over her with your eyes. I realize we’re supposed to be focused on our subject and studying the “form” but that’s just the problem: I’ve yet to meet a woman who can be reduced to a form. Form can’t be extracted from the essence like some broth reduction.
In the history of mankind, no single person yet has learned to swim by having the strokes explained. At some point, they dive in. In art, that diving has nothing to do with holding a brush, pencil or chisel. It’s something your heart does and only then will your hand follow. You, me, any artist, cannot take the beauty that is woman
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