Every Girl’s Dream?

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Is it every girl’s dream to be an artist’s model?

Do girls secretly dream about being approached. Standing quietly, looking gorgeous, at some avant-guard party inhabited by musicians, writers and painters, and a tall vaguely handsome man walks up to you and asks you to ‘sit’ for him.

This was never my fantasy, but it happened to me just the same.

I’m well read, I like art in all its forms, and I have existed, thus far, outside the artistic world. That was until that night and that party. I was wearing my favourite gown and, as you would expect, I felt great. I guess my enjoyment of life was showing because there he was, talking to me. The room was full of stunning females, and I pointed this fact out to him. He dismissed my point and asked me to turn my head slightly.

“My tits are much more interesting than my face.”

“I don’t agree. You have just the face I’ve been looking for. Your tits are excellent, but I can get excellent tits any time of the day or night. A truly beautiful face is hard to find.”

I was a little taken aback. I know that I’m attractive. I’ve always known it but the word ‘beautiful’ was one that I had avoided. But that’s the thing about artists when they say beautiful they are talking about something that the rest of us struggle to see. They see the difference between pretty and beautiful and beautiful and stunning. I defy you to define the difference, but if I put those questions to an artist they would instantly have an answer, and they would be able to back it up with examples.

In the end, I said yes. I’m no longer a child, and I’m not worried about ‘being taken advantage of’. Not in the literal sense or the metaphorical one.

His studio is three floors up in the old industrial part of the city. The view is impressive without being stunning, and the light is lovely. Whenever we’d take a break, I liked to wander around and look at the finished and unfinished canvases which littered the room. I got the impression that he often slept there when the work demanded a late night. The single bed in the corner of the room was just barely comfortable enough to sleep on but more than adequate for making love. I asked him where it came from and he said it belonged to an uncle and that he had rescued it when his uncle died and the family were throwing out all his stuff. The small table on the East wall was his as well. He told me that he found a bundle of old letters in a space behind the single drawer. Mostly they were mundane correspondence letters but a small group, tied up with a silk ribbon, suggested the possibility of romance which had not blossomed. He spoke wistfully about his uncle and the lost opportunity for love.

“The rest of the family thought he was a bit of a duffer, but I liked him. He always remembered my name, and there was a heap of us youngins. He seemed a bit sad, but he always smiled at me and told me stories. Somehow he found out that I liked to draw and paint and he always asked about my current project. When they were throwing out his stuff, they came upon a heap of drawings that I had given him. He kept them. I felt bad that I had not realised at the time that we had a connection. Maybe he saw something of himself in me. Something unrealised.”

“Kids are too busy being kids to notice the subtle stuff. He liked you, that’s the thing to remember. And I’m sure that he would be impressed by the number of women you have had in his bed.”

“Yes, I think he would be.”

On the other side of the studio, there was a workbench covered in paints and painting paraphernalia, including many paint-splattered art books and sketches. The tiny bathroom looked like it has hosted a major battle and I only rarely used the toilet. Just in an emergency.

One of the walls was solid brick which still had remnants of ancient plaster. There was also an old fireplace which looked functional. The fire surround would have been more at home in an old kitchen, so I’m guessing that this was not part of any past living quarters. Most likely this used to be an office, and not a high class one. Now it was serving a creative purpose.

I did a little modelling when I was young, and I know that it is incredibly tedious. You get used to the treatment, or you don’t do it. If you are looking for glamour, you are looking in the wrong place.

I’m still not sure why artists insist on having live models. It would be heaps easier, not to mention cheaper, to take a bunch of high-resolution photographs.

My artist, insisted on me being in the room. I think he enjoys the company. It’s true that artists experience a spectacular sex life and my artist did ask me if it would be possible for him to make love to me as well as being his model. I was impressed with how comfortable he was with the idea. Not exactly ‘matter of fact’ but certainly relaxed. I told him I would give it due consideration and we would see if we both felt like it at the end of the assignment. He seemed to be okay with that, and I thought that the painting would have a more exciting edge if he were thinking about the possibility.

I was right. The painting is beautiful, and he is an attentive lover with some serious stamina. Not what I expected, but then again if we got what we expected all the time, life would be very dull indeed.

There wasn’t any long-term future for this talented man and me; I could see that. We enjoyed each others company, and he was a superior lover, but he would always be an artist, and his work would come first — all-night sessions while he laboured to finish a commission, not to mention the casual seduction of any female who walked through that door.

I like him very much but that is not the life I have mapped out for myself. Artists are fun to play with but they are way too much work long term.

The painting is finished and so is my time in this room. I sit in this chair and remember how much fun I’ve had, and I feel a little bit sad.

I’m pleased that my likeness will live on and that my beauty is immortalised, but it’s almost time for me to seek out the next adventure.

There’s no hurry though — I’m going to sit here for a while and bask in the glow.

Staring At My …….

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There is a small possibility that this story follows on from this one……….

I wanted him to see what he’d been missing, so I lay there on the couch smoking my cigarette.

I met him at the station.

He’d been gone for a long time, and I missed him something terrible.

He bought me flowers and a present, but all I really wanted was him.

I knew he wanted me, and I wanted him too, but for the longest time he just stood there.

Didn’t even take his coat off.

I guess he was just thinking.

He was also looking at my bum.

I’ve got a nice bum. No wrinkles at all, as long as you don’t count that dimple, and my tits aren’t bad either.

It’s great to have him home.

I fixed the house up real nice just for him.

I want him to feel comfortable.

I wanted him to feel at home.

klimt-jack-vettriano-190881When I met him at the station, I just couldn’t contain myself.

I ran up and jumped on him.

At first, I thought I might knock him over, but he barely moved when I landed on him.

He held me in his arms like I weighed nothin’ at all.

I was already excited but feeling his strong arms around me really got me going.

We’ve got all the time in the world so he can stand there and stare at my bum for as long as he likes.

Paintings by Jack Vettriano.

Like my work? Then buy me a coffee?

Like my work? Then buy me a coffee?

Blacksmith Eyes.

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‘I’d rather be lucky than good’.

Someone very wise said that. Well, maybe ‘Lefty Gomez’ wasn’t that smart but I still like the quote.

A couple of years ago an artistic whirlwind blew into my town [actually the next town over, but who’s counting?] and I have written about it before HERE, and HERE, but this is a different view of the studio which encourages young artists in our area. This is the back of the studio which opens on to Blacksmith Lane [I’m assuming that there was a Blacksmith down here at some stage in the past].

I love the spare eye and set of lips on the far wall.

I am lucky that this amazing little hub of artistic activity exists so close to where I live……….. now to work on the ‘good’ bit.

Tiffany Bishop and the Pianola Rolls.

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We were in Belgrave for the annual Busker’s Festival. An excellent chance to get the camera out. There is a laneway that runs down the back of the shops and parallel to the railway line and it was here that there was a young lady singing her heart out. We stopped to listen and to get some photos. This was all happening at the back of the Tiffany Bishop Collective and the back door to her workspace was open. I had heard a bit about this community arts project so I wanted to have a look.

It’s an amazing space underneath the healthfood store in Belgrave. From the street a long line of wide steps leads down to a multi chamber art space that is lit by a series of skylights. Every surface is painted white and this works amazingly well as it shows the art in it’s best light.

The first thing that struck me was this long continuous strip of white paper mounted on the wall. Several artists had contributed to a linear narrative piece which has you walking the length of the room to see what happens next.

The first thing I thought of was pianola rolls.

Getting a single continuous piece of paper to work on must be quite hard and I’m guessing, quite expensive.

I was lucky enough to speak to Tiffany. She is petite and full of energy.

I suggested that old pianola rolls might come in handy, and that I had a heap of them and Tiffany went into full on excited creative mode. She had half a dozen ideas going before I had finished speaking! I promised to drop some in this week and that is where I have just come from.

In the intervening couple of days there had been several discussions as to how to best use this new resource. She asked me lots of questions and asked if I would like to be a partner in this project.

A partner?

I’m not an artist, I just take photos and I happen to have a heap of pianola rolls that I would like to go to good use.

I did run a business restoring pianolas and music rolls in partnership with my late father, and I do have a mountain of useless knowledge to do with pianolas and rolls and I guess it might be fun for the young artists to know a bit about the medium they are working with.

In any case it looks like I’m a partner.

I was just giving away some rolls and all of a sudden I’m in the middle of something else.

You just never know when you get out of bed in the morning what the day will bring.

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Used as a stencil.
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The artist stood out side the studio and recorded the colours of the cars going by and transposed the data onto the pianola roll………….. pretty cool!
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