Posing in 3-D

/ By / In / 12 Comments

The Brandeis Theatre Department hired a new scenic painter in 1973. In addition to painting all the backdrops, he also taught a life drawing course and advertised for models. I had done a little modeling during my time at Brandeis, but nothing note-worthy. This was a real class, taught by a master, so I signed up for one Friday morning a month. The pay was good: $4/hour for a two hour class, cash. It was for graduate-level students, all of whom I knew, which presented its own set of challenges, as I took my responsibilities seriously and didn’t want to be teased or pursued.

The classroom didn’t have a raised platform with easels in front of me, but rather, the students were scattered all around me. I began the class with a series of one minute poses, progressed to 5 minutes, then 10, and ended with one 30 minute pose. Each represented a unique challenge, as I had to make the pose interesting for everyone all around me, had to be something I could hold for the requisite length of time (so nothing too far off-balance) and nothing that would cause a limb to fall asleep. I thought of symmetry, twists in my spine, standing vs sitting. Only once did I take a pose that could be construed as “cheesecake” and lived to regret that one.

There were little breaks in between poses when I would cover up with a robe and look at the students’ work. Most had never drawn from life before and were embarrassed to have me look at what they’d drawn. (THEY were embarrassed?!) Bob walked around during the class, giving pointers; I grew weary of hearing how my bottom was larger than my top (yes, I am pear-shaped). I am also 5′ tall and at the time weighed 89 pounds…tiny! Someone drew me as almost a stick figure, he just couldn’t figure out my dimensions.

I got high praise from Bob and liked the cash. Even after I graduated, married and got a real (though boring) job, still in Waltham, MA, I came back once a month to model and collect my cash. It paid for a lovely dress and pair of shoes worn to a close friend’s wedding later that year. My colleagues at work were quite amused, but I didn’t care (I also made up the time at the real job, so nothing was lost).

Eventually, I moved away to take a new job;  my modeling days were over. When I moved back to the Boston area, my job was too demanding, but I stayed close to my alma mater and would run into Bob Moody at various arts activities on campus. He always introduced me as “his best nude model ever”, even when we’d see each other at openings at the campus art museum, on which I’m a Board member.

After 40 years, Bob retired in 2014. I was the only non-design major in attendance at his retirement party. Bob always said that I never changed and that I was still his best model ever! Some of his first students thought they might even have a sketch or two of me in their portfolios. It was a full-day event, with a show of his own work: he is an amazing artist, followed by a lovely dinner. I was glad to be part of his celebration, having been a small part of his Brandeis story. He gave me my first spending money, and a little sense of self-worth.

Regret

/ By / In / 2 Comments

I don’t have a fantastic story about bonding with my grandparents.  Unfortunately, being of Japanese descent, there is a solid line between the generations.  The younger are told to “speak only when spoken to” and are not encouraged to be inquisitive about an elder’s history, perspective, or opinion.  It is seen as disrespectful.  So, I never asked my grandmothers, “how did you and Grandpa meet?”  “Were you in love?”  “What was Jichan (my paternal grandfather, who passed away when I was 2 years old) like?”  “What did Grandpa like to do before he had a stroke?”

The sad thing is, even though that is how we were raised (by our parents), I think my grandparents really would have loved to tell those stories.  And I never asked.  It is one of my biggest regrets.

I hope my nieces and nephews don’t make the same mistake, but honestly, they will.  I continue to see the generational barriers between them and my mother.  They have no interest in knowing what she was like as a little girl, how she my my father met, or what her biggest regrets are.  Truth is, my mother (and those of her generation) are hopelessly insular and still stuck in their old ways.  Perhaps the next generation will come to regret that generational chasm as I have and break through it.  But perhaps not.  Maybe my mother will come to realize that she separates herself from her grandchildren in that all-too-tangible way.  But probably not.

I plan to try to understand my mother a little more this year.  She’s open that way with me, at least.  Maybe I could share her stories after she’s gone and maybe that will allay my regret for not knowing (and not asking) much about my grandparents from them while they were still alive.

 

Nicky

/ By / In / 6 Comments

My father and I were crazy about dogs. My mother was terrified of them. All my lobbying fell on deaf ears for years. Finally, my brother was off to college and I was a lonely 14 year old.

Evidently, my mother had had an interesting discussion with an aunt while I was at school one day in 1966. At the time, Aunt Roz and Uncle Roy, one of my dad’s numerous brothers, had a pure-bred miniature French poodle named Jacques. Their older son, my cousin Steve, was an optician with a client who wanted, but couldn’t afford, contact lenses. She had a female poodle named Penny. They decided to breed the dogs and with the money made selling the puppies, the client could afford the lenses and Steve got pick of the litter. The puppies had been born, there were five in the litter, and were evidently very cute. “Don’t tell Kenny or Betsy”, my aunt warned. “You know they’ll want one”.

My mother never could keep a secret. She blurted out the whole conversation as soon as I arrived home and Saturday we were looking at the puppies. There was only female in the litter, Steve had picked her. I picked a precocious male. We lived in Huntington Woods, this was a French poodle and there were five in the litter. I was only in first year French class and didn’t yet know the French word for “woods”, so we named him “Nicole de Forêt”, or Nickel (because his mother was “Penny” and he was one of five) of the “forest”, but I meant woods, I just didn’t know how to say it in French. That was his American Kennel Club name, but we called him Nicky and he was adorable. His puppy fur was black with silver peaking through. We never gave him a fancy poodle cut; always left his fur in a puppy cut, as the silver took over from the black.

My mother was still fearful, so my dad took Nicky to his car dealership one day a week, to give my mother a day off (she wasn’t good with human babies either). Poodles are known to be smart and Nicky certainly was, though as a puppy, he teethed on the corners of our kitchen cabinets. But he understood that he was not allowed on any carpeted areas in the house, nor could he come upstairs. If we were all upstairs, he stood at the foot of the steps and keened, but never disobeyed. I was SO happy to have him, but he was my father’s salvation, the only creature who loved him unconditionally and was always happy to see him when he came home at night.

If my father and I had something important to talk about, we took Nicky for a walk. When my father wanted to escape from the house, he’d walk Nicky to his best friend’s, who lived around the corner. Eventually, Nicky’s retinas atrophied and he went blind, which happens in pure-bred poodles. He did alright navigating our home, as long as nothing was moved. I got a frantic call from my mother once. She had left the basement door open. He walked into it and tumbled down the stairs. My dad bought a condo in California and they began spending a month there. It was difficult, but Nicky had to be put down before they went away, as he couldn’t survive outside our home in Huntington Woods.

I missed seeing Nicky on the rare occasions when I returned home, but it broke my father’s heart.