sunday morning with a nude
by anne bevan

“Sunday morning with a nude” read the ad.

The little notice in the local paper seemed slightly risque amid the usual suburban-newspaper announcements of births, marriages, church events and bake sales . . . but intriguing.

Sunday morning I followed the road out of still quaint but increasingly bustling Princeton into the bucolic countryside, then down a long unpaved farm road to the big barn. I paused to soak it all in—the rambling cluster of old farm buildings, the beautiful vista, cows lolling in the sun-drenched fields and was struck by the timelessness of it all. Surely this is exactly how it must have been when “they” were in this area—the luminaries, people like the Lindberghs, the Fitzgeralds and so many others, and more recentlly, the movie stars. Their famous faces and personalities came to mind as I imagined them touring this countryside, perhaps pausing to enjoy the same lovely view.

I stepped into the darkness of the barn, the good pungent smells of animal and straw. A young hand nodded towards the clunky, creaky stairs which led to the loft.Once there, the scene was more familiar. A dozen or so people had gathered. The stillness broken only by a few words, the rustling of paper as large drawing tablets were opened, wooden chairs and stools being dragged and arranged around a raised platform, a box and a toss of mismatched fabric. A young woman approached the platform and let her robe fall to the floor. It was Sunday morning and she was the nude and she now wore only the inquisitive look I had seen many times before and since on the face of models, the curious, casual question, “how do you want me?”

She was not a particularly “pretty” model. No heads would turn as she strolled down Main Street to catch a glimpse of her flirtatious or haughty cover girl features. No boys would flash a mental image of her in a bikini. It was obvious no time was spent on tweaking eyebrows, glossing lips or fluffing hair into seductive styles. She was simply an ordinary, natural human being. We made suggestions—“stand”, “sit”, “hold your gaze to the left, please”—but our truest answer to her silent question, “how do you want me?” was, also silent—“exactly as you are”. Is there something risqué in this picture? Only in the imaginations of those who have never participated in a life drawing session. No one is treated with more deferential respect than a model. Life drawing is, of course, a regular exercise for many artists, but sessions are usually held in the evening, in overly well-lighted college classroom/studios. Here, in the barn everything—the time, the day, the ambiance—underscored the aspect of reverence with which an artist approaches this most elemental and essential study.

Quietly, as always, we set to work. A series of quick warm ups, two minutes, turn, two minutes, turn. Then a few of five minutes each as gradually we came to understand her particular physical topography, the unique rhythms contained in the stillness of her gestures. And gradually we sunk deeper into our own, the alpha-rhythms of the work. She had settled herself casually into a draped chair. As the room grew even more silent only the delicate silken sound of graphite on paper was audible as stroke by stroke on each white page the secret places and subtle nuances of her body appeared. Secret places? The arch of her nose and cheekbones, the curve of her wrist, the soft arcs of hips and thighs, her nostrils and toes, inspected, examined and appreciated with a depth of attention never devoted to even the most adored “luminary”. A few hours later, emerging again into the startlingly bright day, back into “real time”, thoughts already turning to the next activities, someone said, “Isn’t it funny, I skipped church to do this this morning, but I feel as if I’d been to church”. Perhaps, but there was none of the fuss—the singing, praying, preaching, greeting. On this Sunday I felt the deep relaxation, the quiet centered serenity one associates with the zendo.

Now, I don’t want to give the impression that artists are a bunch of nuns and monks. (Good grief, could anyone have that idea!?) I fondly remember another session one cold winter night. Artists were gathering regularly to work with two models, a man and a woman, on a sustained painting project. The artists arrived early, but distance and road conditions were forcing the models to be late. As woolly hats and mufflers were removed, boots pulled off, and layers of snow gear hit the floor, the madness of whimsy overtook them. The models finally arrived to find eight bright and shiny artists, stripped to their socks at work at their easels.

Nor can I imply that the experience is the same for every artist. One gentleman often came to my studio to work and consistently produced drawings that were nothing more than stick figures . . . with large, round, carefully rendered breasts. I honestly don’t think he knew how bad, or outrageous his drawings were. I think he just started his pencil moving and got stuck on what he liked.

What then is the quality of reverence I refer to? It has to do with the unique relationship between artist and model, a relationship of trust and appreciation. It is obvious why artists are eager to work with models. Less obvious, perhaps, is why models choose to pose. Certainly not just for the money.

“George” is a case in point. He truly was one of the most classically beautiful men I have ever seen. A corporate exec, he would arrive at the studio impeccably dressed and polished. When once another artist declared admiringly, “George, you are perfect!”, he replied, softly and very seriously, “No”, and pointed to a tiny varicose vein on his left calf. That perfectly muscled calf, and varicose vein, are in my drawings. When a budget crunch had me call George one day to cancel our session, he came anyway. “I like it here”, he said. “It’s quiet.”

It was, of course, much more than that. Did he enjoy having his physical beauty appreciated? I’m sure. But the beauty of George did not reside in his physical perfection. It was in his presence. When the tailored suit and jewelry were removed he became a natural man, completely comfortable and, unadorned, completely himself. This is what I appreciated, and what I sought in my drawings.

It is what I found also in working with “Rosalie”. Like many college kids, she was posing to earn a few extra dollars. Her bright spirit and mischievous personality were evident the moment she walked in. She was also about eighty pounds overweight—a beauty not always appreciated in our culture. Rosalie had a sense of comfort and confidence knowing she honored herself in choosing to be an artist's model. A little tattered around the edges from too much work as a student with part time jobs, she seemed glad to just lay back on the cushions, close her eyes and doze. And I watched as the pencil, slowly gliding over the paper revealed a form as weightless and diaphanous as a cloud. There before me, on the cushions and on the paper—a goddess in repose.

Over the years, I have worked in many places with many different models of every variety of size, shape, age, race and gender preference, and have learned, what every artist learns—that all pre-conceived or culturally prescribed standards of beauty are of no consequence at all. I can honestly say I have never worked with a model who was not beautiful. In the intimacy of the work one finds the grace, elegance, dignity, and unique beauty inherent in every human being. I have been honored to be in the presence of women and men who understand this and share in the celebration. I wish everyone would know this secret—when all the disguises are removed, you are exactly as you are, exactly as God with love and wisdom has made you, and you are beautiful. You are beautiful.

Anne Bevan is a painter most noted for her large scale landscape series “Earth. . . as it is in Heaven” (our first centerfold) and more recently, the series of small plein air paintings. Examples of her work can be seen online at annebevan.com, at the Design Gallery in Burnsville, or by visiting the studio. [828-628-0915; wncpainter@aol.com; annebevan.com]

“The nude is not a subject of art but a form of art”.
Kenneth Clark