I sat for my first portrait modelling assignment on Saturday. The occasion was an art trail event at Wanstead library that saw stone carvers, wool spinners, glass stainers, cake makers and many other artists and artisans present their craft to the masses.
I was there to help promote local life drawing courses, for which I had modelled nude on several occasions. Needless to say nudity was out of the question before midday in a public library, so portrait it had to be.
On the face of it this would seem to be much less bother than life modelling: just the one passive pose for two-hours, seated in comfort, not even troubling to undress. It’s not hard work, but it is quite tiring in its own way.
Two hours with a ten minute tea-break. One hour and then fifty minutes, motionless, shallow breathing, staring at a fixed gaze point a metre below a bright lamp, blurred vision, an indistinct hubbub of low noise in the background…
Over the first hour I was fine: bright as a button, alert, little more than a few blinks to break the pose. Two artists were sketching me, a third joined late on, and there was conversation all around. It got trickier after the break. The number of artists doubled but the chat faded away and I could feel myself drift towards drowsiness.
I needed a distraction that never came. Instead my eyelids felt the pull of gravity and the battle to resist became a losing one. It couldn’t have, and didn’t, pass unnoticed by the artists but their good-natured humour at the end of the session helped to ease my embarrassment slightly. At least I did not actually fall asleep. I think.
It was a good introduction to a new discipline. I’ve since learned that drowsiness is a noted occupational hazard for portrait models. Equipped with this knowledge and the experience, I can improve my approach and be better next time around. And so the show goes on.
I’ve long struggled with the tag ‘naturist’ or ‘nudist’. On a warm day at home I’ll either not bother dressing or I’ll kick off all my clothes when I get in from work. Abroad, I’ll sunbathe and often go hiking naked in places where no offence can be caused. Yet I’ve never felt part of a movement, a philosophy or organised way of life.
I’ve never felt my simple pleasure and comfort of being without clothes has warranted a label ending with ‘-ist‘.
Nonetheless, I’ve dabbled occasionally in the UK naturist scene: highly sporadic and increasingly rare visits to London clubs; dim and distant summer days on Studland or Swalecliffe beaches. Nowadays I am more likely to head to the continent or Canaries to enjoy sunny beaches and spas without complications or categorisation, stigma or subscription.
It would be nice to rediscover unfettered social nudity in my own country. A small step was taken on Saturday while group life modelling at the Naturist Foundation.
The plan was for eight of us to be modelling, but a series of misfortunes meant that on the day our numbers had dwindled by half. Our diminished quantity was compensated by quality, however, with: Esther, a Spirited Bodies friend of long standing; Santosh, with whom I’d shared a stage many times; and Chris, whom I’d previously worked with in July alongside Esther and Santosh for the Inversed Voyeurism project.
So, after a 40-minute train ride south from London Blackfriars, and a 20-minute yomp across country, I was the first to be buzzing the Naturist Foundation gates.
Once inside I was greeted on the driveway by Terry, who had arranged the event, and given a quick tour of the grounds. We settled down for drinks and a chat, after which I headed to the pool. It was a great relief to get out of my clothes at last.
By the time I’d managed a few lengths, the others had arrived. I dried off and helped to carry copious quantities of picnic food and art gear from Chris’s car. There was time enough for sarnies and for Chris and Santosh to take their turn in the pool before our 2-hour life art session, from 2pm to 4pm.
Down to business, Esther coordinated our poses to ensure some strong tableaux.
She also managed to coax five of the Foundation’s naturist regulars into taking part as models. The coaxing was by degrees over a series of poses, so by the end everyone was in the element of their choosing, having a thoroughly agreeable time.
From a first five-minute standing pose, with all four models connected in a semi-circle, we culminated with a 25-minute tableau of two models and four Foundation members. As well as coordinating us, Esther joined the artists in drawing us too. Photos were taken for the Foundation’s magazine.
At the end, artworks were spread out on tables and we mingled happily around them, artists and models appreciating mutual admiration.
We still had time to enjoy more of the facilities. It was refreshing not to have to pull on a robe immediately after the final pose. Instead we simply continued through the rest of the evening as we were – first settling into the sauna, then jittering under a cold shower, and finally socialising in the pool.
After showering, sauna, and showering again, we returned to the pavilion’s sun terrace to spread out our magnificent picnic. We chatted and chomped in company with some colourful characters – some naked like us, but most clothed for the evening.
The range of personal stories made a nonsense of notions that naturists are of a type. We are a varied cross-section of humanity. If we must accept being organised in the margins at present, it’s because our country cannot accept us any other way.
I look forward to the day that will never come: the day when we needn’t be organised, we simply can… be.
But until that day, thank you naturist organisations. Thank you, Naturist Foundation.
Two great cultural institutions come together on Wednesday nights in Crouch Hill: the life drawing group and the pub. Life Draw N4 convenes each week in a function room of The Old Dairy, a venerable drinking and dining establishment in north London.
On the recommendation of Hope Deeney – a friend and fellow life model with whom I’d previously worked for Dunstan Perera – I introduced myself to Aless, the organiser of Life Draw N4. Emailing my next dozen available Wednesdays, I was fortunate enough to be offered the first date on the list.
Two short train tides and a five minute walk make this one of the more straightforward venues for me to reach in time for a 7pm start. A sandwich, an orange juice and a few chapters of The Pickwick Papers on the way made me comfortable in body and mind.
I was greeted by Aless and friends in a room that was wall-to-wall chairs. I spread my white sheet over cushions placed in the centre of the room, then stripped as discreetly as possible beneath my dressing gown while artists were still arriving.
Aless cautioned that on a warm summer evening such as this there was a chance the turn-out would be low. To our pleasant surprise, however, the number of artists swelled to 22 at a final reckoning – the most the group had ever seen.
Cometh the hour, I disrobed and entered the close circle of pads and pastels. For the next one and three-quarter hours, poses proceeded as follows:
5 minutes
standing, elbows crossed at chest, hands facing outwards either side of the head, leaning to the right, looking upwards
4 minutes
squatting, left foot on the floor with right knee adjacent, both hands on the floor on either side, head on left knee
3 minutes
standing, very slight back lean to face upwards, with palms over eyes and fingers interlinking
2 minutes
standing, legs crossed, right arm across crown of head, left arm bent behind back
1 minute
standing, arms held out and spread wide, whilst facing left
10 minutes
seated on floor, right leg bent under, left foot on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around the left shin
15 minutes
standing, hands in attitude of prayer with finger-tips close under chin
20 minutes
reclining, left leg crooked on the floor, right foot planted, left arm crooked over eyes, right arm outstretched
5 minutes
break time
40 minutes
seated on a low stool, left foot on the stool, right foot on the floor, both hands crossed grasping left foot, forehead on left knee
Gratifying applause followed Aless calling time on the last pose. I’d tried to rotate the poses to offer the artists as much variety as possible. In the time and space available, however, it’s regrettably likely that some saw more back than limbs.
I mused with Aless the possibility of a two-model session with Hope, and whether the room was large enough for it to work. Where there’s a will, there is often a way. For a group founded in February this year, that has already progressed so far, who is to say where the limits might be?
Duo or solo, it would be a pleasure to return for nice people in a venue of distinction.
Amidst a scattering of performance work, the life model bookings continue arriving in unprecedented numbers.
A prior commitment had prevented me accepting a short-notice booking with Adrian Dutton’s Thursday group in Bethnal Green last month. Happily this had not ruled me out of future consideration, and I was able to accept a booking for his Monday group last week with just four hours’ notice.
I wasn’t the only model able to accept the late call-out, so the session became duo work Henry – a younger, altogether fitter male life model. The artists were presented with a choice of body types and took full advantage of both.
Having not expected to be modelling when I left home for work that morning, I was without my sheet, dressing-gown and camera. The latter, disappointingly, meant I could not capture the fine works produced on the evening.
My next work for Adrian’s groups will be on 18 September and 11 November… and with any luck there may be a short-notice opportunity or two in between. Long may they come.
Possibly my greatest disappointment in the performance art world was missing out on ‘The Mudhead Dance‘ by Adam James. I’d participated in his ‘Mud Circles‘, and a subsequent party piece at ‘The Opening Ceremony to the End of the World‘, but a clash of bookings with life model work at the Storey Gallery, Lancaster prevented me joining the main event.
When the call-out came for a new mudhead event I needed no persuading to volunteer. Presented by VITRINE Gallery, the work would form part of ‘The Birth Caul‘, a free public performance comprising pieces by Miriam Austin and Adam James in prelude to the world première screening of ‘The Mudhead Dance‘ film.
Miriam’s contribution was to be a rubber and petal-based sculptural work in which five performers share a ritual experience with a very large eel. Adam’s performance would centre on his fictional peoples’ fraught emergence through a series of underworlds.
Our stage would be Bermondsey Square, south of London’s Tower Bridge. Mudhead nakedness – an essential feature of previous works – had sadly been forbidden in this open public space, so mudheads would instead wear rubbery masks and underpants, loincloths made from stapled rags, and tied-up boots of coarse fabric. Very smart.
After a weekend of rehearsals – role-playing as chimpanzees and zombie flamingoes, followed by repeated runs through the full performance – we were ready to go. Adam would be leading as drum-beating shaman; our dance company would be Typh, Iefiz and Megan; our mudheads were Chas, Clifford, Cy, Malachy, Peter, Peter and me.
The day of the performance was blessed with brilliant sunshine. We mustered early at Gregg’s Bar and Grill to ruminate our plans over coffee. With market stalls occupying the square until 2pm, we withdrew to a small side area for a final successful practice, which confirmed we were as ready as we’d ever be.
Long after 2pm – our scheduled start time – the market stalls finally cleared away and Miriam’s players stepped forth in their robes.
Our mudhead activity would unfold in four parts: three parts in performance with Adam and the dancers, followed by a denouement of frenzied obscenity and destruction. As a prelude, however – with Miriam’s rituals still on-going at the far side of the square – the mudheads made a discreet entrance and slowly moved to position.
In diamond formation with Mal at point we shambled from obscurity, left-right left-right, walking in step. Over ten minutes Mal lead us round the square, pausing twice before settling us at the edge of our sacred central space marked by a chalk circle and three tripod stands supporting cardboard boxes. A slight hush descended against the drone of the living city. All was set.
Part one started with a drum beat signalling the entrance of Adam and the dancers – Adam in a cloak made entirely from used teabags; the dancers in fake animal fur and cardboard headgear. This was the first time we had all been together in costume. The delicacy and gracefulness of the dancers’ movements was a wonder to behold.
The mudheads, by contrast, remained a single lumpen mass. Once more we walked as a unit – left-right, left-right – across the space as the slow drum beat continued its monotone. We stared at the dancers, disquieted by their elegant intrusion upon our crude world. As we started to clap in unison, so the intruders slowly departed.
We clapped faster, faster, faster, while peeling away individually to stand at all corners of the crowd, leaving Mal clapping frantically on his own. He stopped; we waited.
By now the audience numbers had swelled considerably. Some, including friends and family had come specifically for the performance; others were just curious passers-by. As we stood motionless under the fiery sun, people stalked around us taking photos.
The drum beat resumed. Adam and the dancers returned in new bizarre costumes for part two. This time mudheads strode individually across the stage, staring at dancers, mimicking them for one snapshot moment, or striking a single clap in passing.
And then we stepped forward once more… slowly, ominously circling.
We tightened our circle and began clapping in unison to drive the intruders away. Our palms came together with ever greater rapidity as we drew in shoulder to shoulder at the middle of the space. Suddenly we stopped. Stillness and silence was all around.
Part three. Monotonous drum. Mudheads paced back allowing Adam and the dancers to re-enter our circle. Drum drum drum drum. We stepped in, and in, and in, crowding the writhing knot of dancers that squirmed at the tips of our toes.
We leaned over them, spread our arms wide and clapped. And clapped and clapped and clapped until we’d banished the trespassers forever.
The outsiders had gone. The sacred space was clear… we waited.
And waited… waiting, waiting, waiting.
Tension.
Suddenly we broke. We scrambled to the three tripods, lowered them, reached inside the cardboard boxes and grabbed grotesque phallic water squirters. Cue frenzy!
We desecrated the space, drenched each other and sprayed the audience until all our reserves were exhausted.
And having shot our loads we ran away like naughty children, back to the obscurity from whence we first emerged.
Our performance was done, audience applause resonated outside and joy spread through our hidden sanctuary. Euphoric, capering, laughing, we de-mudheaded and re-humanised, ready to return to the real world. It was all smiles as we emerged and crossed the scene of our cavorting to join our friends in the beautiful sunlight.
Come movie time we filed into the Shortwave Cinema, settling in comfort, privilege and anticipation to watch The Mudhead Dance film première. The vivacity of the live performance had a different intensity in this fifteen-minute screening. Skilful editing and an unsettling soundtrack added extra dimensions to an entrancing visual feast.
Part of Adam’s genius is that whatever his format, however chaotic his performances might appear at a superficial glance, however mundane his source materials for props and costumes, he’s a perfectionist whose ideals and original vision play consistently across his body of work. His is a serious business but it always seems to manifest with laughter in the making. Rare gifts in operation.
We saw out the late afternoon with drinks and cake outside the Shortwave Cinema’s bar, attempting conversation as best we could over the cacophony of South London Samba now filling the square. It had been a successful performance and a great day spent in wonderful company from beginning to end. I could have asked for no more than to be a part of it.
So I was sitting on a side chair in Barts Pathology Museum. By the opposite wall a table groaned under blackberry and cream scones, hot drinks and lashings of Bloody Mary. Away to my left, life model Alex B was holding a dramatic pose for sixty artists. Kneeling in front of me, Nikki was once again painting my face in the image of a skull.
It could only be Art Macabre – ingenious creation of Nikki Shaill, aka Raven Rouge.
The venue for this latest ‘Death Drawing’ salon could hardly have been more suitable. The pathology museum at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, London was built in 1879 to house over 5,000 medical specimens, including pathological pots relating to all areas of anatomy and physiology. The natural light from its glass roof is superb for drawing life, still life and death.
My Art Macabre début had been as Egon the Skeleton at the carny-themed ‘Circus of Skeletons‘ earlier that month. This follow-up event was a shade closer to orthodox life (death) drawing, albeit in a highly unorthodox setting, so I was simply to be Steve the Skeleton this time around – an entirely satisfactory typecasting.
For the first 25 minutes after arriving, the artists were invited to explore the museum’s extraordinary collection and practise their anatomical drawing with a favourite exhibit. For the real enthusiasts there was almost no limit to the range of body parts on offer in many variations.
When they retook their places in a circle of chairs, Alex B stepped gracefully onto the central platform and disrobed. For a first five-minute pose she planted one leg, pointed her toes with the other, flexed her shoulders and raised a golden skull with a crooked arm. In that whole time, the skull barely wavered a centimetre. Top class modelling.
Changing position for a second five-minute pose she revealed her ‘Anatomical Venus’ painted torso to another section of the artists’ circle. A subsequent ten minute pose provided sufficient time for Nikki to apply my own skeletal face paint.
With thirty seconds to spare, I quickly stripped beneath my dressing gown and made ready to be next on stage. I would be posing alongside a medical skeleton suspended by its skull; a skeleton in life next to a skeleton in death.
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
After this fifteen-minute standing pose, Alex B joined me on the platform for a twenty-minute pose – me standing, Alex B seated on a table.
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
A short break allowed us to partake of the sumptuous buffet provided. Upon resuming we sat back-to-back on the table for a final forty-minute pose.
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
The time seemed to fly by. After taking applause and re-robing, there was a chance to admire some of the artists’ works. I will never cease to marvel at the manifest talent in these groups. I hope my efforts are adequate to give them satisfaction with their art.
Some outstanding examples are provided below.
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
Artwork by Robert Jones
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
Artwork by Robert Jones
Blog posts by the ‘Death Drawing’ makers:
First there was Victor – the strong man. Clad in faux bearskin underpants, leather wristbands and exotic touches of black facepaint, he growled his way out to centre stage before an audience of forty artists and struck dramatic one-minute and three-minute poses.
Next came Fevvers – the trapeze artist. In a feather tiara, with green feather-painted eyes, black feathered shoulders, classic fifties trapeze costume, Dr Martens, parasol and a train of ribbons, she stood erect and graceful to be drawn for seven minutes.
Finally came Egon – the skeleton clown. With a white painted face, skull-black eyes, nose and mouth, he wore a white swimming cap and a clown’s ruff, but was otherwise naked from the neck down. He posed for three minutes staring into the eyes of a skull mask, followed by five minutes atop a ladder… with a raven.
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
Raven Rouge – the ringleader – in white tutu, painted skull face, red-glittered nose and jauntily macabre black and red flowered hat, directed and narrated proceedings, whilst ‘It‘ – the saddest clown in the world – took official photographs.
This was the Art Macabre Drawing Salons ‘Circus of Skeletons‘, 6 August 2013.
Five days before this weirdness, I’d sent a speculative email to ask whether I might be of service to Art Macabre. As fate would have it, not only was the answer affirmative, it also came with an offer of immediate employment. Happiness!
I arrived at the venue, Cass Art in Islington, about an hour early. At the door I was told, “Sorry, we’ve closed as an art shop now.”
“But,” I enquired, “are you open as a Circus of Skeletons?”
“Yes!” came the beaming reply.
Words I never imagined I might one day utter: “I am one of your skeletons.”
Indeed, I was to be Egon.
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
After our individual poses Raven Rouge brought us back as the family of skeletons for a ten-minute mini tableau. Fevvers was centre stage, Egon perched on a table to one side, forlornly proffering plastic flowers, while Victor sat at the other side turning the other cheek.
After a short break, for novelty we all mugged our family portrait faces whilst Raven Rouge commanded the artists to draw whilst holding hands with the person next to them. This was a real life drawing ice breaker, if ever I’d seen one.
Our finale was a long “after the show” pose, imagining Fevvers in her dressing room, Victor putting his feet up with newspaper and sandwich, and Egon cross-legged with his favourite pet raven now in its cage. It all went splendidly well and when at last we moved again it was to the sound of warm applause.
© Art Macabre, Linsay Trerise 2013, all rights reserved www.deathdrawing.com
Raven Rouge invited the artists to lay out their works for all to admire. And certainly there were some very admirable works among them. Two artists in particular – a tall gentleman whose name escaped me, and Emma Alexandra Watts, resplendent with green-hair – had truly excelled.
After the artists had drifted off home we all posed together for group photos. I washed off my skull face paint (the black eye paint stubbornly remained like mascara, which I rather liked) and helped the others to pack away numerous seats and props.
A thoroughly entertaining evening was rounded off with beer and wine at the Wenlock and Essex, before we all called it a night. I left in keen anticipation of more grimness and greasepaint with Art Macabre Drawing Salons.
Blog posts by ‘Circus of Skeletons’ artists:
steve ritter 