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Belly wounds
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[03/16/00]

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Three months from giving birth, I had attended an art opening and noticed a cluster of tiny pen-and-ink nudes. I wanted a picture of me, too. I approached the local artist, who eagerly invited me to sit. In her cozy home studio, she introduced me to the art of modeling.

My husband moved out 10 years later. I had dated him since high school. We had gone to college together, opened and managed a bookstore together, raised our daughter together. When he left, it was as though he had taken all the mirrors in the house with him. I started to pose regularly for art classes. I thought that the indisputable black lines of the students would prove my existence: I am drawn, therefore I am.

Even today, with my divorce and identity crisis well behind me, I continue to model occasionally for schools and art groups. I think of it as an exercise in self-awareness. Besides, it's my way to participate in the making of art.

I don't bring up this activity of mine around my relatives. Only my younger sister, who worked in art restoration for a while, will ask about my modeling. Although my writing about modeling interests them, my family, like most, is rather squeamish when it comes to the subject of public nudity. Knowing that my nudity takes place in the context of art doesn't make them any more comfortable with hearing the details of my profession.

Caitlin, my teenage daughter, says that she has never felt embarrassed by my posing. She likes to hear my stories after I return from a stint. But Jeff, my beau since 1993, is troubled by my modeling. He has discussed with artists what they think about when they sketch a model, and he even took a figure-drawing class to try to understand what I do.

After almost 20 years of modeling, I expect to be able to anticipate how people will react to my vocation, but I am often caught off guard.

In August 1998, Caitlin needed to have her senior picture taken. Rather than go to the local photography studio, we decided to have her picture taken by John Shimon and Julie Lindemann, two art photographers who work out of their home studio in Manitowoc, Wis., a small town 90 miles north of Milwaukee.

John and Julie specialize in the use of antique cameras, like their 700-pound mahogany Deardorff from the 1940s. They carefully select cameras and lighting to make black-and-white images that are simultaneously direct and dreamy.

Caitlin and I traveled to Manitowoc with a larger agenda than creating a senior photo that would stand out. We also wanted to have Julie and John take some mother/daughter portraits to mark Caitlin's 18th birthday. A few days before we left, I had the idea of taking some pictures in which Caitlin would have her clothes on and I would have my clothes off. A nude of me drawn the night before Caitlin's birth always hangs in a place of honor wherever I've lived since; I envisioned a "matching" portrait of Caitlin entering adulthood with me, sans clothes, as an important reminder of her entrance into the world. I discussed my idea with Caitlin, John and Julie and we agreed to try it.

I considered informing Jeff about our tentative plan before I left for Manitowoc. We were a committed couple and anticipated living together after Caitlin left for school the following August. As a rule, I'd always tell Jeff where and when I'd be modeling the day before a session. Sometimes he'd give an unconcerned shrug, sometimes he'd commend me for engaging in a misunderstood profession and sometimes he'd demand that I explain to him once again why I found it necessary to continue my modeling.

I decided not to tell this time. After all, I rationalized, Manitowoc wasn't a typical modeling session. I would be nude in a private setting; it would be modeling as a private act. And I kidded myself that we might not even have the time and desire to experiment with my idea.

Of course we did.

About three hours into the session, we came to the last pose. I told John and Julie I wanted a picture with my clavicles showing. Julie carried over a stool for me to sit on, and I brought my arms forward so the long bones between my neck and shoulders would jut out. Julie suggested that Caitlin change into her formal outfit, a sleeveless, floor-length black dress. After a few minutes, Caitlin returned and stood behind me.

Julie directed Caitlin to swing her right arm in front of me, to show off her long nails. "Maybe it should look almost like you are ready to clutch her heart," Julie prompted.

We all collaborated. Julie asked Caitlin to look straight into the camera lens. I wanted to tilt my head back and look up, but John and Julie had me try some other positions. After some debate, they voted to have my head turned to the side. John moved the lights around, checked his light meter and closed the shutter. Julie slid in the 11-by-14-inch film holder and stepped back. Julie and John didn't say anything to let us know when they'd take the picture. This waiting made Caitlin and me concentrate even more. No one blinked. Julie squeezed the air release. The session was over.

Caitlin and I changed into shorts and carried our clothes back to the car. We both felt exhilarated. "Can we come back and do it again next week?" Caitlin begged, only half-kidding. Julie promised the proofs would arrive at our door the next Friday. We wondered how we would manage to wait seven days.

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