I Saw Nude People

I remember our first male model in art school who looked really cute when he walked through the door, until he took his clothes off. I remember the old man and old women who modeled nude together and looked beautiful. I remember April who wasn't much older than me. She had a tiny heart tattoo near her breast, I thought it was cool, and then I wanted one too.

I remember avoiding the genitalia of the male models. If it was an all day pose I would move my easel so I could avoid it completely, if we were doing quick sketches croquis as my instructors referred to them, I just made a line or two. In the beginning it was an embarrassing process for me. By my third year I would strike up conversations with the models.

Forcing a person to stare at the human figure in all forms is a sobering experience. When people are stripped of their clothes, many of our assumptions are removed, therefore there is less to judge. When they are speechless before you for hours, you begin to wonder what skin deep really means.

I saw nude people. A lot of nude people. I learned to appreciate the beauty of the human form in all shapes, sizes and colors. I consider it a special gift that came with my art training.

I needed it after being traumatized by my Nana making me take a bath with her when I was six or seven.

Thanks to Art school, I'm no longer traumatized. 

Practically Naked

Witness now the downfall of my morning's acceptable clothing to drive my child to school in.

In the beginning I would walk my daughter through the school yard, chit chat with the other parents and greet the teachers. I would have my clothes on for work, my hair brushed, a bit of make up on and my teeth cleaned. The weather was nice and the year was fresh and new.

It was a slow demise. As the year progressed she no longer needed to be walked through the school yard. She was more comfortable with her surroundings. I could now drop her off and be home alone for thirty minutes. This was the beginning of the end. First I stopped applying make up. When the winter came I would just throw a coat over whatever I had on. Then I started wearing a Baseball Cap with a ponytail. Last but not least I wasn't going to be talking to anyone so why brush?

In the Spring, thirty minutes became forty five and the coat was replaced with a sweater. After a few weeks of feeling comfortable with the new me, I started leaving the house in whatever I had slept in. (or at least what wound up on my bed) After all, who's looking? Now I'm just your basic Mom, dropping my kid off in the car. The kind of woman I watched with horror. "How could she leave the house like that?" Well, it's pretty easy.

Today was the last day of school. I rose early, dressed, made up, brushed and went directly to work after the drop off. I was forty minutes early, even my boss noticed.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

School Day Microcosm

I drive my kid to school most mornings. I'm often reminded of the scene in "Mr. Mom" when Micheal Keaton drops his kid off for the first time, the Mom's start yelling at him because he's going the wrong way. There is a proper morning etiquette and most people follow it. Without it, mayhem would be inevitable. I see the disappointment on the crossing guards face when a driver disobeys the rules. Some mornings parents are distracted, on others they're simply stupid.

The little kids that walk are just too cute with their humongus backpacks and hip little get ups. The big kids have that "I'm so cool" attitude all ready. Some of the parents share a friendly wave. Sometimes I see a parent carrying a tray of silver foil that protects precious birthday cupcakes. Other days it's a student with a giant poster board filled with historical facts blowing against the wind.

I enjoy watching all of the various interactions. I like to imagine how the children may grow and change, and watch the developing personalities. Some look like twins to a parent, while others bare no resemblance.
For this small part of the day it all works like a well oiled engine.

I know lives are not simple. There are millions of stories, and my daily view is just a microcosm. But every weekday for fifteen minutes I get the chance to pretend every family is a happy one.

The Artist in Me

Some years ago, while walking through the mall I spotted a young woman with a t-shirt that touted "Connections but NO Talent". Of course my brain immediately reversed it to fit my own jaded description of my plight to "Talent but NO Connections". I went to Art school.

Seems today every Tom. Dick and EmmyLou is a creative entrepreneur. But I often ponder, what exactly is the difference between true creative art and a gimmick disguised as art. What are the fine variables that define the artist from the entrepreneur? The art that emotes from the art that revolts? How does an artist find success if he or she is not motivated by money? Is the artist who is motivated by it any less creative? How do connections play in?

There are theories and definitions that have been written through the ages about this so I won't go on and on.

I just needed to get this off my chest.