How Art Has Influenced My Life (in response to Judith HeartSong's call for essays)

How Art Has Influenced My Life
(in response to Judith Heartsong’s call for essays)

http://journals.aol.com/judithheartsong/newbeginning/entries/1039

{**edit Thursday 13 Jan 11 by author DKWolf:  AOL journals no longer exist, so this link is not active}

 I knocked on the door, winded with excitement and from the climb of rickety wooden stairs to the small studio above the Chinese restaurant on the lower part of the main street.  I could feel the grin on my face stretching my chapped lips, knew that my eyes must be shining with anticipation.  I tugged the cuffs of my sweater, a nervous habit that I picked up somewhere along the way and since have lost.

“c’min!”  his voice called, dropping into muffled curses and cascading thuds of falling canvases, books, and assorted other objects.  I twisted and tugged, pushedand finally realized the door was locked and I was going to have to wait, rather impatiently but not rudely, I sang out, “I can’t!”  Just then the door flew open and he gathered me up into his arms in one of his friendly exuberant hugs that most everyone loved.  Then just as abruptly, he set me back from him, holding me at arms length and perusing me with pursed lips.  He scowled, scolding me, “you really ought to do SOMETHING with ….” He gestured vaguely toward my unmade flushed face, or was it my unevenly chopped hair?  “no matter,” he muttered, turning away and tripping over a towering leaning stack of books.  “come come,” accompanied with his trademark snap/clap that ONLY he could pull off with such authenticity.  Leading the way into the small cramped well-lighted back corner of his apartment, he chattered at me in a breathless melodic monologue that ended with a hasty question, which I almost missed, as I was feeling the lag of hearing the words and processing what he was saying.  I was trying to take it all in, as delightful as visiting him was, every time felt to me to be only the second time, as I recognized very few things, but being fascinated with so much more.

He was talking again, explaining what he wanted, how he wanted it, why he just KNEW that I would be perfect for this project and would I please, please TRY to pay attention?  “take off that ghastly thing, what IS that white streak there?  (it was where I had leaned against his freshly bleached counter on a previous visit) Oh, never mind, leave it, it’s so, well so you.”  He deposited me on the sofa, which I always found uncomfortably stuffed.  SoI moved to the edge and intertwined my legs, then draping my arms over them and leaning forward to watch him whirling about like some sort of dervish dancer, setting up his tools, brushes, canvas, and the like.  Most of his words showered over me, streaming at a constant rate that I did not try to follow, focusing instead on his face as his expression became more serious and his body more still.

“hold that,” he whispered with such urgency that I was startled and almost fell into a heap on the worn matted chartreuse shag carpeting.  Then silence sounded so loudly it hurt my ears and my eyes teared.  I blinked rapidly but then cut that short too.  I found that I was hardly breathing, so shallow, so as not to disturb the air, my skin, the wrinkles of my clothes, and least of all did I want to disturb his work, his concentration as he captured ME on canvas.

ME?!?  I could hardly believe it when he first told me that he wanted me to pose for him for his new series.  Hewanted to take less than perfectly beautiful women and show the world their sensuality, their vitality, and somewhere along about there he lost me as my mind tried to settle on which response I should be feeling, slightly offended from the left-handed compliment, or honored that he had chosen ME…?

Of course I agreed, thinking that it would never happen, as he has too many enthusiastic ideas that never come into being, as he is only human and has only so many resources.  Also, I doubted he would really want me to pose for him.  Then too there was my cramped schedule of two part-time jobs, full-time undergrad student class load, and study time.

But itdid happen, there I sat, comfortable for a bit and then tingling numbness eventually set in as the blood flow was limited to certain parts of my body.  I grew lightheaded from shallow breathing.  Snapping out of my zone, I realized he was again moving about, talking, cleaning brushes.

I was loath to move, lest Ibreak some sort of special spell of the situation.  But the sitting was past, finished.  So I stood and shook myself, rubbing circulation back into my extremities as best as I could.  I wanted so badly to see the canvas.  How did he SEE me?  But I was so shy to approach, awkward lest I violate some code of conduct.

But he gestured toward the canvas, exasperation in his voice, “doncha wanna see it?”  YES, I silently screamed, but instead I only nodded and tiptoed around to take a peek.  I was speechless, a rare state for me.  It was me, with something extra.  Me, but moreso, if that makes sense at all.  An extra playfulness to the curve of my slight smile.  A sort of intensity to my gaze I did not realize was there.  A certain appeal to the angle of my head, the curve of my cheeks.  I looked graceful, and I never felt graceful in my life!

The rendering of me was astounding.  But what surprised me even more, thrilling me still (some 15 years later) is that someone bought it, paying what seemed to me to be an obscene amount of money for a painting of someone they did not know.  Although art has influenced me in many ways, at various times, this situation has had great impact.  Mostly because I became aware that others might see me radically different than I.  Perhaps, I was a creature of beauty, of sensuality, of appeal.