My figure drawing professor approached me after class and asked if I’d model for her. It would take just an hour, she said, and I’d be be fully clothed. She needed women for her “vices” series. She said I had an interesting face.
I arrived at the appointed time in a white t-shirt and shorts, and met the other model. She was dark-haired, like me, with a face I wanted to fall asleep beside.
Decades later, somewhere in the world, she and I are hanging in a hall or rolled up in a closet together, in a work entitled “Jealousy.”
For my college degree, I had to take Studio Art classes. My Life Drawing professor gave us explicit instructions to never throw failed art works away. “Even if it’s terrible. Even if it’s experimental, and failed horribly. I need to see all of your work. I’ll be kind,” she said.
Of course, I didn’t do what she asked.
Self-portrait, in the garbage. Awful action pose using cross-hatching, tossed away.
For some reason, words work differently. I don’t throw away what doesn’t work, or what’s been abandoned, or what’s been crossed out in confusion. It’s easier, with words, to be kind.