The woman in front of me was naked except for a pair of black thong underwear. I studied the way the light fell on her face, her neck, her small breasts, and tried to reproduce it on the sketchpad propped up on my lap.
It was back in college, and I had signed up for a nude drawing class for alternative class program day. Not surprisingly, mostly boys had signed up. I joined not because I wanted to see a naked lady (big deal, I see one in my bathroom every day), but because I wanted to draw one. I’d never drawn a nude model before.
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To pose in the nude is one of the ‘must-dos’ in your life’s checklist. It allows you to capture or immortalize the state of being comfortable with you and your own body. And to be able to be naked in front of an artist affirms strength from within.
Likewise, to bare oneself and to be subjected to the artist’s creative processes are among the few moments that you express your openness in dealing with it. The vulnerability of being interpreted by the artist’s eye gives you a view on how others see you in your uncovered persona both literally and figuratively.
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Back in nursery school, we had some program where I had to do a costume change in between numbers. I distinctly remember my mom hurrying me along, telling me to take my clothes off—in full view of a classroomful of people! I was so reluctant, and I couldn’t understand why my mom didn’t think it was a big deal for me to strip in front of all those strangers. It happened again at a family beach trip. I was so unwilling to change into my swimsuit out in the open, but as with the previous incident, didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. It’s strange to me now that, at three or four years of age, I already had a concept of hiya.
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So what would it take for me to pose with my bare bottom goose-bumped against the chilly October air? Only two things, really: trust and taste.
I could fantasize about some post-modern artiste lauded as “this generation’s Dali” creating a mural in my honor (never mind that the disproportionate body parts have nothing to do with surrealism), or serendipitously earning a few hours across the lenses of Mario Testino, fashion prime mover and photographer to the stars (Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow, Princess Diana, Kate Moss, and many more).
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I sketched a nude woman for my painting and drafting class in fourth year high school. Some of my classmates were understandably shocked with the whole vision and experience, but I found it oddly comfortable. I admired the model for her confidence and womanly body, and the artists surrounding us for their skillful strokes. During breaks, the girl would walk around in a sarong and look at how our sketches looked. She was so at ease and completely un-self conscious. I have the utmost respect not just for the artists, but also for the nude models that serve as their subjects.
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If a group of artists approached me and asked me to pose in my birthday suit, I’d say, “Hell, yes! But you have to give me a year to get ready.” I mean, hey, if I’m going to be immortalized on canvass, there’s no way on earth that I’d allow myself to be captured in a painting with the cursed break-up weight I’ve happily packed on for the past few months.
Assuming that the artists would agree to wait, I’d immediately swear off all forms of junk food, red meat, and rice. I’d go on the South Beach wachamacallit and get myself a personal trainer to whip me into shape. I’d get Manny Pacquaio’s trainer because, gosh, Manny’s body looks killer each time he goes in training. I could also go for Marvin Agustin’s trainer. Heck, Marvin’s body looks hot these days.
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