When I’m life modelling my body is no longer a sexual object
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Version 0 of 1. People often ask how I became a life model, but it doesn’t seem at all odd to me. It was a job I always knew was there, like being a doctor or a fireman. Starting up two years ago was like most first jobs; I found a few local artists and offered to work for them, fibbed about having experience, and muddled along until I learned the ropes. Related: My evening as a nude life model It’s strange how people react when I tell them what I do. Most think it’s really exciting, but I’ve had a couple of people who’ve said that I’ve barred myself from any “real” profession for life. As well as that, it’s amazing the number of people who think they could do my job, and assume that all I do is sit on my arse. I’m not saying it’s skilled work like medicine, or law, but it takes about 50 hours of experience before you learn to sit well. Most people my age boast that they’d be fine being naked around strangers, but that’s not the hardest part, at least not for me. I’m fine with the nudity – it’s got to the point where I feel strange talking to artists when I’m fully dressed. But having up to 50 people silently stare at me for an hour took some getting used to, as did holding a professional conversation while in the nip. Typically I’m hired in three-hour sessions at around £12 per hour, and I work about 10 hours each week. However, the pay can vary between £6 and £35 an hour, and travel isn’t covered. I sometimes get paid more for harder poses, or if the artist I’m working for is an older man, presumably because they’re worried that I might feel more uncomfortable than usual (I don’t). It’s only a part-time student job for me, but there are some models who earn their whole income through posing. I haven’t told my parents (they’d probably think I was one step away from prostitution) so they’re under the impression that I get the cash from tutoring. Though the job has a bohemian image, there’s loads of admin, and I spend about two hours a week chasing new jobs and writing up invoices. Some artists, being creative souls, forget to pay me and need gentle prodding. There are also the usual rounds of DBS checks and child protection courses that come with a career in education. Physical conditions are variable. Temperatures of 5C (41F) are quite normal, and having somewhere private to undress is a rarity, meaning that I sometimes fall into a passing student while wriggling out of my tights. There have been a few bad moments. Cleanliness is also an issue – sheets that other models have lain on often carry a questionable stain or two. I once had a job at the Ruskin School of Art where the teacher didn’t bother to ask my name before he ordered me to take my clothes off. But mostly any moments of awkwardness resolve themselves through humour. Once a non-English-speaking sixth-former was taking pictures on his phone, because he hadn’t understood the instructions from the teacher. I started shouting at him to put his phone away, until it suddenly occurred to me that, to a 16-year-old boy, there are few experiences more terrifying than a naked woman shouting at you in a language you don’t understand, in front of all your friends. I still worry that I embarrassed him permanently. Some jobs are forgettable, but the work in schools always sticks in my mind. At the start, the boys seem to think that they’re not allowed to look at me, leaving them staring, red-faced, at the floor until the teacher can coax them into drawing. The girls are generally more sensible about it, but depressingly, their paintings often look identical – a girl with huge, perky breasts, no waist or pubes to speak of, and legs about to snap under her. In reality, I’m about a size 12, with pubic hair I generally leave to its own devices. After all, it gets cold – I’ll take all the insulation I can get. Taken altogether, the work is close to perfect. You’re working with people when they’re at their happiest and most creative. There’s loads of variety – I’ve been trapped in a cage, covered in glitter and acrylic, crucified, tied up, entwined with a skeleton and bondage whip, and electronically scanned. And with the invites to exhibitions that are involved, it also provides a sizable part of my social life. It can be a useful way to flirt with people you’ve just been introduced to (“I take my clothes off for a living. What do you do?”). But the best part is that my body, while actively being considered, is not a sexual object. I’m a young woman; it can sometimes feel like all that’s important in life is whether I’m fat, or thin, or too hairy, or not toned enough. When I was younger, it seemed like that self-loathing pushed every other topic out of consideration. Now it doesn’t matter whether I’m fat one day – it’s just another bit of shading on the page. |