He got my name through the university art department. They recommended me as I was always on time, the professors liked working with me, and I was in need of the cash. Over a year had passed and I was still faithfully coming to his studio every week, lately twice a week. In the beginning I worked for several other artists as well but he began demanding more and more of my time. My nude likeness hung in several galleries around the south and one in New York. And while he had worked with other girls before, for now, I was the only one he wanted to paint. I was his favorite model.
He was ten years older than me and at the time I supposed wiser. His face was handsomely masculine with a heavy brow and strong chin, framed by thick, long blonde hair. His brown eyes were honest and often crinkled in an easy smile.
We spent long hours alone in his studio, his brush sliding across the hand stretched canvases following the contours of my body, my skin. His large hands held the long brushes lightly and at other times he used broad sweeping arm movements washing the canvas with a wide brush.
Over the months we developed an easy banter and I often brashly critiqued his work wandering the bare, wood floors of his studio completely comfortable in nothing but skin. He told me of the art galleries, of rabbit-skin glue, and hand mixed pigments and I would ramble on about my professors and fledgling love life, such as it was; while the heat turned to winter chill then slowly turned again.
He would often position me upon a large red chair; throw cushions behind and beneath me. He told me which leg to move, which way to point my toe, how far to arch my back, tip my head, and then when it was just right he would say, 'hold'.
I could hold a pose for hours, draped odalisque-like upon his red chair. He would smile and nod as I told my youthful tales then tell me to hush as he concentrated over some detail that would catch his eye. I watched the beads of sweat slide down his face, his t-shirt damp in the heat and his focus. He loved each canvas, obsessing over it, filling it with form and light and often plunging deep shadows.
The first time he touched me I was trying to move into a position he wanted. I couldn't quite get it right. He came around from behind his easel to look down at me, his arms folded across his broad chest. I tipped my head in surrender and he reached for my arms twisting them to the angle he liked then shifted my lower body with his hands on my hips. He turned and walked back to his easel continuing to set up his paint in silence. From then on he positioned me himself. I was his soft, flesh mannequin and I didn't mind at all.
