I expected college to be different I just did not know how different. Mainly it was a question of attitude. There are no virgins, so the novelty, shame, fear or amusement with sex is not there. It is a far more open environment where some do and some don't but there is no stigma. For my part I did not change my approach. Classes were academic exercises that took place on campus I needed to do to obtain a degree. I did not have much of a choice. On the other hand I partook of social activities of my own choosing. I cannot say I was a fervent support of the institution. I viewed it more as a means to an end. Consequently, when I was not in class I tended to be on my own, with associates of my choosing and left to my own devices.
Sculpture was an art form that was new to me. The bookwork, like most academic endeavor, required concentration and determination to master. The practical studio work was different. All the books in the world do not make a good artist, much less a sculptor. Mixing, kneading and shaping raw clay to conform to a physical model, or even the image in my mind, was a daunting task. Needless to say, it was not my best experience.
Add to this the instructor, Auslander, a well-known artist, in certain circles, with an established studio and a legion of purchasers willing to overpay for his work. His name was Ben Auslander but everyone called him just Auslander, not professor, not mister not Ben, just Auslander.
I felt Auslander did not care for me or my talents and his attitude seemed condescending towards me. However, his attitude changed at the start of the second semester in a subtle way. I cannot place exactly what it was. Perhaps it was a little more attention to my work, more constructive comments and less criticism, more politeness on his part. Whatever it was, however subtle, it was perceptible.
As I struggled with an assignment, that at best would make a gaudy lamp stand, he approached my table. Expecting a torrent of invective, I was taken back when he made a suggestion. Nothing earthshaking, but it was a sincere comment on how I could improve my technique. I acknowledged his comments and tried to implement them. As I did he stood by and smiled, then nodded approvingly and moved on without further comment.
After a few classes under the changed demeanor, the motive started to become clear. It was Friday, my last class of the week and I was lackadaisically putting the finishing touches on a not too attractive abstract work. As I dragged my ass about finishing the assignment, Auslander ambled over to my workstation. He was not wearing his smock and for the first time I noticed how short and chubby he was. He belt was pulled too tight and a roll of fat bulged above and below the cincture. After hoisting his chubby body up on the edge of the bench across from mine, he cleared his throat a few times to attract my attention. I looked up and he acknowledged me. "I understand we have a mutual acquaintance" he began, "a budding thespian and artist named Carl".
"Carl!" I replied. My mind raced back over the intervening years. "Wow, I have not spoken to him in eons. How is he doing?"
"He is well. He and I are members of a small theater group. It was quite by accident that your name came up in conversation, six degrees of separation and all that. It truly is a small world, especially in artistic circles".
I smiled and nodded not speaking but knowing this was leading somewhere.
"Carl conveyed to me that you have done some modeling and, if you are interested, I am looking for someone to model for a commission I recently received. Is that something that would appeal to you?"
"Depending on my schedule, if I have the time, I would be interested." I was curious how much Carl had told Auslander. That I was a willing nude model may be what interested Auslander. If Carl was very talkative, it could have been the raucous sex that culminated each session that piqued his curiosity.
"Tomorrow morning, two hours, 10 to 12 at my studio. I will pay you $25 per hour -- cash. It will require you to be nude. I need to produce four to six clay statuettes that I can scale to larger images. It will just be you and I and I am very discrete." His rapid-fire delivery was designed to minimize the amount of time of I could think about the offer. He wanted a "yes or no" and he needed an answer now.
I paused as if in thought as if struggling with the decision, when in fact I decided to accept.
"By the way, when I said just you and me, even my wife will not be present". Claudia, Aulander's wife, was a recognized artist in her own right. Frequently she appeared on the society pages hosting exhibits of her work. Unlike Auslander, she specialized in portraits rather than sculptures.
"Tomorrow morning is fine with me. I have plans for the afternoon, but if we are finish about noon, I accept." I lied about the plans but I wanted an excuse to leave promptly.
Auslander handed me a folded paper. Before I had a chance to open it, he interjected, "directions to my studio." As I hesitated, he continued, "in case you don't know it is also my house, but it is a fine studio. You will be impressed."
Without waiting for a reply he hopped down from the edge of the bench and left me at my workstation.
The directions were straightforward. The studio was in an old residential area that was way past its prime. I heard that efforts were afoot to renovate and gentrify the area but I still considered it a 'seedy' neighborhood at best.
Low grey skies and a cold winter breeze made me opt for a knit hat and winter coat as I made my way to the commuter train. Five stops late I disembarked and started walking in the general direction of the studio. After about fifteen minutes I found the street. It was several blocks of three-story brick townhouses. In their day, perhaps the early 1900s, this was a fashionable area but not now. I had memorized the direction and the address so I did not give the impression of being a stranger to the areas. It was an even number which meant it would be on the north side of the street, so I walked past the bleak façades furtively checking the numbers haphazardly attached to weathered doors.
As I counted down the numbers, one house seemed to leap from the rest. The brick was weathered but meticulously maintained. Tasteful curtains graced the large, clean, palladium windows. The door was a gloss black, flawlessly applied so not a ripple was evident. A brass plaque was mounted beside the door which read "Olivieri Studio est. 1881". Without even checking the number, I knew this was Auslander's house.
I checked my watch I was 10 minutes early. Better to be a little early than a little late, so I pressed the doorbell. Almost immediately, on cue, the door opened and Auslander, in his smock and beret, begged me to enter. I was in a vestibule that opened to a long corridor that lead down the length of the house ending at the kitchen. To my left was a series of rooms, each tastefully but sparsely appointed.
"The living room", Auslander recounted as we made our way past the first entryway. We entered the second room, "the parlor" he paused and pointed, "the dining room and then, of course, the kitchen." I nodded as we crossed the parlor to the base of the stairs and ascended. The stairs wound to the second floor, "rooms" he stated without being specific and continued climbing. The stairs ended at a landing on the third floor with one door leading to the front and one towards the back of the house. Auslander fumbled inside his smock for a key and opened that door leading to the studio in the back of the house.
The studio was a cavernous, uncluttered open area extending to the back of the house. Tables and easels were neatly arranged down the walls complete with supplies and implements. Before the far wall was a low dais and behind that an enormous stage curtain. Auslander walked to the corner, pulled on a drawstring, which opened the curtain to reveal a sloping wall of large glass panes. The glass was about a sixty-degree angle. One could walk towards the wall and at some point look straight up to the sky above. This made the studio suddenly become awash in soft natural light.
"North light", he said professorially, "a requirement for any serious artistic endeavor. Are you ready?" As he inquired he motioned towards a coat rack.
