Feb. 12, 2007
Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal

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Fear combines with loafing as our reporter sheds more than his inhibitions for art

You know that dream where you're late for class and everybody stares at you — and you're naked?

I'm not late. And I'm not dreaming. I'm a nude model in Stewart Freshwater's life-drawing class at the Contemporary Arts Collective.

I'm told that a certain part of the male anatomy is required to tackle some of these adventures. Tonight, this is especially true. And for more reasons than are apparent.

Normally, I'm trained by the person I replace. I ask about their background and motivation, and pick up tips. It instills a measure of confidence. A nude model named Jack was supposed to serve this purpose. But he's a no-show, and he isn't answering his cell phone. (No pockets, perhaps?)

Before the artists arrive, Freshwater tries to help by showing me a photo book, "The Nude Figure: A Visual Reference for the Artist" by Mark Edward Smith. It features dozens of strained positions suggestive of a regrettable game of Twister with your fat Uncle Mel.

"Twisting is good for your first set of poses," Freshwater says, explaining that, since these are held for five minutes each, they can be more strenuous than the postures at the end of the three-hour class, which last 30 minutes each.

Nude models in Freshwater's class earn $20 an hour (considerably less than the million dollars almost everyone I know says they'd require). It's raised by a collection from the artists at the night's end. Freshwater says the models find the class through word of mouth.

It's show — everything — time. I emerge from the (un)dressing room in a Hugh Hefner robe. Nine students are in place at easels around a 6-by-6-foot wooden platform Freshwater built before the session. Most use this class as an exercise, to keep their chops up — although a couple may expose me in additional unwanted ways.

Dottie Burton and Diane Eugster, two of my portraitists, have a show in October at the Gallery in Summerlin that I might be a part of.

"You never know," says Burton.

It's no different from a gym locker room. This is what I tell myself as I ascend the platform. I'm not comfortable in my birthday suit. I've never hot-tubbed without swim trunks. Commando isn't even something I go.

Yeah, right, I answer myself back — a gym locker room where the other members are fully clothed and studying your shortcomings in a semicircle around you.

The nude human form as art goes back to early Greek and Roman sculpture. It took a breather during the Dark Ages, when party-pooping authorities threatened life-drawers with death. But the artists of the Renaissance picked the ball back up and painted the stunning images that we cherish today in art museums (yet can't display on prime-time TV or the streets of many U.S. cities, because things have darkened back up).

Gestures come first. Every five minutes for the first hour, I affect a different pose. I twist to the left, then the right.

Then I sit — carefully. The platform is lined with bedding Freshwater swears is clean. But is there really enough detergent in the world to achieve this objective? (Usually, there is no known answer to "What disgusting things have been on these sheets recently?" In a nude art class, there is.)

"Find a spot in the distance and focus with your eye in relation to that," Freshwater advises me.

I go through my memory of what I saw in the book of fat Uncle Mel. But, not unlike Ben Stiller in "Zoolander," I find the bottom of my modeling repertoire scraped after my first pose.

"We once had a model who stood on his head," says a young male wisenheimer whose seat is, in my opinion, way too close to the platform.

Unlike most people you'll meet, I have actual job experience standing still. But there's one big difference between this gig and being a living statue at The Venetian. And, unfortunately for me, it isn't so big right now.

"Here," Freshwater says as he lugs a space heater over.

This same problem plagued George Costanza after swimming in a cold pool on "Seinfeld." Jerry dubbed it "shrinkage."

"It shrinks?" Elaine asked.

"Like a frightened turtle," Jerry replied.

On the embarrassment meter, however, shrinkage has an equal in the opposite problem, which occurs during my fifth or sixth pose. The air has warmed and the distant spot I've chosen to focus on is the female subject of "Contents," an acrylic-on-canvas by Las Vegas artist Dray.

I try shifting focus to a mental image of Mr. Playa, my middle-school gym teacher. Just in case he isn't enough, however, I move my eyes toward the Henry Vargas photo of a Buddha to the left of "Contents."

One of the painters loudly clears his throat. Another difference between being a living statue and a nude model is that at The Venetian, people pointed and laughed when I moved. Here, they grow annoyed. The teensiest shift throws off the lines of light and shadow that painters strive to perfectly re-create.

Oh, and speaking of Buddha, I was completely wrong about which of my body parts would be the most disconcerting for me to see rendered on canvas.

"Artists exaggerate," Burton says as I steal my first glances at the sketches during a break.

In what must be an incredible coincidence, all nine artists have chosen to "exaggerate" the exact same feature (my stomach) to the exact same degree. Either that, or I have actually become my fat Uncle Mel.

"They want something a little less symmetrical," Freshwater says.

We have entered the home stretch and the poses are now sitcom length.

"Try leaning back," he says.

I should not have taken this advice. This morning, I had a cavity filled under my gumline. An incision had to be made.

"That's gonna hurt when the novocaine wears off," my dentist said. Pain medicine made sure it wouldn't.

My eyes flutter toward sleep, where my crumpled legs already are. This seemed a lot easier for Kate Winslet in "Titanic."

When I reveal myself (in the other way), however, I'm greeted by a surprise reaction. I'm not as bad at this as I thought.

"No, you did a good job," says artist Bob Rawdin. "Most of the other guys can't hold a pose at all."

Even the throat-clearing guy was OK with my performance. He just has a cold.

"Come back any time," he says.

Hmm. So insecurities get magnified when you're standing naked in a room full of clothed strangers. Who knew?

As I step into my robe, Burton looks as though a light bulb switched on above her head.

"I thought you looked familiar," she says.

"Not that part," she clarifies.

Fear and Loafing appears every Monday in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures can be found at www.fearandloafing.com.