2008 Woodie Awards
A-broader view
Nude Modeling: The hardest part isn't parts getting hard
Stephen Hausmann
Issue date: 2/26/08 Section: Life and Style
It's funny how far one can come in four years.
My junior year of high school, I was typing price changes into a cash register at Eckerd Pharmacy, being paid minimum wage to act brain-dead for six hours a day.
My junior year of college, however, I'm standing naked in front of 30 people, being paid $18 an hour to act like I'm "a frog" or "feeling triumphant" for two hours a night.
Such is the life of a University of Kent life model.
Pints don't come for free and with the money I had saved over the summer dwindling fast - no thanks to over-my-head economic voodoo involving the exchange rate - it was high time I went job hunting.
My choices were limited. The fish-and-chip shop down the street was hiring, but reeking of vinegar and cod every night, seemed less than appealing.
The on-campus dance club was looking for people, but for sanity's sake, I decided not to subject myself to non-stop, terribly over-bassed, house music three nights a week.
Options wearing thin, I came across a peculiar ad: "Wanted: Life models for U of K Art Department. Men and women. Clothing Minimal."
Clothing minimal?
I didn't want to be known as "the naked guy."
Sure, I had skinny dipped before, a handful of times.
Yes, things had happened at parties that shan't be spoken of here.
But did I really want to cross the final frontier?
Was I comfortable enough with my body to throw it onto canvasses across England?
Two weeks later, I was at my audition, being asked to act like I was using a "pneumatic drill."
I couldn't imagine what kind of class this was that I would be painted jackhammering, but I complied and apparently was convincing enough to be awarded the job.
Thus, the next entry in my resume: Eckerd cashier, Wegman's cart-collector, Erie Canal tourboat guide, nude model.
And really, it's harder than you'd think and for different reasons than you'd assume.
I'm often asked (by guys, typically) about a certain worry over semi-controllable bodily - exercises.
My answer is that when you've been standing in place, in a hot room, for 12 minutes, with muscles you never knew you had flaming with pain, erections are the least of your worries.
Self-consciousness also isn't much of a concern.
One needs to be more than somewhat confident in his or herself and ones body to apply for such a job in the first place and I have nothing that most of the people in the room haven't seen before (or so I presume).
The hardest part isn't parts getting hard, nor is it worries over body image. It's the itching.
The moment you freeze in place, pretending, for in¬stance, you've just been stabbed on a battlefield, immediately your face needs to be scratched, your leg needs a scratch and oh man, the small of your back just YEARNS to be itched.
It all boils down to mind over matter; keep an eye out for me straining to hold still, coming soon to an art gallery near you.
My junior year of high school, I was typing price changes into a cash register at Eckerd Pharmacy, being paid minimum wage to act brain-dead for six hours a day.
My junior year of college, however, I'm standing naked in front of 30 people, being paid $18 an hour to act like I'm "a frog" or "feeling triumphant" for two hours a night.
Such is the life of a University of Kent life model.
Pints don't come for free and with the money I had saved over the summer dwindling fast - no thanks to over-my-head economic voodoo involving the exchange rate - it was high time I went job hunting.
My choices were limited. The fish-and-chip shop down the street was hiring, but reeking of vinegar and cod every night, seemed less than appealing.
The on-campus dance club was looking for people, but for sanity's sake, I decided not to subject myself to non-stop, terribly over-bassed, house music three nights a week.
Options wearing thin, I came across a peculiar ad: "Wanted: Life models for U of K Art Department. Men and women. Clothing Minimal."
Clothing minimal?
I didn't want to be known as "the naked guy."
Sure, I had skinny dipped before, a handful of times.
Yes, things had happened at parties that shan't be spoken of here.
But did I really want to cross the final frontier?
Was I comfortable enough with my body to throw it onto canvasses across England?
Two weeks later, I was at my audition, being asked to act like I was using a "pneumatic drill."
I couldn't imagine what kind of class this was that I would be painted jackhammering, but I complied and apparently was convincing enough to be awarded the job.
Thus, the next entry in my resume: Eckerd cashier, Wegman's cart-collector, Erie Canal tourboat guide, nude model.
And really, it's harder than you'd think and for different reasons than you'd assume.
I'm often asked (by guys, typically) about a certain worry over semi-controllable bodily - exercises.
My answer is that when you've been standing in place, in a hot room, for 12 minutes, with muscles you never knew you had flaming with pain, erections are the least of your worries.
Self-consciousness also isn't much of a concern.
One needs to be more than somewhat confident in his or herself and ones body to apply for such a job in the first place and I have nothing that most of the people in the room haven't seen before (or so I presume).
The hardest part isn't parts getting hard, nor is it worries over body image. It's the itching.
The moment you freeze in place, pretending, for in¬stance, you've just been stabbed on a battlefield, immediately your face needs to be scratched, your leg needs a scratch and oh man, the small of your back just YEARNS to be itched.
It all boils down to mind over matter; keep an eye out for me straining to hold still, coming soon to an art gallery near you.
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