My wife is a painter, and I was posing for her the other day. The poem comes from pretending what I might think if I were a professional model. I experimenting with some longer lines here, supposedly reflecting the interminable length of time a model has to hold a pose. I think there's a poem in here somewhere, but I'm not sure I've found it yet.
The Art of Modeling
It takes a lot of effort just to stay the same.
Ears itch, smiles sag, muscles ache to move,
but I must ignore all desires and make an instant last
hours – longer if the artist captures it correctly.
I must master mindful mindlessness: no thought, no
motion – all stillness and form. The trick is to make
stasis seem dynamic and stiffness natural.
I was good at playing Statues as a kid.
Photographers freeze movement in a moment;
painters and I do it on the installment plan.
We collaborate over hours or days or weeks
to preserve a second of life of canvas.
Most model-artist relationships are purely Platonic:
They see us as mere forms: the line of a leg,
the curve of an arm, the plane of a back.
Our personality is a by-product of the paint.
Yes, like playing statues staring at eternity.
One time a second nude model showed up
at a class. He looked straight at the students
for a while, then left: Picture of an Exhibitionist.
I’m the poser, pretending to do whatever
I seem to do. Feigning sleep while wide awake,
playing a one note concerto on a cello
I can’t play, smiling at someone who isn’t there.
It takes a lot of effort just to stay the same.
