Freckles(10)

There’s a changing screen in the corner. Tongue-in-cheek images of naughty cherubs fondling themselves. It’s Genevieve and Jasper’s kind of humour. Exhibitions and gatherings go on into the early hours of the morning, filled with their artist friends, anything can happen. I have witnessed this.

Genevieve greets me upstairs. Her look is so austere it’s in stark contrast to the inner fluidity that I know is there. A blunt black bob with fringe, black squared thick-rimmed glasses, red lipstick, always red lipstick. A military-style jacket, gold buttons, done up to the top, high-neck, a military-style belt cinching in her waist. Beneath her jacket, two enormous boobs protrude. She wears a black cashmere skirt, to the ankle, and military-style boots. No skin on show. She doesn’t seem to notice or care that the boots bang and scrape across the creaky wooden floors, Genevieve is not here on this earth to be silent. The room is so old the floor is tilted. I’ve gotten a kick out of watching new artists’ easels and stools roll across the floor, towards me. The horror on their face as their paints almost crash into the naked woman. They need to ground those easels in a crack in the floorboards, root their feet to the floor.

I shiver. The windows are wide open.

Sorry, Genevieve says, setting up the stools and easels. It was a wild night last night, I’m trying to get rid of the smoke.

I sniff the air, tell her I don’t smell anything. Such a blank canvas now but I can imagine it hours earlier, with heaving bodies, sweat and whatever else. Not unlike my bedroom last night. She lifts her nose to the air to see if I’m telling the truth. Okay I’ll close them now, she says, banging over the floors to get to the windows, and I can imagine her in a previous life, grabbing a rifle, dropping to her knees and sniper-shooting soldiers below. In reality she slides the windows shut. We have twelve today, she says, no drop-ins. Drop-ins aren’t allowed after the last time when a drop-in decided to drop his hand down the front of his trousers while watching me, instead of painting. Genevieve, no-nonsense, had practically dragged him out of the building by his cock. We smile at one another at the memory.

You can’t blame the man, I say. It was her nipples! I imitate his conciliatory wails as he was cast out, both loving and loathing my nipples for his undoing.

You do have great nipples, she says, her eyes fleeting down briefly to my chest.

It’s a compliment. She’s seen her fair share of tits.

I move behind the screen and remove my clothes. The floor is ice cold and goosebumps rise on my skin. I’ll need to get warmer for the sitting, though they’ll appreciate the hardened nipples and areola. They don’t go for beauty, they want detail. Character. I massage oil onto my skin, wanting to glow. I’m not excessively vain but there are certain standards I set myself and dry skin, sock marks and goosebumps aren’t it. Not the details I want to give them. Genevieve prefers for me to take my seat on the small podium after everybody has arrived. She says there’s no point in me freezing my tits off for other people’s tardiness. I don’t actually disrobe until I’m seated but I know what she means. A little bit of respect for this slab of meat please.

Finally everyone has taken their places, just one stool is missing a bottom but Genevieve waits for no one and we begin. I don’t look at their faces until after I’ve removed the robe and I’m comfortable in a position. The patterned silk robe hangs down the wooden chair I sit on, art deco in style, hard on my ass but at least the silk softens it a little. I survey the audience. Some familiar faces, some eyes meet mine in acknowledgement, others run over me as though I’m a fruit bowl. Looking for shadows and angles. Creases and blemishes. Detail and character.

The new eyes run their gazes across the obvious place on my body that attracts attention. My left arm. Still scarred from my adolescence of scratching constellations into my skin, connecting freckle to freckle. I think this is why Genevieve keeps asking me back. An interesting feature, apparent self-harm. A real task for the student; do they ignore it or tackle it. Some appear to make it more obvious than it is, garish and ugly, deep trenches in my skin, while making the rest of me appear as this injured frail bird. Others paint or draw them as mere traces, scratches, or there are those who paint me as a brave warrior. Nobody sees them as constellations. Of course there are those who don’t see them at all, and spend longer highlighting freckles and moles, or dimples in my thighs. I find that though I am the person naked in the centre of a room, the artists reveal so much more about themselves than I do. I’m detached, in my own zone. But at the same time feeling a little bit special beneath their gaze. I am a puzzle they have to solve. They are painting my shell, while their insides are oozing out on to the canvas, tattle-tales to their secrets. Artist incontinence. I may be naked but they’re revealing their souls. That’s what I like most about posing nude for artists, the fact that while they think I’m on show, I’m watching them.

That and the fifteen euro an hour that I receive in cash.

The door opens softly and somebody steps inside. I’m not so poised that I don’t break my position to look. Somebody tuts at my movement. They can fuck right off.

Sorry, the tardy young man says.

He’s tall and lean, wears a denim shirt with jeans, Converse, looks studenty. His face blushes at disturbing the session.

Okay okay, Genevieve says, irritated. James, is it, start time is one p.m., okay, you won’t be late next time, if there is a next time. You can sit over there.