Novos Horizontes

From The photoset “Ginography”

My poem on skin.

Here is an excerpt from an ongoing project I’m working on.  It’s a draft of a play I’ve been attempting to write off and on for the past few years titled “Model’s Up” about a middle aged, out of shape, insecure model doing his thing.

The stage is fully lit. Four artists (Erica, Skip, Tebbe, and Mark) with art pads are standing behind easels. Center stage a low rectangular platform is lit by a solitary directional lamp. Seated on the edge of the platform is a single model, David, in a blue robe exchanging pleasantries with the artists. He asks if everyone is ready to begin. They all nod and David rises and stands on the small stage. He casually kicks off his flip flops and comfortably slips out of his robe, dropping it to the side. David begins a series of short one minute gestures effortlessly moving from the first to the next, ticking off the seconds in his head, until ten poses have been completed. As agreed, he places a stool and sits for his first of three ten minute poses. As he remains still all the action and conversation takes place among the artists intently sketching. The lights grow dim on the model as the tranquility of the scene is broken by Mark.

Mark: “I’m very impressed. David is a great model”

Erica: “What do you mean? How do you define a great model?”

Mark: “Well, it’s a model that doesn’t shrink back when they’re nude, comfortable in their own skin. A model who shies away has to be constantly directed. That’s distracting. David seems very comfortable and more importantly confident in what he is doing. He holds great poses and provides a wonderful sense of energy in his stillness.

Erica: “Yes, I can see that. He does appear to be very good. (To Skip) How important is it to draw all different shapes and sizes?

Skip: We as artists appreciate using different types. (Chuckles) We can’t always use a Christie Brinkley. The world is made up of all kinds.

Tebbe: (With a sly grin) Yeah, but having her up there for one night wouldn’t be a bad thing. But seriously, I love using all types in my work. It makes for very interesting art.

Lights go down on the artists and up on David as he puts on his robe and addresses the audience with his monologue.

David: I can pose all day and never think twice about being nude. Go figure. I have saggy breasts, a gut (no six pack, more like a keg). My butt is huge. I’ve got cellulite, blemishes, a prominent mole on my nose, and crooked teeth. But just look at them (points to the artists drawing). I’m sure their perceptions are much different than mine. You heard Mark. I imagine they see circles, triangles, squares, lines, and contrasts, even negative space. I know they appreciate my modeling. But from my perspective there’s definitely no “negative space” in this package.

But the artists that see those qualities pass no judgement other than my abilities to hold a pose and to project energy in a static stance. It’s a comforting feeling to be viewed as an aesthetic object of beauty. Much different than the feeling I get when I’m at the beach. My level of comfort greatly wanes. Are people staring? Are they laughing? If truth be told probably not many are truly looking my way – completely opposite the intense focus I get in the studio. But should I really care? I think it’s sad that I can’t view myself in the same way the artist does. How liberating would that be?

But I judge myself. Passing a mirror out of the shower I view myself as not “The Model” on the platform but as David, with love handles, uneven eyes, double chin and jowls. Why can’t I see myself as the artist does – someone who is appreciated for what he gives and provides – inspiration and excellence? Isn’t that who I really am?

The lights go up once again on the artists as David steps up on the platform, slips off his robe as before, and positions himself for the next pose.

Hi @davidlintz, good luck with your play, I know myself that writing is a tough nut to crack sometimes. I wonder if anyone truly sees themselves as everybody else sees them, we all have our own version of what is ‘beautiful’ and I think this possibly changes as we age and we see that there is no real perfection which is something we maybe can’t appreciate when we are younger. Middle age is also a curious thing, you’re neither young nor old but somewhere in the middle (I’m there, dude!). An artist has an eye to view things from a different perspective, a neutral perspective, seeing the body as abstract shapes rather than parts of the body, they can appreciate curves and angles as simply that and nothing more. 

With the memory of the hours of exquisite delight you have given me I have built deep in my heart, a chapel filled with you.

use tools

Can be taught to speak (like parrots)

Have huge brains for birds

like seriously their brain-to-body size ratio is equal to that of a chimpanzee

They vocalize anger, sadness, or happiness in response to things

they are scary smart at solving puzzles

some crows stay with their mates until one of them dies

they can remember faces

SIDENOTE HERE BECAUSE HOLY SHIT.  They did an experiment where these guys wore masks and some of them fucked with crows.  Pretty soon the crows recognized the masks = douchebag.  But the nice guys with masks they left alone.  THEN, OH WE’RE NOT DONE, NO SIR crows that WEREN’T EVEN IN THE EXPERIMENT AND NEVER SAW THE MASK BEFORE knew about mask-dudes and attacked them on sight.  THEY PASSED ON THE FUCKING INFORMATION TO THEIR CROW BUDDIES.

They remember places where crows were killed by farmers and change their migration patterns.

Every day, I would watch Buck from my window until one day I opened it and started talking to him. He was small and gangly and he couldn’t caw right. His feathers were all over the place and I felt a kinship. So I made a deal with him. I told him that if he could do it, if he could fly, then I could find the strength to get up. Well… near the end of the season, after talking with him every day, I finally saw him get out of the nest. He went to the edge of his branch, braced himself, and jumped… and just before he hit the ground, he soared back up into the sky. I cheered harder than I ever had before.

That winter, Buck left the area. I was crestfallen. I felt like I’d lost a friend. But I was so damn proud of him. 

Cut to the next spring? I’m walking up the driveway one day when suddenly I hear a sound… a broken caw. I look up, and Buck is sitting in a tree above my head. He stared at me and puffed his feathers, then hopped down in front of me and cawed again. I was so damn thrilled, and I told him how proud I was of him. He ruffled his feathers and then soared off into his old tree. 

That summer? I heard two broken caws. One from Buck… and one from his chick.