“Woman, Chilling:” part 1 (of 4)

Why did he have to paint that portrait of her?

Bi-weekly throughout February and March: this is an expanded version of one of the shorts I wrote back in November. Frankie is based on a character I came up with years ago, intended for a comic book. I made some changes, but she’s essentially the same type I originally had in mind.

Modeling for “artists” is easy and it pays the bills. Why the quotation marks, you ask? Because in the two years I’ve spent on the job, all over New York, I have met some genuinely smart and talented paint-pushers. Others, though, are the kind who will duct-tape a banana onto a wall and call it “art.”

And then it’ll sell for millions.

This is the story of one such hack I had the misfortune to meet, and how he changed my relationship with this new profession of mine.

Frankie’s my name. Frankie Smyth, with a Y, like that chick from the eighties who sang “The Warrior”? Before my time, but whenever I have to clarify—which is often—she’s an easy point of reference. I have no fucking idea who else spells it that way.

I had bounced around from one job to another for years before I lucked into modeling. For all you horndogs out there imagining me naked on a stool, sorry to disappoint you, but the only centerfold I’m likely to pose for is the Lane Bryant catalog. (But if you’re into that, email me.)

The last time someone forced me onto a scale, I weighed one-seventy, maybe one-eighty pounds. Yes, modeling has saddled me with the “Rubenesque” sobriquet. It’s taken me years, and a lot of Smirnoff, to accept that I will never be a size four, but ladies, I’m here to tell you it’s possible. And I’m not even forty yet.

I‘ve modeled at art colleges like Cooper Union, SVA, and Pratt. Individual artists will request a certain type for private sessions and the agency will send me or someone like me. So it was that one day in October, they recommended me for Warren James. He accepted.

His rented studio was on the top floor of a cast-iron building in Tribeca, on West Broadway. Great big windows, unpolished wooden floors, pillars. Racks filled with canvases lined one wall. His paintings were abstracts, dripping acrylics mixed with shapes and colors like something out of the part in 2001 where the aliens zap the astronaut into the far side of the galaxy or whatever. I couldn’t really say I was amazed.

Warren eagerly spouted his manifesto.

“Impressionism may be the most important art movement ever created.” He leaned against a wide metal cabinet. “Those guys didn’t need to spend money and time trying to get a triceps to look like it does in real life. They had the guts to stick it to the old masters and go their own way—and history rewarded them for it.”

I smirked.

“Was that how Van Gogh got started?” I said.

“Of course!”

Yeah. Okay.

He held up a book for me.

“Henri Matisse. They called him and painters like him fauves. You know what that means, Frankie? ‘Wild beasts.’ Critics were so shocked at his brushstrokes, the abstract shapes of his figures, his gaudy use of color, they called his work primitive. Crude. Wild.” He giggled. “This kind of notoriety is what I aspire to.”

“Everybody’s gotta start somewhere, I guess.”

Apparently this would be his first portrait after experimenting in abstract work for a year. Based on what I’d learned in art college settings, I suspected he might’ve needed a bit more time to learn about the human figure before he followed in Picasso’s footsteps, but who was I to stifle his ambition?

Warren turned on the portable heaters. The room warmed little by little.

He said he was in real estate, living on the Upper West Side. He was roughly in his early sixties. After attending a Metropolitan Opera concert and befriending a few people from Tribeca who dabbled in painting, he gave it a go on his weekends. His wife supported him in his hobby.

We discussed what kind of pose he expected, then I took off my robe, stepped atop the platform and sat on the chair.

The hardest part about modeling for an artist? Picking a pose and sticking with it. If you need to, you can itch. If you have to, you can swat a fly or wipe away sweat. But try holding a pose for even ten minutes and not get cramps in your muscles; not succumb to the urge to change your limbs’ position; hell, not piss or fart on the spot. Especially fart. Ask me how I know. Or better yet, don’t.

In a class, I close my eyes and try not to dwell on all the eyes of strangers on me. They’re students, learning how to render the human form, so it’s not like I’m in a peep show in Times Square.

Sometimes, though… I can’t help it. The heat in the room rises and I’ll catch the eye of a hot dude in the room and I have to stop moving my pelvis, but the artist can see my reaction. You can guess where this is leading. Not that it ever has. Thank god I don’t have to worry about a hard-on.

Other models I’ve talked to have different ways of coping. For some it’s not an issue at all. I’m probably just horny. Which is possible.

Fortunately, Warren had a face made for podcasting. Not my type, plus too old.

He worked for four hours. Classical music played on his record player—yes, he had one. He’d stop when the music did to flip the record over, before returning to his easel. I took five-minute rest breaks of my own, but I didn’t peep his masterpiece in progress yet.

For one or two-minute intervals at a time, he’d stop and squint at me like he was making some grand decision about which color to use next or whatever. I think he couldn’t figure out how to render a certain part of my body and was stuck, but wouldn’t admit it to his imaginary audience. Oh, he did play to a crowd in his mind. I could tell from a certain gesture, or the way he stood: his first portrait was meant to have significance.

Ooo. Aah.

Gimme a break.

“I think I’m done,” he said. He rested his brush. I climbed down from the platform and put on my robe.

What the hell. It wasn’t like our paths would cross again. I strolled toward his easel to see his magnum opus.

Jesus Christ. My tits were out of proportion, my legs were way too long and my bush was hairier than your average grizzly bear—and don’t get me started on the colors he used. He turned my dirty blonde hair a frightening shade of orange. Yeah, he thought of himself as a modern-day impressionist, but even I knew they had a greater sense of style.

“Well? Did I capture Matisse’s spirit or what?”

Was he kidding? Did he really think he created a heartbreaking work of staggering genius out of this turd?

Then again… I dunno. I’ve seen enough modern art in the past couple of years to realize anything can be called the next “Starry Night” or “American Gothic.” Even Warren had more artistic talent—and way more to show for it—than me. Fuck it. Let him be happy with what he made.

And hey, the money was good. Couldn’t argue with that.

“It’s one of a kind,” I said.

He grinned.

I dressed in a hurry. We confirmed the payment and when I should expect to receive it, then I headed for the door.

“Thank you, darling.” He held out his hand. “You’ve been a great help.”

“Good luck.” I shook it. “You ever wanna do this again, you know how to reach me.”

He nodded, then turned toward his painting and smiled.

I splurged, going grocery shopping at the Whole Foods on Houston, then returned to my Rivington Street flat. The look Warren had given his painting made me raise an eyebrow, but it wasn’t my concern anymore. I believed the man could learn from this and improve.

Oh, boy, if only I knew what lay ahead.

Next chapter February 19