It was little more than a windowless cubby in a corner of the arts building, but importantly, it provided a space that was neither the classroom nor the flat in which to exist, and meet students who had specific concerns; like the young be-mulleted person (Ashley? Ashton? I had it written down somewhere) who’d felt the need to express their frustration, in person, regarding how long we’d spent on layout so far.
And then there had been the student who appeared to have stepped directly out of a cornfield with the intent of haunting some late nineteenth-century American architecture (Benson? Benjamin? ...Beelzebub?), who’d wanted to talk about color theory—a strange choice, given my work was strictly monochrome. The students were nice, or at least harmless, and there was something oddly comforting about the realization that they were individuals rather than a faceless mob intent on devouring me whole.
My office was also providing a safe, secluded place in which to interview a young person who might be interested in displaying their naked body for the pedagogical benefit of the aforementioned not-a-mob.
I’d broken down the workshop into four parts by week, and the third involved figure drawing—the study of movement, expressions, body language—and unfortunately the best way to learn these things was through observation and practice. The students could study stock images for as long as they wanted, but nothing had taught me how to capture movement and presence and emotion like the sketches I’d been forever doodling of my fellow dancers. And to do that here, I needed a body. Or rather, a life model.
I’d received a total of three applications and blocked out an hour or so this afternoon in which to make my selection.
The first applicant was clearly titillated by the idea—nope—the second couldn’t stop fidgeting or meet my eyes, and the third ...
He came in, gave me a little smile, and sat down.
And he was perfect.
Well, notperfect—he was a bit too good looking for that—but he exuded a calm stillness that settled on myself and the dingy little office, surrounding us like a delicate layer of warmth. His very presence wascomforting, quieting. Like a human cup of tea.
“Brilliant,” I breathed. “Do you catch cold easily?”
He appeared a bit puzzled, but the smile remained. “Not really. Um, I’m Skyler, by the way. Skyler Evans.”
Right. I knew that. Still, I jotted his name down on the piece of paper I held on my knee, for something to do. “I’m A-Armand. Demetrio. Er.” But he must be aware of that already, having received my message and come to my office ...
“Thanks for meeting with me, Professor Demetrio.”
“Aye, but please, just call me Armand.”Bloody hell.“Professor sounds so ... so bloodyturgid.”
“Okay.” Skyler laughed softly. He leaned back, one hand on his knee, but even this movement was smooth, fluid, contained—the subtle bulge of muscle in his biceps, the sharp crease of his trousers, the long taper and clearly demarcated phalanxes of his fingers; honestly everything about him cried out, demanded,beggedto be drawn.
I’d never met anyone who was so blatantly a collection of shapes and shadows.
“Any joint stiffness? Are you comfortable holding the same position for more than twenty minutes at a time?” He clearly was; he radiated whatever the opposite of restlessness was.Peace. Like he could remain immobile for hours if necessary, in the center of a fountain or a square, benevolently guarding the local pigeons.
Still, the considerate young man seemed to think about it. “Yeah. I don’t get stiff very often, except during the thirty-hour bus ride I took when I moved out here, but I don’t think that’s necessarily relevant.”
“No, this should be considerably less than thirty hours.” I nodded. “So”—now for the biggie—“have you considered ... the nudity?”
His eyebrows—both fascinatingly angled and shapely, the boy hadshapelyeyebrows for goodness’ sake—furrowed slightly. “What about it?”
An incredulous smile pulled at the side of my mouth. “It’s the type of thing that might give most people pause. They might be self-conscious, for example.”
Skyler considered this with the same gravity that apparently suffused every part of his existence. “I guess. But it’s not like it’s inappropriate in an art class, right? I’ve never been particularly self-conscious about my body, and if the setting isn’t ...weird, I kind of feel like I’d be fine?”
“It isn’t weird,” I confirmed, then was overcome by my detestable honest streak. “It’s abitweird, honestly. It— Look”—I reached up to scratch at my stubbly cheek—“it’s as weird as you make it, aye? I used to do something similar, and if you come to it with a firm idea of your role, a certain confidence, untouchability ... people pick up on that. They accept the situation onyourterms.”
Skyler was nodding, as if this all made sense to him. The problem was, now that I’d started, I couldn’t bring myself to stop.
“The only danger is losing sight of your own subjectivity,” I continued helplessly. “Don’t forget to exist outside their eyes. You can convince them you’re an object, but you mustn’t convince yourself.” I tapped my pen against the paper and shook my head. “Sorry. I just ... I want to make sure you know what you’re signing up for. And you should also know some of the work will be displayed later on at a convention. Sorry.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The boy’s features were drawn up in introspection. “Don’t objectify myself. Got it.” He smiled. “I’ve actually done a little modeling before. Notnaked, but I think I get what you’re talking about.”
“You have?” I asked in surprise.
“I put it in my application.” Skyler reached into a pocket and retrieved his mobile, tapped at it for a few moments, then handed it to me. “Here.”
It was open to a FotoBom page featuring Skyler in a variety of attitudes, accompanied by...horses.
My stomach turned cold and solid anddropped.
