The Caramel Muse...

So I just finished a five hour stint sitting frozen with a rigid jawline and where I had fixed my brown glowing eyes on a corner of a room where wall met ceiling; and I got paid for it.

Now at the beginning of this little venture, I was sure that it was going to consist of sure boredom and a handful of random banal thoughts circling through my head in some sort of free orbit. And what do you know, I was right. But I think I would still recommend it, because with that was also found a somber state of meditation that was not expected nor necessarily overtly prepared, but just happened. I basically became Gautama. Whether perched on the cusp of some mountain cliff in Southern Asia, or camped in a wooden dinner table chair in a concrete cavern in the middle of the Upper East Side, I was Gautama.

When I first entered this gilded little cave, I was totally taken aback by the overall ambiance of the room. All over the room were little to large pieces of many different forms of art based in the romantic style. From marble busts to acrylic nudes to reliefs consisting of a silent motion, all sorts of pieces were strewn across the walls. There was a small separation of a wall that was loaded with literature in all shapes and sizes that would look as if purposefully designed in a shabby-chic art nouveau style. The lights were low except for one bright light that hovered over the raised stage that would be my temporary home.

I was so nervous when I first sat down. I never new what a blessing astigmatism could be for when asked to take off my glasses, I was not able to see a thing other than random colors blurring together from mauve to taupe. If I had had my glasses on, I would have had to look the handful of young artists straight in the eyes as they raised their brushes and thumb fingers to gauge what planes my facial features sat in preparation to laying out my portrait on their canvas. Then I would have noticed these artists with their giant easels enclosing on me against the back wall as prisoner behind a cell of giant phalluses. However, even with my visual disparity, I couldn't help but crack a slight smile with the knowledge of the hilarity of the position I had landed myself in.

Living in New York you think you would have to carry a strong sense of Narcissism with you at all times. It's New York a place of admiration of one's self in all forms; primarilly in the form of beauty. When one is on a stage being stared at by a few fairly attractive twenty-somethings' it would seem to be a definite place where one would want to be. These artists are there admiring your bone structure, your clever apparel, and gawking at the simple messiness of how effortlessly your hair lays on your head. And then you realize, they are staring at me moreover dissecting me completely with their eyes, and then putting all the pieces back together on canvas. Not going to lie, but it will make a man shrivel into the boy he was trying to hide from the world. There was a moment where I guess I moved my head a tad, and with my inability to see a damn thing, I was asked to move in correction. With the artists' hand gestures not visible to my blind eyes I was being ordered around in total frustration. Birthing on my large forehead were slight dew-drops of perspiration, which I was sure would make it onto the canvas. Damn artists.

But soon into the experience, I was able just to calm down. The studio's friendly beast who I call "AJAX"(don't know his real name, but I feel from the dark mirror which was his coat, to the droopy folds where his mouth created his large rigid jaw, he deserved the title of AJAX) joined me on stage to somewhat ease my growing insecure nerves and also steal the show. "Thanks Ajax." He was the kind of dog that if necessary could advance on any sort of predator with the agility and speed of a bear, but carried himself in the lavish luxury of a pristine pre-Madonna. We both enjoyed each other's company on stage as I rubbed his neck and his simple breathing helped me calm my nerves.

My biggest fear of the evening was every young man's fear in any circumstance and that is the birth of an TUB(totally unnecessary bon..). TUB's truthfully have nothing to do with any sort of stimuli. The name basically covers the term in full account. Now when spending five hours in one position while wearing unforgiving tight jeans, a male has two options. Either he sits and worries not based on the fact that a TUB is unavoidable and can be understood by most--especially in this day and age; or, one is stuck with the odd and uncomfortable job of adjusting one's self so not to bring attention to the fact that one has a TUB and if lucky one's TUB is not even noticed. I was a lucky man where there neither option was needed due to the fact of the lack of any TUB's.

Now this may seem like a very long description of such a slight situation, but come on I had a lot of time to think about this. A good five hours...




Be Relentless,
Peace
Remoy