The Show Off

I have focused on Susan's exhibitionist streak, a proclivity not limited to our semi-public lovemaking or to her fashion/hand modelling. Susan was still working at the VA in Nashville, doing p.r.n. work at a rehabilitation center and other medical venues, so much so she was having to limit her hours so she did not creep into a higher tax bracket, and taking sundry classes, most notably art at Watkins. She joined the Tennessee Association of Craft Artists and showed some real talent with the ability to produce in my eyes and others, some quality art. I have always appreciated the artist's gifts and even envied them, since my middle school art instructor Jose Rodriguez had put paid to any of my own artistic aspirations in eighth grade. Our project was for each student to produce a drawing of a fern in a pot. When I asked Mr. Rodriguez, who had long hair, a black beard, and was the first man I had ever met who had let his fingernails grow out like a woman, how to produce depth in my drawing, his answer was, "You have to feel it, man." I was somewhat bemused if not outright mystified, but Jose, he insisted we call him "Jose"-not Mr. Rodriguez and who also insisted he was straight, not that I recall anyone asking him, and who had contended he had been a boxer, refused to expound any farther for me or demonstrate technique. I was given a low grade on the project despite my best efforts, unassisted by Jose who thought I was a preppy, rich, spoiled prick and was determined to knock me down a notch. I asked him at the end of the course what I could do to become a better artist, and this didac who had it in for me said, "The best thing you can do for the art world is never pick up a pencil or paintbrush again. You have zero talent, zip, zero, nada." Thus chastened, and taking his words to heart as I was taught to respect my instructors, I never attempted to produce any art for twenty-five plus years. Susan, on the other hand, was producing much art quickly and was damn good at it. My admiration for her talents only expanded. She was a real down home Martha Stewart in my mind, capable of doing so much, so well. She would bring me jelly and baked goods she made and presented beautifully. One night I came over and she had homemade rye bread baking in the condo oven. It turned out to be a lovely artisanal loaf any upscale, small batch bakery would have been proud of and it was delicious, but Susan was not familiar with niche bakeries and was such a perfectionist that she threw away this baked treasure because it did not resemble the prosaic grocery bought rye she was acquainted with-man, I would have devoured the whole loaf if she had given me the chance. Susan finally had a long weekend away from her many logs in the fire in Nashville and instead of flitting back to West Virginia, I invited her to spend the time off with me on a road trip to Atlanta. We stayed in the Buckhead Days Inn and though I paid for everything (as was almost invariably the case through our relationship), Susan did manage to wangle us the rate for Federal travel which was only around $30 a night by mentioning her affiliation with the VA. We explored the city, had a great meal with the really fashionable people at Prime-steak and sushi as it happens, and I joined the High Museum for us as we toured because Susan assured me we would take Atlanta trips together often. As it was, in the more than decade more with her, we passed through Atlanta only twice more coming to or going from other places. We never visited the High, where I appreciated the great art and Susan assured me she could duplicate or exceed it, again. When we returned to Nashville, Susan continued her robust schedule. She, one day out of the blue, asked me if I would like to pose for an art class at Watkins. She said it was a bit physically taxing, but it was good money and would be a fun experience for me. I asked her if she had posed, and she said she had sat as the model for a few classes. I called a number Susan had given me as she instructed. The school's representative told me to wear something interesting. I appeared at the school in a Brooks Brothers jacket, straw hat, which twice blew off on Church Street and I had to chase toward Nashville's Cumberland River before I had the sense to take it off and carry it, and carrying a Victorian walking stick. It was a community arts class of mostly senior citizens, but all but a really elderly black lady whose work seemed primitive by contrast, seemed to be masters of the portrait. I stayed in one long pose three hours with one several minute break each hour. I was shocked when one artist who was a white man around seventy took a swig from his large bottle of paint thinner. Others were dismayed enough as well to ask him (as I held my pose) if he realized he had just consumed poison. He assured them he had not, he had rinsed the bottle many times and was now using it to carry water. I was excited to tell the tale to Susan and happy with $36 I had earned, for what I thought was relatively easy though I ached or was stiff in different body parts. I had another call from Watkins a couple of days later and asked the caller what they wanted me to wear or bring. I was told it didn't matter. I appeared in street clothes and was told at a reception desk to see Madeline Reed who was evidently the one who would be directing me in the auditorium where a student art exhibition was on display. I peered at the work of the students, some of which seemed pretty darned good to me, and walked around with a few other spectators until I saw a well-dressed woman I surmised to be in her late forties with a name badge on. Before I could discern the name, I knew this was Ms.Reed because she was the only person there who seemed to have any official capacity with the school, and in the event, I was acquitted of her connection. I introduced myself and thinking she was conducting the class, asked her what she would have me doing. She said she was not the instructor for this one and walked me to the end of a hall where there were two classrooms and a bathroom. The teacher in this class was a brunette woman in her late twenties whose name I never heard, only that her father had been a prominent local Nashville artist/ gallery owner with a German-sounding name. I remember she was reading The Gnostic Prophecies as I entered the classroom. She asked me my modelling experience and I mentioned I had been a Russell Athletic youth model and had done one community art class there at Watkins. She said this class would be different as it was fine arts but most of the students would be undergraduate film schoolers taking it as an elective. She warned me they were "pretty sarcastic" and asked me if I had ever been to a toga party. I replied in the negative and added, "Have you?" To which she handed me a long white sheet, asked me to strip-she said I could keep my shorts-and directed me back to the bathroom I had just passed with Ms. Reed to change. I followed her instructions and emerged in the toga but could not tie it at the shoulder. I explained my predicament as a young blond male film student who was going into the class, helped me tie it, but as I had been warned, he was a bit of a smart ass about it. He said his day job was as a cameraman at one of the local TV stations. I entered the class and was told to do gesture which although I had never done it was able to figure out without explanation. I then was asked to do a short pose as Atlas with the instructor telling me who Atlas was and how to position myself as she had no way of knowing I was fairly literate and had mastered Greek mythos before kindergarten. I was then placed first in chairs, then on a chaise lounge for about two and a half hours but was given breaks. I must have done relatively well, for a couple nights later, a man called from Watkins asking me to pose nude for a class. I declined. I told my parents about the offer and they concurred that I did not need to be doing that. I had no idea at that time that Susan, who had always said she would never pose nude, was doing it all along evidently even before or contemporaneous with my meeting her in 1995. When I related the bizarre question from Watkins, Susan asked, "So when are you going to do it?" "Never, I'm not going to do it. You've been going there a while and said you posed. Did they ever ask you to pose nude?" I asked. "Well, they asked and I posed a few times." "Do you mean clothed like the first class, you arranged for me?" I probed. "Mostly, though sometimes they might have me in a body stocking," Susan said. I retorted, "Like a outfit for a dance class?" "Well, no you couldn't wear these to a dance class, you can see through them, but I only show my top-kinda like a European beach." This was shattering to me, coming from my self-proclaimed "virgin". My great grandfather had been the first Lubavitch Rabbi of Baltimore, a contemporary and colleague of the Rebbe Schneerson. I grew up in an Orthodox day school, this behavior from a committed partner was simply unacceptable. Susan and I argued with her talking about how valuable the nude model was to the artist-a big part of the art, the muse. I said she was a medical professional making good money who did not need to be doing that. "Let someone else be the muse, you're a great artist in your own right and we sure don't need the money," was my riposte. She said she wasn't aware of my objections and did not mean to conceal anything. If I was this upset, she promised she would never pose nude or for that matter, any other way again. The twelve dollars an hour simply meant nothing to her when compared with doing anything to hurt the love of her life, me. As I would later find out, her posing was much more extensive and provocative than she described, and she would evidently return to it at least once.