Cathy Buck, portrait of Tim Leeming
Mary Qian, portrait of Tim Leeming
As occasionally happens -- last Tuesday's model for the painting workshop was a no-show - so one of the artists, Tim Leeming, climbed up on the platform to take her place.
I've done that a few times myself over the past thirty years. One time, my physique so surprised one of the artists who arrived late that she shouted out "Eeeek -- Chris is naked!". Another time, after delivering what I thought were challenging and dramatic poses, one of the artists complained that I didn't hold still. Needless to say -- my enthusiasm for volunteering has cooled off.
But Tim remains a more noble and generous soul -- so he soldiered on to pose for an entire five-and-a-half hour session.
While doing so, a poem celebrating the occasion began to gather in his mind.
It also celebrates the upcoming holiday - suggesting, perhaps, that Tim was beginning to feel a bit peckish - as well as identifying with the poor turkey.
(if you also did a portrait of Tim at this workshop, please send an image that I can add to this post)
*****************
The scheduled model for the day
Failed to report in the garret
Of the last remaining three-story
Assembled over midweek morning coffee
And to await inspiration from the muse
With no professional model
From among the fellowship
A reluctant recruit is chosen
Is raised above their peers
Instructed to remain seated and still
With masking tape markers
Will comply with the rigors of the vigil
As the North-light arches
Until the precious light drains
Bringing drizzle and drops
And the hum of steady rain
At the request of the sitter
The radio is tuned to classical station
Everyone there takes a few full breaths
As the conductor raises his arms
And gets busy
As the baton drops
To encourage the musicians
who respond with attention
Not turning away from the struggle
Running again up the familiar hill
Stretching bounds of perception
As if from the top of main-mast
Searching the horizon for sight of land
The instruments of their craft
As the fencer wields his sword
And the orchestra strains
Each artist will scrape, slash, dab for next five hours
The background music is a century old
The sensuous bloated wooden form
Eyes staring straight ahead
As all blurs into periphery
There tradition has been replayed
And repeated by kindred souls
Apples were arranged by Cezanne
The grim 'Thinker ' leaned on his chin for Rodin
And prostitutes sufficed for VIncent
Murmurs and hushed self rebuke
As each of those assembled
Reach beyond their self acknowledged limitations
The room reduced to a periphery of fog
Sensing only the cloud of predatory activity
A right angle is consulted
Revealing the intent of the hand
And the surrender of a double dab
And the grumbling crowd below
There is a solitary Struggle
The disembodied Monkey-brain
The disheveled small creature
Who continues the madness
Swinging from side to side in the cage
The sitter has found his spot on the wall
The dormant light fixture
On the other side of the room
Triangle of the dangerous creature
Who holds an index finger to his lips
The sitter understands what is demanded
facing him from low in the grass
The predator must be kept at bay
At his ridiculous predicament
Serving a sentence of a self imposed
The sitter perceives the working artists
As an aquatic cloud of sea grass
As on the bunions and unwanted callous material
with urgent squinting cat-faces
Two days before Thanksgiving
(The same interval of breaks for the artists)
The center of a ring of side dishes
It is necessary for the artwork to be properly done
And the meal on Thanksgiving
A salty, savory consumed achievement
As fleeting as the fading light
Or the extended chords at the completion of the symphony
We know that our time is short
The journey was the feast
Palette and Chisel Academy of Chicago
