'Oooo that’s really not bad, not bad at all.’ Peter leaned backwards slightly, titled his head to the side and re-scrutinized the canvas on my easel. I squinted at the brown and yellow smears, then turned and narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Really?’ ‘Absolutely!’ He reminded me a little of Neil Buchanan presenting Art Attack, when he’d needed to encourage one of the more artistically challenged children. ‘You know,’ he continued without a hint of sarcasm, ‘you can tell you come from a creative family, you have a natural aptitude for this, it must be in the genes.’ I too leaned back from the painting and tilted my head, hoping that this would offer a more favorable angle. ‘Well, I’ve never really done this before, not life drawing and not with oils. I guess it’s not bad. For a first go…’ I looked at Ingrid’s curvy form stretched out on the chaise longue, ‘…Kind of abstract.’
I had been working frantically, brushing paint to canvas, for three hours. The oils had worked their way up my forearms to my elbows and had been smeared across my cheek and brow. It reminded me of a photo in the Museum of Modern Art of the French-American artist Nikki de Saint Phalle: her sleeves rolled up, her hands covered in paint, her face spattered and her hair sticking up on end. I love that photograph. I love Nikki de Saint Phalle. It was, in part, my infatuation with her that made me want to move to Nice in the first place. I looked at the composition again. I was a mere novice, my opinion hardly counted for much. Peter was the expert. And Peter swore it was good. Maybe, I thought, he’s hit on something here; maybe this is my destiny. Suddenly it occurred to me that there was little point toiling away as a cash-strapped scribe if my natural talents were more inclined towards the visual arts. Artists made tons of money. Look at Damian Hirst. He earned millions for chopping up livestock.
As the week at the retreat progressed I found myself increasingly absorbed by my newly acquired passion for painting. Instead of writing, I used my time off from modeling to go down to the studio in the basement and in my oversized man’s shirt and apron I’d splash the paint on my canvas with wild abandon. ‘Your father says you can’t possibly have painted anything that good in a few hours,’ my mother said on the phone one evening, trying to quell the artistic fire burning in my belly. ‘How long did your grandfather take to finish an oil portrait? Months, that’s how long.’ ‘Honestly Mum, Peter says that I’m a natural. As you’ve just pointed out, it’s probably in my blood.’ ‘Darling,’ she sighed, ‘do we honestly think that this is enough on which to base a new career as a professional artist?’ Admittedly, I had spent the past six months touting myself as the next Jackie Collins and now I was threatening to ditch the romantic novel thing so that I could experiment with installation art, probably it was a lot to digest. So I didn’t argue and instead made a mental to note to say ‘I told you so’ when my first solo exhibition opened at the White Cube.
On the final evening, when I refused a glass of champagne because I didn’t want to stop painting, I understood what a profound impact week erotica had had on me. ‘You are really clever,’ one of the lady students tottered over to my easel with her bubbly, ‘clever to be painting.’ Her Scandinavian lilt was almost musical. ‘If only my mother was around to hear you say that,’ I sighed, ‘maybe then she’d accept that this is my true path.’ She shook her head and sang, ‘In Norway we say “You only borrow your children” and that is what I would tell to your mother if she were here. Really.’ Cryptic and wise, I had no idea what she was talking about but it sounded good so I nodded enthusiastically. As the rest of the group made their way upstairs for the last supper, Peter tried to pull the pallet from my resistant fingers. ‘I’m not ready,’ I moaned as we tugged it back and forth. ‘Do I have to leave tomorrow? Can’t I stay here, at the commune, forever’ He shook his head at me, ‘No, you can’t. And we’re an international art school if you don’t mind.’
Next day, staring at the grim façade of my apartment block from his van window, I looked like a caged cat on its way to the vet. I thought of the domestic drudgery, the plates of beans on toast and the neighbour’s hip hop beats banging through the wall. ‘Please Peter,’ I wailed, ‘don’t make me go back out there. I’m not sure that I can.’ He laughed and went to fetch my suitcase from the boot before opening my car door. He thought I was joking? Before abandoning me on the street curb, he patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘Now don’t forget, keep at the painting. It’ll be good for you. It'll feed the writing.’ Yes, I thought, I suppose there is always my painting. I wondered where all the trendy artists in Nice hung out. If I found them I could have Yves Klein parties and maybe set up a commune of my own. 'Yes, I'll paint every day,' I said out loud to myself as I rummaged through a storage box for an unused water colour set. I put the paints down next to my computer and promised to pick them up the following morning. And then I started to type.
Friday, 17 April 2009
Thursday, 9 April 2009
The Art of the Striptease: Part 2
Sprawled out on a bed in a black bra and matching knickers, stockings and a pair of stilettos, I shut my eyes and tried to ignore the hand gently resting on my knee. My own hand was sitting motionless, loosely grasping the flesh of a warm thigh. I’d been lying like this, next to and facing a semi-clad Swedish woman, for the past fifty minutes. ‘It’s just like being backstage at the Moulin Rouge, isn’t it?’ the director said waving his arms around excitedly. I thought this somewhat hopeful but I appreciated his enthusiasm. ‘Peter,’ a Norwegian woman hollered at him from behind her canvas, ‘she look like a man. She has a man face.’ Ingrid and I looked at each other with concern, unsure which of us she was referring to. ‘It’s because her face is too fat, isn’t it?’ she continued and pointed her paintbrush at me. The director looked between the painting and me and nodded. ‘And it’s too red and her breasts are too massive.’ She folded her arms in resignation. It was a struggle not to leap up and see what she’d done; I was beginning to imagine something along the lines of a WWF wrestler. A small smirk escaped from Ingrid and within seconds the two of us had collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. ‘Seriously,’ the guy directly in front of me held his charcoal up and sighed, ‘I’m trying to draw your face.’ ‘Sorry,’ I managed breathlessly before realizing that, to wipe away the tears, I was going to have to move my arm.
After one week on the retreat, this was our last foray into the dark and twisty world of erotica and this was about as steamy as things had got. Since the opening session, I’d had no further opportunity to work on my stripping technique and at no time had I been required to harness my inner Von Teese. It turns out that, from a model’s point of view, erotic art is not so very different to normal art: take clothes off, find position, hold position for a very long time. And, quite frankly, it is hard to convey sexuality and sensuality when a) your muscles are twitching b) you are trying not to flinch c) you have no feeling left in your arms and legs. ‘You do tend to look annoyed,’ one of the male students noted during a mid-morning coffee break, ‘and you can definitely tell when you’ve had enough.’ Bloody Ingrid, I thought, if she wasn't so amenable I wouldn't look half as bad. It was hardly my fault that the statuesque blond had an unnerving ability to hold contorted positions for extreme periods of time. Of course, in comparison I was going to be the short, bossy one who seemed unable to sit still and refused to do anything uncomfortable.
At least modeling for three hours a day, six days in a row, gave me plenty of time to improve my technique. And although it did little to expand my "horizons", I did get the chance to think about my body in new and unexpected ways every day. 'It might be interesting if I twisted this way,' I'd think to myself as I'd try out a new pose, 'and if I let the light fall across me here it will cast beautiful shadows.' As the week went on I found myself getting increasingly creative. I painted my nails siren red, draped oriental fabric behind me, wrapped a white turban around my head and posed flapping a fan of green feathers (one prop too many according to Peter, who promptly told me to put it back in my suitcase). ‘Perhaps,' I suggested on the fifth day, 'we should try doing an Yves Klein?’ One of the guys raised his eyebrows at me, ‘You want us to paint you blue and watch you roll around on a giant canvas?’ I nodded; I couldn't think of anything I'd like better.
After one week on the retreat, this was our last foray into the dark and twisty world of erotica and this was about as steamy as things had got. Since the opening session, I’d had no further opportunity to work on my stripping technique and at no time had I been required to harness my inner Von Teese. It turns out that, from a model’s point of view, erotic art is not so very different to normal art: take clothes off, find position, hold position for a very long time. And, quite frankly, it is hard to convey sexuality and sensuality when a) your muscles are twitching b) you are trying not to flinch c) you have no feeling left in your arms and legs. ‘You do tend to look annoyed,’ one of the male students noted during a mid-morning coffee break, ‘and you can definitely tell when you’ve had enough.’ Bloody Ingrid, I thought, if she wasn't so amenable I wouldn't look half as bad. It was hardly my fault that the statuesque blond had an unnerving ability to hold contorted positions for extreme periods of time. Of course, in comparison I was going to be the short, bossy one who seemed unable to sit still and refused to do anything uncomfortable.
At least modeling for three hours a day, six days in a row, gave me plenty of time to improve my technique. And although it did little to expand my "horizons", I did get the chance to think about my body in new and unexpected ways every day. 'It might be interesting if I twisted this way,' I'd think to myself as I'd try out a new pose, 'and if I let the light fall across me here it will cast beautiful shadows.' As the week went on I found myself getting increasingly creative. I painted my nails siren red, draped oriental fabric behind me, wrapped a white turban around my head and posed flapping a fan of green feathers (one prop too many according to Peter, who promptly told me to put it back in my suitcase). ‘Perhaps,' I suggested on the fifth day, 'we should try doing an Yves Klein?’ One of the guys raised his eyebrows at me, ‘You want us to paint you blue and watch you roll around on a giant canvas?’ I nodded; I couldn't think of anything I'd like better.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
The Art of the Striptease: Part 1
Last weekend, I came across an article in the Sunday Times that asked, ‘Are women sexually liberated or just confused?’ Having just spent the previous seven days at an artists’ retreat modelling for a painting course entitled, “Erotic Art”, the piece seemed perfectly timed. Being an artists’ model, people often assume that I must be sexually liberated. It's fair enough: for a person working in accounting or retail, getting naked for complete strangers can seem pretty risque. Few people realise that baring your body in the name of art actually involves sitting rigid in a cold studio full of retired housewives and has absolutely nothing to do with sex (not unless someone has a fetish for paint that is, or happens to be very, very desperate).
I couldn’t help wondering though, if this job at the retreat wasn’t going to be a bit different; clearly the course title was open to interpretation but I was pretty sure that there had to be more to ‘erotic art’ than simply sketching out body proportions. Half of me, the radical right half, was excited: this was exactly the kind of experience I needed to expand my creative and sexual horizons. The other half of me, the logical left, imagined a prop basket filled with handcuffs, whips and crotchless knickers and I began to feel sick. ‘What exactly do they mean by erotic dear?’ my mother interrogated me the day before I headed for the hills, convinced that I was being lured to a house of ill repute. ‘Are they expecting you to lie down and spread your legs? Or perform a live sex act?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I did my best to sound nonchalant, ‘I’ll have to wait and see. Don’t worry though, I won’t do anything I’m not comfortable with.’ This didn’t reassure her as much as I had expected. ‘But darling,’ she wailed, ‘what if it’s a cult.’
When I arrived on the Sunday evening, the “cult”- older Scandinavian women in smart trousers and silk neck scarves - were sitting on sofas nibbling nuts and discussing Renaissance art. After a civilized four course dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, I had come to the conclusion that I was ready to be brainwashed by them and taken into the fold. My left half began to relax: I was fairly certain that I wasn’t going to have to swing any porn star moves and there wasn’t anyone at the table who struck me as a hardcore sexual deviant. Indeed, it seemed to me that too much erotica might induce sever palpitations or fits of fainting.
I was, therefore, somewhat surprised when the director of the course took me to one side the following morning and said, ‘How about, for this opening session, you do a little striptease for the group? Could be fun, what do you think?’ ‘Fun?’ the word nearly chocked me. My face must have been contorted because the director looked at me with concern. ‘Striptease?’ I tried to breath and keep cool, ‘What do you mean exactly?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ he shrugged, ‘you could do whatever you wanted. Why don’t you give it some thought.’ ‘I’m an artists’ model,’ I bristled, ‘not a professional stripper.’ Now it was the director’s turn to look stricken. ‘Oh of course you’re right,’ he stammered, ‘the word striptease isn’t correct. I shouldn’t have used it. All I mean is that I want you to go from dressed to undressed, holding the poses in mid-motion. It doesn’t have to be sexy. Just imagine that you are at home getting changed for bed or undressing at the beach or stripping for your boyfriend.’ ‘I’m not being funny,’ I replied haughtily, ‘but you can’t possibly expect me to do what I would with a boyfriend in front of a group of strangers.’ ‘No, absolutely, not boyfriend,' he jumped in again. 'I mean just undressing as you would on your own at home, nothing more. If you think this is inappropriate, if you think anything is inappropriate, you must say. I’d hate to put you in an awkward situation.’ I suddenly felt guilty. He was a nice guy; pimping me out to his Scandi students was clearly not his intention. Besides, what had happened to expanding my sexual horizons? I was behaving like a prude. ‘No, no, it’s not out of line,’ I reassured him. ‘It’s just that I’m not used to modelling in this way and I’m not sure how good I’ll be. I can try and come up with something, leave it with me.’
I wandered down to the studio: half a dozen ladies were all positioned behind their easels in a crescent. They were dressed in cashmere cardigans and paint spattered aprons and I couldn’t imagine how I was going to take my lacy knickers off in front them without looking like a whore. This was only session one. Where on earth would we go from here? I found a good spot to focus my gaze. Think of the horizons, I thought, and began to pull off my jumper…
I couldn’t help wondering though, if this job at the retreat wasn’t going to be a bit different; clearly the course title was open to interpretation but I was pretty sure that there had to be more to ‘erotic art’ than simply sketching out body proportions. Half of me, the radical right half, was excited: this was exactly the kind of experience I needed to expand my creative and sexual horizons. The other half of me, the logical left, imagined a prop basket filled with handcuffs, whips and crotchless knickers and I began to feel sick. ‘What exactly do they mean by erotic dear?’ my mother interrogated me the day before I headed for the hills, convinced that I was being lured to a house of ill repute. ‘Are they expecting you to lie down and spread your legs? Or perform a live sex act?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I did my best to sound nonchalant, ‘I’ll have to wait and see. Don’t worry though, I won’t do anything I’m not comfortable with.’ This didn’t reassure her as much as I had expected. ‘But darling,’ she wailed, ‘what if it’s a cult.’
When I arrived on the Sunday evening, the “cult”- older Scandinavian women in smart trousers and silk neck scarves - were sitting on sofas nibbling nuts and discussing Renaissance art. After a civilized four course dinner and a couple of glasses of wine, I had come to the conclusion that I was ready to be brainwashed by them and taken into the fold. My left half began to relax: I was fairly certain that I wasn’t going to have to swing any porn star moves and there wasn’t anyone at the table who struck me as a hardcore sexual deviant. Indeed, it seemed to me that too much erotica might induce sever palpitations or fits of fainting.
I was, therefore, somewhat surprised when the director of the course took me to one side the following morning and said, ‘How about, for this opening session, you do a little striptease for the group? Could be fun, what do you think?’ ‘Fun?’ the word nearly chocked me. My face must have been contorted because the director looked at me with concern. ‘Striptease?’ I tried to breath and keep cool, ‘What do you mean exactly?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ he shrugged, ‘you could do whatever you wanted. Why don’t you give it some thought.’ ‘I’m an artists’ model,’ I bristled, ‘not a professional stripper.’ Now it was the director’s turn to look stricken. ‘Oh of course you’re right,’ he stammered, ‘the word striptease isn’t correct. I shouldn’t have used it. All I mean is that I want you to go from dressed to undressed, holding the poses in mid-motion. It doesn’t have to be sexy. Just imagine that you are at home getting changed for bed or undressing at the beach or stripping for your boyfriend.’ ‘I’m not being funny,’ I replied haughtily, ‘but you can’t possibly expect me to do what I would with a boyfriend in front of a group of strangers.’ ‘No, absolutely, not boyfriend,' he jumped in again. 'I mean just undressing as you would on your own at home, nothing more. If you think this is inappropriate, if you think anything is inappropriate, you must say. I’d hate to put you in an awkward situation.’ I suddenly felt guilty. He was a nice guy; pimping me out to his Scandi students was clearly not his intention. Besides, what had happened to expanding my sexual horizons? I was behaving like a prude. ‘No, no, it’s not out of line,’ I reassured him. ‘It’s just that I’m not used to modelling in this way and I’m not sure how good I’ll be. I can try and come up with something, leave it with me.’
I wandered down to the studio: half a dozen ladies were all positioned behind their easels in a crescent. They were dressed in cashmere cardigans and paint spattered aprons and I couldn’t imagine how I was going to take my lacy knickers off in front them without looking like a whore. This was only session one. Where on earth would we go from here? I found a good spot to focus my gaze. Think of the horizons, I thought, and began to pull off my jumper…
Thursday, 19 March 2009
L’hymne á l’Amour
Today I had my weekly lunch date with The Professor. We were happily settled on the restaurant terrace enjoying the sunshine and the sea view when, out of nowhere, he blurted, ‘I think you are afraid.’ I raised my eyebrows, ‘Of what?’ ‘Of love.’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘It is something that I have been thinking since we translated the Edith Piaf song.’ I racked my brain. ‘L’hymne á l’Amour?’ He nodded. He was referring to the French assignment that he had set for me a few weeks previously. At the time, after I had read out my translation, he had said, ‘Imagine that the man you love is saying these things to you. It is romantic, no?’ I squinted at the lyrics:
If one day life tares you from me
If you die and you are away from me
I do not care if you love me
For I will die also
We will have eternity for us
In the blue of the immensity
Okay, it was hardly word perfect but still… Romantic? ‘I’d run away from him as fast as possible,’ I’d spluttered. The Professor had looked confused, ‘But why?’ ‘Seriously, look at the words. It’s a bit full on. He’d have to be mental.’ The Professor scrutinized me in silence for some time. ‘You are very strange for a woman,’ he eventually concluded. ‘Very, very strange.’ I didn’t argue, it was probably a perfectly fair assessment, and then I thought no more of it; until today I’d had no idea that I had left such an indelible impression on him.
‘Why,’ he now continued, ‘do you not talk to me of your sentimental relationships?’ I chewed my lasagne to buy some time. ‘Well,’ I began tentatively after swallowing, ‘I don’t talk about my sentimental relationships with everyone. I mean, I don’t talk to my father about them for example.’ This was an out-and-out lie: my dad is in fact privy to many details regarding my romantic life; discussing it with The Professor, however, would be tantamount to talking to my grandfather about sex (you just don’t, do you?). I decided that, from an age point of view, The Professor might be offended if I likened him to my late grandfather though so I plumped for the dad thing.
He rested his knife and fork on his plate. ‘You know I have some knowledge of the psychoanalysis. I analysis [sic] what you say about the Edith Piaf, about running away, and I think: “Ah, she is afraid. She is afraid of sentimental love.” ‘Oh no, not afraid of love!’ I tried to laugh. He went quiet again, his gaze lost focus and he went sort of cross-eyed. ‘You’re analysing me now?’ I finally interrupted, putting down my own cutlery. ‘Yes, yes I analyse you. You are nervous?’ Well, I hadn’t been before but… ‘Look,’ I countered, ‘let me assure you that I am not afraid of love, sentimental or otherwise. I’m scared of commitment but that’s not the same. I am a very loving person,’ I crossed my legs and folded my arms, ‘and I’m very lovable.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘The trouble is,’ I continued, now as much to myself as to the tiny elderly man sat opposite, ‘I like to have options. As soon as I settle on someone I become aware of all the other choices I could have made; of course, they always seem to be much better than the thing I’ve chosen. Does that make sense?’
‘You should not be so tough. It will not be easy to be the man in your life.’ He sounded concerned. ‘As it is, understanding the desires of a woman is very hard for us. What women desire is very complicated whereas a man’s desires are obvious, simple.’ ‘Don’t generalise,’ I lectured him, ‘sometimes a woman’s desires are obvious too.’ Given the whole grandpa thing I thought it best not to elaborate here. ‘I am not saying this is 100% applying to everyone,’ he carried on, ‘but it is true that when a woman starts a sentimental relationship normally she is thinking about the future, she is planning. It is not like this for a man, he is happy with what he is getting in that moment. He is happy to take what he can get.’ ‘How charming,’ I muttered and then said more loudly, ‘I suppose there may be some truth to what you are saying, often the woman considers the future before the man.’ ‘Do you?’ ‘Not in the way you’re talking about.’ He leant forward, his eyes glinting. ‘I get infatuated,’ I explained. He didn’t know this word so we looked it up on his little pocket translator. ‘Ah, entichement! So when you are infat, infat…’ ‘Infatuated. Yes?’ ‘When you are infatuated you are in love?’ I frowned. ‘Sort of, at least I believe I am in love at the time. Only the feeling fades too quickly to be true. Anyway,’ I waved my hand in the air, ‘I am trying very hard not to be infatuated these days. It does me no good whatsoever.’
We rose, with some effort, from our plastic garden chairs and walked down the steps to the car with slow, heavy footsteps. He looked across and gave me a mischievous smile, ‘So I am clever, no?’ I frowned at him. ‘To guess that you are afraid of love.’ ‘Absolute genius Professor,' I sighed, 'really, hit the nail on the head.’ It was only ever going to be a matter of time before he discovered the truth now, wasn’t it?
If one day life tares you from me
If you die and you are away from me
I do not care if you love me
For I will die also
We will have eternity for us
In the blue of the immensity
Okay, it was hardly word perfect but still… Romantic? ‘I’d run away from him as fast as possible,’ I’d spluttered. The Professor had looked confused, ‘But why?’ ‘Seriously, look at the words. It’s a bit full on. He’d have to be mental.’ The Professor scrutinized me in silence for some time. ‘You are very strange for a woman,’ he eventually concluded. ‘Very, very strange.’ I didn’t argue, it was probably a perfectly fair assessment, and then I thought no more of it; until today I’d had no idea that I had left such an indelible impression on him.
‘Why,’ he now continued, ‘do you not talk to me of your sentimental relationships?’ I chewed my lasagne to buy some time. ‘Well,’ I began tentatively after swallowing, ‘I don’t talk about my sentimental relationships with everyone. I mean, I don’t talk to my father about them for example.’ This was an out-and-out lie: my dad is in fact privy to many details regarding my romantic life; discussing it with The Professor, however, would be tantamount to talking to my grandfather about sex (you just don’t, do you?). I decided that, from an age point of view, The Professor might be offended if I likened him to my late grandfather though so I plumped for the dad thing.
He rested his knife and fork on his plate. ‘You know I have some knowledge of the psychoanalysis. I analysis [sic] what you say about the Edith Piaf, about running away, and I think: “Ah, she is afraid. She is afraid of sentimental love.” ‘Oh no, not afraid of love!’ I tried to laugh. He went quiet again, his gaze lost focus and he went sort of cross-eyed. ‘You’re analysing me now?’ I finally interrupted, putting down my own cutlery. ‘Yes, yes I analyse you. You are nervous?’ Well, I hadn’t been before but… ‘Look,’ I countered, ‘let me assure you that I am not afraid of love, sentimental or otherwise. I’m scared of commitment but that’s not the same. I am a very loving person,’ I crossed my legs and folded my arms, ‘and I’m very lovable.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘The trouble is,’ I continued, now as much to myself as to the tiny elderly man sat opposite, ‘I like to have options. As soon as I settle on someone I become aware of all the other choices I could have made; of course, they always seem to be much better than the thing I’ve chosen. Does that make sense?’
‘You should not be so tough. It will not be easy to be the man in your life.’ He sounded concerned. ‘As it is, understanding the desires of a woman is very hard for us. What women desire is very complicated whereas a man’s desires are obvious, simple.’ ‘Don’t generalise,’ I lectured him, ‘sometimes a woman’s desires are obvious too.’ Given the whole grandpa thing I thought it best not to elaborate here. ‘I am not saying this is 100% applying to everyone,’ he carried on, ‘but it is true that when a woman starts a sentimental relationship normally she is thinking about the future, she is planning. It is not like this for a man, he is happy with what he is getting in that moment. He is happy to take what he can get.’ ‘How charming,’ I muttered and then said more loudly, ‘I suppose there may be some truth to what you are saying, often the woman considers the future before the man.’ ‘Do you?’ ‘Not in the way you’re talking about.’ He leant forward, his eyes glinting. ‘I get infatuated,’ I explained. He didn’t know this word so we looked it up on his little pocket translator. ‘Ah, entichement! So when you are infat, infat…’ ‘Infatuated. Yes?’ ‘When you are infatuated you are in love?’ I frowned. ‘Sort of, at least I believe I am in love at the time. Only the feeling fades too quickly to be true. Anyway,’ I waved my hand in the air, ‘I am trying very hard not to be infatuated these days. It does me no good whatsoever.’
We rose, with some effort, from our plastic garden chairs and walked down the steps to the car with slow, heavy footsteps. He looked across and gave me a mischievous smile, ‘So I am clever, no?’ I frowned at him. ‘To guess that you are afraid of love.’ ‘Absolute genius Professor,' I sighed, 'really, hit the nail on the head.’ It was only ever going to be a matter of time before he discovered the truth now, wasn’t it?
Monday, 2 March 2009
Easy Come, Easy Go
On Saturday I was in the Irish pub having a few drinks with the Scot, his friend and his friend’s colleague. The colleague, who was French (of course), spent the entire evening trying to smooth talk his way into my “affections” and when the clock began creeping towards twelve he decided to take a slightly more forward approach. He came up from behind, wrapped his arms around me and began pawing at my waist. ‘Take your hands off me,’ I snapped and elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Believe it or not,’ I wagged my finger at him, ‘an English girl doesn’t jump into bed with every man who offers.’ This news, combined with my unexpected outburst, seemed to render the man speechless. I yanked at the Scot’s coat sleeve. ‘Come on,’ I fumed as I dragged him away, looking back at the Frenchie with disgust, ‘I’m fed up with the men around here thinking that British women are easy.’ The Scot, with half a pint left in his glass, was resisting my tugging, ‘Well aren’t you? Not British girls generally I mean but…’ ‘I am not EASY,’ I screamed. I must have resembled mad Carrie at the prom because my friend’s face was suddenly stricken with fear. ‘Oh don’t worry about it,’ I turned on my heels, ‘I’m going home. ALONE.’
I flounced all the way back to my apartment with the word “easy” ringing in my ear. I was in a sulk, this was so unfair: since the mop-topped barman, I had been nothing but a model of virtuousness. And that was New Years Eve (so it doesn’t even count). This adds up to weeks of good behaviour. Weeks that have seen me wooed by the Silky One, enticed by the Neuroscientist and drunkenly hit on by the Crazy Canadian. I have refused all their persistent advances and for what?
I’d never had a problem with my promiscuity before I moved to France. In fact, compared to my other single girl friends, I’d always considered myself normal, even angelic. Then I came here and people assumed that I was a slut simply because of where I was from; it had the effect of making me question how normal I was after all. One evening, dancing in some Old Town dive, I fell into the arms of a Glaswegian with a huge blonde Mohican. He’d mastered this hypnotic back rubbing move that I was, apparently, powerless to resist. The next day, as I lay paralyzed, still drunk, in my bed, my mother gave me a lecture. ‘Dear you’re terribly easy,’ she said matter-of-fact. ‘He only had to rub your back…’ It pained me to admit it but I knew she was right. Then, in my tango class, José suggested that I work harder at resisting men. ‘You are too easy,’ he barked, ‘don’t be so easy. Resist. Resist!’ Obviously he was referring to my technique but, after giving it some thought, I decided to apply his advice to my life more generally. And thus, I ended up in my present predicament: English but not easy.
Post-dinner at the Silky One’s a couple of weeks ago he moaned, ‘You are like a French girl, not English at all. You’ve been taking lessons?’ It was a genuine enquiry. ‘Oh please,’ I shooed him away like a fly, ‘I may be English but I am capable of restraining myself.’ I scrutinized him and went on, ‘Incredibly, I’m actually finding it pretty easy to say no to you right now.’ Still, I was confused. Was it good for me to be like a French girl or was it bad? According to my Neuroscientist it was the latter. ‘Women here treat sex as if it is an oath,’ he explained. ‘They pull out the white dress after one sexual encounter. In Argentina it’s different, sex is without expectation; six months down the line you’ll wake up together and think this is really cool, this is a person I want to be with.’
Gabrielle, however, was adamant that this approach couldn’t be more wrong. ‘Men,’ she told me over lunch yesterday, ‘are stupid. That is why you can – no it is why you MUST - play them.’ ‘Huh?’ I was baffled; what happened to having a laugh with them? ‘These days,’ she continued, clearly taking to the theme, ‘sex is too easy. Men can get it anywhere, anytime. Women give it away. Give it away right at the beginning. Why then will a man bother hanging around? They’ve had everything they want.’ I thought about my Neuroscientist and tried to reason with her, ‘But sex isn't a gift, Gabrielle, to be bestowed or held onto and dangled in front of a man to trap him. Shouldn’t it simply be fun, happy, relaxed? Surely then a guy will hang around.’ ‘Well, anyway,’ Gabrielle narrowed her eyes at me accusingly, ‘it is true about English women. My friend who lives there says all the girls have sex really easily.’ So that was that then, I shrugged with resign: I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
This morning the Scot called. ‘Sorry,’ he began, ‘I don’t think you’re easy, not at all, in fact not easy enough by half. Besides, you were right about that French guy, turns out that he’s married, removed his wedding ring at the start of the night just so he could pull…’ And here I was questioning my morals? The French women, I thought, are welcome to their games and to their men. From now on I was English, easy (if I wanted) and proud.
I flounced all the way back to my apartment with the word “easy” ringing in my ear. I was in a sulk, this was so unfair: since the mop-topped barman, I had been nothing but a model of virtuousness. And that was New Years Eve (so it doesn’t even count). This adds up to weeks of good behaviour. Weeks that have seen me wooed by the Silky One, enticed by the Neuroscientist and drunkenly hit on by the Crazy Canadian. I have refused all their persistent advances and for what?
I’d never had a problem with my promiscuity before I moved to France. In fact, compared to my other single girl friends, I’d always considered myself normal, even angelic. Then I came here and people assumed that I was a slut simply because of where I was from; it had the effect of making me question how normal I was after all. One evening, dancing in some Old Town dive, I fell into the arms of a Glaswegian with a huge blonde Mohican. He’d mastered this hypnotic back rubbing move that I was, apparently, powerless to resist. The next day, as I lay paralyzed, still drunk, in my bed, my mother gave me a lecture. ‘Dear you’re terribly easy,’ she said matter-of-fact. ‘He only had to rub your back…’ It pained me to admit it but I knew she was right. Then, in my tango class, José suggested that I work harder at resisting men. ‘You are too easy,’ he barked, ‘don’t be so easy. Resist. Resist!’ Obviously he was referring to my technique but, after giving it some thought, I decided to apply his advice to my life more generally. And thus, I ended up in my present predicament: English but not easy.
Post-dinner at the Silky One’s a couple of weeks ago he moaned, ‘You are like a French girl, not English at all. You’ve been taking lessons?’ It was a genuine enquiry. ‘Oh please,’ I shooed him away like a fly, ‘I may be English but I am capable of restraining myself.’ I scrutinized him and went on, ‘Incredibly, I’m actually finding it pretty easy to say no to you right now.’ Still, I was confused. Was it good for me to be like a French girl or was it bad? According to my Neuroscientist it was the latter. ‘Women here treat sex as if it is an oath,’ he explained. ‘They pull out the white dress after one sexual encounter. In Argentina it’s different, sex is without expectation; six months down the line you’ll wake up together and think this is really cool, this is a person I want to be with.’
Gabrielle, however, was adamant that this approach couldn’t be more wrong. ‘Men,’ she told me over lunch yesterday, ‘are stupid. That is why you can – no it is why you MUST - play them.’ ‘Huh?’ I was baffled; what happened to having a laugh with them? ‘These days,’ she continued, clearly taking to the theme, ‘sex is too easy. Men can get it anywhere, anytime. Women give it away. Give it away right at the beginning. Why then will a man bother hanging around? They’ve had everything they want.’ I thought about my Neuroscientist and tried to reason with her, ‘But sex isn't a gift, Gabrielle, to be bestowed or held onto and dangled in front of a man to trap him. Shouldn’t it simply be fun, happy, relaxed? Surely then a guy will hang around.’ ‘Well, anyway,’ Gabrielle narrowed her eyes at me accusingly, ‘it is true about English women. My friend who lives there says all the girls have sex really easily.’ So that was that then, I shrugged with resign: I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
This morning the Scot called. ‘Sorry,’ he began, ‘I don’t think you’re easy, not at all, in fact not easy enough by half. Besides, you were right about that French guy, turns out that he’s married, removed his wedding ring at the start of the night just so he could pull…’ And here I was questioning my morals? The French women, I thought, are welcome to their games and to their men. From now on I was English, easy (if I wanted) and proud.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
A Running Joke
Just as there is a very clear line between those who go through life stalking and those who don’t, the same is also true of running. You are either a “runner” by nature or you’re not. The divide has become more obvious to me in recent months because there are an abnormal amount of “runners” in Nice. In fact there are so many of them sprinting up and down the Promenade des Anglais, I have come to believe that its 19th Century architects somehow knew that the Riviera would one day be populated by the world’s most beautiful men and women, the long-limbed and honey-skinned for whom Lycra shorts were invented.
When I first arrived here, I too found that I was irrationally compelled to jog along the seafront several times a week. I would get up at seven, be out by seven-thirty and home again before half eight. The promenade was perfect at that time of the morning - the pale sun was warm, the sky was golden - and when I got back to my apartment I was always full of energy and ready for the day ahead. I imagine that even Madonna - a woman who famously claimed that her body ‘doesn’t know it’s Christmas’ - would have found me a nauseating person to be around.
Obviously, I didn’t stick at it for longer than a month. As far as I was concerned, the torrential winter rain and the tragic loss of my Ipod gave me perfectly legitimate reasons to bin the regime. I knew, of course, that I’d simply latched on to the most convenient excuses. If I hadn’t been so careless, if the storms hadn’t raged, I would have found other reasons to stop; because, no matter how much I like to believe that I am a “real runner”, as a serial infatuationist it is impossible for me to make the long-term commitment “real running” requires.
Happily, the recent reappearance of the sun had meant that I have, for the time being, found my running groove once again. With my passion for pavement pounding fully reignited, I settled down last Wednesday with a copy of Haruki Murakami’s, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. The book has been sitting on my bedside table since November, taunting me throughout my jog-free winter; last week was the first time I felt I had run enough to justify opening the front cover. Sipping my Diet Coke in the pub on Friday night, I told my Scottish friend that I believed Mister Murakami – a bestselling author and dedicated marathon runner – to be a kindred spirit. He shrugged, ‘Can’t say that it sounds like my cup of tea.’ ‘Well no, I don’t imagine it would be,’ I looked at the pint of beer in his hand with disdain. ‘I think I must feel a sort of personal connection with what he's saying because, you know, I am both a "runner" and a "writer".’ According to my friend, I am also a "twat".
And perhaps he has a point. Thanks to - what I now refer to as - the Murakami effect, my behavior is rapidly beginning to reflect that of a “real runner”: smug and slightly fascist. For example, on Saturday afternoon I was jogging briskly down the promenade to some upbeat Girls Aloud number when I (literally) ran into a Canadian friend of mine just outside of the casino. ‘Sweet!’ he said when he clocked me, ‘I just tried to call you. Man, it’s such a beautiful day. What you doing?’ I blinked, kept jogging on the spot to the Girls, who I had left blaring loudly in one ear, and said nothing; I wasn’t going to waste valuable breath stating the obvious. ‘Was gonna see if you wanted to join me on the beach, soak up a few rays,’ he continued, annoyingly happy to see me. ‘Um, thanks for the offer but, you know, I’m running so can’t right now.’ I spoke to him as if I was explaining something very basic to a child. He began telling me what his plans were for the evening. I blinked harder at him; did he honestly think I had time for this chitchat? He must have registered that my bouncing was becoming increasingly agitated because he suddenly appeared disconcerted. ‘Anyway,' he muttered, 'guess I’ll catch up with you later...’ His lips were still mouthing 'good bye' when I began sprinting off in the opposite direction.
As I waved back at the Canadian, now a fuzzy dot in the distance, it occurred to me that if I continued to behave like a “runner” most of my “civilian” friends were going to dump me before very long. Perhaps this jogging malarkey wasn’t such a good idea after all? At that moment, an Adonis in tiny cycling shorts ran past and gave me a little smile, as if the two of us shared a secret. Fuck friends, I thought, guys like him are too healthy to go to the pub anyway. I held my head high, put my best foot forward and I kept on running.
When I first arrived here, I too found that I was irrationally compelled to jog along the seafront several times a week. I would get up at seven, be out by seven-thirty and home again before half eight. The promenade was perfect at that time of the morning - the pale sun was warm, the sky was golden - and when I got back to my apartment I was always full of energy and ready for the day ahead. I imagine that even Madonna - a woman who famously claimed that her body ‘doesn’t know it’s Christmas’ - would have found me a nauseating person to be around.
Obviously, I didn’t stick at it for longer than a month. As far as I was concerned, the torrential winter rain and the tragic loss of my Ipod gave me perfectly legitimate reasons to bin the regime. I knew, of course, that I’d simply latched on to the most convenient excuses. If I hadn’t been so careless, if the storms hadn’t raged, I would have found other reasons to stop; because, no matter how much I like to believe that I am a “real runner”, as a serial infatuationist it is impossible for me to make the long-term commitment “real running” requires.
Happily, the recent reappearance of the sun had meant that I have, for the time being, found my running groove once again. With my passion for pavement pounding fully reignited, I settled down last Wednesday with a copy of Haruki Murakami’s, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. The book has been sitting on my bedside table since November, taunting me throughout my jog-free winter; last week was the first time I felt I had run enough to justify opening the front cover. Sipping my Diet Coke in the pub on Friday night, I told my Scottish friend that I believed Mister Murakami – a bestselling author and dedicated marathon runner – to be a kindred spirit. He shrugged, ‘Can’t say that it sounds like my cup of tea.’ ‘Well no, I don’t imagine it would be,’ I looked at the pint of beer in his hand with disdain. ‘I think I must feel a sort of personal connection with what he's saying because, you know, I am both a "runner" and a "writer".’ According to my friend, I am also a "twat".
And perhaps he has a point. Thanks to - what I now refer to as - the Murakami effect, my behavior is rapidly beginning to reflect that of a “real runner”: smug and slightly fascist. For example, on Saturday afternoon I was jogging briskly down the promenade to some upbeat Girls Aloud number when I (literally) ran into a Canadian friend of mine just outside of the casino. ‘Sweet!’ he said when he clocked me, ‘I just tried to call you. Man, it’s such a beautiful day. What you doing?’ I blinked, kept jogging on the spot to the Girls, who I had left blaring loudly in one ear, and said nothing; I wasn’t going to waste valuable breath stating the obvious. ‘Was gonna see if you wanted to join me on the beach, soak up a few rays,’ he continued, annoyingly happy to see me. ‘Um, thanks for the offer but, you know, I’m running so can’t right now.’ I spoke to him as if I was explaining something very basic to a child. He began telling me what his plans were for the evening. I blinked harder at him; did he honestly think I had time for this chitchat? He must have registered that my bouncing was becoming increasingly agitated because he suddenly appeared disconcerted. ‘Anyway,' he muttered, 'guess I’ll catch up with you later...’ His lips were still mouthing 'good bye' when I began sprinting off in the opposite direction.
As I waved back at the Canadian, now a fuzzy dot in the distance, it occurred to me that if I continued to behave like a “runner” most of my “civilian” friends were going to dump me before very long. Perhaps this jogging malarkey wasn’t such a good idea after all? At that moment, an Adonis in tiny cycling shorts ran past and gave me a little smile, as if the two of us shared a secret. Fuck friends, I thought, guys like him are too healthy to go to the pub anyway. I held my head high, put my best foot forward and I kept on running.
Friday, 20 February 2009
Johnny and Evita
Towards the end of my tango class on Tuesday, I was attempting a tricky leg-sweeping move with the Silver Fox when a pair of strong hands grabbed my waist and swept me clean away. It was my Argentine Neuroscientist. We embraced warmly; we hadn’t seen each other for two weeks. ‘Where have you been?’ I cried. ‘My friend is here from Buenos Aires. I’ve had to reduce my tango hours.’ ‘Goodness, what a terrible burden’, I sympathized. ‘How long will she be staying?’ He smiled and winked, ‘He’s here a long time, until mid March.’ The idea of not dancing together for a month was unbearable. He must have sensed my woe because he looked into my eyes and said, ‘It’s not so bad. Let’s see what we can do.’ I suddenly felt horribly guilty; I’d been so busy kissing my frog lately that I had completely neglected my Latin Prince.
Having decided that I may have been a bit hasty putting all my eggs into the one (French) basket, I have now resumed my scheme of diligent tango practice and improvement. By the time the Neuroscientist’s no-mark friend has buggered off back to Buenos Aires, I am sure to be able to wow him with my eight-point pivot. Inevitably, with myself as my partner, I am making slow progress. After a frustrating morning stepping on my own toes, I almost relented yesterday and agreed to Pervy P’s proposition of private tuition. PP is my tango classmate and my English language student. For some time now he has been offering to ‘emphasize’ my ‘charming steps in tango’. (He also routinely pats my knee under the table and tells me I am ‘very preeety’, which no doubt violates a teacher-student code of conduct.) Luckily, just before I’d committed myself to some hands on teaching with him, I received a message: ‘We didn’t dance together much recently. I can help you work on your steps if you like.’ It was my prince! He had come for me and I hadn’t even had to leave a shoe. We agreed to rendezvous that very night.
As soon as I got home, I cleaned my flat like a demon. It had to look like it belonged to the type of girl who a brain doctor could, one day, marry. I particularly wanted the bathroom to look nice. As it takes several days to psyche myself up to mop, I had to hope that the dimmed lighting would disguise the dirt on the tiles. I also managed to squeeze in a phone call to my mother. She asked my dad, who was obviously somewhere in the background, if he thought ‘working on my steps’ was, in fact, a euphemism. I hoped so. My father declined to comment either way.
When the Neuroscientist arrived, he requested that we dance by candlelight. There was a tension in the air. Although it was not unpleasant, my instinct was to giggle. To lighten the mood I suppose. The Neuroscientist was having none of it though; we were here to work. With him in the role of the maverick dancer and me playing the frustrated student desperate to impress, my DIRTY DANCING fantasies were fast becoming a reality. ‘You should read your partner like a hummingbird’, he instructed, gazing into my eyes. I wasn’t entirely sure how one could ‘read a hummingbird’, but I accepted that this was the closest I was going to get to Johnny’s ‘It’s a feeling; a heartbeat’, and tried to look suitably mesmerized. After dancing to the same slow song several times, our embrace was so close our foreheads were touching. The music stopped and he lingered, perhaps mulling over how appropriate it would be to steal a kiss. I pulled away coquettishly and we took a breather.
‘In Argentina,’ he explained over his glass of rosé, ‘most people turn to tango after a heartbreak. It is as if a tragedy triggers a connection with the dance, a need for it or a longing.’ He began to talk wistfully about Buenos Aires. Through his eyes, it became the most beautiful and bohemian city in the world, full of poor but passionate artists and actors, musicians and dancers. I studied him as he spoke: he had the potential to be a man of the people. I imagined our life together: doing our good work in the shantytowns by day and dancing our tragic tango in the milongas at night. Forget Baby; I wanted to be the next Eva Peron.
Around 2am there was a bang on the door. A man in a towel dressing gown was mumbling something about shoes on the floor. My Latin Prince called the neighbour a name in Spanish that implied he wasn’t getting enough sex. His frustration was understandable; with the mood ruined, his own amorous intentions would have to be put on hold. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever complained about the noise Eva’s stilettos made when she danced. Of course, she had lived in the coolest city in the world. I lived in France.
Having decided that I may have been a bit hasty putting all my eggs into the one (French) basket, I have now resumed my scheme of diligent tango practice and improvement. By the time the Neuroscientist’s no-mark friend has buggered off back to Buenos Aires, I am sure to be able to wow him with my eight-point pivot. Inevitably, with myself as my partner, I am making slow progress. After a frustrating morning stepping on my own toes, I almost relented yesterday and agreed to Pervy P’s proposition of private tuition. PP is my tango classmate and my English language student. For some time now he has been offering to ‘emphasize’ my ‘charming steps in tango’. (He also routinely pats my knee under the table and tells me I am ‘very preeety’, which no doubt violates a teacher-student code of conduct.) Luckily, just before I’d committed myself to some hands on teaching with him, I received a message: ‘We didn’t dance together much recently. I can help you work on your steps if you like.’ It was my prince! He had come for me and I hadn’t even had to leave a shoe. We agreed to rendezvous that very night.
As soon as I got home, I cleaned my flat like a demon. It had to look like it belonged to the type of girl who a brain doctor could, one day, marry. I particularly wanted the bathroom to look nice. As it takes several days to psyche myself up to mop, I had to hope that the dimmed lighting would disguise the dirt on the tiles. I also managed to squeeze in a phone call to my mother. She asked my dad, who was obviously somewhere in the background, if he thought ‘working on my steps’ was, in fact, a euphemism. I hoped so. My father declined to comment either way.
When the Neuroscientist arrived, he requested that we dance by candlelight. There was a tension in the air. Although it was not unpleasant, my instinct was to giggle. To lighten the mood I suppose. The Neuroscientist was having none of it though; we were here to work. With him in the role of the maverick dancer and me playing the frustrated student desperate to impress, my DIRTY DANCING fantasies were fast becoming a reality. ‘You should read your partner like a hummingbird’, he instructed, gazing into my eyes. I wasn’t entirely sure how one could ‘read a hummingbird’, but I accepted that this was the closest I was going to get to Johnny’s ‘It’s a feeling; a heartbeat’, and tried to look suitably mesmerized. After dancing to the same slow song several times, our embrace was so close our foreheads were touching. The music stopped and he lingered, perhaps mulling over how appropriate it would be to steal a kiss. I pulled away coquettishly and we took a breather.
‘In Argentina,’ he explained over his glass of rosé, ‘most people turn to tango after a heartbreak. It is as if a tragedy triggers a connection with the dance, a need for it or a longing.’ He began to talk wistfully about Buenos Aires. Through his eyes, it became the most beautiful and bohemian city in the world, full of poor but passionate artists and actors, musicians and dancers. I studied him as he spoke: he had the potential to be a man of the people. I imagined our life together: doing our good work in the shantytowns by day and dancing our tragic tango in the milongas at night. Forget Baby; I wanted to be the next Eva Peron.
Around 2am there was a bang on the door. A man in a towel dressing gown was mumbling something about shoes on the floor. My Latin Prince called the neighbour a name in Spanish that implied he wasn’t getting enough sex. His frustration was understandable; with the mood ruined, his own amorous intentions would have to be put on hold. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever complained about the noise Eva’s stilettos made when she danced. Of course, she had lived in the coolest city in the world. I lived in France.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)