Job

zie je het staand zitten?
als je me zitten ziet zag ik het niet meer staan.

I'm sitting on a wooden cube, my left foot on a podest, my right leg crosses my left leg. my right arm leans on a chair. 15 people are staring at me. They measure my proportions with knitting pins. Her shoulders are much wider than that. I ever so slightly turn my head downwards a little and check out my shoulders. Inner sigh. I can see the canvas of an older guy right in front of me, the knees are placed right. He scratches his backhead, where his few remaining hairs are bundled into a ponytail. What on earth did he do to my breasts? The right one is quite alright, but the left one is a sad saggy flap of skin. After a few minutes, I feel the fingers of my right hand falling asleep. This is going to hurt. The next guy is a drawing disaster, but he seems to be improving, finally! oh, wait.. my feet are two misshapen chubby lumps on his canvas. No improvement. Apparently, feet are the most difficult parts to draw. In the break, after 45 minutes of immobility, I wander about and check out how the others see and draw me. One of the drawings is really good- until I realize that my face looks like that of a 50 years old woman. A little old, isn't it?, the teacher murmurs next to my ear. Yes, indeed. I quickly pass that woman's canvas who drew me from behind. No comment on her depiction of my backside. (or do I really look like this? I continue eating my chocolate bar. sugar is necessary.)
The teacher gives his students a sign, that the lesson resumes. Once again I have to drop my bathrobe, take place on the podium and sit still. 30 eyes staring at me. At times coming closer, real close, to check out my knuckels. There is good music, Tchaikovsky, oldies, balkan, Portishead, swing. Suddenly I get happy, inexplicably happy. I just sit and breathe, I am. Naked happiness. This is one of the things I really enjoy about my work, you just have to be. nothing more. But you are forced to be. You can't run away and distract yourself with anything, only with glimpses of yourself which the canvases encircling you show.
Three hours later, the lesson is over. While most of the people are already packing, sprayfixing my lumpy legs and alien ears, rolling up my saggy breasts, I still sit. Waiting for the last people to finish. Those who are not very talented leave my face blank and my limbs unfooted and unhanded. But everyone of them drew my single curl.

Love, M