Mi Primera Noche--September 5th, 2013

De Puta Madre! Ya Estoy hablando Espanol!

I am in Madrid, Spain: a city full of a seemingly invincible energy that runs as vibrantly and rapidly as the intricate metro system, and is as proud as it is vast.  I am amazed already by the gusto people carry about them, speaking with their articulate, quick tongues and harsh back-of-the-throat sounds of la lengua.

There is a rhythm to this city that I'm picking up that I don't want to put down.

In fact, there is the strong possibility that my heart already has started to dance along with that rhythm.

On a sunny Thursday morning in September, after a long, body-cramping trip by air from Tampa to Philadelphia--and then from Philadelphia to Madrid/Barajas Aeropuerto--I set foot in a clean, austere environment that, based on my own observations, seems to be characteristic of European Airports.  No trash, no riff-raff. No lingering and gaping stares at all the signs in Spanish, drilling your brain of now-distant vocabulary you studied in Spanish class over 6 years ago.  People bump into you, and keep walking.  But not out of rudeness; you were just in the way.

Ain't nobody got time for dawdling about in this country (unless you are practicing the botellon nighttime activity in which Madrilenos meet up in random parks and plazas to share bottles of alcohol all night, partying usually till the sun goes up, or sharing Canas y Tapas at bar after bar--but that's another story).  It seems important here to walk around with a matter-of-fact, half mullet look (all-business-but-no-party look) during daylight hours, and, of course, if you're in an airport anywhere, no one from any country likes someone moving slowly in front of them when there's a plane or taxi or shuttle to catch.

A stern, serio "Immigrations and Customs" officer beckoned me over to his window to stamp my passport, which I proudly presented, as it was complete with a fresh Visa that I spent a couple of months going through hectic bureaucratic motions to acquire.

Eso es el momento.

"Stamped. Amped, and ready to go."

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, despite being super tired from getting uncomfortable sleep on the plane and also having to carry around over 100 lbs of luggage with me, I hulled the my large rolling suitcase, a backpack, and two shoulder bags out of the baggage claim and darted my eyes around a crowded mess of travelers, looking for the letters:

C    I   E    E

I didn't see them. But then, I saw a group of other people that had that same look of wonder and amazement on their faces layered over jet lag that was already happening. Maureen, who sat next to me on the plane, beckoned me to come meet up with these people who were, mas o menos, around the same age as me.

From left: Maureen, Julia, Mike, Taylor, Leah, and Ana (me) 

And shortly after introductions and some small talk, we saw two sharply-dressed Spaniards holding white signs with the title of our organization up in the air, letting us know it was time for our shuttle to our hotel.

Why am I here?

I work for CIEE. What is CIEE you ask? Pues, lo voy a decirte.  CIEE stands for the Council on International Educational Exchange. It is a "non-profit, not-governmental exchange program" that offers study abroad and teach abroad programs--and helps this gal fulfill her dream of wanting to live and work in another country for an extended period of time. We are parnering with the Spanish Government and La Comunidad de Madrid to provide our native English tongues to aide in the bilingualism and cultural awareness of Spain's youth. More info:  http://www.educa2.madrid.org/web/mjmartinezdelis/1.-language-assistants-in-the-region-of-madrid

Here is the link if you want to read more about CIEE: http://www.ciee.org/

I am here to teach English as a second language as a Language and Culture Assistant in a bilingual secondary school in a barrio right outside of Madrid. The other anxious and travel-stricken characters are also going to teach in and around Madrid. We are all in the beginning stages of a 10-month adventure. There are a bunch of us in the Culture Assistant program, but about 3 dozen of us from the Teach In Spain Two-Week Immersion Program.  Our plan is to have four days of orientation with CIEE's coordinators, and then two weeks of language immersion courses while living with Spanish host families or individuals.  In the beginning of October, we begin teaching at our prospective Institutos or Colegios.

A quick shuttle ride to the Hotel Exe Moncloa later, the other CIEE teachers and I found ourselves standing surrounded by our many bags, getting our chance to practice a little bit of Spanish as we checked in at the desk.

We found out that our rooms weren't ready, so then proceeded to stand around a bit until someone said that up a flight of stairs was one of our orientation coordinators, Alana, ready to give us our blue orientation folders.

We checked in, gave our Texas-born leader (who has been living in Spain for 5 years now) handshakes and hugs, then looked at our watches/phones. We had about 6 hours or so until our introductory dinner, so a few of us explored the part of Madrid we were in: Moncloa.

I went with two other teachers, Julia and Mike, on a little camino outside of the hotel.

Interesting things we saw:

A large building labeled "Ejercito del Aire" (equivalent to Air Force), which I am assuming is a headquarters for the Spanish Airforce (or a museum, of which there are many in Madrid)

A monument quite similar to the Arc de Triomphe in Paris or the Washington Square Monument in New York. I thought it was beautiful, but apparently some angry person(s) begged to differ, and, with a can of spray paint, decided to mark it up with the desire to have it demolished.

Por que? Yo no se. And, my favorite part of this time of dawdling was Parque del Oeste and Van Gogh Cafe.

Julia, Mike, and I laid ourselves down on green, green grass and contemplated the start of our journey.  We were exhausted from the trip and it felt good to lie down in plein aire and soak up Madrid's September sun (which actually got pretty hot after about 15-20 minutes of sitting; I was quite sweaty).

And then there was Van Gogh Cafe, where I got to practice some more Spanish by ordering Agua mineral--CON GAS (sparkling mineral water). We cooled ourselves down with our drinks and some conversation as we looked at the even cooler art in this place that's dedicated to one of my favorite artists.

Hotel Exe Moncloa

Hotel Exe Moncloa: http://www.hotelexemoncloa.com/EN/hotel.html)

Hotel Exe is quite a beautiful and modern hotel in the Moncloa region of Madrid, an area that contains a university and rests against Parque del Oeste. It is a self-proclaimed "Gourmet Hotel," and has at least 10 floors of comfortable, clean, and recently-renovated rooms ready for international business travelers, pleasure travelers, or the 40-something of us eager and lucky young Americans.  It has its own Market and cafe/bar, in which you can buy things like tiny croissants or pastries with jamon y queso along with your cerveza or cafe con leche (or in my case, agua con gas:)).

Finally, I went up to my room and dumped all of my stuff down, took a deep breath, and said to myself "gah!" out of excitement.
I shared a room with Leah, a sweet CIEE teacher from Kentucky, in a comfortably furnished hotel room with a large bed that was pretty much two twins-sized mattresses put together.

 

I guess normally I would feel a little weird about sharing a bed with a stranger, but, I think at some point either before or during this trip, I decided to embrace the weird--because actually what I am doing in general is quite weird. I am spending a long time living far away from my closest friends and family in a foreign country.

I have already flung both legs over the side of the box that is labeled "my comfort zone," and am dangling now by my sweaty fingers.

*************

We met up around 7 pm for a quick intro with our coordinators, then went upstairs to the terrace of Hotel Exe Moncloa whose was, for lack of a better, non-cliche word---AMAZING! The terrace overlooks the Moncloa-Arguelles area of Madrid, which is a bit west of the city center.

CIEE Teach in Spain 2-Week Immersion Group--Madrid 2013

The CIEE Teach in Spain 2-Week Immersion Program Dinner

At Seven&Six in Madrid

Afterward, we walked as a group along the major Calle de Princessa and onward to a few other turns to arrive at a restaurant called Seven&Six (http://www.gastrobar76.com/). It's a gastro bar and restaurant near Parque del Oeste where the restaurant staff (los camareros) gave us excellent service as we ate a deliciously-prepared 3-course meal.  

Our "Executive" Menu:)

a melon-flavored palette cleanser with a single chive along the side of the glass

Gaspacho Andaluz

Ensalada Caprese--my only complaint was that the cheese was still a little frozen

Lomo de Salmon al Estilo Nordico--That's what I chose for my dinner

Brownie de Chocolate (que rico)

Stuffed with good food and wine, we thought our evening was over, but then our coordinators took us on a mini excursion to go see an Egyptian monument--the Templo de Debod and the outside of the Palacio Real de Madrid, which I will make sure to see during daylight hours. 

The sign for the Templo De Debod (it was too dark for pictures)

CIEE in front of the Palaco Real Madrid

...We are so excited, and thrilled, and nervous, and, and, and....tired! Muy Cansados!!

After a few of us had a night cap at the hotel's terrace, we snuggled up into our crisp sheets at hotel Exe, and, finally, slept. 

quizás, soñábamos con nuesta futuro en Madrid...

Perhaps, we all dreamed of our futures in Madrid...

Farts, Frames, and Spain--The summer before my Adventure...

I feel like my mind is empty, or at least hesitant to speak, so I’m just going to start by opening up my mind and dig into it, letting my fingers pull out whatever they graze first.

Oh, wait—here we go again.

I have Vanessa Carlton’s song that has the lyrics “just a day, just an ordinary day…” running through my head (surprise surprise--the song's called "Ordinary Day." Thanks, Google :).  

It has been all day. All day I tells ya.  Not a bad song—it just keeps persisting—not the whole song, but those particular words.  A theme song for the day? perhaps.  Today was an ordinary day, I guess. 

I worked at my Farts and Shafts job today.  

(Explanation: I work at Michael’s Arts and Crafts—I have no real problems with them ; I do think the concept of making arts and crafts into a retail franchise is smart, but it is kind of a corny place, and also, unfortunately, not  safe from the woes of capitalizing using low salaries paired with super idealistic expectations—it’s just that my friend Lis and I applied a funny alias for the entity during one of our many hilarious, kooky conversations, and calling my workplace Michael’s Farts and Shafts has been quite prone to evoke  a chuckle from me. )

I often get songs stuck in my head for days.  Lately these have been of  the fine collection of Michaels-approved pop songs  that get put onto CD’s and sent probably from Michaels corporate to store locations like mine.  The collection changes every once in a while (and only slightly to include random recent hits)  and reminds me of a mix between Casey Kasem’s "Top 40" and the bottom of a picked-through bin of old cassette tapes from decades past at a yard sale.  This will send me on an (exotic ?) journey, where any 15 minute slot could include a fairly recent song from Kelly Clarkson,  an ‘80s or ‘90s-era Whitney Houston dance song,  a random Beach Boy’s song, or an obscure hit like Elton John’s Island Girl (please, look up the lyrics and laugh).  It’s not like it’s a terrible mix—it can be rather amusing at times, and you might catch me dancing or singing by myself as I fit together a frame order—it is just apparent that it’s one CD that they put on shuffle mode, and this is obvious if you work there.  Repetition can cause those songs to seep into the psyche and cause me to—out of nowhere even when I’m far away from the ‘shaftiest’ place on Earth—start singing lyrics to a song I didn't even know I knew lyrics to.  

And I’m there right now. I've got the piano notes from Vanessa’s song playing in my head, accompanying a voice that sings only the parts that I know—over and over again.

Anyways, I digress. 

Ordinary day.   I worked my four hours and earned my 32 bucks (before tax) for the day.  I assembled a frame order for a diploma and joined a gaudy, elaborate champagne-colored frame for an oil painting.  I adore working with the tools in the frame shop, getting to use a power drill and glass cutter, and razor blades and such.  Ah, air compressors!  I feel so smart wearing clean white gloves as people bring in their cherished art or memorable to get put behind archival mats, glass, and moulding.  Framing was my first job after college, and, has been kind of a go-to when I can't think of anything else to do.  

I can apply my creative skills in the design process and my enjoyment in hands-on, crafty tasks in the production process.  Not to mention, a mixture of my acquired knowledge of the preservation materials, my appreciation for art, and my natural “people charm” skills help to make me a pretty good saleswoman.  (thank goodness,  ‘cause framin’ ain’t cheap!)  I just wish that I could be paid commission or just MORE in general for what I do.  (I’m not unique—I’m sure most people at some point in their lives feel like they weren't getting compensated properly for their actions).  If I didn't need money to eat, live, survive, and to pay off my debts, I guess I wouldn't complain so much.  It’s a fun job.

I suppose I could find a framing position that pays well.   I had an opportunity even at Michaels to get promoted to Custom Frame Department Manager, but my will is strong, and it had carried me already through the steps toward teaching abroad by the time the position came up. 

Next week is my last week of working there after a collective 10 months.  I adore framing, and am pretty good at it both on the design and the production aspect.  The crafty environment is comfortable and good for me right now.  Almost as soon as I moved back to Florida broke and homeless last summer from $an Franci$co, CA, and settled in at my parents' place, I wanted a fun, no-brainer, easy, and ‘disposable’ job, primarily because I didn’t know what I wanted to do and needed money.  

Eventually, when I got my mind set on teaching abroad,  the lack of a ‘serious’ job allowed me to focus on getting my TESOL certification and getting things in order for my next adventure.  Michaels is walking distance, so the environment plus the fact that I could walk or ride my bike really appealed to me. 

Now, the practical, money-conscious side of me would look back at myself and say,” What were you thinking?” In the year that I’ve been in Florida, I haven’t made really any money at all.  I know what I wasn’t thinking—I wasn’t thinking about my bills when I accepted an 8-dollar-per-hour retail job with no guaranteed set of hours! 

Anyways, my fault, done, lesson learned, and not much I can do about it but move forward.

 

Well, other than for not making my resume look like a mess of short/temporary jobs by quitting before I gave them 6 months (which it kind of already does), and the fact that it was enjoyable work, I stayed also because I was kind of interested in that management position. I did interview for the management position when the previous manager moved to a different job. But this was right about when I was on a time crunch between when I got accepted into CIEE’s Teach-in-Spain program that I had applied for, and the last date I was able to acknowledge my acceptance by paying a deposit for the trip.   

It was a really awkward couple of weeks for me, in fact, as I was trying to choose between a stable, full-time, salaried position (albeit not a high salary, but higher than the pitiful collection of pay I currently get in a year), and running away to teach for a short amount of time for way less money and an out-put of 4-5,000 dollars to prepare for the trip. merr...

Ultimately, the store manager sniffed me out and figured out that, though a managerial position is probably what a reasonable person my age needs, my heart didn't really want it, and wouldn't necessarily be a great investment if she did choose me.  I’d probably quit after a year or so if I did get the position to pursue something else, knowing me.   She smelled that on me like B.O. after deodorant fails and hired someone else.

Do I despise money? Or does money despise me?  Good question.   Either way, I've made some stooopid money choices.  That said, I think my calling in life may not be to make money.  Cause why else would I choose fields that don’t make much money? 

Adventure?  I think so.  Also, I really do think that Education is where I should be.  I feel very alive and connected when I am helping people and trying to bring about inspiration.  So I have to swallow the fact that I won’t make a six-figure salary, but maybe eventually something that will be stable enough and will afford me good vacation time and the ability to maybe one day start a side business with my art.  And that sounds mighty nice to my heart and soul. 

I am getting really pumped about my Spain trip.  Nine months with my thoughts and the challenge of teaching and of learning a new language (and hopefully making it stick) will stimulate me immensely, and, perhaps get me primed for a more ‘serious’ job once I return.  I want it to be a job in the educational field, but I am open to the possibilities that my more creative side could offer.

Nonetheless, one more week of listening to that repeating-- “my God, I want to shoot myself because that song has been playing as the soundtrack for my dreams” --collection of farts and shafts entertainment.

--and then, on the baby days of September, onward to new sounds that have yet to get stuck in my mind’s ear. 

If you put it on your plate...

"If you put it on your plate, you better eat it."


Okay, I'll admit it. My eyes are bigger than my stomach.

At least that's what my mom would say whenever she saw the ten-year-old version of me scarf down a third helping of food at dinnertime. Even if full, I would make sure to let my greedy little tongue taste every morsel on my plate. I was a fat kid and felt obligated to lick that plate clean lest my mom give me the evil eye.

Well, I'm not fat now, but I'm still greedy. Or, at least always hungry. But for what?


I don't know. But it seems like whenever I get the slightest inspiration, I pile things high upon my plate.

What started as a noble quest to start a year with aspirations for growth and new beginnings turned into a confused mutter of manifestos and a huge headache for me. I have started my first semester of grad school this year among other things I've decided to juggle, and it's all culminating into lots of rushing around, lots of different "hat" wearing, lots of swearing, and a very frazzled me. But I'm learning some stuff on the way.

The other weekend, I modeled for a portrait painting workshop at the Dunedin Fine Arts Center. Markissia, the workshop instructor, asked me to wear something bright and “island-y” for the pose, which was to remain the same for the whole 12-hour workshop. I was a Gauguin re-creation in a blue sarong and a flower in my hair. I sat with bright flowers in one hand on my lap and other hand resting lazily on the arm of a chair in front of a brightly patterned pink backdrop. Seven students set up their easels around the room facing me, and Markissia set hers closer to me to enable her students to watch her process of laying down my image in oil paint on her canvas.

On a break during day one of the workshop, I walked out into the gallery of the arts center and stood in front of a painting Markissia was exhibiting called “Renaissance Man.” It is a painting of a man costumed in renaissance attire holding a palette and paint brush, looking heroically towards a spot of light up into the far left hand corner. What that spot of light is--well, that’s up to the viewer.

It is a beautifully done piece with the crisp quality of a Jacques-Louis David painting. I did not think Markissia’s idea was original, but since I saw it that first time, I kept wandering out to stand in front of it during each of my successive breaks. Now the image stays with me.

I like the idea of renaissance. This could be the reason I studied art history for my undergrad degree. I enjoy the idea of rebirth and flourishing ideas.

My www.myspace.com profile status reads, “Ana is emerging from a cocoon”.

I consider myself a renaissance woman. I seek the artist, the teacher, the muse, in me. I fill my days with a stew of artistic aims to achieve some kind of nirvana balance between all disciplines in art.

I get inspired by the renaissance woman in me, and it’s all over:

I’m scooping all of it onto my slate of finely-decorated china. Eat up.

So my initial endeavor as a child of enlightenment has been to eat from the knowledge tree again by getting my graduate degree in English Education, and to get some experience in the education field as a substitute teacher. I adore teaching. For three years now, I’ve also taught reading to children and adults during a summer program through the Institute of Reading development. I am the brand of nerd who thinks it is giggly-fun to find the main idea of a paragraph or to diagram a sentence, so it seemed like a no-brainer to get my teaching certification in the field.

But I have to eat.

I am making money on the side as a fine arts figure model. I have the loveliest exchanges with all of the arts community cohorts as I try to establish myself in that field as both an artists and model. When I’m not gazing off into a noble corner of a room standing nude in a classical, contrapposto stance, I’m toting my box of charcoal and graphite with my sketchbook, proudly creating art next to people who created art of me the week before.

And when I’m not doing all that, plus going to Jazzercise at least twice a week, I’m working on a culmination of my talents in the form of a project that will attempt to incorporate figure modeling, art creation, and a healthy serving of fresh ideas to my plate. My aim is to put together an event called Art School Cabaret, which will be a showcase of models and a bit of a workshop for artists in a relaxed, cabaret-style atmosphere. The event will be held at the venue Studio@620 with which I am interning, and will take some moving and shaking on the part of myself and my colleagues to make into a great idea.

This sounds all like I am trying to receive some kind of recognition for my talents, huh? I don’t know what I’m trying to achieve, but it seems I have the peculiar habit of wanting to prove that I can balance a multitude of tasks at once. Or, I simply get greedy.

I am to write a manifesto at the end of my internship that will sum up my endeavors and where my role as an artist/model/teacher is taking me. Well, right now, I am having trouble finding time to breathe.

The Renaissance Woman in me is overburdened from all the inspiration! So maybe my manifesto will include a survivor’s guide through all my plate-piling.

--For, no matter what, I’m gonna finish my plate. It’s my nature (and possibly, my torture).


Maybe I should consider portion size?

Bloggity Blog Blog

Bloggity Blog Blog

“Call when you want, but there’s no one home, and you’re not gonna reach my telephone!”

These lyrics are repeating like a broken CD in my head after experiencing a blog on www.mashable.com about Lady Gaga and Beyonce’s collaborative hit music video “Telephone” premiering on Vevo [VIDEO]. I then spent 20 minutes (my computer is slow) watching this video, which is over 9 minutes long. Ah, pop music videos with their elaborately sexy costumes, and androgynous backup dancers. What did I gain from this experience? I gained some dance move ideas and catchy lyrics from the video. I gained nothing from the actual blog that I would consider in the realm of literary inspiration.

So…writing a blog about writing a blog… There has been a lot of resistance towards writing blogs among my fellow colleagues in my creative writing class at The University of South Florida in St. Petersburg. These are who I consider very talented individuals with great writing skills. But assigning blogs is like pulling teeth. Why the resistance? What makes a blog worth writing and ultimately, worth reading?

I got a clue when I read that blog about Lady Gaga, and then again when I read another blog by Eric Deggans (The Feed) about supermodel Heidi Klum’s show “Project Runway.” Contestant Ben Chmura, a designer and resident of Tampa Bay, created a suit for his model that was inspired by sharks. The suit got bad remarks and caused him to be voted off the show. Chmura apparently hadn’t been a very popular or noticeable contestant until he was shown dramatically crying to his boyfriend over the phone when he was told to leave. Deggans commented on how most reality TV shows will stage a dramatic exit for some contestants “so viewers feel a bit more loss when that person is ejected from the show.” I enjoyed that Eric Deggans pointed out how much of a set-up these shows are but was also left with a little literary emptiness when I finished reading his blog post.

The types of blogs I’ve just described remind me of articles found in media magazines or bits done by hosts on entertainment recap shows, and, in my opinion, lack the ability to inspire and to cause deep reflection, which I think are aspects of great literature. The purpose of these blogs seems to be only to inform. The writer does very little self-reflecting and a lot of reporting. I was informed that Lady Gaga and Beyonce hit some good marks with their sex-bombarded collaboration, and was reminded that reality TV is so far away from reality. I think I could have gotten the same from watching MTV or VH1.

I think blog quality really depends on the audience. I suppose if what was happening in the latest reality show was really important to me, I would probably read more of that type. I did read another blog post from a Blog called From the Floor that I thought was worth my reading time. The blogger, Todd Gibson, an art critic writes an entry called “Why We’re called ‘From the Floor.’” He justifies his purpose as an art critic through an anecdote about his experiences attending seminars as a graduate student. Gibson watched professors and other participants rant about the politics of aesthetics through biased viewpoints and no consideration of audience perspective, and was inspired to bring more of a genuine quality to his writing about art. I liked how the blog has structure to it; the blogger introduces a point, embellishes it with a story, reflects on his point, and then he concludes it. The message and the blogger’s point are clear at the end. I connected to the blog personally because I’ve had some experience writing and critiquing art as an Art History undergraduate student and have also sat in on seminars similar to the one Gibson described in his blog. I was also able to reflect on what constitutes quality in an art critique.

I have little experience in the scope of blog writing; in fact, this is the first time I have considered blog writing as a literary style. I wrote a couple of blog entries on www.myspace.com a few years ago that are very much like personal diary/journal entries. I wrote one entry about a dramatic break-up with my boyfriend a few years ago, for example. I wrote about how the experience turned me into a “shaman” because my soul ‘died’ with the breakup and I ‘rose back to life’ with a new sense of awareness and wisdom. I laugh at that now because, though I really did sense a bit of enlightenment at the time and think some my words are wise, I would not proudly declare that blog post as something really worthy of a literary accomplishment. I think only like five people of the two-hundred –and-something “friends” that I have on the site have read that entry. It’s been posted for about four years now. My point is: my impression of blogs is that many blogs are personal—I call them “me, me, me” rants. So, naturally, I can see why a group of students would rather not have to read 10 blog posts about something that they might not be interested in, especially if the blog posts are about day-to-day functions and don’t have an ability to cause connections. If the blog is about experiences, let the experience lead to something.

Reading the above mentioned blogs made me realize that there are different aims in blog writing: to inform,  to tell a story, or to produce a lesson or a realization of some sort. Another aim is to reflect on personal experiences. I believe readability really depends on the audience. As for literary quality, I believe that a blog can be considered literature when it achieves most, if not all, of these aims. A blog worth reading is a blog that I will think about for longer than it took me to read it. It should have style in delivery and structure. And it shouldn’t make me want to ‘change the channel.’ Save all the gyrating and dramatic crying for television!

Charm THE MAN--and give her wine.

I was a half hour late for duty and could feel the sting of those disapproving eyes, the nasty thoughts darting through her mind towards my weak excuses. “I’m really sorry for being late. I—traffic was bad and I---“


“No time for explaining. Do you see all these people already? Get to work.”

And that’s what I did. I had signed up to work the beverage table at the Vagina Monologues event for the Studo@620. The event was scheduled to start at 7pm but by 6:30 there were people there already crowding around the beverages, getting their fill on a Friday night.

For my internship, I must work a number of hours with the studio. I have scheduled myself to work the beverage table for several events because I thought it would be cool to not only possibly get tips, but maybe partake a little while being entertained by an event I didn’t have to pay for. Me, me, me, right?

Wrong. There were no tips (all monetary donations go to the Studio) and I really did have to work this particular evening. I had a particularly uneventful Sunday of volunteer time working the beverage table a couple of weeks before. The event was a grudgingly loooooonnnnnnggg play, appropriately named The Long Day’s Journey Into Night, at which I did partake, and by the time it was “night” in the play (FOUR HOURS later, mind you), I had been about 4 glasses of Shiraz deep. Hardly any of the guests came to get drinks from the table. And she, the her from above, Winnie Howell, was by my side then, drinking wine with me and Stephanie, one of the other interns, making fun of how dry and depressing the play was. That night I felt that Winnie and I were best friends.

I didn’t feel that same warmth from her initially at the Vagina Monologues event. Winnie was all about work and no play. I apparently was moving too slow for her liking and had to endure her constant groans and sighs when it seemed I wasn’t pouring the wine or giving customers change quickly enough. “Move faster” she kept saying, and wouldn’t remove herself from her perch on my shoulder. “You were late, and all these people were here, so I had to take over.” Rub it in, rub it in.

So who is Winnie Howell? Winnie coordinates most of the volunteer positions in the Studo@620. She’s a busy woman. She manages the beverage and food tables, the admissions desk, parking attendants, membership information for the studio, and donations made to the studio. She even makes most of the desserts and gourmet dips. Winnie is the go-to person if you are an intern or volunteer. She’ll put you on her magical online spreadsheet so you can see when you are scheduled to work. She’ll schedule you to work alone at a task if she trusts you to fulfill the duty efficiently.

Before I even worked with Winnie, I heard how particular she was with most things. “Winnie is strict.” “Get on her good side.” “She’s tough to please.” “She’s really organized—don’t mess with her.” Lots of warnings made me very wary and a bit nervous when I first met her. I used my best professional voice and addressed her as Ms. Howell and shook her hand. I used complete sentences and proper grammar when I emailed her. She’s not a very emotional person, so she gave me mostly stern, indifferent looks as I almost bent over backwards to please her. Grovel, grovel, grovel.

But then, I discovered Winnie likes wine.

I had to step up my game a bit at the Vagina Monologues event. “She’s being so mean to me,” said Stephanie , who was assigned to be a greeter for the event. I was surprised because I thought Stephanie had already been on the untouchable, good side of Winnie. But then I felt better knowing that Winnie wasn’t sighing and groaning only at me. Winnie was obviously stressed at this event. People arrived way earlier than planned and I hadn’t shown up early enough to man the bar, so she had to work the bar in my place. I don’t know why she was giving Stephanie hell, but I know this was all aggravated by the fact that Winnie didn’t feel too fondly about women talking about their vaginas. “It doesn’t float my boat.”

So I learned quickly how to manage the bar, and by the time the event started, people stopped hounding the beverage table. Winnie got off my shoulder and had her first glass of Pinot Noir.

I joined her with the wine. I enjoyed the show, but enjoyed conversation with Winnie even more. Her stern, mean , “old lady look” transformed into a friendly Golden Girls smile. She told me her story about how she and her family came to St. Petersburg a few decades ago from a farm in Syracuse, New York. She told me how she loves it here in the sunshine and convinced an older family member to come down to Florida after spending an entire life not ever leaving Syracuse. “It was her first time on a plane.” As I poured her another glass of Pinot, Winnie told me about her son, Jim, and how his partnership with Bob Devin Jones brought her to work at the studio. We clinked glasses at a joke I can’t recall, and then I told her my life story. BEST FRIENDS!

The next time I came to the studio, I worked admissions at the City of Writers launch party. Winnie was very friendly, and I even overheard her saying about me, “she’s a fast learner, I could probably stick her in the bar to train someone.” Yay!

Really, it wasn’t all wine that got me on the good side of Winnie. I think she really needed to see me work and get to know me before warming up. To please Winnie, first of all, be on time. I think she was bothered by that initially. Second, work quickly and pay attention! None of the tasks I have been assigned have been rocket science, but there’s a certain flow and awareness of what’s going on that will help to keep things going fluidly. And third, learn how to charm.

So, if Winnie is THE MAN in this situation, I must learn about all of what it takes to please THE MAN, and I must also remember that THE MAN’s favorite wine is Pinot Noir.

Naked Truths about Nude Modeling

“I know what it’s like to be on both sides of the easel,” I often say to people I model for, emphasizing the fact that I am an artist as well as a model. I have been a part time fine arts model for about three years now. There is much to say about the career, its stipulations, and the controversial connections people often make with it.

My first experience as a model for an art class was at the University of South Florida (USF) in Tampa. I was a budding art student and thought it would be interesting to also sit for some classes as a part time job. I knew that the job would require nudity, but I thought it was like diving into a pool of water from a high place; I would just do it without thought or fear of the unknown. But was I ready?

I sat for a beginning drawing class that hadn’t progressed enough to draw a figure in the nude, so the instructor just wanted her students to get started by drawing someone in clothes. I wore jeans and a t-shirt. I thought it was an easy task; at the time I was relieved to find out that I didn’t have to be in the nude this first time. The next class, however, required me to be nude. I chickened out and didn’t come back. I had gotten to know some of the art professors and students and didn’t want to be ‘that girl who everyone saw naked,’ especially since I would be taking art classes in that department.

So I modeled for a few fashion photographers with clothes and makeup, instead, for a while. It wasn’t until I got really deep into understanding myself as an artist, and the importance of the nude model in learning how to render the human figure, that I began considering nude figure modeling again.

My first nude modeling experience was for the University of Tampa. I modeled for a Beginning Figure Drawing class in a large, dusty studio on a platform in the middle of the room. There were bright spotlights pointed at me, and I was surrounded by eager first-year art majors and students taking art as an elective, with their charcoal, drawing boards, and newsprint. The class followed the same procedures for a figure drawing class I had been used to from being a student: the model starts out with a few gesture poses (usually 30 seconds to 2 minutes of dynamic standing poses I wouldn’t be able to hold for any longer than the time prescribed), the 5 and 10 minute poses (a bit more relaxed but usually standing), and then 20-30 minute poses (usually seated or standing on two feet). The gestures and the 5-10 minute poses are designed as a ‘warm-up’ for the students, causing them to make decisions quickly as they try to render the figure in such a short time. The longer poses give the students the time to refine the decisions they would normally make during the short poses, and to create a more finished drawing.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t being naked in front of the crowd that made me nervous the first time. Holding still for a long period of time was the most difficult of it all (God forbid I’d get an itch!), and the hot, bright lights made me sweaty. I was mostly nervous, then, about my looking like a frantic, nervous, sweaty wreck in front of everyone.

What got me through this first, trying, time was me telling myself that no one really is paying attention to me as a person when they are drawing me. No one is really focused on the fact that I was naked, even. I remember drawing nude models and being so concentrated on depicting the figure that I didn’t really care about whether the model was attractive, thin, or fat. There was a 70 or 80 year-old man who posed for a few of my drawing classes at USF. He was not your usual “Adonis.” Though a bag of bones and drooping skin, he was great subject matter. I created wonderful charcoal studies of his face and his bony torso, which created the most interesting contrasts when put under a dramatic light.

I was subject matter, then; a three-dimensional entity of forms, shapes, and shadows the students were trying to depict on a two-dimensional piece of paper. This--this thought of me as subject matter-- is what kept me sane in those moments of eternity that I spent standing naked in front of this particular art class.

I have been a figure model since. Many of the experiences are the same as I just described; I often pose nude for figure drawing classes in universities or for figure drawing sessions outside of the universities, in art studios or centers. I have also modeled for portrait groups where the focus is usually on my face or on a costume I’m wearing. I have modeled freelance for accomplished artists in their studios as well.

What is interesting is talking about nude modeling to people not associated with the practice. I think there are many prejudices that come with the notion of nude modeling. One obvious one is the association with pornography. “You let strangers look at you while you’re naked?”—a question I’ve gotten from one of my concerned friends. “Yeah, and I pose on all fours with my ass up or on my back with my legs spread wide open so everyone can see the goods” is what I sarcastically responded with. I can’t blame my friend for not being open-minded about the career. People usually have reservations about being naked in front of others, especially a crowd. You’re either a porn star or a stripper, and the associations with both professions are not always positive.

If an artist needs to know how to draw vases, he or she should practice drawing all different types of vases to get better at it. Thus, if an artist needs to learn how to draw the human form better, he or she needs to practice drawing all types of human forms. And the best way to see a human form is without clothes.

So why did I chicken out at first? Well, I can say that I had the same connotations about being naked in front of people, about exposing the personal, the possibly imperfect--the side of me that I wouldn’t openly show to my grandmother. I had fears of people rejecting my image as an art form because I felt I didn’t have “perfect” breasts or “zero percent” body fat. “What if they lose their artistic inspiration?” It was all fear of the unknown, a taboo.

I take modeling seriously. I show up with my robe, my slippers, a sheet, and a timer. Sometimes I’ll wear make-up if I know the artists are going to take their time to render my image. Sometimes, upon request, I will wear a costume. I try my best to create the best situation for inspiration. To me, it is an art form in itself. I think of myself as a muse, my own brand of Mona Lisa.

I realize the constant need for models among artists. Artists are, of course, known to be creative, but they often need subject matter. I attend many of the local figure drawing group meetings both as a model and a practicing artist. I am an intern at a place called Studio @620 in St. Petersburg, Florida, and would like to incorporate my knowledge of figure modeling as an art form into planning an event that would bring together figure modeling, visual art and theatrics. More details to come…

Letters to a Young Artist

I want to challenge notions of existence and create a new understanding by making a mark in life’s continuum. I want to create art with every breathing part of me. I want to inspire minds to create.

Letters to a Young Artist by Anna Deavere Smith is like a charging “kick in the ass” for me. Her words add more fuel to the fire inside me. Her letters to an imaginary artist named “BZ” can be read by anyone who has dreams to follow, but really speaks to me as both an aspiring artist and teacher.

Smith grabbed my attention with one of the very first letters entitled “Presence.” There is much to say about an artist and his or her presence. An actor who has presence can enchant his audience and draw its members “close” to his character, Smith explains. A dancer who has presence can bring an audience to tears of joy with her unforgettable adagio. Writers with presence leave lasting words in the minds of their readers. Smith says people with presence aren’t always artists; that presence can also be a type of charisma, some type of charm that you have that draws people’s attention to you. Smith describes her dog as having charisma, and a man who she observed kissing trees frequently “took [her] breath away” because he was so dedicated to it. Lauren Hutton, “too short to be a fashion model,” became the first supermodel because she had that ‘something’ that grabbed an editor’s attention. Beauty is not required for presence, and you cannot achieve presence simply by striving for attention.

Most striking to me, though, was when Smith says that being dedicated to who you are and what you do is one way that you may have presence. She also says “presence requires being aware. Presence requires paying attention…presence requires allowing others to make an impact on you.” If you want to be better at something, or if you want to achieve a certain professional or social goal, you have to immerse yourself in it—that book you want to write, that series of paintings you want to complete, that class you want to teach, that greeting card business you want to own. Whatever it is that you want to do, you must practice it, learn more about it, and do a lot of networking.

I am a grad student, teacher, and aspiring artist. I received my undergraduate degree in Art History. After I graduated, I worked full time in an upscale frame and fine art gallery, selling frames and designing frame and combinations. My bosses were very pretentious and licked the ground for many of the men or women who came into our gallery. My bosses were an upper middle class married couple that consisted of a Tampa-raised son of a well-known bank executive and a rail-thin German woman who sustained herself with espresso. They were former luxury car sales people who never stopped until they made a sale. I got into an argument with the husband that ended with me in tears a few months into my employment there. Why? Because I couldn’t make a sale to a man who didn’t want to spend 200-400 dollars just to frame a golf poster for his office. I didn’t feel the need to chase this man out into the parking lot after he simply said he didn’t want to spend that much to "slap something on [his] wall." My bosses are salesmen in an extravagant business in a trying economic time and need devoted salesmen to run their galleries. Sales are crucial to the survival of their business, after all.

I think I played the role of the salesperson quite well for a while, but I wasn’t really as dedicated as my bosses were. Sure, I sometimes have enough presence to charm even the grumpiest old lady, but I don’t think I had presence as a salesperson. I left after a year. With that experience, I became disillusioned about the art world--or at least the marketing aspect of it. I thought it too full of hollow, pompous people chasing the dollar, not the art. I decided I didn’t want to work as a salesperson.

What I did realize, though, is that in order to own any business, you have to practically be married to it. The owners of the frame gallery I worked at lived and breathed their business. They wanted to make the absolute best impression of their business to everyone they met. Despite their asshole boss tendencies, they were very charismatic. You may be really charmed if you find yourself in their galleries, maybe so charmed you’d spend 500 dollars on a Leger print with an Italian handmade frame. The owners need people in order to run their business, so their business is people. Their attentiveness to people makes them very good at selling. They have presence in their profession.

Before I received my degree I worked part time as a preschool teacher. I loved it. In fact, I’ve always enjoyed teaching, and during that gray area of unemployment after the gallery I decided to go in another direction for a while. I saw an opportunity to teach reading during the summer. I applied, got hired and trained, and worked rigorously. I taught 10-12 classes a week to students ages 4 to adult. I had my own classrooms of 4-40 students to teach a structured phonics, word study, or literature comprehension lesson in allotted time slots of one to two hours, one after the other. The classroom experience, the dynamic interaction of so many different age groups, the impact I did (or didn’t) have on a person’s understanding of a text or concept I found very thrilling. I returned the next summer to teach and now am getting my master’s degree in English Education. I found that teaching is something I could really devote myself to. So my new quest is to find out how much I can learn about teaching.

I think presence is very important in teaching. Smith has a couple of letters entitled “Teacher” and “Teacher II” in which she responds to BZ after she’s been informed that the young artist has gotten a job as an assistant art teacher. Smith’s gives great universal advice for teachers. For example, she recommends that as a teacher, you must decide the tone that you want to create for your class, and the relationship you want to create with your students (do you want to be your students’ friend or do you want to take on a more formal discourse, for example?). She also recommends becoming very involved in the atmosphere and the students, greeting every student by name, keeping the classroom organized and tidy, setting up your “stage” and “audience” that you are getting ready to command. Smith describes the classroom as the “garden” that you maintain: “The teacher is the landscape architect and will design the class.” A teacher thus must have presence in her classroom to get results.

Many of these tactics I have already put into play during my experiences as a teacher. I am currently working as a substitute teacher in my county. Much can be said about the substitute teacher the students don't walk all over the minute they come through the door! Presence can help you manage a classroom full of rowdy 6th graders who see you as an opportunity to try every bit of your patience for example. Presence, the dedication to running a strong foundation for learning and an organized atmosphere, can make you (and your students) thrive in a classroom setting.

My presence as an artist is developing still as well. I have many half-finished paintings that I ‘haven’t gotten around to’ and some ideas that haven’t manifested on canvas. I have many words that haven’t formed into sentences and stories and projects I haven’t marketed yet. Smith writes a letter about procrastination, and how it can be called  “actively avoiding” things.  Presence involves the opposite: actively moving towards a goal and having the discipline to create constantly and to keep your mind from wandering away from your tasks. I am in a constant struggle to keep reminding myself that if I don’t get my ‘voice’ out there, no one will hear it.

To sum up (because I really could go on and on this topic), Anna Deavere Smith’s Letters to a Young Artist reminded me that anything I strive for in life needs to be something I love. If I want something, I have to be it, and be surrounded by it. My journey to becoming a successful teacher and artist must include my presence.