The Invisible Artist
An introduction to the indispensable but mostly unknown work of the figure model.
On October 14, 2019, I was sitting in the Musee Rodin in Paris, and I was so unspeakably angry that we have a whole museum dedicated to this man, that we have so many museums dedicated to so many men, men whose works have money poured into them to preserve them for audiences who casually walk by, but rarely do we know the names of the models--mostly women--who made their work possible. I was angry and sad that these women’s bodies are splayed out, naked, vulnerable, twisted, upside down, for the young man I was watching to stand in front of and scratch his balls while he casually glances over her body. I was angry that these museums and these works accumulate wealth that the women whose bodies they are made of never got to see. I was angry that once made of marble by men’s hands, our bodies are art, and their work revered, but while made of flesh, our careers are shameful if they are acknowledged at all. I was angry that artists are described as “inspired by the female form” when their art is so often an excuse to expose, fetishize, and claim women’s bodies. I was angry that the models are reduced to standing in for “the female form,” rather than acknowledged as the individual women that they were, perhaps genuinely invested in and fulfilled by their work, or perhaps just trying to make enough money to get by, or perhaps coerced into stillness and silence. They were tired, they were shaking, they were in pain while they held these poses that endure in art for centuries. Maybe they had injuries that lasted until they died. And now we stare at their bodies to feel cultured but we do not know and do not care to know their names.
I was angry because their work has been made invisible, painted over, literally.
But that work was also invisible to me before I became a figure model myself, so I wanted to share what that work is like to make it a little less invisible.
My first awareness of the artist’s model came from a children’s book my grandmother gave me called Degas and the Little Dancer by Laurence Anholt, a story about Marie van Goethem, the girl who posed for Edgar Degas’ famous sculpture “Little Dancer Aged 14”. The story is a romantic telling of a girl who models for Degas to pay for her ballet lessons and who, after suffering the artist’s infamous temper, gains his respect and even his care.
I know now, some 17 years later, that Marie was, at 14, forced to pose for hours on end, both clothed and nude, for Degas, that her work for him made her late for her ballet lessons so many times that she was fired from the corps de ballet of the Paris Opera, that Degas saw women as “human animals,” and that Marie was luckier than most girls in her situation as Degas was celibate and therefore did not sleep with his models.
But when I first read the book at 6 or 7 while I was still taking ballet lessons, I was enchanted by the idea of being a dancer in Paris and having a beautiful sculpture by a famous artist modeled after me.
That is not the only thing that led me to becoming a figure model, but it was the first spark of fascination that eventually had me googling “figure drawing Chicago” while home for Christmas in 2018 at 22.
I was 6 months out of university with a degree in Theatre and Gender & Sexuality Studies, and I had gotten a day job coaching boxing. I started boxing and group fitness at 12, and I absolutely loved getting to share my love for it with others, but I had no time or energy for artistic pursuits while teaching 10-15 classes a week plus working desk hours. After a break down in early December where I was forced to come to terms with my devastation at not feeling like an artist anymore, I took my holiday to re-evaluate and search for opportunities to feel more like an artist while still paying my bills.
I don’t remember the exact moment I had the thought to search for modeling work, but I remember sitting in one of my favorite coffee shops in Honolulu, trying to hide my computer screen from my mom as I scanned websites and articles and meetup pages for figure drawing sessions, picking three that seemed legitimate, and cold-emailing them with my artistic resume and headshot as if I was submitting for an audition. In the subject line, I put: “Figure Model Looking for Work.”
After a few days, a studio emailed me back, inviting me to come watch a session and meet the director of the sessions. I took a bus to a warehouse that looked pretty shady from the outside in January in Chicago (which means it was snowing and absolutely freezing) and part of me was absolutely terrified. But when I climbed the stairs to the crowded, warmly lit studio that was invisible from the front door, I met Mike, the artist who ran the sessions, and he talked to me about my work as an actor, Game of Thrones, and Marvel movies, and introduced me to Ashley, the model for the evening who graciously gave me her email and answered all my questions the day after I contacted her despite the fact that her sister had passed away that week. And before I left the studio, Mike offered me an audition session, with just him so I could get feedback and get comfortable before modeling at an open session.
Now, you might be thinking, a one-on-one session where you’re modeling nude for a guy you just met? And that anxiety certainly made my mouth dry and my lungs squeeze as I agreed to it. But what I learned in that session, what has continued to be proven to me in the year and a half since, is that fine artists today rarely sexualize models. I know for a fact that there are artists who do abuse the trust of the studio, who violate and disrespect the professionalism and bodies of their models, but I have yet to meet one myself.
In every studio I’ve ever worked at, as I peel off my clothes in the changing room and slip on my robe, I feel immense relief at relinquishing my sexual identity. My shoulders and head sit a little lighter without the weight of desire in the gazes of those who look at me while I’m on the model’s platform. Yes, my body is being intensely scrutinized, and yes, I’m naked, but I feel less sexual than I ever have while being clothed on the street or in the workplace. In the studio, my body becomes purely aesthetic, purely representational—it cannot and does not have sex in the studio, and therefore is not viewed with the question of sex in the mind of the artists studying it.
And I discovered that everything I’ve done in my life, my work as a performer, athlete, writer, director, all prepared me for this job I didn’t know I would one day have. It all made me attentive to the way my body occupies space, the way it presents to a viewer, the way my energy and attention affects that presentation. I discovered that this job was not effortless, but that it called on all of the skills I’ve cultivated in myself, and that I found immense joy in exercising those skills in the work of modeling.
Within a month of my first modeling session, I had offers for work at three other studios. After that first round of cold emails I sent, I never applied for another modeling job, but by April, I had 4-6 sessions a week. Soon, I found myself having to turn down conflicting sessions. And the more modeling I did, the more I fell in love with the work, the more being a muse became part of my identity. And, of course, the more things I found to critique in the world of life modeling.
I currently live in Paris, France, with its plethora of museums, which has made me more aware than ever that there are thousands of great artists whose work is displayed all over the world and whose names are part of the public lexicon. If women, people of color, and LGBTQ+ artists had not been systematically shut out of the public art sphere, there would likely be even more artists whose names and works we would know by heart. But we know very few models’ names.
Figure modeling is, at times, rewarding, frustrating, boring, challenging, fulfilling, painful, beautiful, exhausting, and energizing. Much like many other jobs. The difference is, you’re naked and completely still during all of that. And what I’ve learned is that, no matter how comfortable you are being naked, it takes a special kind of confidence and knowledge of your value to be able to stand up for your body while you’re naked and not supposed to move in a room full of people who are dressed and depending on you. And it is so easy for your body, your value, your work, your part in the artistic process, your personhood, to be subsumed, rendered invisible, painted over by the final product--all of the compensation and recognition for which goes to the artist.
Artists have always been effusively appreciative of my work for them. But the invisibility of that work within the narrative of such an esteemed cultural sphere has allowed models to be taken advantage of, underrecognized, under respected, and undercompensated throughout history. If even half of the people who go to a museum every day spared a thought for the models who made great works of art possible, perhaps that would change.
So I’d like to make a request of you: the next time you look at a piece of art, think about the model. Wonder who they were or are. Marvel at the effort the pose took. Question if they were paid for their work. Find out their name if you can. Celebrate them as artists, too.
You can find me discussing my work as a figure model on TikTok @pheebeefox or see examples of my work on Instagram @thegingerphox.
Photos courtesy of Phoebe