Art class life naked

On this Thursday evening, all eyes are on Shirley. As she nonchalantly fixes her gaze on some imagined point at the far end of this air-conditioned room, nine complete strangers are silently but intensely scrutinising her from top to bottom. Shirley relaxes, picks up a white top and casually covers herself. Before shuffling to an adjacent room to stretch her back, she takes a peek at a couple of nude sketches propped up on easels.

T he first time Dominic Blake took his clothes off in front of an art class was, as you might imagine, a daunting experience. There were about 40 people and I was looking at the doors and windows for escape routes. If you have an image of what a life model might be like — someone with a toned physique, perhaps, and an exhibitionist streak — then think again. Yet something magical happened after Blake disrobed. The artists started adjusting their easels, measuring him up, and drawing. Blake realised they were treating him no differently to any other person. I realised we were all travelling on this journey together.

Melissa Stanger. Save for intimate partners, I hate being naked in front of other people. My own mother hasn't seen me naked since I was about seven or eight. Even when I'm in a bathing suit at the beach or in my underwear in the gym locker room, my mind immediately goes to what other people might be thinking about my body — how they might be judging or scrutinizing it.

Surrounded by dozens of artists eager to put charcoal to paper, I take a deep breath, remind myself to avoid direct eye contact and let my bathrobe fall to the floor. I strike a pose, pulling in my year-old stomach, and resist the urge to clasp both hands, fig-leaf style, over myself, praying that the blood rushing to my head rushes nowhere else. Even now, I am skilled at covering up in changing rooms and on beaches. But experience — and therapy — has taught me that the root of this anxiety lies not in a fear of physical exposure but in the fact that the choice had not been mine.