Mid-morning

The morning air was sparkling crisp, the river glittering like a scattering of diamonds as it showed itself briefly between the rolling hills. The road wound, snake-like, as my car broached and crested each hill in turn. A part of me is nervous, not knowing what I face. Today I will be bodycast by my friend. She says she wants a model with womanly proportions and I certainly fit that criteria. Yet a part of me fears that when I remove my clothes and she actually sees my body nude, she will somehow find me lacking for her purposes.  Modesty is not a trait I possess, having no fear of showing my body. But I do fear that I will be offensive. I can stand almost anything but seeing repulsion in another person’s eyes. I made a promise to my friend though. And I try to keep my promises.

As I turn down the dirt road that leads to her studio, the dogs along the way bark a happy greeting to the strange car in their midst. Taking a final breath, I turn the car off and get out. My friend and her partner are waiting for me. We talk a bit, small talk mostly, as we smoke our cigarettes. Finally they say it is time, and I enter the studio.

The air is warm, humid, almost heavy in my lungs as I breathe in and out. A merry fire burns in the wood stove in the middle of the studio and there is a tinge of sweet wood smoke drifting through the room.  Before me stands a large wooden platform upon which the model will strike her pose. It is really two high tables made of 2x4's and plywood, but even knowing what it really is does not lessen the impact of the idea that I will be posing there soon.  My friend and her partner show me around the studio, pointing out other figures that have come before me. I see great beauty in the pieces that lay here and there around the studio. Thin, lithe figures reclining or leaning, some curled in graceful 's' curves, some full torsos, some only a slice of a body, a movement captured forever in white.  And again I wonder why my friend would want to add my bulk to these objet d’artes. As we approach the front of the studio again and the platform, my friend begins to describe the process of bodycasting. I feel fairly easy with the idea of being nude there and find that as she speaks, the actual casting itself loses its unknown quality. Yet there is a tenseness in the air still. I think that my friend is unsure of my level of comfort with my nudity, or perhaps she is unsure of my level of comfort with nudity in front of her. She appears to always be highly aware that our gender preferences are different and frequently assumes that I will react to her as I would a male. Realizing that the tension is not going to abate until I make a move, I wait till she is engrossed in some other facet of the artistic process and swiftly strip my sweater over my head. I have dressed for this day. A sweater, no bra, loose front button jeans, and barefeet. My breasts swinging free, I lean down and slip off my jeans. Casually folding my clothes, I toss them on a chair to the side of the room and climb upon the platform. When my friend turns around, I am already perched, nude and relaxed before her. The tension falls away, the woman withdrawing and the artist stepping forward. Her eyes narrow and she and her partner begin to walk around the platform, viewing me from all sides. I slip unconsciously into a comfortable seated position and as I do, she asks how long I can hold that pose. Thinking about it a moment, carefully feeling the hardness of the wood against my ankles and hips, I decide that I can hold it for as long as needed.  She makes a few adjustments to my left hand, another to my left elbow. Then moving to one side, she adjusts my right hand and arm. It seems this is perfect. I am amazed that one tiny movement of one finger could make a difference in the line of what she sees, but it appears to do just that.

She stands back, a frown of concentration on her face, her eyes deep, listening to the muse that is calling her name. With a nod, she motions me to rise to my knees so that the preparations can begin. It seems that even though I trimmed my pubic hair closely last night, it is still not short enough to assure that it will not catch in the plaster. To alleviate this problem, I will have Crisco spread on my genital area in thick layers. I press my hips forward and spread my thighs slightly, allowing her artist's hands to sculpt a Crisco pie between my legs. When she is satisfied that each hair is smoothly laying buried beneath the white mound, she indicates that I should resume my former pose, reminding me to be careful to not smear any of the Crisco. Laughing, I try very hard to slip back into the seated position that I had assumed without allowing any part of my body to touch this slowly melting mound of cooking grease that now resides between my thighs. Once I am in position again, she leans over and smoothes a hair here, one there, then wipes at a few places with a papertowel. She removes the traces of slickness where I was unsuccessful in my attempt to slip back into pose without disturbing the preparations.

Strains of “Circe de Soleil” melodically caress my senses, setting the ambiance. The process begins. After mixing the alginate, a wet, slippery, rubber-like substance, my friend and her partner approach the table. With giant mixing bowls in hand, they look like nothing less than master chefs, intent on creating the piece de resistance. Quickly and with sure strokes, their hands smear the cool wetness across my shoulders and collarbone. Working downward, they carefully but speedily cover each breast, making sure that the alginate makes a second skin, down under the breasts and across my belly.  The alginate sets up rather fast and it is necessary that the whole area to be cast is covered before the set-up begins. Handfuls of alginate cover my pubic area, creeping between my thighs and running silkily across my lips. The final area to be covered is my legs all the way to my knees and around to the platform I sit upon. Initially cold, the alginate begins to warm with my body temperature and one of the women takes handfuls of cotton, lightly dabbing it all over the wet alginate. She explains that the plaster will not stick without the cotton and I begin to look like some bizarre form of easter bunny. After I am covered totally in cotton, my nose itching madly from the fibers in the air, the artists move to soak long strips of plaster gauze in warm water. These are then slathered across every inch of alginate covered skin. The warmth increases as the plaster hardens and I can feel the slickness of the alginate becoming a smooth skin beneath the plaster. As the last plaster wrap goes on, crawly feelings creep across my collarbone and shoulders. The alginate is set and now is releasing itself from my skin. A rubberized outline of my body resides hidden beneath the plaster strips now. Stepping back, the artists tell me to sit very still.  As the seconds tick past, I feel the weight of the plaster hardening across my shoulders and around my neck. My throat constricts and I feel a moment of panic. Then concentrating on the mesmerizing melody that is filling the studio, I slip into that otherness that has served me so well in prior times of need.  It seems like mere moments before I am being told to wiggle my fingertips, to shake my breasts, to pull myself back inside myself like a turtle in its shell, thus allowing the alginate to slip free. Both women seize the front of the plaster shell and tug, gently yet surely, and my body reenters the atmosphere, sad to leave behind the encasement of itself. Feeling as if I have somehow shed my skin, I slip out and after straightening out my legs to allow the blood to return to the starved limbs, I rise and stretch. A short break while the artists spray down the mold and cover it in plastic sheeting. Then it is back into pose and the whole process is done once more to my back, buttocks and lower legs. As the final plaster strip is laid across the bottom of my exposed feet, my body temperature spikes and I feel the world slipping away. Slipping away; not going away. Not a conscious decision on my part to leave this plane but the receding of the light as my body starving for air and coolness begins to shut down. I murmur to my friend that I am only seconds away from a full blown faint and she quickly opens the plaster that encases the bottoms of my feet. The cool air creeps into that opening, caressing my soles and just as quickly as the heat rose, the coolness flows into and under the plaster, bringing my senses back with it. We are done. The tugging and pulling process is repeated and the casting is swiftly taken away, laid to one side, then misted with water before being covered in another piece of plastic sheeting.

I roam around the studio while they check the molds, unsure of whether I can get dressed or not. It feels odd to be nude while others are clothed and yet oddly comfortable as well.  My artist friend eventually decides that all is well and tells me that I can go shower and get dressed. So catching up my jeans and sweater and shaking my hair loose, I head for the tiny stall in the back of the studio. It takes me a while to get the Crisco to cut, the thick grease is almost totally resistant to bath soap. I lather my pubic area 8 or 10 times before it is no longer slimy with the vegetable shortening. Once I am sure I have all the Crisco off and have scrubbed my skin thoroughly to remove any remnants of alginate and plaster, I step out into the warmth of the studio and stand before the wood stove while slipping into my clothes. I might as well have vanished for all the attention my artist friends are paying me.

Hours pass. Slow careful application of wet plaster is made inside the mold. The first casting of the mold has begun. I watch for a while, then wander down the road to get a coke to wash the plaster dust from my dry throat. More hours pass. I watch as the plaster that has been poured into the molds of my body, heats and steams, cooking as it hardens.

Late Afternoon

Done. The front of me sits gracefully on a table. Time is passing quickly and I know I must leave before sunset since I am unfamiliar with the roads and have difficulty seeing at night. But I have to see at least one finished product. So I dawdle, playing a waiting game with the setting sun. My friends begin the tear-off. Ripping strips of plaster almost violently off of the mold. I watch from one angle then another as each piece is removed. Dust fills the air, my nose itches again. Too intent to even scratch , I watch the strips peel away, exposing the alginate mold. I feel light-headed, watching myself this way. With each strip that is torn off, a re-birthing takes place. Pieces of all the ugliness in my soul seem to be clinging to these dusty strips of gauze. I peer anxiously as would a mother awaiting the first view of her newborn child. What will I see? Oh god. What if the filth within my soul shows forth in this casting? My friend pauses a moment and I see that all the plaster gauze is gone and before me sits a smooth rubberized human figure. I am instructed to stand behind her so I can see the full figure. Moving hesitantly to my appointed place, I watch. With swift, sure fingers, the artists tear the alginate coating from the figure and I am revealed. I am born. A caul removed from my eyes, now I see. Breathtaking, white, purity, sitting before me, pristine and no longer ugly. I see myself. Waves of emotions sweep through me and for the first time I can see beauty in me. It is almost as if I am falling in love. Passion and sorrow and joy and enchantment all rolled into one big over-whelming feeling. And I break down, sobbing, filled with an ecstasy of ultimate understanding. In that moment; for that moment at least, I am able to  release the self-hatred that I carry with me always.

“I am beautiful”, I say. And for now....this is truth.
 
 

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