Recently it happened that an opportunity arose to do some nude modeling for a local artist, and I accepted. I would have done it for the experience alone, but there was a small amount of money involved. The artist was interested in, in his words, “what happened when human forms got squashed together,” so I was to be one of the forms; the other was Sue, who has modeled before, and who lined up the job.

When I was approached, I had a very clear image of what nude modeling was like; it turns out that it was nothing at all like what I’d expected, and it deprives me confidence of explaining the essence of experience. I can make the attempt, however.

I held a host of worries going into the experience. I was worried about lack of flexibility (I’ve inherited my mother’s joints) and my ability to hold a pose. I was worried about various biological issues. I prepared like I once prepared for concerts (back before I was performing every day, and concerts were special occasions), and as it often turns out, all fears were unfounded.

It was not a erotic event; the artist, looking at me, saw right through to my lines and the way I interacted with the light beaming through the attic windows. I wasn’t being objectified — I was being abstracted. Even the addition of another person didn’t change this. There was neither shame nor pride as we lay naked and entangled on the foam mat.

We posed. The artist loomed over his easel, swiftly painting with forceful brushstrokes; we’d chat as he worked, talking about our jobs or sarcastically commenting on what was playing on the radio. His work was highly abstract, to my eyes compelling, and as he finished each sketch he showed it to us (I had to often work to identify the “me” portion of the finished piece: “look, that’s my arm!”). The last hour was devoted to a single large canvas, and we held a pose for nearly an hour. My arms fell asleep.

At the end of the session we got dressed again. I recall clearly the moment, as I was dressing, as the expectations of my behavior shifted back to normal, that I suddenly felt ashamed to be naked. How strange and terrifying are the in-betweens! thought I in a Miltonic moment. And then it was over. Fully garbed, we exited the studio into the cold Cambridge afternoon.

Am I model now? No, but for three hours I was.