What it feels like to ... BE A LIFE MODEL

WHEN I take my clothes off there are 30 seconds of panic, but I’m not panicking about what people are thinking about me, I’m wondering: “Can I hold that pose?” or “Am I doing something that’s interesting enough for people to draw?” I’m so focused on creating different poses that I can’t think about anything else. That’s what’s nerve-wracking.

Life modelling is my full-time job yet I never refer to it as work; it can be whatever I want it to be. I’ve always been interested in art, whether that’s creating it or admiring it. I didn’t have a fascination with people from a young age but I loved drawing. I knew art would be a part of my life. Retirement is a funny concept to me because that’s usually when people start doing what they love, but I’m doing what I love now. I’m the starting point for all the artwork happening in the room, which gives me a sense of empowerment.

My interest in life modelling started when my friend and I took photographs of each other nude for an art project.

I liked seeing the translation of my body onto paper. The decisions I made when I modelled for my friend were influenced by the art I was interested in. I thought about shapes, angles and forms that were useful to me when I painted myself.

Life modelling isn’t a one-way relationship: the model and the artist have to work together to understand what they’re trying to achieve.

When I moved from York to Edinburgh, I got in touch with a photographer and modelled on a beach in autumn. It was cold but the photos were beautiful. I felt liberated and decided modelling was something I could do inside instead. At the time I was working towards my degree in linguistics and life modelling was an antidote to reading papers, essays and sitting in front of a computer all day. It got my creativity flowing.

Modelling has made me realise I don’t have as many hang-ups about my body as I thought I had. In that room, there’s no sense of a better or worse body.