by Shawna Lewis
Eventually, conversations turned to the purpose of the occasion. Aidan was puzzled: he’d expected to see cameras, but why the art stuff?
Ambrose suggested they use the Ladies’ powder room to change in.
Inside the tiny, square room there was nothing but a bench, a mirror and a flap-down baby-changing table. The lads looked at one another, giggled, and trooped out again. Everything was such a laugh. Ambrose was waiting outside and shooed them back in. His tone changed.
“Take off your clothes and leave them in here.”
More giggling, this time more nervous and incredulous; whispered protests and hesitation. Aidan felt it was his responsibility to clarify matters.
“Er… you said we’d be modelling, so where’s the clothes?”
“There seems to be some misunderstanding,” said Ambrose quite coldly. “There was never any mention of clothes. This is what artists call life modelling. Now take off your clothes. You have made a commitment.” There was something in his voice that demanded obedience, though his outward demeanour did not alter.
Giggling rather less now, they slowly dropped their trousers and removed tops and socks. With underpants in various stages of wear and tear, they suddenly felt very young and vulnerable.
“Pants too,” Ambrose commanded, working hard to keep a straight face.
The boys stood in a row, clutching their genitals. It was reminiscent of the PE changing rooms at school.
“Now this is what’s going to happen.” Ambrose spoke sternly. “You’ll be working in pairs.” He studied their physiques. “Solly and Dan, you two are quite slender. You can be together. Aidan and Jim, you’re a bit more beefy – you’re a good match.”
He offered them each another roll-up, with a look that did not brook refusal.
“All those people out there are professional artists and they’ve paid good money to hire this hall plus you four as life models. That’s why you’re getting a hundred quid each for a few hours’ work. If you chicken out, there’ll be some very angry artists – some of them with mallets and chisels. Even a paint brush can do a lot of damage in the wrong place.” His tone was light enough, but his eyes were cold and the words held just enough threat to quieten the naked ones.
Ambrose picked up two sheets of paper which had lain unnoticed on the bench.
“Here we have pictures of two very famous pieces of art. Each involves the sport of wrestling. The first is an American painting, executed by Thomas Eakins in 1899.” He held up a printout. It showed two dark-haired, naked men entangled in a wrestling hold on a light brown floor.
“Solly and Dan, this is what you’ll be modelling.”
They looked at each other. Each opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. To wrestle like that fully clothed would be a lark. But naked? In front of strangers? Er… NO!
“You’ll be fine,” Ambrose went on. “It’s the way things were done in classical times, and still is in many cultures. You’re not ashamed of your own bodies, are you? Surely you’re not prudes?”
Bravado won out. “No, we’re not prudes! No – it’s cool. Yeah, we often roll around naked for a laugh…”
Each of them took another drag on his roll-up. Ambrose handed the printout to Solly.
“Right. Go and take up your position on the brown mat.”
Dan and Solly shuffled out, the latter at least able to shelter his private parts behind the paper. Ambrose turned to Aidan and Jim. He held up another printout.
“This is a much more famous work of art. It’s got several names, but I’ll refer to it as ‘The Uffizi Wrestlers’. The original was a bronze statuette from ancient Greece, but that was lost, and the famous version is a Roman marble sculpture, probably from the third century BC, currently in the Uffizi Collection in Florence.”
He turned the picture towards the boys. Their jaws dropped. Surely he couldn’t expect them to do that?
These wrestlers, also naked, looked stronger, like bodybuilders, in fact. Aidan and Jim surveyed each other’s physique with dismay. They weren’t exactly skinny, but by no means toned and honed like those in the picture. One man was crouching on knees and one hand. The other hand flailed mid-air at the end of an arm being forced up and back by the upper fighter,whose body stretched across his opponent’s back, one leg entwined with the other’s. It looked like agony, and much too close for comfort.
“Off you go. You’re on the green mat,” ordered Ambrose abruptly.
He turned and went back to the big room. Jim and Aidan hesitated.
“Come on!” came from the retreating ponytailed head.
By now, Solly and Dan had almost got themselves into position, after many false starts and interruptions to look at the picture. Their pose looked a bit less painful – and considerably less intimate – than that of the Uffizi Wrestlers. Jim and Aidan balked.
A hip flask was thrust under Aidan’s nose. He took a swig and passed it on to Jim. Neither had a clue what was in the flask, but they stepped onto the green mat with an approximation of confidence. It was decided that Jim would go underneath, with Aidan on top, forcing his opponent’s arm back. It felt terribly wrong at first. Neither of them was gay – or they didn’t think so, at any rate – and public school homosexual high jinks were unknown in state comprehensives. To have one’s private parts pressed against another lad’s naked nether regions just felt unnatural – though not altogether unpleasant. And a hundred quid was a hundred quid, when all was said and done, and no-one was going to die, were they?
Behind the easels at one end of the hall sat two elderly ladies, spinster sisters, both teachers of art in their day. Hattie Dewson had at one time lectured at a big art college in the west of England, while younger sister Penelope had been Head of Department at a renowned girls’ independent school. On retirement, the two had set up home together in a Victorian house with space for studios and displaying their many creations.
Independently, each sister had arrived at the same specialisation: depictions of the male form. They spent much of their time and most of their pensions touring the galleries of the world in pursuit of this fascination. When at home, they used whatever means they could to produce their own work in any medium available. To have four young, nude male models was a rare privilege, and one for which they had been prepared to pay a high price. In Los Angeles they had scrutinised the Eakin painting, looking for the effects of shadow and strain. The marble sculpture in Florence had made them long to stroke those firm buttocks; in fact Penelope had been forced to hold her sister’s hand to prevent this happening.
Now, they were thrilled to have chance to create their own versions of both masterpieces. It was true that these young models did not have quite the muscular development of the originals, but the sisters were not aiming to produce copies. They would give their own interpretations of each piece.
As the young models were finding it difficult to adopt the correct poses, Hattie and Penelope decided it was their duty to help, being teachers of a sort. Working as a pair, they grasped limbs and appendages with surprising strength and assurance, pressing here and pulling there until each duo was correctly positioned.
“These buttocks are very like David’s,” commented Penelope as she gently adjusted the angle of Dan’s hips.
“You mean Michaelangelo’s David, of course?” Hattie checked, with a smirk. “Yes, they do have that same slender strength, but of course the stance has so much to do with the grace of the lines. These Uffizi boys are not really sturdy enough for their piece. Tense your back muscles, dear, so we can see some definition.” She patted Aidan’s bottom.
The youth tried, but couldn’t sustain the effort for long. Most girls seemed to think he was quite fit, so who were these old biddies to complain? Anyway, could anyone maintain a pose like that for hours?
All this while, the photographers had been setting up the lighting rigs: different lamps for
different effects to suit everyone’s needs. The models didn’t care. The lighting gave off enough heat to keep them warm, the sense of suspended reality helped by the smoke-scented atmosphere. The boys did as they were told and stayed still. Cameras clicked and rattled; flashlights flashed. Men in baggy trousers and grimy jackets knelt close, then distant, snapping views of the clinches from every perspective.
At the workbenches, wood carvers shaped rough outlines with electric saws, blades and rasps. At others, clay was slapped on boards until plasticity increased. One man studied a square block of soapstone, chisel in hand. Only the photographers were finding this easy – but then, that was why the artists had each been prepared to pay £200 for this rare opportunity. To produce a finished piece in five hours was impossible, but with photographs progress could be made back in their own studios. With any luck, Ambrose would repeat the event in a month or two’s time.
Breaks were called every half hour. The models took the chance to bend and stretch, at first donning their trousers to move around in. There was wine for those who wanted it, coffee or lager for those who didn’t, and a ready supply of roll-ups, all free of charge.
By the third break the young men decided they quite liked the feeling of nudity so didn’t bother with their jeans. One or two of the artists were feeling hot and, envying the young men’s freedom of movement, removed first their shirts and then their own trousers. This was no frivolous or salacious behaviour, they swore. It was for their art.
By 10.15, Hattie Dewson was down to her petticoat, a home-made garment in peach-coloured satin with hand embroidery at the bust and hem. Maiden lady as she was, this aspect of her creativity rarely saw the light of day, and she was delighted by the admiring glances she imagined were coming her way.
Hattie was seated just in Solly’s line of sight. Swivel his eyes as he might, her vast but low-slung cleavage drew their focus like a spring on a gate. It was horrible! What was she thinking of? His discomfort was further increased when the woman rose from her seat and came close, squatting down to peer in detail at the way Dan’s torso pressed him down.
“Of course, Eakin has his wrestlers wearing a sort of loin cloth,” she told them, “but this is much more effective. Freer; more classical.” She adjusted her position.
Solly snapped his eyes shut after an unfortunate glimpse up the skirt of her petticoat. He saw stocking tops and suspenders and so much that was worse. Not a thong, surely? He didn’t think £100 was payment enough .
Mercifully, sister Penelope was wearing trousers, though she too had found the heat overwhelming and on top was down to her bra, a massive and utilitarian construction in white poplin. Paint brushes in a range of sizes were slotted beneath the straps for convenience; her breastbone and spare tyre were streaked with paint in black and cream and flesh tones in between.
The hall was booked until midnight and activity continued unabated, the atmosphere growing warmer and drowsier as the liquor and smoke increased. At eleven forty-five, Ambrose called a halt. The models eased themselves upright, clothes were pulled on and the artists began to pack away. Ambrose announced that another session would be booked for March and details forwarded online. The four models made their way to the Ladies’, to dress and collect their pay. Ambrose strolled in eventually and handed them £80 each in used notes.
“But you said a hundred,” Aidan protested.
“Yes, you’ll get it… but not until after you’ve done the second sitting in March. Let’s fix a date. Talk among yourselves and let me know.” He walked back to the hall.
Miffed, but keen not to mess up the deal, the lads compared possible dates and selected an evening at the end of the month. They felt deflated and slightly conned, but still pleased with their night’s earnings. Once they had their clothes on again, the indignities they’d suffered faded into insignificance against the promise of colourful tales to tell their mates back at uni.
*
Reluctant to go to bed, her mother had been having a weep, so it was almost midnight when Belinda passed the village hall on her way home from Denswick. Seeing the lights still on and cars in the car park, she stopped to investigate and save the hirer the bother of dropping off the key.
At the top of the steps she noticed a strange, rather pleasant smell, but this was forgotten when she saw a waist-length ponytail hanging down a long, lean back.The wearer turned, surprised at the sight of her, before striding forwards with a polite, “Can I help you?”
“Is it Ambrose?”
“Yes. And you are…?”
“Belinda. It’s me – you remember! I was on the wood-carving course at the sculpture park.”
Surely she wasn’t so instantly forgettable.
Ambrose hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much she knew and didn’t want to drop anyone in it.
“Ah, I meet so many clients. Remind me again…” he prevaricated, to give the models time to adjust their dress. He was fully aware of Belinda’s identity and relationship to Aidan. He was also aware that she would not approve of all the evening’s activities.
“Mine was the snail…”
Ambrose continued to look puzzled.
“This summer, was it? Or the year before?”
“It was August. Last August. I enjoyed it so much. And you must remember Marnie, one of the other women there. We’ve stayed in touch and have become friends. She visited over Christmas. She’ll be so disappointed to have missed you!”
“That name does ring a bell.” Ambrose spoke slowly, as if thoughtfully, but still buying time. Marnie, as facilitator, would be getting a hefty cut of the night’s takings.
Belinda paused. A thought had struck her.
“There’s been a party here tonight – were you a guest? Or a parent, more likely? My son Aidan was coming – I thought I might give him a lift home.”
“Ah yes. A party.” He thought quickly. “It was an artists’ party – as you can see.” He gestured towards the materials being packed away. “I think the person who organised it had to leave early.”
“I didn’t know Aidan had any artistic friends,” she said. “How lovely. I can’t wait to see what he’s done.” Today’s youth wasn’t all bad after all. It would be something different to chat to Mum and Dad about during hospital visiting.
“I think most of the youngsters have left already,” Ambrose lied. “You might catch him up if you hurry.”
“Well OK then. Make sure you drop the catch on your way out, please.” Belinda took one more fascinated look round, was struck by the range of the guests’ ages, and started down the steps. She paused. Why was that old woman just wearing an underslip? Must be Alzheimers. Shaking her head, she climbed into the car and wearily drove the last quarter mile home.
Recognising his mother’s voice, Aidan had ushered his friends into the Ladies’ toilet cubicle. They wriggled into their clothes and, one by one, sidled out of the fire exit. Aidan went last. At a sprint, he weaved drunkenly across the car park, hoping this would dissipate the smell of smoke which clung to him, then across a field to their estate. By the time his mother had garaged the car and come through to the kitchen, he was in the shower. Dad was snoring in front of the telly and Melanie was fast asleep in bed. The £80 was folded neatly in his jeans pocket. He didn’t bother to say goodnight.
Ambrose stood in the village hall kitchen doing calculations in a small notebook. He would come out of the evening’s venture with a couple of grand profit, even after Marnie’s cut. It had taken a lot of thought and many hours on social media to set up, but over the years he had developed a sixth sense about the proclivities of his many contacts in the art world. Finding four young male life models willing to work together was a stroke of luck. He would be confirming the next session as soon as he knew the hall was available. The cost of hiring an inner-city venue would be sky high. These community buildings were a bargain – low overheads, see, with all the work done b
y volunteers. They’d saved him a fortune. At the back of his mind he had visions of a nationwide franchise in this sort of thing. He’d have to talk it over with Marnie sometime, although she was behaving all goody-two-shoes nowadays. Regarding the boys, he wondered about using them for more homo-erotic poses at a later date.
He pondered the possibilities as he swept the floor, as stipulated in the Conditions of Hire.
15
At one end, the hipped roof of Sallby Village Hall had been partitioned off to form a storage loft. In this space, a dark-haired young man of swarthy complexion lay on his stomach, breathing shallowly and eyeing the movement of the sweeping brush through a crack where electric cables passed through the floor. Six hours had been a long time to stay still. There had only been intermittent bouts of conversation loud enough to drown the sound of adjusting his position.
Dragomir Duric was spending his sixth night in the loft. This building was largely unoccupied, so most of the time he could move around freely. The timetable of weekly bookings displayed on the notice board outside had been useful in helping him organise a routine… his English was just good enough to make sense of it. Drago was hopeful of finding work soon, but in the meantime his den was clean, dry and well hidden. He found other places to go when the hall was in use, letting himself in and out with a key given by a well-wisher. Tonight’s events had come as a shock.
With help from his cousin, he’d made the loft quite habitable. Most of the ceiling rafters had been boarded over years ago for some long-forgotten purpose and here, with a sleeping bag, pillow and foam mat, he whiled away his time, sleeping mostly, or listening to an old transistor radio loaned by the same well-wisher. He was trying to improve his English by listening to Radio 4, but it was difficult. He used the kitchen and toilet facilities when the hall was empty. The lightweight aluminium ladder was easy to slide up and down as necessary, and with the walls in the corridor being grubby already, the signs of his presence went unnoticed.