Monday, May 20, 2013

Self-Portrait of the Painter, Nude, with Model On The Floor

Amazingly enough, just after I posted the Astronaut post, Israeli supermodel Bar Rafaeli wandered into the studio.  I asked her if she'd mind helping me out with a test and she said Sure.  I said Do you mind taking off most of your clothes? and she said Of course not, do you think there's anybody in the world who hasn't already seen me naked? and I said That's a very positive attitude.

So we came up with something like this ...


She's laughing because I had just told her my girlfriend-addicted-to-brake-fluid joke.  And manoman, on a personal note this 18mm lens makes my feet look really fat.  I like a leaner foot.  Look how nice hers look.

Anyway, I think in a perfect world there would be more dynamic tension between the left side and right.  Similar in intent to my obscured box technique paintings, of which Old Bobby Lee is a great example ...

Man, look at that jacket.  One of my finest moments, one could argue.

Since the image would be comprised of two separate photos, they wouldn't line up quite so perfectly as a photoshopped single photo with a black line inscribed through it that I glommed off the internet.  Which is what really happened.  Nobody actually wandered into my studio.  Nobody ever does.

Nobody writes to the Colonel either, but you don't hear him complaining.
Nicely said.

And the person would be more normal looking.  Nobody's got time for supermodels anymore.  Nothing's black and white anymore -- it's all fifty shades of gray.  

Which brings up the kind of kinky dominant/submissive subtext of the photo which, honestly dear friends, can't be ignored.  Because, truth to tell, it would be just as much fun if the person was clothed and I was wearing shoes.  Nobody's got time for nudity anymore. 

Me?  I like to be on top.  Which shows a certain dearth of vision, but there it is.  And besides, this series isn't about hootchy-kootchy; it's about the dynamics of power.

And the other thing, just since we're endlessly prattling on about it, is the fact that there's six feet total.  Four of mine and two of hers.  Her's don't matter.  But I like the idea that there appears to be more than two people in the room when there really isn't.

Which makes no sense at all.
No.  It doesn't.
No.  It doesn't.
Does it have to?
No.  It doesn't.
Good.

A friend of mine has a huge printer.  So I like the idea of printing them out big.  Likely without the stupid title.



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