Book 1, Chapter 13: Body Meets Soul
Title: Body Meets Soul
Authors: escribo
Characters: Dominic, Gianpier
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1619
Summary: First day on the job.
Index
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
In the first three shots that Gian takes, Dominic still has his clothes on. The room is an open studio type apartment, and a girl in her twenties sits on a futon beneath a large window reading The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, a large Persian cat on her lap. She had looked up only to nod when introduced, her short dark brown hair framing her face like a curtain. His partner, Gian had said, and Dominic had understood that she was there for them both, and so hadn't hesitated to remove his thin t-shirt for the fourth shot.
"As I said when we met, Dominic, my first model, he was no good. He didn't have your angles. The second, maybe he would do." Gian scrunches his mouth now and see-saws his hands, a Polaroid stuck between two fingers. "I tell him the poses I need, the props I want to use, and he says no."
Gian lifts the camera again, his hand making the vaguest of motions, and Dominic knows to turn his head to profile, to lower his chin and eyes. He watches dust motes float through the air, his mind and thoughts going still and quiet. Zen modeling, he'd joked with Greg, the only one of his friends whom he'd told about it. He hears the click of the camera and whir as it spits out the photo, but he doesn't move.
"The second model didn't have your angles either. I think, if this works out, I think the project will make more of statement--have more weight."
"Oh," Dominic answers, and feels like he should say more, something that shows he understands Gian's intent, but he doesn't. Since the first time, he's never thought about the artists' works, and looked only if they specifically invited him to. Most didn't.
"You understand this, right? The artist's insistence on meaning. Art is nothing without meaning. Without meaning, it's just porn." Gian lowers the camera and only then Dominic does move, turning to face Gian now. "You're a writer, Miranda said."
"Just poetry."
"Not just, right? You're an artist, too."
Dominic nods timidly, unsure that he's prepared for the onerous task of wearing that mantle, but likes it. Wants it.
"Take off your rings? Do you mind?"
"I don't."
There are barely any words between them. Dominic just moves instinctively, seeming to anticipate what Gian needs as he takes his careful Polaroids and tosses them onto the table between himself and Dominic. Dominic watches himself develop then moves his back, his shoulders, his hands and feet before he shucks his thin cotton trousers without having to be asked. He stands now in front a screen covered with white material--a blank canvas. The girl doesn't seem to notice and Gian only studies him for several moments before raising his camera again.
Standing so quietly and still, Dominic remembers back to just a few weeks before, to the first time he had modeled. When Miranda had directed Dominic to the small, unused office to change into a robe, he hadn't hesitated. He'd never considered himself an exhibitionist, but the thought of stripping down for an art class hadn't bothered him, particularly. He's proud of his body, and liked going starkers, actually, because then nobody could tell that his shirt was threadbare, the emblem so faded as to be nearly illegible, and that his jeans, slightly too big now, had holes worn into the pockets. Nobody could wonder about his grades or his home life. With his clothes off, there is just his body, described as beautiful sometimes by several of his previous partners. Perfect.
On that day, standing instead in front of a cheap full-length mirror hung on the back of the door, he had spread his hands over his chest and down to his stomach--had catalogued his features honestly, the way he would the spare furniture in the room: two chairs, an old desk, a coat rack. Muscled legs, flat stomach, strong shoulders tapering to a small waist. His still hairless chest. Even his too big ears and crooked chin work for him when he's naked.
Finally, he had reached for the thin blue robe, wrapped it around himself then opened the door to where Miranda waited for him. She had grinned, and he could tell that she meant to put him at ease, so he had grinned back--Happy Dom. A Dominic he doesn't usually feel but wanted to, then--and wants to, now. In a couple of hours he would have money in his pockets, enough for groceries to last the week, and some more to go dancing that night. Thinking of that--of what he was planning--had been enough to make his smile genuine and he'd turned it on Miranda, had seen her eyes soften in response.
"Ready?" she'd asked him, and he'd nodded, following her down the hall and to the first door on the right. He could hear voices as they neared the room--conversations that hushed and faded as Miranda and Dominic had entered the room. He'd almost wished that they would have carried on, that discussions about upcoming tests, meet-ups for coffee, and weekend plans would have eased his entrance and direct the students' eyes away from him. Instead he'd felt the weight of fifteen stares and heard only his own footsteps, the floor cold against his feet.
Miranda had pointed to a platform in the middle of the room, a square box painted black with an X marked in the middle with masking tape, and then had gathered her students to her like a mother hen. Dominic had watched, played with the tie to his robe and looked around the room. Miranda's voice had turned to a soft murmur and he'd recognized suddenly--and with a bit of belated gratitude--that she was giving him time to compose himself.
For a moment, Dominic had found it surreal to think that soon there would be fifteen pictures of him--or parts of him. Miranda had tried to explain about the role of the model, the history of nudes in art--Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus," Titian's "Venus of Urbino," and Caravaggio's beautiful "Amor Victorius"--and Dominic had listened, interested but distracted. Not by second thoughts, but by a feeling akin to the first day in a new school--and he had had many of those.
"Ready?" Miranda had asked again, and again Dominic had nodded.
He'd taken off his robe, stepped onto the platform and looked at the student artist in front of him for only a second, her blue eyes calm and serious, then he'd let his eyes slide past her and to a spot on the wall behind her. Miranda had told him it would be easier to hold his poses if he focused on one spot, on one thing, preferably not the clock.
"If you could move your right foot a little bit forward. Perfect," she'd said. "And put your hand on your opposite shoulder. Exactly. Alright, people. You have ten minutes to sketch, then the pose will change."
The scratch of pencil and charcoal on thick drawing paper had been soothing, nearly meditative, and it had been easier than Dominic had supposed it would be to be so still, to let his thoughts wander--to school and the upcoming weekend, to Billy and the upcoming conference, to a poem he'd nearly completed--until there'd been nothing at all, and his muscles had relaxed into the pose. After ten minutes, Miranda had quietly asked him to change and he had moved his arms in a fluid motion, twisting at the hips but relaxing his shoulders, and there'd been barely a pause in the sounds of the room. That he'd been able--is able--to be still for so long still surprises him.
During that first job, he'd held five poses like that, each for ten minutes, until it was over. His shoulders had ached, but he'd felt a strange sense of accomplishment. The students had begun to gather their supplies, their silence breaking suddenly as if it had never stopped, and Miranda had handed Dominic his robe, her head averted as he dressed, tilting at the sound of someone's call of "Mizz-O?"
"When I'm finished, I'll give you these," Gian says now, shaking one of the square pictures before tossing it to the table with the rest. Pulled back from his memories, Dominic looks down at the table covered with images of himself, surprised by what he sees. "As mementos, maybe. Or to burn. I wouldn't burn them. Even with this light, this canvas, these are beautiful. Even without the props, you've such an intensity in each one. You make my job easy, I think."
"I wouldn't burn them," Dominic says, picking up one that focused on the tattoos on his feet. "I wouldn't send them home to my mother, maybe, but I wouldn't burn them."
"So, you're willing?" Gian asks, raising the camera to take another picture, this one unposed. "We can begin this Saturday. If you're free, of course."
"Yeah," Dominic answers and knows that it's more than just the money that makes him want to come back.
"The subject matter won't put you off?"
"No. I'm--it's fine." Dominic nods once then looks up Gian, his smirk firmly in place. "I have experience."
"Excellent," Gian laughs, looking over his shoulder to grin at his partner. "You hear this? I finally have my model."
The girl stretches and smiles, the cat jumping down to wend its way between Gian's legs. He holds out the picture he'd been shaking gently to Dominic. "Here. For your mother."
Dominic takes the picture and is surprised to see that he's smiling--grinning. Happy Dom. Finally.
Authors: escribo
Characters: Dominic, Gianpier
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1619
Summary: First day on the job.
Index
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; the recognizable people in the story belong to themselves and have never performed the actions portrayed here. I do not know the actors nor am I associated with them in any way. If you are underage, please do not read this story. I am not making any profit from these stories, nor do I mean any harm.
In the first three shots that Gian takes, Dominic still has his clothes on. The room is an open studio type apartment, and a girl in her twenties sits on a futon beneath a large window reading The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, a large Persian cat on her lap. She had looked up only to nod when introduced, her short dark brown hair framing her face like a curtain. His partner, Gian had said, and Dominic had understood that she was there for them both, and so hadn't hesitated to remove his thin t-shirt for the fourth shot.
"As I said when we met, Dominic, my first model, he was no good. He didn't have your angles. The second, maybe he would do." Gian scrunches his mouth now and see-saws his hands, a Polaroid stuck between two fingers. "I tell him the poses I need, the props I want to use, and he says no."
Gian lifts the camera again, his hand making the vaguest of motions, and Dominic knows to turn his head to profile, to lower his chin and eyes. He watches dust motes float through the air, his mind and thoughts going still and quiet. Zen modeling, he'd joked with Greg, the only one of his friends whom he'd told about it. He hears the click of the camera and whir as it spits out the photo, but he doesn't move.
"The second model didn't have your angles either. I think, if this works out, I think the project will make more of statement--have more weight."
"Oh," Dominic answers, and feels like he should say more, something that shows he understands Gian's intent, but he doesn't. Since the first time, he's never thought about the artists' works, and looked only if they specifically invited him to. Most didn't.
"You understand this, right? The artist's insistence on meaning. Art is nothing without meaning. Without meaning, it's just porn." Gian lowers the camera and only then Dominic does move, turning to face Gian now. "You're a writer, Miranda said."
"Just poetry."
"Not just, right? You're an artist, too."
Dominic nods timidly, unsure that he's prepared for the onerous task of wearing that mantle, but likes it. Wants it.
"Take off your rings? Do you mind?"
"I don't."
There are barely any words between them. Dominic just moves instinctively, seeming to anticipate what Gian needs as he takes his careful Polaroids and tosses them onto the table between himself and Dominic. Dominic watches himself develop then moves his back, his shoulders, his hands and feet before he shucks his thin cotton trousers without having to be asked. He stands now in front a screen covered with white material--a blank canvas. The girl doesn't seem to notice and Gian only studies him for several moments before raising his camera again.
Standing so quietly and still, Dominic remembers back to just a few weeks before, to the first time he had modeled. When Miranda had directed Dominic to the small, unused office to change into a robe, he hadn't hesitated. He'd never considered himself an exhibitionist, but the thought of stripping down for an art class hadn't bothered him, particularly. He's proud of his body, and liked going starkers, actually, because then nobody could tell that his shirt was threadbare, the emblem so faded as to be nearly illegible, and that his jeans, slightly too big now, had holes worn into the pockets. Nobody could wonder about his grades or his home life. With his clothes off, there is just his body, described as beautiful sometimes by several of his previous partners. Perfect.
On that day, standing instead in front of a cheap full-length mirror hung on the back of the door, he had spread his hands over his chest and down to his stomach--had catalogued his features honestly, the way he would the spare furniture in the room: two chairs, an old desk, a coat rack. Muscled legs, flat stomach, strong shoulders tapering to a small waist. His still hairless chest. Even his too big ears and crooked chin work for him when he's naked.
Finally, he had reached for the thin blue robe, wrapped it around himself then opened the door to where Miranda waited for him. She had grinned, and he could tell that she meant to put him at ease, so he had grinned back--Happy Dom. A Dominic he doesn't usually feel but wanted to, then--and wants to, now. In a couple of hours he would have money in his pockets, enough for groceries to last the week, and some more to go dancing that night. Thinking of that--of what he was planning--had been enough to make his smile genuine and he'd turned it on Miranda, had seen her eyes soften in response.
"Ready?" she'd asked him, and he'd nodded, following her down the hall and to the first door on the right. He could hear voices as they neared the room--conversations that hushed and faded as Miranda and Dominic had entered the room. He'd almost wished that they would have carried on, that discussions about upcoming tests, meet-ups for coffee, and weekend plans would have eased his entrance and direct the students' eyes away from him. Instead he'd felt the weight of fifteen stares and heard only his own footsteps, the floor cold against his feet.
Miranda had pointed to a platform in the middle of the room, a square box painted black with an X marked in the middle with masking tape, and then had gathered her students to her like a mother hen. Dominic had watched, played with the tie to his robe and looked around the room. Miranda's voice had turned to a soft murmur and he'd recognized suddenly--and with a bit of belated gratitude--that she was giving him time to compose himself.
For a moment, Dominic had found it surreal to think that soon there would be fifteen pictures of him--or parts of him. Miranda had tried to explain about the role of the model, the history of nudes in art--Botticelli's "The Birth of Venus," Titian's "Venus of Urbino," and Caravaggio's beautiful "Amor Victorius"--and Dominic had listened, interested but distracted. Not by second thoughts, but by a feeling akin to the first day in a new school--and he had had many of those.
"Ready?" Miranda had asked again, and again Dominic had nodded.
He'd taken off his robe, stepped onto the platform and looked at the student artist in front of him for only a second, her blue eyes calm and serious, then he'd let his eyes slide past her and to a spot on the wall behind her. Miranda had told him it would be easier to hold his poses if he focused on one spot, on one thing, preferably not the clock.
"If you could move your right foot a little bit forward. Perfect," she'd said. "And put your hand on your opposite shoulder. Exactly. Alright, people. You have ten minutes to sketch, then the pose will change."
The scratch of pencil and charcoal on thick drawing paper had been soothing, nearly meditative, and it had been easier than Dominic had supposed it would be to be so still, to let his thoughts wander--to school and the upcoming weekend, to Billy and the upcoming conference, to a poem he'd nearly completed--until there'd been nothing at all, and his muscles had relaxed into the pose. After ten minutes, Miranda had quietly asked him to change and he had moved his arms in a fluid motion, twisting at the hips but relaxing his shoulders, and there'd been barely a pause in the sounds of the room. That he'd been able--is able--to be still for so long still surprises him.
During that first job, he'd held five poses like that, each for ten minutes, until it was over. His shoulders had ached, but he'd felt a strange sense of accomplishment. The students had begun to gather their supplies, their silence breaking suddenly as if it had never stopped, and Miranda had handed Dominic his robe, her head averted as he dressed, tilting at the sound of someone's call of "Mizz-O?"
"When I'm finished, I'll give you these," Gian says now, shaking one of the square pictures before tossing it to the table with the rest. Pulled back from his memories, Dominic looks down at the table covered with images of himself, surprised by what he sees. "As mementos, maybe. Or to burn. I wouldn't burn them. Even with this light, this canvas, these are beautiful. Even without the props, you've such an intensity in each one. You make my job easy, I think."
"I wouldn't burn them," Dominic says, picking up one that focused on the tattoos on his feet. "I wouldn't send them home to my mother, maybe, but I wouldn't burn them."
"So, you're willing?" Gian asks, raising the camera to take another picture, this one unposed. "We can begin this Saturday. If you're free, of course."
"Yeah," Dominic answers and knows that it's more than just the money that makes him want to come back.
"The subject matter won't put you off?"
"No. I'm--it's fine." Dominic nods once then looks up Gian, his smirk firmly in place. "I have experience."
"Excellent," Gian laughs, looking over his shoulder to grin at his partner. "You hear this? I finally have my model."
The girl stretches and smiles, the cat jumping down to wend its way between Gian's legs. He holds out the picture he'd been shaking gently to Dominic. "Here. For your mother."
Dominic takes the picture and is surprised to see that he's smiling--grinning. Happy Dom. Finally.