Struggling poet Suki (a bit anorexic, just slightly suicidal, lives alone) has turned to life-modelling to make ends meet.
These poems are the result.
Suki sees herself as Bridget Jones but older, more edgy, her thoughts more intimate. Erotic, too.
Join in Suki’s discussions on art, the search for a raison d’etre and of course the quest for love, at
www.sukithelifemodel.co.uk
(goes live 28 April 2012)
“Suki’s writing is as merciless in its superb imagery, as the artists’ eyes are when they scour her. This is stark, hard-hitting wordplay of extremely high quality. It leaves you feeling as raw, and naked, as any goose-bumped life model. The images work well intercut with Suki’s brilliant text – and re-confirm my deep uneasiness about life-drawing.”
CHAR MARCH
"Good luck to Suki as she steps naked into the river of contemporary writing"
Michael Mackmin, Editor, The Rialto
"Essential reading for anyone who ever uses a life model"
Annie Tempest, artist and sculptor
About Suki’s illustrated autobiography A SMALL LIFE (Cinnamon Press 2012):
"A lovely book"
Susie Orbach, author, Fat is a Feminist Issue
KUNST
SUKI
ISBN 978-1-907401-83-1
Indigo Dreams Publishing
Publication 24/09/ 2012
Poetry / Art
15 life drawings
DCF / AFF
138 x 216mm
44 pages
£4.99 + P&P
PRE-ORDER NOW
You sketch my torso from every angle,
shading my belly from hipbone to hipbone
then kissing me there, the way a goldfish
having swum round a morsel of fish-food
moves in, fishy-mouthed, and latches on.
At break, you feed my belly titbits -
tortilla chips as I’m tying my wrap,
olives in oil while we wait for the kettle,
excusing your fingers, your visceral fingers
parting my lips, me licking the oil off.
I bet you pat all your models’ bellies and
flatter us with words - muscle tone, definition,
poise, elegance, gazelle - and say don’t be daft
you’re a long way from being fat, and
such a pretty skinny belly, so kissable.
and I wonder, as I paint her singleness -
so poignantly alone, up there on the podium
in the freezing studio where the rest of us
have kept our coats on, her skin pimpled, bluish,
seeing a quiver ripple up her I wonder whether
taking off her clothes, boots and ear-rings
and ridding her mouth of lipstick (she does this;
wipes it off on her forearm leaving her face stark naked)
whether letting her body be so coldly looked at,
strip lighting so harsh, so unforgiving, whether
letting herself be treated so badly - all our eyes
poking into her in this bare, chilly art-room -
is an act of madness, or a mid-life crisis
or her crying out like a masochist Hurt Me
Hold out your pencil and look at me,
measure angles, how my thigh hangs,
white shins, rib-bones, nipples,
rippled stomach, this patch of scrappy hair,
but do not adjust my pose using your hands
or ask after my other life, or offer your
home-made flapjack, nor expect me to like
your artwork, nor to smile at you
or blush instead of looking straight back.
You fetch a palette thick with paint and
knife it on, eyes flicking up from the canvas,
eyes that clunk and lock with mine like
machine parts then disengage
as you score into it.
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