Life drawing, or drawing nude people, was one of the most interesting of my college classes. To see where muscle and bone interact is important in learning to draw the human form. For example, if you want to paint a woman working in her garden, you need to know what her triceps are doing as she leans forward, lifting
her arm to water the roses. How do you capture the right proportions with her arm outstretched and quads flexed to keep her balance…how does her skin stretch across her knuckles as she grips the watering can?
It helps to know what’s underneath so you can accurately bring the action to the surface. Of course, you never know all that goes on underneath unless a person is completely nude, and you’ll just have to trust me on that one.
Some of our models were athletic, some were obviously sedentary, and several were in between. The body can speak volumes without a single spoken word. Beauty, however, is a little different in the art world. Outside the studio, it’s all about looking young, fit, and stylish. But inside the studio, we capture the essence of beauty. The eternal kind of beauty—the kind people will pay thousands to grace their walls with. It could be a stolen glance between lovers, a deeply-lined palm of hand, a belly ripe with new life.
To this day, I like to guess what someone’s feet look like by the wear of their shoes. I know my own look a little different after years of ballet and two pregnancies. They’ve widened and changed shape and my shoes do show their story.
Several years ago, the retirement place where I work hosted a dance every Tuesday evening. Outsiders were invited—a handful showed up on a regular basis. One woman, along with her husband, shuffled in with her feet stuffed into slim, low heels. The shoes were so tight, her skin muffined out of them, and her gait was more of a limp. With every step, I could feel her pain. I don’t know how she managed to dance that way—I suppose she thought dance shoes had to look sexy, even to the point of pain. But she just didn’t fit the mold anymore, and she heeded the world over The Sculptor.
I could have told her that she’d dance much more beautifully in her Grandma shoes. Grandma shoes are made to cushion years of sacrifice—they’re made to support years of children, grandchildren, and all kinds of battles.
They hug the bulges pushed out from Love, and make smooth the tread of eternally beautiful feet.
Eternally beautiful feet aren’t necessarily young, or fashionable, and only some of them are
But we know The Sculptor has spent much more time and care on them than any sexy heel fashioned by the world.
I could have told the woman that The Sculptor would rather her wear Grandma shoes—that He would want her to celebrate freely all the things that made her feet change. But my words wouldn’t have mattered if she didn’t realize the value of all those hidden things.
Go boldly into this week, knowing you were made to shine through any kind of surface.