On Tuesday nights, I stuff my watercolors, sketchpad, and a 20-dollar bill into an old tote bag and head to the Madrone Art Bar or the DNA Lounge in San Francisco.
For three hours, I sip on wine and scrutinize, squint at, and visually dissect the model onstage. She’s naked except for a flimsy thong — sometimes slim, sometimes curvy, sometimes vulnerably bare or wearing burlesque accessories. Her youth is radiant, displayed in her hair and face, which are exquisitely made up for the audience of 10 to 50 self-identifying artists. Keeping her face impressively expressionless, she comfortably contorts her body into sensual, seductive five-, 10-, and 20-minute poses. During breaks, she huddles in her kimono or bathrobe, quietly sipping a mixed drink while the event organizer navigates between easels and packed chairs with a tip jar.
As an avid hobby artist, I’m familiar with figure-drawing classes. Yet the sterile environment of an art studio couldn’t be more different from these sticky, dimly lit bars where men slosh back beers and eat pizza with one hand while holding a grubby pencil in the other. Some venues do not reserve the whole space for these figure-drawing sessions; there are men sitting at the bar watching baseball and occasionally stealing furtive glances at the splayed-out model across the room.
Looking back at my artistic journey, it was unexpected that I would end up here. Memories of my childhood and teenage years include canvases scattered around our apartment, the gentle guidance of a roster of drawing teachers, and my decision to dismiss my artistic pursuits before college.
Years later, the difficult transition into the real world prompted me to pick up my dusty sketchbook again. I began exploring the San Francisco drawing scene, from intimate meetups in the Tenderloin to self-directed sketching sessions in a cafe. They were satisfying but mundane.
I stumbled upon Dr. Sketchy’s life-drawing sessions, held at the DNA lounge; the theme that week was “hell.” My excitement bubbled after I observed the grungy club venue. When the model appeared in an elaborate, devilish headdress and barely anything else, I felt pleasantly scandalized by the ambience of boozy conviviality. It was everything my art training wasn’t — greasy, sexy, and pulsing with intoxication.
Last Tuesday, two models onstage acted out soft-core bondage porn between poses, complete with spanking, gagging, and clamping. It was a challenge to capture the balance between the raw, hardcore energy and the softness associated with feminine bodies, but I was satisfied with my pastel pink-and-yellow painting with blue undertones to highlight the silky translucence of the models’ skin.
When I arrived home, I presented my raunchy artwork to my boyfriend, who raised an eyebrow and gave me a judgmental look.I quickly shut my sketchbook, embarrassed by the sudden realization of the debauchery of my hobby. For the first time since I had begun to attend these sessions, I felt uncomfortable and almost oddly vulnerable — ironically, in the comfort of my own home.
In my shameless admiration of these women’s bodies, was I partaking in objectification and the historical tradition of the male gaze?Or was I supporting female empowerment — nudity as a choice, from a position of autonomy?
This confrontation of my conflicting sensibilities has forced me to refine my opinion on the long-debated topic of nudity and feminism. Although I’m a staunch believer in female choice and equality, undeniably there are moments when I feel confused and hypocritical about my feminist ideals.Like many young women, I have balked at but also rewarded displays of chivalry and benevolent sexism — similarly, this experience felt like a contradiction.
On the one hand, figure drawing is indisputably a process of objectification. Instead of perceiving the model onstage as a complex woman, I’m observing only the arc of her thighs, the shape of her rosebud lips, and the angles of her sharp collarbones. It’s also not lost on me that figure drawing has been a historically gendered practice. Up until the late 19th century, women were not permitted to attend life-drawing courses, and even then, models who sat for women still had to be at least “partially draped.” Because the systematic standard used to assess artistic achievement was an artist’s ability to accurately capture nude bodies, women’s restricted access to nude figure drawing has been a historical barrier to female artistry.
It was almost laughably cliché how I had subconsciously projected my lack of body positivity onto the page.
On the other hand, as a straight woman, am I even capable of adopting the male gaze and portraying the model as a passive object of desire for the pleasure of a male viewer?
With my sketchbook flipped open, I pulled up past event pages on Facebook, where attendees occasionally shared pictures of their best work from the night. After scrolling for a while, I noticed something striking. Even though these 20-minute pieces weren’t massive works of art, there were clear discrepancies between mine and those by the male attendees that went beyond differences in technical skill.
Their renderings were realistic, perfectly shaded, and contoured.My depictions were exaggerated, stylized interpretations of the female body with angular shoulders, perkier breasts, curvier waists, and long, powerful legs. The two-dimensional models look confident and comfortable in their nudity.
It was almost laughably cliché how I had subconsciously projected my lack of body positivity onto the page.
Over my lifetime, I’ve internalized how mass culture deems my stick-figure body shape unappealing and undesirable. In middle school, while my friends were sprouting womanly curves, my grandparents desperately brewed and made me drink papaya soup, which is believed to trigger breast growth in Chinese culture. As an adult, this self-consciousness led to my adoption of a joking, apologetic tone with men before undressing.
Examining and admiring these nude bodies, so different from mine, in such close detail is titillating. As someone who’s been socialized to avert her eyes in locker rooms, these sessions satisfy a previously unknown taboo sense of curiosity and admiration of the female body. Watching these women display their every imperfection confidently to a roomful of strangers was so foreign to me and has enlightened me to a reclamation and liberation I lacked. And unlike visiting a strip club or watching porn, my unapologetic admiration is socially acceptable, even rewarded as art. It feels unexpectedly empowering.
Occasionally, at the end of the night, I walk up to the stage and show the models my work, breaking the passive viewer dynamic. It’s always strange to see the weary etches and natural blemishes on their faces, which are invisible from several feet away from, where I’d been sitting. They look like normal people, not the invincible warriors I’ve painted.
“Wow, you turned me into an Amazonian queen!” one model exclaimed when she saw my painting, pointing out the elongated legs approvingly. I had forgotten about this interaction until I sat at home, scrutinizing my work and searching for evidence that I was a bad feminist.
The definition of the “female gaze” is murky, and although it’s hard to argue that my quick and rough paintings are groundbreaking depictions shattering sexist stereotypes, they are undeniably reflective of my experience as a woman. Instead of painting a passive object of desire, I am portraying other women through an admiring gaze, albeit still in a quasi-sexual context.
Despite being in an arguably vulnerable situation as a young woman in a bar, surrounded by men who may have creepy intentions, I feel surprisingly empowered by figure drawing as a tool of investigation and reflection. However, the taboo nature of my enjoyment makes me hesitate to reveal to my friends and family what I’m up to on Tuesday nights; for now, this activity remains an addictive guilty pleasure, almost a naughty secret. As someone who merely wanted to pick up a long-lost hobby and have a regular, sociable event to attend, it’s more than I could have asked for.
