Modeling nude was a way to make money. It was as simple as that. Or at least to me it was. How hard could it be, you take off your clothes, people look at you, then you put your clothes back on, collect $200 and go home. An easy way to make money.
French Husband didn't think it was that easy.
Shortly, after French Husband arrived in San Francisco he knew it was his "Sanata Monica Dream", he looked forward to calling it his home for a few months. Needing a place stay and money he found an Au-pair job (live-in nanny) in Cole Valley in San Francisco. The family: Two doctors living in a restored Victorian with three young children. The two doctors worked endless hours. They desperately needed someone to care, take to school, pick up, fed, and put their children to bed. Oh and they wanted their boys to learn French. For this they gave French Husband a small stipend and a place to live (a small cottage in their backyard). It was exactly what French Husband had hoped for.
His Au-pair job was ideal, paying for his basic needs and giving him a place to live. Though he had no extra cash. He asked his new found friend (#11 and 12 in my post a few days ago- Madame H.'s niece) Isabelle, if she knew of anything that he could do for a few hours a week where he did not have to talk too much to make some cash... like washing dishes or something. Isabelle was an art student in San Francisco, and she told French Husband that her art class was looking for models. French Husband applied and got the job. They sketched his feet, his face and his hands holding a book.
After weeks of hanging out at the I-Beam I agreed to met French Husband at a Burrito joint. He was more handsome than I had imagined. I thought to myself, "The light has its advantages!" We talked:
"How old are you?"
"Me tunty-tree, a you?"
"I am TWEN-TY- seven."
"What are you doing in San Francisco?"
"What? Rahpeet slow-ly please?"
I pointed to him, "You," then I looked around the burrito joint, "San Francisco, why?" as I lifted up my hands with my palms up.
"I like you."
"Okay. Oh? No- I mean WHAT...are...YOU... DOING in San Francisco?"
"Oleeday. And you?"
Those early days were a lesson in patience. French Husband would say his head felt like it was going to explode. I knew I had to speak slower, simpler, and memorize what words he knew.
His English improved. He told me the Art class at the school had asked him if he wanted to model nude. That they would pay him a $100 an hour. That all he had to do was stand still with a sheet draped over his shoulder.
"What should I do?"
"One hundred dollars an hour?"
"But what if someting, you know, eh, goes up, changes?" he asked.
"Oh, don't worry, it won't be the first time they saw something go up," I made a funny face, giggled, "it will give them a different angle!" then I cracked up over my own joke.
"Why do you laugh? You tink it is a bad idea?"
"No, do it."
And he did and nothing ever went up.
As French Husband modeled at an art school photos were not allowed. Phone cameras and digital weren't around, thank God. He saw some of the drawings: Mostly modern art were you could not tell if he had an eye, or an elbow, or an ear or corn.
The SLIDE is of old charcoals found at the French Brocante years ago.