chapter 4

The sessions were going to be over in a matter of weeks. It was a near scientific fact that she’d been putting on weight, now, and I was in fact not being gaslit by my own faulty senses. When she arrived the next week, she sat down with a belly that filled her lap, the surface area around her belly button even larger than last time. There was something aggressive about the way her belly jiggled with each little shaking bounce when she walked on bare feet across the floorboards to take her place on the pedestal. Today must have marked the biggest visible leap in weight she’d made so far. And in spite of this, she simply sat there! Either heedless to it, or resplendent in it, a subtle hunch in her shoulders under the weight of her breasts which had begun to occupy more space to each side of her less bony sternum. There was a fullness coming into them, losing their tapered sag as they began to swell from underneath. And here I was, thinking I was still making progress. Whatever changes I’d undergone were nothing in the shadow of hers. How? Why? Why didn’t she care she was getting huge?

My thoughts kept battering around inside their tin-metal confines until the friction left me feeling frustrated, angry, and honestly, just a tad resentful. As I worked on erasing yet another set of lines I’d put concentrated effort into, a spiteful part of me decided that if this constant, week-after-week change was going to meet me each week, then I was going to beat her at her own game. In a huff I erased almost half her outline and inferred the natural path of her growth: outwards. In other words, I spent the remaining time drawing her as if she were fatter than she really was at the time. I didn’t even look at her. The page was marked and soiled with enough erasure marks and faintly visible old lines to go from there instead.

By the time I was finished, I must have ended up answering my own question. For weeks I’d been looking for an explanation as to how she could go about growing each week like it meant nothing. Wasn’t she afraid of getting fat? Wasn’t she afraid her figure was going to be destroyed? How was she not afraid of being ugly?

And then it happened. I laid down the last rudimentary stroke of her new outline, sat back, and felt something rise within me. Something deep, heavy and throbbing, like exultation. A mighty and victorious inner shout. In spite of my efforts, I hadn’t made her look ugly. No matter how hard I tried to see it that way, what I’d drawn on the page was beautiful. It wasn’t my style that was beautiful – I am not vain in any measure. It wasn’t the heart, or character. Rather it was the content; the very thing I had tried to represent itself . She was beautiful. Her body, her curves, the way her features protruded in grossly exaggerated proportionality, were not gross at all. They were accentuations of her base, her template. They were revelations of her form, a shape that had been waiting to emerge all along. She had become ripe, growing to her fullest power, flesh overflowing with beauty…

In reality, she was not that fat yet. But I’d done something, here. It wasn’t about her so much as for myself. I packed up in silence, left in a hurry and journeyed home unable to stop thinking about how I’d gone through my entire life thinking everything was supposed to be the direct opposite of this. Why now? Why so late in my life? Why was I so different in my opinion at the drop of a hat? Was I going insane? Was my brain degrading from the bodily damage I’d done zgainst myself? I could hardly sleep. I didn’t even have dinner. Nor did I dream.

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I saw the counsellor again. We talked about the same things we always talked about, and got marginally far, but not far enough to call it progress (really). Or at least that’s how I felt. She said that would come later, anyway, given time and practice and not giving up. Habits are practice. Practice is routine and repetition. That’s what I had to keep telling myself. I didn’t know how many times I could keep on changing perspectives, whipping this way and that. After a while you feel dizzy. I even told her about the drawing class, and the revelation I’d had. All the weird, unorthodox thoughts that I didn’t know how to feel about. When I told her that, for whatever strange reason, I thought fatness looked beautiful (at least on paper) after my revelation the previous week, she gave me an unexpected response. Surprised, but not shocked. I’d been anticipating instant opposition. After all, fat is bad and it is a symbol of ugliness, ill health and poor choices. The lack of opposition from her left me feeling disappointed, initially. I’d put a lot of effort into getting ready for a bad response to an idea that is not normal. But then I felt relieved. The more I thought about it on the way home, the more grateful I felt that someone had come through with me instead of barring me as if I’d given the math teacher the wrong answer.

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Before the last session we had a two week break. I was feeling as if I’d wasted my opportunity, at this point. The workshop was about to be over and I’d nothing to show for it. Just before the last session began, the coordinator took a moment while we were still setting up our easels to give a word. She stood in the center and thanked us all for our participation before going through the routine expression sentiment that it was almost over. Then she turned serious all of a sudden, and my attention was drawn in to the sudden officiality as she clasped their hands and tipped her head as if phrasing something in her mind before giving voice to it.

She said, ‘Now if I may have one last word. As you all know, our figure model who has so graciously devoted her,’ (she put obvious stress on the gendered word) ‘time, her effort, her patience, but most importantly, her body… to this project, has been undergoing some “changes” each week, and I’m sure you’ve noticed by now she has gained quite an amount of weight. While we thank her for the sacrifices she has made for our art, allowing us to investigate our understanding of how to portray the subject of difference, of motion, of change over time… I want to make a more particular thanks at the present moment, to all of you – to all of you beautiful artists for showing continual grace and delicacy with the matter. It is a touchy subject. It would be incredibly hard for anybody at all to change their body so rapidly, let alone under the watch of others. Her doctor actually advised her months ago to try and lose weight if possible, but she has exercised her right to choose otherwise, instead – something quite honestly brave, something I don’t think I could ever bring myself to do, I don’t know about you. I don’t have the budget to go shopping for new dresses.’ (Which prompted a round of laughter. I on the other hand had just figured out something had been missing all along, and was only now beginning to fill the gaps in a sudden frenzy of puzzle pieces and sudden understanding). ‘Still her doctor is advising to lose weight, and again, still, she has toldme she intends to see the last session through. Which brings me to the present situation. Perhaps I find it necessary to bring this up now, only because, at present, she still has not stopped showing signs of putting on weight. This is her decision, and this is a judgement free zone. Even so, I am just forewarning you of her choice, since it is all in spite of her being told to stop putting on weight, and I jut thought that giving a word of warning may reduce any shock you may feel upon seeing her continued changes, which… dare I say exceeded my expectations, personally, when I last met with her. That said, you have all been incredibly gracious and understanding up until now. And for that reason, I want to thank you all sincerely on her behalf.’ And with a glance at her watch, the coordinator told us the model would be here in a few minutes, then stepped out of the ring, returning to the office outside the room in the hallway.

The low conversational chatter fizzled away and was replaced by the scratch and click of art materials as we waited. I looked once more at what I had to show for the last session, which thankfully my neighbours could not see unless they leaned back to spy. A collection of outlines erased too many times so that the entire project was smudged in a blur of outwards, expanding motion. But since things had begun to click into place, I was realising that this workshop may have been about dealing with change all along. And somehow I had missed the memo. I needed to see if I was the only one. I needed to measure up against someone to fact check the world.

Feeling at odds with myself, I stood up and started walking for the hallway, pretending I needed to use the bathroom. On the way out, I snuck a good look at a few of the other artist’s pieces. I didn’t need to look for long. I went into the bathroom and stood at the basin, waiting until it seemed like I’d done something, and looked at myself with disappointment. How had I missed the point so badly? The pieces I’d glanced on the way out were so much better than mine, so much more developed. Except for the fact that they all had in common the theme. The change. They all seemed to portray the model’s growth over the weeks in a way mine hadn’t.

But nevertheless, I had to finish this. If I was really this far behind, I had nothing to lose, and I knew I should just see what I could do with whatever I had. At least now I finally knew what I was doing.