Drawing Life

What a Nude Studio Art Class Taught Me About Confidence, Connection, and Creativity

When I was in elementary school, Fridays meant one thing I truly loved: art class. At our parochial school in Massachusetts, we even had a yearly art competition across the diocese. Out of about 60 students per grade, they awarded one First Place, one Second Place, and four Honorable Mentions.

Over eight years, I received Honorable Mention five times. Not bad, right? But by the time I got to high school, I stopped drawing. Why?

Well… I had a problem.

A very talented one.

My older sister—two grades ahead—was a drawing prodigy. She won First Place seven out of her eight years. The only year she didn’t win was due to a rumor she’d taken lessons (which she hadn’t). But that’s how it was in the 1950s. You rolled with it.

And I did. Right out of art.

She could draw larger-than-life portraits of the Beatles, The Monkees, and The Dave Clark Five. Her talent was staggering. I adored her—but I put my pencils away. Why try when she was the “artist” in the family?

Fast forward several decades. I’m now in my early 70s, happily retired, and carrying a new bucket list with me—things I never had the time or courage to explore before.

One of those things?

Studio drawing with nude models.

Facing the Easel (and My Fears)

A good friend of mine, a retired art professor from Maine, invited me to a life drawing group that met every other week. “You don’t have to be good,” he said. “You just have to show up.”

So I did.

I was nervous—terrified, really. What if my drawings were awful? What if others noticed how bad they were? Would I embarrass myself?

Then the model stepped up. Completely nude.

A beautiful, confident man with defined muscles and, let’s say, a very noticeable jewel package.

I panicked. Where do I look without looking like I’m looking?

At the break, I walked up to him and said, honestly, “You have a very beautiful body, and I feel so awkward staring at it. But thank you for posing—it’s amazing.”

He smiled and said, “Don’t worry about staring. You’re supposed to. Just keep coming.”

That moment of honesty cracked something open in me. I kept coming back.

The Practice of Observation

Two years later, I’ve drawn at least five different models:

• A confident young woman with perky breasts and a dancer’s grace

• An older, plus-sized man whose presence filled the space

• A tall, thin gentleman who wore hats and scarves—quirky and elegant

• A handsome Black model with a sculptural body and intuitive posing style

Each session is 2.5 hours of quiet focus. There’s jazz or classical music playing softly in the background, the scratch of charcoal on paper, the occasional “ahh” of satisfaction when someone nails a pose. During breaks, there’s wine, seltzer, and snacks. It’s like creative therapy.

And the best part?

My drawings are getting better.

I’ve shown my sketchbooks to my sister—yes, that sister. She’s now my biggest fan. She still teaches adult art classes once a week, and she’s given me wonderful tips: focus on shading, draw the spine, pay attention to foreshortening.

Speaking of which—foreshortening is when, say, someone is lying down with their feet pointed at you. The feet will appear huge, while the rest of the body seems shortened. Your mind knows what you’re seeing, but getting it onto the page is a challenge. And yet, somehow, the more you do it, the easier it gets.

A New Kind of Confidence

To draw a person is to translate something three-dimensional into two dimensions using nothing but your eyes, your hands, and your courage.

For me, it’s more than drawing.

It keeps my mind sharp.

It brings peace.

And it reminds me that it’s never too late to rediscover something you once loved—or to start something brand new.

So if there’s something on your bucket list you’ve been putting off—whether it’s drawing, dancing, hiking, or playing music—think of this story.

Even if you feel like a beginner, you will improve. You will grow. And you might just find a new passion waiting to welcome you home.