Putting the Life Back in Life Drawing
Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School, a very different type of drawing class.
Young, sweating bodies mob the Lucky Cat Saloon. Disco thumps over the stereo speakers. And on stage, The Incredible Edible Akynos, her breasts nearly overflowing their lacy black cups, curls into a pose that accentuates her impressive derriere. The audience members whoop and cheer. Then they pick up their charcoals and their sketchbooks, and they begin to draw.
Welcome to Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School in Williamsburg.
Dr. Sketchy’s is Brooklyn’s answer to that academy staple, figure drawing. Held every other Saturday afternoon, the event is part life drawing class and part burlesque show, luring crowds with the promise of sexy models, wild costumes, a Studio 54 soundtrack, and booze. And you don’t even need to know how to draw.
“I don’t discriminate against people based on talent,” says cofounder Molly Crabapple.
On a recent Saturday, Crabapple is dressed in a pink snakeskin mini and pig-tails. She weaves through the 50 or so hip young things, and when a timer goes off, she and cofounder John Leavitt take the stage to officiate the first drawing contest.
As an art school dropout and former life model, Crabapple remembers posing in the “sterile” environment of the classroom. It was “like you were a collection of latissimus dorsi [muscles] and biceps,” she explains, “but not necessarily a human being.”
Instead, Crabapple and the pleasantly chubby Leavitt imagined a setting where models could display their personalities with boas and ostrich-feather fans, and participants could practice their skills while toe-tapping to the music.
For long-time regular Amanda Pearson, Dr. Sketchy’s is about “exercising my right to draw whatever the fuck I want.” Veterans know Pearson, who escaped from Florida to attend the Fashion Institute of Technology two years ago, for her obscene illustrations. Her entry in the first contest (prompt: “the MTA”) is a picture of Akynos with legs splayed, giving birth to the L train. “I don’t know,” Crabapple laughs, “that’s a little cliché.”
“Take it off bitch!” Pearson responds. “Show us those titties!”
The sexual energy in the room is hard to ignore: Crabapple’s bouncers — her “minions” — regularly spank each other; in the second competition, Pearson’s newbie friend Sherman takes off his shirt to become a canvas. (However, the models wear tape on their nipples — a city law prohibits simultaneous alcohol consumption and nudity in public establishments.)
There is “always something kind of sexual about life drawing classes,” says Carl Burton, “but here it’s very overt.” Like many of the patrons, Burton is a former fine arts major and a first-time visitor. Artistic rigor is not why he plans to return in two weeks. “It’s not usual to blend education and actual entertainment,” he says.
A zany atmosphere coupled with the challenge of figure drawing keeps the crowds coming. Most of them hear of the Anti-Art School through online postings or friends’ recommendations, and the event has been financially self-sustaining since its second session. The two founders and the set-designer, Dr. Simon, are the only salaried employees. Entry costs $10.
Crabapple also has a six-month waiting list for models, partly because hourly wages at Dr. Sketchy’s are among the highest in the city. She chooses men and women who are “beautiful” but also have “cool themes.” “One of my favorite models,” she says, “will come to me and she’ll be like ‘I have an authentic Elizabethan costume that strips down to a chastity belt and royal seal pasties.’ And I’m like, ‘Well, then.’”
On her break, Akynos is drinking a glass of white wine at the back of the bar and imagining her next pose. She wears nothing but neon yellow panties and a long fur coat.
In the last few months, Akynos has modeled here three times. She makes $40 or $50 in tips and can earn over $100 in three hours. “They love when I do the bend-over stuff,” she says.
However, she insists the job is not easy. “I was sitting in that last pose on the chair with my hands over my breasts,” she explains, “and I thought it was going to be cool. But my wrists started to get like, ‘Hello! Let me go! I wanna stretch.’ The things we take for granted!” And burlesque still doesn’t pay the bills: she works as a secretary during the week to support her two almost-teenaged children.
Meanwhile, Leavitt announces he’s drunk. Pearson has a blank page ready to go. Amis Schumacher, an Anti-Art School virgin, is uncapping his pen. He has been quiet all night, perched on a stool with a smallish notebook in his lap. Why has he come to Dr. Sketchy’s? A friend is a regular. “And it’s always good to draw from a model,” he decides. “It’s always worthwhile.”