Mono-printing. Simple and beautiful. I would arrive late at class (always), find a corner away from the tutor's attention and lay down my sheet of glass. Squeeze out just enough of the thick, acrid, black ink, slick it across the glass with a roller until it was the thinnest sheen, then softly lay on paper and begin to draw... just a few simple lines and then feel my way across the skin of the model's body with a finger, a thumb or the heel of my hand. Pressing and smoothing the curves and shadows into place.
I loved mono-printing. It was incredibly fast as a way to work. And I was fickle with my art. I liked to catch a moment and move on.
It wasn't so much that I didn't notice the model, or that I deliberately de-humanised them in any way. I just enjoyed them on an entirely visual level. I didn't really engage.
I arrived at this class, late as ever. Ducked past the tutor with a grin (it was really that simple) and set myself up to quickly begin enjoying the model's undulations. I think she might have been sleeping. She looked so peaceful, the class was unusually quiet, the room impossibly warm as ever. I became lost in her body. Trying to catch the feline shape she created.
My partner at that time (later my husband) refused to look at the drawings. "How will I ever go to the delicatessen and buy bread knowing that she knows I know she has a tattoo where I didn't ought to know she has one?"
It amused me enormously. His prudishness should have been a warning.