More on my time at Augusta College later, but I wanted to get this poem posted now, since it is readily available to me. The longer article was done on an old (ancient) computer, and I will have to retype the whole thing; at least this time I can present the illustrations better, by scanning my photos from those two months. This poem tells its own story, of a day in Jim Rosen's class when Janice Williams was filling in, and decided to do a drawing of me herself. This poem opened a floodgate, and over the next several years I wrote a lot of poetry about issues involved with being a life model, with nudity vs nakedness, with the spirituality of nakedness. I also wrote a novel set in an art-school environment, and started another in the horror-fantasy genre set in a fiction version of a well-known art school in Savannah, GA. The week following the composition of "Janice's Dance," I took a copy of it back to Augusta College to give to Janice. She was touched, saying "No one has ever written a poem for/about me before." She later gave me a drawing, though not the one she did that day. That one, in another experience of synchronicity, ended up in Philadelphia about the same time I did, in the possession of Kevin Strickland, a student in Rosen's class in Augusta, who chose to get his MFA at PAFA. He was kind enough to frame a small ink drawing of me that Rosen did at my request, and also framed the drawing Janice gave me; unfortunately, he still has that one. I really need to get back in touch and reclaim it.
I sit naked on a folded comforter, as Janice's hands dance over the paper. Her body dances too: her legs thrust side to side as hands and arms sway, Shiva-like, over the paper, for Janice dances creation.
Amy sits by her, Amy who drew me earlier, and watches Janice as she draws and dances. Amy's head moves like a tennis spectator's from me to Janice's dancing hands and back to me and back and forth again. Amy tries to see me as Janice sees; she marvels at Janice's dance.
Janice's hands dance a black and yellow fog, charcoal and pastel mists of creation. From time to time she shakes and blows the dust, dancing, to the floor.
Janice's dance is a dance of creation, and it is well I sit here, naked and unashamed, for I am born here, and Janice is both mother and midwife to my birthing.
An hour passes-- left leg and arm grow numb, then dead, then awaken to pain. But these are birth pains, and worth the aching, and I sit still, watching Janice dance.
The dance ends. I stretch, slowly, find my glasses, for I want to see what Janice has seen, and danced into being. I must be clothed and away; yet I remain here, an image of myself, the imprint of Janice's dance. Augusta College, 9 May, 1991