Nude modeling, a side gig for actors and dancers: "You feel safe, they're art students, they don't give you the urge to look at you."

Miguel Peña has always been on good terms with his body. His muscles, tightly woven into his skin, have given him a confidence in baring his naked self, a feat that's very beneficial for his acting work. For him, revealing himself as someone fresh out of the womb isn't the setback that many people find difficult. A gift, that of a virtuous diplomatic relationship with nudity, not only allows him to flow on stage, but has long been exploiting to make money. And we're not talking about boys' clubs or racy photos sent pre-Bizum, but rather posing au naturel, like yogurt, for the sake of art.

“I never stop, I'm always doing things,” says this 29-year-old performer, based in Barcelona, ​​who by chance found a job that requires him, ironically, to do the exact opposite: pose nude, motionless, for hours. “It was at a Fine Arts school next to where I studied theater,” he says. “I suppose they said: let's look for people at acting schools, and of course, theater also has its artistic side, of being, of holding gazes.”

The opportunity came after a very direct interview: "They asked me how I felt about being nude. I told them no problem. And also, how I felt about my body, because in the end, it's on my feet for several hours. You have to know your physical limits. But it was a good opportunity for a little something extra."

According to AISGE (Artistas Intérpretes, Entidad de Gestión de Derechos de Propiedad Intelectual), the entity that manages the intellectual property rights of actors, dubbing artists, dancers, and stage directors in Spain, 73% of Spanish actors cannot make a living from their work. To expand on this, 55% of actors and dancers do not earn the minimum wage (currently €645.30 per month) with their jobs in the sector.

These data reveal that, without other sources of income or interpersonal support, more than half of Spanish actors and dancers live below the poverty line. This fact fully justifies the interest of professionals in this sector in accessing jobs such as life modeling, a task for which they have their own unique tools.

Officials of nudity

Hours before leaving for rehearsal for the play "La Taberna de los Perros," which Peña will perform at Barcelona's Sala Fénix starting July 3, the actor humorously describes his modeling job as "a public servant of nudity." He claims to earn just over 10 euros an hour, a figure he himself considers modest: "I've heard there are people who charge 25 or even more. But hey, I'm just starting out. Maybe with time I can raise the price."

Changing the scene, Somaya El Jaouhari walks along the stony paths of Madrid's Retiro Park, like a nuptial Nefertiti. Ornate golden jewelry bounces light off the cardinal points of her body: head, neck, hands, and feet. With the powerful braids of a Nubian warrior (or a Predator, depending on your preference), this dancer and actress glides and maneuvers with the ease of a natural flair for comfort. "For me, the most interesting thing in life is to play," she asserts with easygoing tenderness. And she found in the art of posing a way to do so, from stillness.

Unlike Peña, El Jaouhari has been involved in the activity for years. In Madrid, she says, “The minimum pay is 25 euros per hour. That seems low to me. 40 would be more decent.” But beyond the economic factor, there's an artistic value to the practice. “I love it, especially because I'm interested in painting,” the dancer asserts. “It's fascinating to see how each student perceives the same body differently. There's a lot of learning involved in both the body and the mind.” Miguel, even with less experience, agrees with this nuance: “I didn't know if I would be able to do it. But it turns out I am. It gives me an inner satisfaction. And I think it's important to contribute to normalizing nudity, which still carries a lot of weight in this society.”

From their first sessions, both faced the experience of being completely naked in front of an entire class. El Jaouhari, who works at the Isabel Gómez Studio in Madrid, among others, recalls his first day with a mixture of bewilderment and humor: “I remember arriving with two teachers and asking, 'Should I change somewhere?' And they said, 'No, get naked right here.' All the students were waiting, and I was looking for a pose. It took me 20 minutes. You're there, naked, everyone looking at you, deciding how to position yourself.”

But the initial fear soon fades, he assures: “As soon as the session begins, the environment becomes safe. They're art students. They're not looking at you morbidly; they're thinking about how the light falls, about proportions. Maybe they'll analyze you psychologically later, but at that moment, they're drawing.”

Peña has also found that space, far from being uncomfortable, can be liberating. “At first, you feel exposed, of course. But after five minutes, you no longer think about being naked. You enter a very meditative state. It's about being present, noticing your body, observing the thoughts that come and go. No flowers or incense. It's more of a form of resistance to a world that wants everything done quickly.” This introspective approach has even served him well in therapy. “When I told my psychologist that I'd been hired for a two-hour job of sitting still, she said, 'That's perfect, so you can meditate.'”

Motivation: between the artistic and the economic

For El Jaouhari, posing is a way to stay close to art without abandoning her calling. “Acting and dancing aren't easy jobs, especially when you're not in the top tier of the industry. So I thought: what can I do that's close to the artistic world and allows me to sustain myself?” The answer was artistic posing. “Thanks to my background in dance, I have mastered the body and its expression. So it seemed like a very valid option from both an economic and artistic perspective. Although holding positions for long periods of time isn't easy at all…”

In Peña's case, the connection to art lies in art history: "I'm standing, with a stick, in contrapposto. Very classical. And that helps me; it connects me with something ancestral. I imagine myself as part of a tradition that comes from Mesopotamia or Greece. I like to think of myself as just another body participating in a creative process."

The path to this profession was also different. Somaya landed in it through a series of recommendations and a chance conversation. “A nurse during a doctor's appointment put me in touch with an actor who worked as a model. I worked with him a lot, at the University of Technology, at the Círculo de Bellas Artes… official places. I think he even took an exam and got in as a professional painting model.” A fact that is nonetheless surprising, and one that El Jaouhari considers equally curious. “Very few people know about it, but it exists. And there are companies that manage this type of work. It's not a closed profession, it's just very unknown.”

With shame, one neither eats nor has lunch

Both Miguel and Somaya agree that, to pose, you have to overcome your fear of external judgment. “It's a job where the first thing you have to overcome is your shame,” says the dancer and actress with braided hair and a feline gaze. “You have to have a strong acceptance of your own body. That's why many dancers and actors are very accustomed to the body and nudity. We change together constantly; it's normalized.”

Peña, for his part, expands on this reflection with a critique of the existing double standard: “We live in a society that censors the nipple and then completely sexualizes the body. If we naturalized it more, if we saw naked bodies in more non-erotic contexts, perhaps it would cease to be taboo. It's a brutal contradiction: showing it is forbidden, but at the same time it is sought in secret. So yes, I am engaging in activism when I take my dick out,” he concludes with a laugh.

Now, despite the curious paradigm of nudity, both emphasize the resounding atmosphere of respect. “I take my hat off to them,” says El Jaouhari. “I'm very perceptive and sensitive, and in general there's a very high level of respect, both from students and teachers. They're focused on anatomy, light, shadows, lines.” Although she also admits some exceptions: “There was a man who was drawing and I felt something strange,” Somaya confesses. “It wasn't lewd, but there was a slight imbalance.” And she recalls, laughing, a yoga instructor who initially covered himself with a cloth. “I told him: you have to uncover yourself, because that's not what they're going to see.”

The mental pause

Posing isn't just a matter of being. Sessions can last between two and three hours, with poses held for ten or twenty minutes. “Sometimes the teacher suggests working on lines or curves, and you suggest something. It's very collaborative,” says the dancer. But the body has limits. “Sometimes you get into a position and think: why did I get like that? Ten minutes in and it starts to hurt. You have to have good mental and physical control.” The same goes for being a good manager of external climatic changes, such as cold or heat, and their resulting bodily expressions. “Once a drop of sweat ran down my crotch and I couldn't move. I had to giggle.”

In this context of effort and pause, El Jaouhari has found an unexpected refuge from the vertigo of the digital age: “We live on a spur of the moment. Mobile phones, social media, hyperconnectivity. And suddenly you're there for two hours, naked, doing nothing. And you see that your mind doesn't collapse. That you can live with it.” “That pause,” he concludes, “has made me rethink things. It's not that it's changed my life, but it has changed the way I view time. Not everything has to be immediate anymore.”