art v model

There is necessarily an imperfect relationship between the artist and the model (i'll be referring mostly to my experience as a photographer's  model, though my ambitions toward being a drawing or painting model will give me more experience in those arenas soon through the art warehouse next door) that, though not always violent, always implies an almost primal sexuality - whether is it violence between each other, or humiliation vs ownership, surrender vs slaughter or even self-sacrifice joined with sacrificial priest, either the artist is photographing his model to confess his love for her, his obsession, his inescapable struggle within her seduction, his surrender to the muse that will ruin him - force him to give up his beliefs - make his work sell for money he hates to people he hates even more....
Or if his model is giving herself, through him, to the greater cause of broadening the definition of art, if she's putting herself in a situation specifically because she gets off on being obliged to the will of a man she never could have imagined, or even if being printed on pages smeared with the sweat of high school boys replaces her high-school love of filling a designer handbag with things no other person wealthy enough to own it would ever carry - a Kate Spade clutch filled with tiny bags of cocaine rocks just ready to be lain on a square of foil (tucked inside the bag's make-up mirror pocket) to be lit (w a lighter inside the bag's lipstick pocket) from below and inhaled through a bic pen with it's ends chopped off (stashed in the bag as well), a McQueen handbag with vials of pills tucked into tiny silk-weave pockets (with their other pockets filled with lipstick tubes empty of color but packed with sterling silver paraphernalia sets), and a half dozen subtle Gucci bags, one for each occasion or season, each hiding an emergency stash and the necessary accessories of each necessity - never because she needed money for those luxuries, only because she finds the dichotomy of a girl like her being so gross around such people, only because she finds it funny that they believe her when she plays like she does.
The artist and his model know that their relationship would not exist if not for the need of a third party - the viewer of what they produce. There would be no reason for their unending sacrifice to each other, their exchange of sado-masochism would be useless without the voyeur, the viewer holding his breath to see if the tension of a photograph can be resolved if he stares long enough.
He needs her, but he knows without her there will be always be another 'her' yet she, she needs him, is praying that the Art she see within him will be enough to get her out her tiny niche in time and propel them both forward, farther, as far as they can if they can just get their charges to connect, to project their intimacy into a world that only the two of them know, at that moment, lacks it completely....
All art is a surrender, of the best of the artist, and the best of his model, to a cause greater than either of them could ever be, but they know, if they can just reach through time a little ways by connecting to the greatest truth of the other, that the pain of their sacrifice will provide a glimpse of truth greater than any pain they could feel.