The Dressed Ape

By Ami Klein

Let me introduce myself: I am a professor emeritus for molecular genetics at the faculty of Medicine, Tel Aviv University and an amateur painting artist (eight exhibitions on surrealistic subjects). My first book named "Illusions" (written in Hebrew) was published 4 months ago.
As to the present book –"The Dressed Ape" - (written in Hebrew and translated to English), the story is based on my wish to fuse together my scientific background with the artistic one. In the book, art is represented by a well known wealthy male painter, whereas science, is represented by his attractive female model who is found to be a PhD student of molecular anthropology.
The meeting point of science, art, gender and obviously – sex, undresses us - the modern city dwellers - from our clothes and brings us back to our origin – the savannas of Africa.
Depending on that, the book tries to show that the traits that kept for the last 200,000 years, the human race alive, did not change much and kept us behaving as if we still live in our endemic environment.
Thank you and looking forward to hear from you.
Sincerely
Ami Klein

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ami Klein
• Release date: Apr 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310586774

Ami Klein

Ami Klein is a Professor Emeritus in the Department of Human Molecular Genetics and Biochemistry, Sackler School of Medicine, Tel-Aviv University, and former Head of the Department of Laboratories at Meir Medical Center in Israel. Painting is his second hobby.His book – "The Dressed Ape" focuses on the meeting point of science, art, gender and obviously – sex. The book undresses the modern city dwellers from her/his clothes and brings them back to our origin –the savannas of Africa.The author tries to show that the traits that kept the human race alive for the last 200,000 years, did not change and keep us behaving as we still live in our endemic ancient environment.

Book preview

Chapter 1

While morning shadows were still blurring the hues of the valley stretching below me, the first sunrays caressed the back of my exposed neck. Like ripples of water distancing themselves from a cast stone, pleasant waves of warmth flowed across my neck down into my lethargic limbs. The warmth descended across my frozen back, flowing into hands suspended in the morning’s languor, moving up into the mind struggling to awaken.

It’s not customary for a city mouse like me to be lodged in the morning in a mountainous dew-damp burrow, observing the scenery extending below. Most of my life I’ve spent in Tel Aviv. There I was born, raised, and returned to following my studies and army service. Even at times of absence, I lived in urban regions. I graduated in art studies at Bezalel College in Jerusalem, and took graduate courses in Paris. My exhibitions are displayed in scores of major cities across the globe, and I travel from one city to another several times a year.

I experienced my longest sojourn with nature during my army service. During those dry army periods the soles of my boots trod numerous grains of sand which penetrated my clothes and blocked my pores. The sand of the Six–Day War was the most terrible of all; we managed to put up with its dominance in the temporary camps during the pre–war call-up period, but once the armoured caterpillars started turning, it became a real nuisance. The clouds of dust coloured the air in light beige. We breathed, smelled and ate dust. We the living, could, at the end of the war, at least wash the dust off and restore our original likeneses; but for the dead, their image was erased forever in the dust of war.

It doesn’t mean that I liked army service in winter, quite the contrary, I hated the mud and the cold no less than the dust and heat. Army service in general, and living in the field in particular, evolved into an ongoing nightmare, which only increased my yearning for a life of a modern city dweller - a life of comfort. Immediately after my discharge, I rented a decrepit one-room flat in Tel Aviv, which provided me with freedom from my parents as well as the possibility to indulge in allures of the big city. I preferred the smell of petrol and the noise of traffic to the fragrance of flowers and the song of birds, as long as it distanced me from contact with dust, mud or any other irritating natural elements. My life’s longing belonged to the road, the pavement, the house flooring, carpets, starched sheets, tablecloths, vases of flowers, exhibitions, concerts, discussions with artists, book cases and white walls covered with pictures. All these I wished for and attained – and in a big way.

The recess, in which I had chosen to park that morning, was actually a small overehang cave created from recent breaking way through the rocks, and led from the foot of the mountain to its peak. At the cave's southern end, a paunch-shaped rock protruded, whose shade was supposed to protect me from the sizzling noon sun. My age and experience, as well as a lot of thought and strict planning, guided me in selecting this particular spot. I had negotiated my Land Rover a good number of times, going up and down the rocks, until I eventually decided on the cave as the right place to settle into. Now, on this designated day and hour, the vehicle stood parked by the rock with its back door open, while the thickening dew drops churned the dust settling upon them into colourless dough.

On the edge of the recess, several steps away from the vehicle, I seated myself on my special chair equipped with a single leg protruding from the seat’s centre. While the seat became integrated with my bottom, the seat’s leg penetrated several centimetres into the wet earth. To a casual observer, I looked like a kangaroo sitting on its tail.

I’m not considered an Ebenezer Scrooge within the community of artists and among my friends. On the contrary, many of my friends and acquaintances enjoy my wealth. I have no inhibitions in offering money to those of my friends who are in need. Many beginning artists have eaten off my table, or should I rather say, at restaurant tables paid by me; and I have financed many scholarships for talented students inadvertently born to poor parents. Nevertheless, I am no squanderer! You won’t find me changing my furniture or clothes solely because the fashion has changed. Our home, Ziva’s and mine, was purchased over twenty years ago and we have no inclination to exchange it for another just because its style is passé. I believe that changing functioning and working objects for new ones, just because it’s fashionable, is one of western culture’s preeminent evils. This is the basis for its culture of waste which we worship and which is drowning us in our own rubbish.

I purchased the one-legged seat upon which I am sitting, following a sudden brainwave I had thirty one years ago on my first trip abroad. Ziva and I married immediately after completing our art studies at Bezalel College. We spent our honeymoon on a month – long student trek in Europe, as was the fashion in those days. During our visit to Austria we came across a farmer milking his cows pasturied high up on the mountains. The farmer sat strapped to the one-legged chair of the type I am sitting on. Grease was spread under its seat and from time to time he dug into it whenever he changed udders. His hand movements underneath his buttocks seemed ridiculous, to say the least, and we stifled our laughter with great effort. When the farmer stood up – in order to move on to the next cow – the chair tied to his body straightened and the leg protruded in line with his bottom. We burst out laughing – the laughter of youth – and rolled down the verdant alpine slopes. The farmer, apparently accustomed to the phenomenon, made little of our laughter with one sweep of his hand and went on with the milking. The milking chair turned into my heart’s desire. It seemed to me that the day would come when a chair such as this could serve me in my future as a professional artist; however, it didn’t occur to me that thirty-one years would pass before the chair would realize the goal for which it was purchased.

Throughout my life I have made numerous trips to various countries, but no trip is as engraved in my memory as that first one which Ziva and I took to Europe. Every detail of that trip is secured in my brain, and the memories are as lucid as if they occurred only yesterday. Those were the days of the State of Israel in the wake of the Six-Day War, when the citizens’ pride in their country and army was at its zenith. We tourists felt like ambassadors of the heroic state and in accordance with this we behaved conspicuously. I recall the shopkeepers’ questioning eyes stares at our appearance – I dressed in short trousers and sandals and Ziva dressed in an Israeli-style folk dress embroidered with flowers and sporting a swinging braid – as we skipped from one shop to the next in our quest for the unusual chair. We radiated the pride and arrogance of young people possessing a short past and a long future still ahead.

In spite of the vast diversity characterizing the art of painting, the artist himself lives in a world painted black or white regarding his ability to make a living. Black is the colour of failure, and white is the colour of success. The artist’s failure does not necessarily testify to a lack of talent as an artist. The failure testifies, in many cases, to a lack of talent in his capacity as a businessman. Yet, together with this, woe is the artist who endeavours to survive by his art alone in spite of his commercial failures. His obstinacy could evolve into a formula for deterioration into poverty and frustration. Building the image – the artist’s image – is the secret of success. Hence, the path to happiness and wealth is short and secure. As for myself, fate has been kind to me: swiftly and at an early age my star shone in the firmament of artists, and I evolved into a renowned painter both in Israel and overseas.

An abundance of flowers sneaking through a sea of weeds and overflowing the slopes of the valley extending below me, have created a splendid composition of coloured blots. The coloured celebration is accompanied by an orchestra – bereft of a conductor – of birds and insects, each offering its part in complete disharmony, where each musician is entitled to totally independent expression. I was enwrapped in nature, a beautiful and tranquil nature not demanding any sacrifice on my part. The temperature was comfortable – not too cold and not too warm – my clothes were dry and not one grain of sand had embedded itself between any of my toes. I had reached the cave through my own free will. I wasn’t commanded to come here, nor tempted by a beloved to come here, or ordered to march here, or worse still – to crawl here. I arrived in a comfortable vehicle, well equipped and with plenty of time. As soon as I had seated myself on the one-legged chair it seemed that nature was less alien and more adaptable. I inhaled the fresh air and let my eyes roam freely, absorbing the sights.

The eyes – those magnificent biological cameras – actually distinguish only between blots; the brain translates the blots into pictures. The art of painting is really the spreading of coloured blots on the painting’s canvas, and if these blots cause the observer excitement, the picture is actually considered art. Coloured smears in the shape of flowers are considered beautiful because it is accepted that flowers are an object of beauty. It is much more difficult, yet possible, to excite the observer by means of abstract smudges that are not associated with any natural object at all. These thoughts crossed my mind as I surveyed the plains of flowers searching for a unique corner to provide the background for a painting which I intend to paint here. Into the selected background I aspired to insert God’s most beautiful creation – the body of a woman.

While sitting in the recess, the model I had chosen was making her way toward me. My acquaintance with her was most brief. She was sent to my studio by a modelling agency. I was occupied with painting when she entered. I threw her a short glance and instantly decided to hire her for the job. When I invited her to join me for the trip to the cave, she preferred to use her own car. I showed her the location of the burrow on an old military map. She noted a number of landmarks on a small piece of paper and informed me she would duly arrive on time.

Despite the mistaken image, the world of models is comprised of the most ordinary heterogeneous assortment of women of varying ages and intelligence. There are more and less beautiful ones, slim to skinny ones and stout to the degree of bursting. Among them are homemakers seeking an extra income as well as professionals finding enjoyment in exposing their bodies publicly. The model’s popularity depends mainly on her ability to understand the artist’s soul and create a telepathic rapport with him during the painting process. Beauty is no definite guarantee of the model’s success.

The human body and especially a woman’s body are recurring subjects in my works. I have painted models of both genders and of all ages, I have seen them exposed in every possible posture, and not one organ of their anatomy is unknown to me. From an aesthetic point of view, nothing can compare to a woman’s body for filling the canvas with limitless beauty. I remember my first art lesson at Bezalel College when a nude female model appeared, and I – a young virgin – was supposed to concentrate on the body’s outline facing me and demonstrate indifference towards the sexual attraction. In order to instruct us in speedy sketching, the same model would change positions every few minutes, and I, with my eyes focused on her exposed curves, succeeded in sketching only part of her body before she exposed her other curves to my view. But these were, as mentioned, early days and days of adjustment, and therefore I quickly found myself concentrating on the object while becoming indifferent to the model’s sexuality. It is interesting to note that by means of education and perseverance a person can acquire automatic qualities alien to his character. By nature I am a sensual person who is attracted like a moth to a flame to his sexual instincts, and here at Bezalel, they succeeded in introducing a new and alien Pavlovian effect into my character, an effect that has caused me to sever myself automatically from sexuality the moment the brush touches the canvas.

It is customary to think that the artist chooses the model matching his needs, and she, after negotiating, is hired for work just as any other employee in the market place. In the field of art this is only partially correct, as the element of immortalization plays a two-directional role here. Every artist aspires through his art to capture some corner in the niche of eternity, hence our inordinate envy of those who are already positioned in the pantheon of art. Every beginning artist looks across jealously at Van Gogh, Raphael, Dali and others; and every model looks enviously at Gala and the other famous models who were awarded eternity due to having posed for a renowned artist. Hence, not only the artist seeks the model but the converse is also true: the model seeks the artist, and it’s worth seeking the most famous. As I am a renowned artist I am a source of attraction to numerous models. There are those who offer their services free of charge, and there are others who use their feminine charms to tempt me to transfer their image to the artist’s canvas. I have set myself a rigid rule, namely, that I will not employ any model without an honest fee for her services. Likewise, I do not hire models based on their beauty, but only by the measure of their suitability to the planned painting. All this has not prevented me from ensnaring myself in many of their luring webs.

On surveying the scenery I suddenly noticed a small red dot, surrounded by a tiny cloud of dust appearing somewhere at the foot of the mountain. The dot made its way toward me as the bends in the road caused it to appear and disappear. I rose from my chair, and as is the nature of one-legged chairs, submitted immediately to the force of gravity and flopped on its side. I rinsed my hands in water located in the vehicle. I checked the gun in my pocket and stood watching the ascending route. After a short while an engine’s chortling of a wheezing car began to be heard. At the last bend, the engine’s sound silenced for a moment, and immediately afterwards a red Beetle broke the walls of silence and pulled up next to me with a screech.

I had no reason to suspect that from this moment on my life’s track would change.

Chapter 2

Simultaneously with the pull of the handbrake the door opened and my model extricated her body from the car and stood smiling in front of me.

She threw me a Hi.

Hi, I responded, I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name.

Riki, she answered while lowering her head as if insulted.

The car’s engine continued to turn over and its noise cut the pastoral stillness into shreds. I felt bothered; my tranquility had been taken from me. I asked her to park on the side and turn off the engine. Riki responded willingly and parked her car parallel to mine.

Riki was dressed in jeans larger than her size obscuring the contours of her young body. Her gait was swinging and feminine; her legs moved forwards and sideways at the same time so that with each step the striding thigh hid the thigh of the stationary leg. This manner of walking moved her hips circularly and seductively to the right and left. Her face was very young but not virginal, a woman’s vernal face at the beginning of blossoming. As an artist I was aware of the background’s influence on the object’s beauty. Riki was a nature type, a type that nature – and especially its green color – serves as an apt background for stressing its beauty. I feel certain that her beauty would fade in artificial studio light. Her arrival gave me pleasure; I felt I had made the right choice.

Riki approached me carrying a small bag on her shoulder. I welcomed her and sent her to pour coffee for us both from the thermos in the Land Rover. On her return holding the cups, I sat down again on my one-legged chair. I drank sitting down, while she stood in front of me drinking the hot coffee in short and fast sips. I was surprised to see her full lips resisting the coffee’s heat without scalding. On emptying her cup, while mine remained almost full, she approached me, placed the cup at the foot of my chair and returned to her previous position. Her hands untied the knot in the ribbon holding her hair; the brunette profusion dropped softly to her shoulders. Her long fingers met on the row of buttons crossing her blouse and as if playing the piano they opened the buttons in a rapid movement from top to bottom. The blouse landed softly at her feet. Her brassier glittered in the blinding light showing the dark skin underneath. The agile fingers disappeared in an instance behind her back to return with the unclasped brassier fluttering between them, finding its way, with a guiding hand, next to the blouse lying on the grass. Riki straightened up and her breasts continued rising by the force of inertia and then slowly returned to their natural position. The color of her breasts was of the color of her body, while only the small nipples, positioned precisely in the centre, were in a different hue. Riki, standing like a stalk on one leg, tried to remove her jeans in one pull downwards, but the cloth was, for some reason, stuck to her legs and she pushed them down from the belt. The panties followed the rest of the clothes with the same natural ease, without any blushing or inhibition. The dusty Land Rover now served as a backdrop to her splendid body. She remained standing on the same spot wondering in body language. What next?

Riki’s body expressed a radiating naturalness; her dark color was uniform in its suntan without any pale in the parts covered by the brassier. The background of the jeep diminished the naturalness I had been seeking and so I asked her to move to the sloping meadow. There was a dramatic improvement, but not perfect. On requesting that she remove all of her jewellery I attained the desired picture. I gathered up my art utensils and indicated her to follow me. Obeying like a trained dog, we strode into the area of flowers and grass, I led and she followed behind. On reaching my objective I asked her to lie down on the grass. She examined the softness of the bedding and then lied down on her side. Returning to the Land Rover path, I glanced in the mirror. In the midst of the sea of flowers her womanly thighs and shoulders protruded in all their curvature, the rest of her body sank into the flora in a kind of jumble, preventing me from distinguishing between poppy and nipple. I returned with two rolled-up blankets under my arms. Requesting that she lift her thigh towards me, I placed a rolled blanket underneath it. The aroma of the flowers together with the fragrance of her body created a intoxicating blend. I dragged my body in the direction of her head, and while raising it with one hand I placed the second blanket underneath it with the other. Inclining her head towards me, a delicate smile spread over Riki’s countenance, and her large eyelids veiled her black eyes. A powerful desire inundated me, and I felt my blood channelling its way from my head to concentrate within my member. Storming with passion, I landed on her body kissing her soft lips with ardour.

The slap preceded the shattering kick into my testicles by a fraction of a second. I found myself writhing in pain and groaning a number of steps away from the blankets. Riki stood over me in a threatening stance, both arms resting on her hips, her breasts casting their shadow over her flat stomach. Her quiet, calm voice was in opposition to the fury burning in her eyes. My dear Mr. Gilad, it appears that you have the wrong address. I have not been hired to serve as your call-girl but as an artist’s model, if you’ve got any kind of sexual lust problem maybe you should first go and release the pressure elsewhere and then come back here calmed-down, so that we can start work. I hope you’ve managed to understand that I am experienced in close combat and it’s not worth your while to repeat this experience. I assumed naively that an artist of your age and renown would know how to distinguish between work and pleasure.

I increased my hold on my burning testicles in an attempt to squeeze out the pain clouding my thoughts. Riki’s voice reached my ears, but my brain refused to translate the meaning of the words. My helplessness was humiliating and frustrating. Here, I mulled, lies Ahrale Gilad in all his eighty five kilograms, one of Israel’s greatest artists, at the feet of some young woman, who is taking her first steps as an artist’s model; and she after having knocked him down, still dares to preach morality to him. Indeed, as mentioned, models are prepared to pose for me for nothing just to be awarded with immortality on my canvas displayed in museums and homes of the affluent throughout the world. OK, I had blundered; my urge suddenly overcame me, surely from the start we had been in an erotic situation; what could possibly have happened if we were to make love as a preliminary act to painting? These thoughts crossed my mind intermittently. Actually, the right thing would have been to hold the young woman’s head and scream my thoughts into her ears, but I remained lying on the green grass, grasping my groin and biting my lips, endeavouring to prevent any shameful gasps. When she stretched out her thin hand and commanded me to get up, I felt as if she were attempting to mock me and harm the remains of my ego. My embarrassing situation recalled my renown, the fact that my signature is at least as valuable as my art. I stood up on my own, looking through Riki at the scenery extending below. Her derisive voice calling out, alright, don’t exaggerate, so you got a swipe, it won't kill you worked as a mirror, I realized that my appearance was ridiculous. Releasing my hand from my testicles I attempted to straighten up as best I could.

I haven’t the mind and patience for painting today, you’re at liberty to go. Get dressed and return to where you came from. Don’t worry I’ll pay you for a full day’s work, I said.

We marched up the slope in a line of two, Riki, erect and leading, while I stumbled after her with my downcast gaze following the movement of her solid buttock shadows. While she got dressed I sat down idly on the one-legged chair in front of the easel. Look Mr. Gilad, her voice approached me. (Despite my fame, I’m not used to people from the art in-set – including models – referring to me formally as ‘Mr. Gilad’). I ignored what seemed to me as teasing, and replied with Yes Riki.

Her voice was clear and assertive, … look Mr. Gilad, here you are acting the role of the insulted prima donna, while I’m the one who should be offended. After putting you in your place, I’ve got nothing against you. After all, we’re both mature adults with experience in these kinds of matters. I also haven’t the slightest shadow of a doubt that the circumstances we found ourselves in were an open window calling to a thief, and you, my poor thing attempted to crawl through it, in more ways than one. She inserted the last sentence through a short mischievous smile.

My power of judgement began returning as the pain subsided. Her words started penetrating the wall of humiliation encompassing me. Her somewhat vague appearance began to lose the model’s image, in the sense that she was a mere model; human buds started blossoming within her.

I took out my wallet and prepared to pay her for the lost day’s work. It didn’t take her long to react: I’m not charging a fee for an unwarranted service, she said and rejected the proffered money.

This uncompromising game of honour irritated me. After all, her living depended on her work. Although in regard to this case, the objective for which I had hired her was not attained. But in any event she lost time and petrol expenses in getting here. I have never delayed payment to models, and this time too I didn’t think that Riki should leave empty handed. I don’t like poor people’s games of honour. After all, they earn their meagre pay honestly, the honour – which is a completely abstract concept – is not worth the effort invested for nothing.

Look Mr. Gilad, Riki continued.

Maybe you should call me Ahrale, I replied.

Her lips extended into a conciliatary smile, OK, she replied drawing out the k, and emphasizing it joyfully. I view my agreement to model for you as a written agreement; I consider your assault on me as an attempt to break the agreement, and that’s the reason I got angry and reacted accordingly. Had we been friends previously, and had you suggested, as a romantic gesture, that I come to this charming corner with you, I would have treated it otherwise and my reaction would have been completely different. An uncontrollable wave of heat flowed to my groin, I smiled at her in embarrassment, a youth embarrassed by being caught holding his erection.

This young woman, whom I had met almost by chance, began to evoke my curiosity. In order to extricate myself from this embarrassing predicament and get to know her better,