In January I attended Guerilla Galleries‘ clothing-optional ‘100% Nude‘ exhibition at the Daniel Libeskind Space and wrote about the novelty of being naked as a gallery visitor. Little did I imagine that within eight months I would be back at the same venue with Guerilla Galleries, participating nude in a confrontational group art performance.
Outstanding works by Jean-Luc Almond.
The catalyst was Natansky. We’d met at ‘Art & Protest‘ – the year’s second Guerilla Galleries’ clothing-optional event – and later at the London Naked Bake Ride 2013. She had called out among our life model friends for volunteers to create an ‘inversed voyeurism’ installation for a new ‘Random Acts of Artistry 2‘ exhibition.
Natansky beneath her ‘Reflections’ masterpiece (photographer: Darren Swindells).
Inversed voyeurism had been conceived in discussions between Natansky and Tony André – el presidente at Guerilla Galleries – partly in response to the creepy voyeurs who attended previous events, and subsequently posted furtive photos to a web forum for their hairy-palmed circle of make-believe friends.
It would be a role-reversal of voyeurism, examining not only how people observe but how they respond to being watched from a panoptic point of view. It would explore aspects of the human gaze and ask if that would change when the subject becomes aware of that warranted or unwarranted attention.
The idea was that clothed artists with drawing boards and art materials would encircle a pair of centrally positioned clothed models; they would sketch the models, who hold cameras as props; at ten minute intervals, on a series of signals, artists and models would undress and the piece would culminate with all turning outward to sketch or photograph the audience.
After two late drop-outs – sorry you couldn’t be there Khadijah and Pinky – and some even later call-ups, the inversed voyeurism performers eventually came together as a magnificent eleven: Natansky, Rodger, Esther, Peter, Sabine, Chris, Ursula, Santosh, Alessandra, Toni and me.
A space had been prepared for us on the ground floor of the exhibition: a quarter-circle of chairs surrounding a somewhat inconveniently-located computer console draped with a black sheet. We piled our bags behind the console, while those with drawing materials generously shared them around.
It was agreed that artists should sit boy-girl-boy-girl and that we would have a girl-boy pair of models. But who would be the models? Among the girls, the role defaulted to Alessandra, largely in her innocence at being last to arrive. She seemed nonplussed, if slightly bemused, and took to the role with great serenity.
Among the boys, Rodger and Peter were already regular practising artists, and Chris and Toni were keen on being artists too. That left Santosh and me equally laidback about either role. Eventually Santosh blinked first and declared ‘artist’, which left me to join Alessandra as a model.
Here was an unexpected novelty. In addition to the unusual nature of the whole piece, I would now be modelling for artists who themselves were all experienced life models. No pressure there, then! But such was the wonderful easy-going feeling among the group – an immediate bond, I think – that the work was effortless fun throughout.
After a cursory rehearsal – which involved little more than us all getting undressed in the prescribed sequence – we put our clothes back on and were ready to perform for our audience. We were due to begin our installation at 6:40pm, ten minutes after the gallery doors opened. As we were already in position when the first people walked in, however, I settled into a pose straight away.
Tony was filming the piece and was also our signal man. At his first double-clap, the male artists stripped off while Alessandra and I raised our cameras to capture their transition and the audience reaction. The dozen people present played it very cool.
The now-naked men took up their pens once more while the clothed models struck a new pose. Ten minutes later came the signal for the women artists to disrobe. Again, the models reanimated and began photographing before settling anew.
At the next double-clap it was time for Alessandra and me to remove our clothes. Our company of nine naked artists was now life drawing two nude models. Some visitors lingered while others came and went; in addition to the many excellent artworks on display, we were in competition with a finite supply of complimentary wine upstairs.
At the final double-clap we completed our role inversions. Artists, instead of drawing models, now turned outward and began drawing individuals of the audience. Models, instead of remaining passive under the gaze of others, now stalked the space behind the artists, photographing both the audience and the artists drawing the audience.
We maintained these roles for the remainder of the installation. True to form, not even inversed voyeurism was sufficient to perturb the determined traditional voyeurs. One visitor stood in the doorway sneaking snaps on his phone before being challenged by the exhibition staff and obliged to delete the stolen images.
Most visitors got into the spirit of the piece. Some, knowing they were being drawn, deliberately slowed their movements or remained static for a few moments.
Having got into the spirit ourselves, when Tony gave a final signal to bring the piece to a close we took our applause but were in little hurry to get dressed. Instead, artworks were spread on the floor for all to admire while we chatted and posed for group photos.
Eventually the lure of the free wine upstairs became too great. We reluctantly dressed and quit the scene of our performance.
For me personally, it may have been better had I not dressed or succumbed at all as later on I somehow managed to jog red wine down the front of my T-shirt… d’oh!
It was the only irksome moment in an otherwise superb evening.
Piluca, artist extraordinary, transformed into an inversed voyeurism life model.
Between adventure and misadventure there was still time to appreciate the rest of the artworks on show. Favourites from previous exhibitions had returned for Random Acts of Artistry 2, including the ever splendid Piluca and Gareth Morgan. This may even have been the best Guerilla Galleries exhibition yet – no small praise.
An Eliza Freespirit figure, not quite so free in her little cube.
The question that inevitably remains is “how do we follow that?” In a way it almost felt like the accidental emergence of a nascent life model performance collective. There is a gulf between feeling and being, of course, but it would be a fine thing indeed to make this work the platform for ever more incredible collaborations.
My debut modelling for one of Adrian Dutton’s groups had been booked months in advance. My second booking, a fortnight later, came at just 20 hours’ notice. Another model’s cancellation was my own good fortune. I would be working for a Wednesday group at the Garrett Centre in Bethnal Green.
I arrived early, at the same time as Adrian and Anya. A few artists were on the scene so together we began setting up the room. Tables were arranged into a square, four to each side, with two chairs for each table. Three extra tables were placed at the centre of the square to serve as my platform, and from somewhere an aluminium A-frame stepladder appeared.
As more artists arrived I retreated from view and changed into my dressing gown. The majority of seats were occupied by the time I returned and entered the square. Adrian introduced me to the group, I slipped off my gown and stepped up onto a table.
The maddening heat of day had become a muggy oppression by evening. Being the only one naked I assumed I would be the most comfortable person in the room, yet right from the first ten-minute pose – standing upright with elbows pointed high and thumbs pressed down to my eyebrows – I could feel the sweat trickling and tickling.
A series of one-minute and three-minute poses followed: standing, kneeling or folded towards the ladder. At five minutes I tried my first ever full Lotus position pose, and then continued for five minutes seated with knees drawn up tightly to my body.
After a fairly passive 20-minute standing pose, I completed the first half of the session with ten minutes laying down with one leg bent up, the other hanging off the table, and one arm raised. For the whole sequence I tried to rotate sufficiently to give everyone a balanced set of front, back and side views.
At the interval, aside from enjoying pizza, strawberries and Sauvignon Blanc, I had the pleasure of chatting to an artist whose main profession was physiotherapy. In addition to producing the excellent works below, she had come along to cultivate her analysis of the human body. I hoped I’d made a worthy case study, whilst privately wondering what physical defects in need of urgent repair she may have spotted.
A 40-minute standing pose occupied the whole of the second session, leaning across the frame of the stepladder with my arms folded over the top. I thought I had found a reasonably comfortable balance but misjudged how the clammy night would steadily bring out a mist of sweat. For the last 20 minutes it was a constant strain to prevent my arms sliding across each other and out of position.
As Adrian finally liberated me from my struggle, so a generous round of applause from the artists renewed my energy. Some wonderful art had been created in a serious but pleasantly social environment. Several nice compliments were exchange before we all went our separate ways into the heavy night air.
After a period of great anticipation, I had the pleasure of modelling for one of Adrian Dutton’s groups in Bethnal Green, London for the first time at the beginning of this month. Adrian’s Monday group is sufficiently large and well-established to be able to book models two at a time, creating many new possibilities.
I was introduced to my co-model, Maurice, just fifteen minutes before we were due to begin. Together we were briefed by Anya, who organises all the bookings: the group includes many experienced artists who would appreciate models that made an effort to be interesting. Interaction, angles and foreshortening were to be our watchwords.
Maurice and I responded with equal enthusiasm. We were up for it, but with no time to prepare we would be strangers improvising naked before an expectant audience of fifty or so sets of critical eyes. It doesn’t get much better.
We would start with a ten-minute pose to hold while late-comers were still taking their seats. We would then run briskly through five one-minute poses followed by three, five and ten minute poses, with a longer one taking us to the break. A magnificent spread of hot snacks and drinks was laid out for all to plunder during a half-hour interval, after which a single long pose took us to the end.
Working with Maurice was superb. I considered him the senior partner, being older and with more years’ life modelling experience behind him, but we gelled immediately. More by chance than design, our contrasting body-types offered the artists variety before we’d even got into pose. Physical contact was maintained throughout.
We took turns to adopt the lead pose, with the other then finding a complementary position, trying to ensure an interesting perspective from all sides of the room. Some of the resulting works are below:
The bonus for our exertions was very warm applause at the end of the session, and generous praise from Adrian, Anya and many of the artists. It was a lovely group to work for, and one I hoped very much to work for again.
On Sunday 16 June, the globe-trotting 1000BodiesProject returned to London. The brainchild of art photographer Kenneth Sortland Myklebust, it presents a simple challenge to the intrigued:
“Imagine yourself in a photo studio, alone and completely naked with a black mask in one hand and a remote camera trigger in the other. You get one shot, and the result is up to you. Do you dare?”
The aim: to assemble one-shot photographs of 1000 people from around the world.
Such has been the project’s recent popularity that at the last shoot in San Francisco many daring volunteers had to be turned away. The queues were too long. Would-be volunteers in London were advised to avoid similar disappointment by arriving early.
The shoot was to take place between midday and 6pm at Direct Photographic, near Waterloo station. Prior commitments meant I was unable to arrive before 3pm. To my surprise, however, there was no queue, just a lone man sitting at a table outside the studio doors, waiting to take registration details.
We had a pleasant chat about the project while I completed the model release forms. Apparently I was only the thirteenth person to sign-up that day. Lucky me.
I accepted a complimentary bottle of water but declined the chance to take part in a filmed documentary of the project. At the time I felt I had not sufficiently arranged my thoughts to make a worthwhile contribution on camera – a decision tinged with slight regret in hindsight.
Kenneth Sortland Myklebust himself appeared on the scene at this point. We shook hands and he lead me into the studio to where the photograph would be taken.
The shooting space was obscured from the view of anyone else in the studio. Kenneth tested the camera and showed me where I should stand. He then demonstrated how to use the camera’s remote control and offered me a choice of two black masks.
I had already decided to wear a mask, not to conceal my identity but because the mask itself has become such an iconic feature of the project. It would have to go over my face as the pose I had in mind would not work with it positioned anywhere else.
“Of course, you will have to be completely naked,” said Kenneth. Of course. He then left me to get undressed and take the photograph. The nakedness was of no concern whatsoever; the thought of having just one shot was hugely unnerving. Nonetheless, within minutes of having arrived I was utterly alone and bare, save for the black face mask, standing in isolation before an unforgiving camera.
As I would not be recognisable by face I decided to adopt a signature pose from my life modelling. I stood on the designated spot facing forwards, one leg diagonally in front of the other, elbows crossed close to my torso, looking upwards with hands curved at the sides of my head, concealing the remote control in my right hand.
I pressed the button.
Nothing.
I pressed once more, holding longer before releasing and pressing again.
Nothing.
Slight paranoia set in – that I might be losing the pose and that my one shot, if ever it came, would be a poor one. I pressed again.
Click.
Success! Well, it seemed all right. And of course there was nothing left to do but get dressed and walk away. Outside the shooting space Kenneth was waiting with his laptop. Quickly he downloaded the image and cropped it slightly, allowing us both to admire my effort. He expressed his satisfaction, and I too was relieved it appeared pretty much as I hoped it would.
Number 379 was written at the top of my model release form – presumably my place within the full set of 1000 bodies. We shook hands one final time and I departed, just fifteen minutes on from when I’d arrived.
It had been a short, unpaid piece of work but when the project is complete, I know I’ll feel great satisfaction at having had the chance to take part.
After a charity skinny dip, a naked bike ride and a one-off photo project, I returned to the bread and butter of life modelling at Wanstead House. I’d previously modelled there on Wednesday evenings, so a weekend morning shift was something new.
It was a genuinely lovely group – seven artists – a pleasure to work for on a beautifully warm summer’s day. The room was flooded with natural light, the windows were cast open and a gentle breeze kept the conditions comfortable throughout.
Most importantly the artists seemed happy with the session. A fifteen minute standing pose was followed by forty-five minutes seated, then a half-hour social tea break, and a finally thirty minute reclining pose to finish.
An undisputed highlight of the naked events calendar is the World Naked Bike Ride (WNBR). Thousands of people gather in scores of cities around the globe, stripping off and jumping on their bicycles to ‘protest oil dependency and celebrate the power and individuality of our bodies‘. The tenth annual London Naked Bike Ride took place on 8 June 2013. As in 2009, 2011 and 2012, I cast off my own clothes and saddled up.
New for 2013, five separate start points had been organised: three on the north side of the river, converging at Piccadilly Circus, and the other two joining at Forum Magnum Square near the southern end of Westminster Bridge. I chose the start at Marble Arch to meet with friends who intended being body painted there before the 3pm kick-off.
It was 2:15pm when I arrived at Marble Arch with my hired bike and WNBR seat cover. Crowds were already gathering. For every one naked cyclist there may have been two onlookers. Part of the reason for dividing the start was to thwart the irksome, intrusive, oily inadequates that gather solely to snatch photographs of those taking part. Marble Arch was always likely to get the worst of it, being near the finish at Wellington Arch.
After casting about for a while I asked Will Golden, WNBR steward extraordinaire, if he could point me in the right direction. Sure enough, in the secret location I found a small band of body painters, including Natansky who I’d first met at Guerilla Galleries’ ‘Art & Protest‘ exhibition, Esther who I’d met many times through Spirited Bodies, and Julian, a fellow life model and spirited body.
Not having time for body painting myself, I’d fastened a string of Nepalese prayer flags round my neck – the most colourful adornment I could lay my hands on before leaving the house. I hoped the peaceful, respectful nature of the ride would be in harmony with Buddhist ideals, and thus I would not be lynched by angry monks.
Esther and me, about to join the masses.
Having stripped naked at the body painting space, we made our way a short distance to the main Marble Arch gathering a little after 2:30pm. Very few others had started to undress at this time so we stayed out on the fringes. Nevertheless, we received some early attention from photographers.
Me, Esther and Julian lining up at the start, as snapped by our friend Camilla.
Of course, being naked in public we expect to be photographed. Riders photograph each other; wide-eyed passers-by spontaneously grab for their camera phones; and it’s a good thing because it helps to spread the protest message. It is the socially dysfunctional snappers – the furtive, or brazenly disrespectful – that are annoying. Thanks, therefore, out go to those who at least had the common courtesy to ask permission before taking pictures.
As 3pm neared, more riders shed their clothes and began shuffling towards Marble Arch itself. Esther, Julian, Natansky and I were towards the back of the field, and it seemed to take an age for us to make progress. Meanwhile, beyond our sight the stewards were doing sterling work to clear a path through the crowds.
And we’re off – underneath the arches to begin the 2013 London Naked Bike Ride.
Two colourful riders and a dog in a basket.
I’d brought with me a little plastic whistle that had been handed out before the previous year’s ride. Once we were through the archway and out on the open road it was time to cut loose, make some noise and have some fun. Or so it should have been. As ever the ride was more stop-start than free-wheeling on most of the route.
Esther and Julian, responsible cyclists, waiting at the traffic lights in Park Lane.
The four of us had it in mind to stick together but frequently we lost Natansky. She’d had the superb idea to take advantage of the photographers by demanding a pound towards Help for Heroes every time someone pointed a camera at her. She was often to be seen posing and then thrusting her collection bag towards the unwary.
A pause on Piccadilly.
From Park Lane we moved slowly along Piccadilly. This has always been one of my favourite streets on the route as the crowds are not too intense but are always good humoured, and the riders still have that first rush of excitement at being naked and free in the city – ecstatic at the sheer unreality of the situation.
Reaching the east end of Piccadilly, turning left around Piccadilly Circus.
At Piccadilly Circus the crowds are among the heaviest. A regular highlight of the ride is to burst out of Piccadilly and free-wheel around Eros. Not this time, however, as the mass of riders was still too tightly packed. Not until we turned down Haymarket could we find open road and joyously pick up speed.
The wizard of Haymarket.
Art nudes Esther and Julian ride towards the National Gallery.
As Esther observed: “It’s an exhibitionists’ day out!” From Haymarket to Pall Mall, we pedalled towards the National Gallery and then curved south around Trafalgar Square to the accompaniment of African drums. Police watched us roll by with dispassionate detachment. Until 2009 they had provided crowd control for the event. Now they just let it happen.
Natansky seeks payment from another awary photographer.
A very British day out.
We raced down Whitehall towards the Houses of Parliament, pausing only for photos in front of St Stephen’s tower, wherein Big Ben struck four. At the river we stopped on Westminster Bridge for more photographs. The ever-roving Natansky appeared just in time to strike her pose naked in front of the government.
Natansky, Esther and parliament – if this isn’t democracy, I don’t know what is.
On the south side of the river we dismounted at Forum Magnum Square and waited for riders from the last two start points to join us. Natansky managed to collect a few more pound coins before we were off again, east along York Road before turning north and crossing back over the river via Waterloo Bridge.
Coalescence at Forum Magnum Square.
Looking back at the south end of Waterloo Bridge.
Looking ahead at the north end of Waterloo Bridge.
At this point I had expected us to go east towards St. Paul’s Cathedral but instead we carried on in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where we would take a longer break. On the way there, during another stop for traffic, Julian and I found ourselves next to a chap who offered us strawberries from a punnet. Simple pleasures – thank you, sir.
Arrival at Lincoln’s Inn Fields – © Nathan Raupach.
The Lincoln’s Inn stop allowed us to dismount, stretch, chat with friends, take a toilet break and generally chill out. The most extraordinary thing – which I only appreciate now with hindsight – is that by this point I was totally oblivious to the fact we were all naked. Indeed, I really don’t know if I stopped taking it for granted until we returned to riding through the cheering masses.
All stop at the Fields.
The London crowds were magnificent. Their response was uplifting throughout: cheers, applause, whooping, laughing, the merry incredulity of the unprepared, many snapping souvenir photos for their friends back home who might never otherwise believe what had occurred this day. For three hours the sun was out and life was good.
Blowing my whistle on the way to Covent Garden.
Around Covent Garden the crowds were at their most dense. Progress wasn’t helped by a barrier across road at the west end of Russell Street. Julian went to the aid of one of our senior fellow riders who had fallen off his bike on the cobbles directly in front of us. All the time, the herd inched slowly forward either side.
Natansky, decorated with mohican and firebird motif, amid the throng in Russell Street.
Passage through Covent Garden.
Another traditional highlight is leaving Covent Garden and turning onto Charing Cross Road, where the crowds are invariably deep and in the very best humour. We pushed onwards, returning to Trafalgar Square, then racing under Admiralty Arch and bursting through to the magnificently wide traffic-free space of The Mall.
Julian and Natansky make haste along The Mall towards Buckingham Palace.
Esther at Victorial Memorial.
We stopped in front of Buckingham Palace for more photographs. Nearby was a rider wearing a Prince Harry mask, who we’d first met back at Marble Arch. He obliged us with a few photos in royal company, after which we lined up for a group shot, starker in front of the residence of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II. That this could even be possible is grounds for a little national pride.
Julian, Esther, Natansky and me – buck naked at Buck House.
At last we reached the final leg of our journey: up Constitution Hill to the finishing line beneath Wellington Arch. It was 5:40pm when we arrived, just ten minutes behind schedule – a tribute to the planning of the organisers. We posed for one last group picture and instantly drew another tiresome hoard of opportunist photographers.
The finishing line ahead at Wellington Arch.
And through, journey done – © Funk Dooby.
While dressing we met Adrian and Chas, familiar faces from performance art events. It was a pity not to have spotted them during the ride itself. We never did see our mutual friend Cy, and he too failed to see and recognise us but at least he captured us on his fine “rider’s eye” video.
The weather had been kind, the crowds magnificent and the company fantastic. It is said that between 1,300 and 1,400 took part in the ride. If true, it would have been the biggest ride ever in London. It was a joy to be part of it.
Star jumps? You want us to do star jumps? Very well then. At one minute to seven in the morning – as fading grey clouds parted graciously to afford fresh spring sunlight a glimpse of Clacton’s sands – I stood alongside seventy-seven other men and women, each of us wearing naught but a dressing gown… and we did star jumps.
Two years before, at the sands west of Llangennith in south Wales a world record had been set for the most skinny dippers on a beach at one time. Such was the success of the first Marie Curie Cancer Care ‘Midsummer Skinny Dip‘ that it was destined to be repeated in Wales the following year.
In 2013, the event expanded to new locations the length and breadth of Great Britain: to Dorset in the south, Wales in the west, East Lothian in the north, and Essex in the east. As Essex is my homeland, the cause was a good one and bare-skin volunteers were needed, inevitably I signed-up.
Only after committing to the event was the time and place disclosed to participants: Sunday 2 June at the West Beach, Clacton-on-Sea; registration from 5:45 to 6:45am; skinny dip at 7am; breakfast from 7:15 to 10am. I travelled up to Clacton the afternoon before and, after enjoying a leisurely evening by the sea, retired early to the Grosvenor House Hotel in readiness for the next day.
In the diffuse pale glow of a brightening dawn I passed by Clacton’s deserted pier and arrived on site to find blue and white striped windbreaks lined end-to-end, marking the area set aside for skinny dippers. Very few people were about, and all appeared to be involved in the event, either organising, supporting or waiting to participate. I wandered into the café at the rear of the beach to register.
Number ’53’ was written on the inside of my left wrist in thick black marker pen. I was given a clear plastic bag bearing a sticker with the same number for my clothes. After queuing for a Styrofoam mug of hot tea I wandered outside to watch the preparations. Health and safety was evidently a serious matter, although some of the warning signs seemed almost comically contrived for a skinny dip.
As the hour approached, the assembled would-be dippers moved down to the beach. We spread out, eyed the chill waters and then turned back to face the voice that had begun bellowing a welcome and instructions. Personally I’ve stripped too many times in public to feel any nerves or excitement, but I could certainly enjoy these moments. Even when the warm-up exercises began.
First we were asked to jog on the spot – pick those knees up! The vigorous picking up of knees whilst wearing nothing but a light dressing gown briefly threatened to reveal more than was intended at this stage. We warmed our ankles, our calves, twisted our bodies, did our star jumps, pushed and pulled arms, and at last were deemed ready.
We turned to face the North Sea, got naked and sprinted into the water…
Marie Curie Cancer Care’s daffodil mascot, Daffy, cheered us on our way. I had run in as far as waist-deep before suddenly I realised: ‘bloody hell, this is chilly.‘ A few brave souls fully immersed themselves, others turned tail and ran out again as soon as was decently permissible, but all were laughing and smiling. This was our moment.
The dip probably didn’t last much longer than five minutes. Returning from the water, I dried off, wrapped my towel round my waist and joined the queue waiting for a souvenir photograph with Daffy. Proof if it were needed – I was there.
Upon dressing, all that remained was to take breakfast back at the café. More tea and a warm butty on the steps outside. The last clouds had vanished and I had not noticed the going of them. It was still early, still quiet, and the tiny number of distant gawpers had long since dispersed. It was simply a pleasant English morning by the seaside.
There was time yet for a second breakfast at my hotel. Scrambled eggs on toast with yoghurt, orange juice, even more tea and still the whole day ahead of me. I went back to the pier, passed the West Beach, walked on to the Martello tower and farther down towards Jaywick. Dog-walkers and joggers replaced naked people as Clacton’s prime visible presence. They’d missed a treat.
The Marie Curie Cancer Care Skinny Dip 2013 had been brief but joyous. Money had been raised, publicity generated and a good time had by all. Same time next year?
steve ritter 