Spirited Bodies is something special: a community founded by experienced life models whose passion is “encouraging people to love their bodies as they are, in particular finding body confidence and inner peace via life modelling in a group.” I had already found body confidence via life modelling by the time I found Spirited Bodies but one can always do with a little more inner peace, so I asked if they might find a place for me at a group event in London.
The opportunity arose on 21 July 2012 at Vernon Hall, a recycled church in Mortlake, two weeks after my previous group life modelling experience at the Storey Gallery. This was unpaid work but to me it was an unmissable chance to work with – and learn from – other models, and to share my own experience.
I was among the first to arrive so, after being greeted by Spirited Bodies’ co-founder and my booking arranger, the inestimable Esther Bunting, I made myself useful by setting up the easels. Other models and artists drifted in, and we were soon joined by another Spirited Bodies founder, the magnificent and dauntingly-organised Lucy Saunders.
The dozen-or-so models were split into two groups: one in the centre of the room; the other on a stage at the far end. It would be a three-hour session with a break in the middle. Short poses to begin with, followed by two loosely organised half-hour tableaux. What makes this more interesting than solo modelling is that there’s no benefit in sticking to tried and tested poses; it’s of greater importance to find a pose that creates a dynamic with those adjacent.
One slightly disconcerting aspect of working in a group is that if you’re surrounded by three or four models who, for a wide variety of possible reasons, may appear more visually striking than yourself then it’s tempting to wonder whether you’re standing in discomfort for up to an hour with not one person in the room taking the slightest bit of notice. Mercifully it hasn’t happened yet.
After packing away, we withdrew to a pub by the river for relaxing drinks and happy chat. It was a good end to a fine day with some lovely people. Here are a few shots of the venue and a little of the art born within it (that’s me on the far left):
Time for something rather different. I’d posed for performance art within a group, and I’d posed as a life model solo, but not until 7 July 2012 did I get to life model within a group. The chance arose at the Storey Gallery in Lancaster, courtesy of Alan Ward. It would be a long journey north from Essex, the rail fare would eat up the payment, but it would be worth every moment.
The aim was to assemble ten life models, with a fifty-fifty gender split. In the weeks before there was some doubt as to whether enough female models would come forward. Cometh the day, however, the split went the other way: we were four men and six women, with a seventh in the very late stages of pregnancy joining us for the morning.
The event was scheduled for 10am to 3pm. There would be short poses to begin with, followed by a two-hour pose-a-thon (short break permitted), and a ninety-minute pose, then another short pose or two, and finally a novel tug-of-war pose with all models pulling on a rope fixed at one end of the gallery. A musician was employed to provide gentle live music from one corner. Artists assembled in great numbers, possibly as many as fifty, and gave a marvellous ovation of applause when the end came.
This was a wonderful day on many levels: Alan’s organisation was quietly meticulous and impeccable, the artists showed generous appreciation and produced some fine works, the models were superb company, and the experience – I hope – made me a better model myself.
After the event I joined fellow models Yvonne and Martin Rowe – whom I’d previously worked with on Existere – for coffees. They generously kept me supplied before my long journey south, as we reflected on projects past and projects yet to come…
That’s me standing in the top two works, and Martin and Yvonne standing in the foreground of the lower work.
After nearly three years of ad hoc nudity in the name of art, it was at the Mud Circles performance shoot in February 2012 that I resolved to establish myself as a life model.
In March I joined the Register of Artists’ Models (RAM) as a provisional member. To become a full member I would need a thumbs-up from one of seven “RAM approved” auditioners. I emailed all seven and, one month later, finally got an opportunity.
I would be modelling at a life drawing session run by Monica Shanta Brown at the Islington Arts Factory in north London on 9 May. Through a gloomy, drizzly evening I arrived with plenty of time in hand and kicked my heels admiring the diverse artworks on display. Monica didn’t keep me waiting long. After exchanging a few friendly words we made our way to a small partitioned studio space, where we were soon to be joined by four or five artists.
While I undressed, Monica set up the central platform on which I would pose. She felt that deep blue would be the right colour sheet to stand me on; I like to imagine some curious significance in this choice beyond whim or taste or convenience, but I’ve failed to divine any. Still, it matched the lightweight dressing gown in my backpack.
The first session began with a series of short standing poses followed by a longer seated one. Then, after a break for a nice mug of tea, I draped myself unevenly in a horizontal sprawl across cushions and a box to close out the evening. I was pleased with the way it went – delighted with the drawings Monica produced – and ultimately fulfilled when RAM ‘full member’ status was conferred upon me the following day:
Steve Ritter (RAM 2437) Full Member (secure site).
As the London 2012 Olympics approached, with the city officially preparing to welcome the world, residents of east London were preparing for the suspension of life as they knew it. One group of artists living and working in Hackney Wick decided to mark the occasion with a party (one excuse is as good as another). The party was billed as ‘the opening ceremony to the end of the world’.
Artists would be showcasing their work. With Adam James on the bill it was only appropriate he should present his most recent piece: Mud Circles. The call went out for ‘mudheads’ from the previous performance willing and able to join the party. Six of us came forward.
It proved to be a quirky business. Team Adam James arrived early and established base camp on a heavily cluttered platform above the main party space. We would take it in turns to remove all clothing except for our eyeless mudhead headgear – like a colourful inverted lumpy bucket that blocks all vision – and then slowly stalk down a set of stairs and take up position standing motionless like part of the furniture while party-goers arrived.
I was still on my second shift near the bar when the first performance began on stage: a singer/songwriter/guitarist. After retreating between acts, I waited in the wings while a memory man and an extraordinary hula-hooping diatribess did their thing. Then cometh the naked mudheads’ main event… all six of us descending together and walking in a continuous slow circle at the heart of the assembled crowd. Round and round and round and round. And then having circled a few times, we withdrew.
What our audience made of it is anyone’s guess. My own guess would be that some were bemused, some non-plussed, some mildly astonished, and some immediately inspired – not least the chap who followed me up the stairs and asked if I would pose for photographs.
Alas, there are no published photographs of my own contribution but here is fellow mudhead Andy, putting in a couple of star turns among the revellers that night. It was a very strange, cool night indeed.
It’s 25 March 2012, in the freezing stillness of an early Sunday morning under white skies, damp rather than crisp. There seems to be very few people about, but down by the seafront, near the start of the pier, there is a little activity. Some men are stapling covers onto fences surrounding the Adventure Island mini-golf. And a few people are starting to trickle in through the gate. I was one: number seventeen.
It was the coming together of Pitch and Butt – “An attempt to set the ‘Most Naked People to play a Miniature Golf Course in One Hour’ World Record“. Guinness had set a minimum requirement that 30 people complete the 18-hole course within 60 minutes for the effort to be recognised as an ‘official’ world record. Other stipulations were:
- The rules of miniature golf must be followed throughout the event.
- Participants must play the entire course in order and not miss or repeat holes.
- All participants must walk around the course.
- The use of a caddy is not permitted.
- One participant cannot begin shooting on a hole until the person before them has completed the hole. e.g. Participant 1 will tee-off on hole 1. Participant 2 cannot tee off until Participant 1 has sunk their putt and moved on to the next hole. This must follow throughout all 18 holes.
- It is not permitted for any participant to withdraw midway through the round.
- A log book should be maintained throughout the attempt and scorecards for each round must be provided.
- The event is continuous. The clock does not stop. One hour means a complete 60-minute cycle. The actual record attempt will start at 10am and so it must finish at 11am.
- A loud start and finish signal will be used.
Most importantly, the whole effort was a fund and awareness-raiser in support of the charity Prostate Cancer UK.
Despite a fair amount of coverage in the local papers – mainly thanks to magnificent efforts of local twins Emma and Sarah Burton who posed for publicity shots in the weeks before – it looked like the attempt might be thwarted. The organisers had turned up, the press had turned up, and the golfers had turned up… but the trouble was only 28 golfers had turned up. Where to find two more bodies for a chance of making the record official? To the relief of all concerned, at the last moment a gentleman from local radio and a lady freelance journalist lay down their clothes for the cause. Much respect to them.
So we got under way and we all got round comfortably with several minutes to spare. I may even have finished a couple of shots under par (or over), despite nightmares at the start and finish, and hitting a photographer’s foot halfway round. Strangely, however, the fearsome cold didn’t seem nearly so bad once we were naked and well into the game. Concentration is a wonderful insulator. As is the sheer fun of it.
Let the game commence: three pounds to get in, or free if you’re bollock-naked.
Ladies prepare to play through, while a chilly gentleman hunts for his lost ball.
A nice one of me, bending on a back hole.
Sarah in the classic stance, a candidate for Sports Personality of the Year.
Emma finishes with a flourish, while a local councillor thumbs his hand-held gizmo.
Three thousand pounds raised, world record set – all in all, a job well done.
At the beginning of February 2012 an email titled ‘Performance Shoot’ arrived. The artist Adam James needed bodies. Borrowing the mailing list built by JocJonJosch for Existere, he outlined plans for a series of performances building to a grand finale in summer: the Mudhead Dance. The first performance would be Mud Circles:
“In a nutshell, the shoot will involve a group of twenty masked naked participants walking in various circle patterns. This performance is for camera only, so apart from a very small crew there will be no public or audience whatsoever. Obviously you will be masked so you will maintain your anonymity in the photograph. The nude part will be quick, and will only happen once we have first practised the circular walking method, involving odd ways of walking, various speeds, simple patterns and repetitions. Once this is finalised, the masked nude version will take place. As all the performers will be wearing full head masks that I have been making over the past 6 months I think visually it is going to be amazing.”
The purpose was to create a looping film that could be used to promote the main event. I signed up, and on 25 February made my way to the V22 Studios to participate. It was a clear sunny day, but bitterly cold. More so in the vast warehouse space where the shoot was to take place after the sun had dipped below the horizon. First of all we were called down in sets of twos and threes for individual shoots before reassembling as a group for full practice and performance.
The hardest part (excluding the endurance of cold) was navigating in a circle whilst wearing nothing but a heavy misshapen eyeless headpiece. On the plus side it was a pleasure to work for Adam, and the group of performers he assembled had some wonderful characters. It was during a conversation on the roof of the studio, looking out across London skyline, that I resolved to put my life model work on a proper footing for the year ahead.
The Mud Circles crew (I’m in all the photos below so use that clue to pick me out):
Circling:
In close-up:
The film, presented as a triptych…
On 16, 17 and 23 July 2011, JocJonJosch – a London-based Anglo-Swiss-Slovakian art collective – presented three large-scale living performance sculptures at Testbed1 in Battersea. Together with around 70 naked collaborators, their aim was to create a work that represented “ideas such as the unknown and intangible fears that exist outside our protective structures”.
I joined the collaboration for its two rehearsals and three performance days. Multiple performances were presented each day, each one in front of a different live audience. In performance the naked artists and naked volunteers emerged from concealment in three corners of the performance space. We drifted slowly between diffuse standing audience members towards a blue square canvas under a skylight, assembled in tiers as a closed circle of bodies, and held for five minutes before softly dismantling and dispersing. The circle was made of units; the units were built of six bodies:
It was a conscious decision of the artists that there would be no photographic or video record of any performance. They would be preserved only in the minds of participants and the live audience for each unique event. Only the performance space is preserved in pictures:
In March 2012 the artists posted to Facebook asking participants to share their recollections in a book to document Existere’s existence. The following questions were posed, and a short deadline set for responses:
- There was a lot of naked people, in close approximate. Can you write something about the erotic aspect of the performance?
- Did the performance make you think about the body, your own or in general in any way?
- Did you see the performance as a collective or individual / existential piece?
- How did you interpret the performance, did it symbolise anything to you?
- What motivated you to take part & what were your expectations?
- How did the performance experience differ from your expectations?
- (a) You were asked to be in extremely close contact, whilst naked, with the other participants. Were you comfortable with this and why? (b) Did you feelings change during the course of the experience and if so why?
- How do you remember and reflect on the experience now; is there something in particular that remains with you from the performances and if so why do you think it remains with you?
Abroad at the time, I jotted down the questions and arranged some thoughts that evening over a meal. The next morning I posted this:
Reflections on Existere, posted from an Internet cafe in Athens, March 2012
The passage of time works quickly on memory, like a spoon stirring sugar into tea. Or dozens of naked bodies slowly coalescing, holding, trembling and finally fragmenting, drifting, disappearing. I was one such body, a performer of Existere, clothed or naked, participant in all rehearsals and performances. The memories remain but have started swirling.
Rehearsals clothed, limbering and loosening before practising, establishing roles, discovering strengths and weaknesses. Positioning the individual within the mass. Knowing one’s place in an intimate society with no predetermined hierarchy. And at last undressing for the undress rehearsal. Camaraderie in nudity and silence till the work was done, when laughter and smiles could quickly resurface.
Performances naked, with the essential extra ingredient: an audience. A clothed audience to undress us further, peeling back naked body parts to contemplate minds and perhaps ponder finding their own place in the larger organism. Perhaps some of them wandered in seeking erotica. They were surrounded by full-frontal nudity, layers of bare skin upon bare skin, but is this alone erotic? As a performer in the intensity of the moment this felt a wholly sexless show.
Thoughts of the body were focused on whether my body and the bodies of those around me would make the performance a success each time. Was the timing right? Is the positioning correct? How long could we hold? The concentration needed at these moments left little time for sexual self-contemplation or the appreciation of others. Concentration was divided equally between my own performance and that of the whole. I was determined that I should not fail; determined that no performance would fail. It never did.
For me there was no need to seek symbolism in the performance. This was Existere. It was enough that it existed. And more than that, it existed because a concept had been made reality by a set of strangers from wildly differing backgrounds and with wildly differing personalities, and probably wildly differing motivations for taking part. My own motivation was the new challenge of bringing my body out into the open. And the reason for seeking the challenge was the simplest of all reasons – it has become something I enjoy.
Having such a light motivation probably eliminated the need for expectations. It was understood that no photographs or film of the performances would ever be published, so this made each moment “of the moment”, and only for all time in the swirling memories of the performers and audience members. I expected to be clothed and directed, and then unclothed and trusted. And I expected to be trusting of others. That mutual trust was perhaps the greatest beauty of Existere.
The close physical contact necessitated by Existere presented no great concern as Existere was an anonymous mass of contact. It was never personal. Oddly perhaps, I felt more painfully self-conscious during the fully-clothed warm-up routine when random pairings would provide mutual support. This sensation became more vivid with each new day until by the last day I felt compelled to step outside until it was over. But nudity and contact within the piece: never a problem.
I am happy to have been a part of Existere. If the cry went up for a reprise, I would do all I could to be a part of it again, although in my heart I know we could never relive our finest hour: that grey afternoon when naked bodies assembled beneath a glass roof and the only sound was a drumming of rain and the sudden boom of thunder overhead. We never saw the lightning. It was within us.
steve ritter 