I emerged from Sainsbury’s on Tower Bridge Road with two cheese ploughman’s subs and an orange juice. Esther was waiting for me beside the doorway, sheltering from a steady downpour. Together we looked out grimly at dark grey clouds that hung heavily with yet more rain. It was hard to believe that in little over half an hour we would begin a 13km mass nude cycle ride around central London.
Maps data © 2016 Google – 13km route from Tower Hill to Wellington Arch
We remounted our bikes and pressed on over Tower Bridge. Assuming we went ahead as hoped it would be my seventh London Naked Bike Ride – after 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 – and Esther’s first time since her début in 2013. The World Naked Bike Ride spreads to ever more towns and cities but London remains the biggest and best. We were headed for the most easterly of its six start points: Tower Hill.
London assembly
Shortly after we joined the assembled riders sheltering within Tower Hill Memorial, the heavens opened with renewed vigour. It didn’t look promising at all, but there was no suggestion of quitting. In a clear statement of intent, Esther stripped and lathered herself from neck to ankles in silver paint. She then decorated me with blue and pink handprints, and we daubed random colours on each other’s faces. We were ready.
Silver rider – Esther saddles up in Tower Hill Memorial
All around us, riders were ignoring the cloudburst and finalising their own preparations. Our friend Natansky was once again the main organiser for the Tower Hill start, whilst another friend, Cy, was helping on marshal duties for the first time. One of the regular ride marshals, Simon, stood beside us with a gadget that displayed real-time weather charts. He prophesied lightning ahead, yet outside the rain seemed to be easing.
Simon on the left, Cy on the right – our all-weather marshals
At 3pm, we got the signal to move out. Incredibly, the rainfall had all but stopped. The universe loves naked people, it seems. More and more nude bodies on bicycles rolled out from the memorial and lined up for their mass exit via Trinity Square. Other friends were now with us, including Calu of Naked Movement, and Paula the Nude Nomad. Anticipation was building but there was to be no repeat of last year’s false start.
Feathered freedom, on the wing and the road
Calu ready for some two-wheeled naked movement
We waited patiently for almost ten minutes. All around us tourists, photographers and bystanders had a field day, ogling at our bizarre spectacle. We would have been easy prey for the seedier voyeurs but I didn’t notice any problems. As ever, the atmosphere was more like Mardi Gras: music was playing and we were buzzing to hit the road. At 3:09pm – according to my camera – we finally roared out to Byward Street.
We begin – naked cyclists go west on Byward Street
Police intervention
Our first 2 kilometres along Lower Thames Street, Upper Thames Street and beneath Blackfriars Underpass were fairly low key. The early bad weather meant there weren’t many pedestrians to cheer us along, but a few fellow cyclists had pimped their bikes with impressive sound systems so we were not riding in silence; plus we found more old friends to banter with, like fellow naked performance regular, Chas.
Top-hatted Chas and silver Esther before Blackfriars railway bridge
Along Victoria Embankment, we had the River Thames to our left, heavier traffic to our right, and more onlookers all around. Aside from being a lot of fun, the naked bike ride is a protest against oil dependency, a commentary on the visibility and vulnerability of cyclists, and a celebration of body freedom – without anyone to see us, our message goes nowhere. Individual cyclists took the opportunity to promote causes of their own.
Solidarity with the ‘Naked Rambler’, Stephen Gough
From the Embankment we turned right into Northumblerland Avenue. Our plan was to ride its full length toward Trafalgar Square, but halfway along our progress was halted unexpectedly by the police. Our lead marshal conferred with them for a minute or two, and then led us left on a detour along Great Scotland Yard. We didn’t know what their problem was, but coolly we complied, emerging on the southbound side of Whitehall.
Naked cyclists pulled up by the fuzz in Northumberland Avenue
Funnelling past a concrete roadblock across Great Scotland Yard
The Tower Hill group usually converges with the those from Hyde Park, Regent’s Park and King’s Cross around Trafalgar Square. On this occasion, however, we joined them part way along Whitehall. I assume we met the Clapham Junction and West Norwood groups at the far end, on Parliament Street, but it’s hard to visualise the complete ride when one is a mere individual amid hundreds of naked bodies on bicycles.
Coasting down Whitehall with The Victoria Tower in our sights
Marshalling a London red bus on Whitehall – © Alisdare Hickson
A selfie with Cy, on the corner of Parliament Square
Dub reggae rider – this year’s finest sound system
Southern comfort
The turning from Parliament Street into Bridge Street for the crossing of Westminster Bridge is traditionally our first major encounter with large hoards of people. These are mainly tourists, natural spectators, who crowd the pavement edges and beyond; they narrow the road and close in on us to get the best photos. This year was no different, although for once we were able to stream across the bridge without hindrance.
Esther runs the gauntlet on Westminster Bridge
I’ve enjoyed it in the past when pressure of numbers has meant we’ve been held up for a few minutes on Westminster Bridge. There’s a weirdly entertaining communion with the masses that yearns to spill over into a party, but mostly remains a self-conscious stand-off. We free-wheeled off Westminster Bridge Road, round Addington Street, and into York Road, from where we inched slowly into Forum Magnum Square.
Time for that cheese ploughman’s sub – © SL50AZ
We reached the square at 4pm and stayed 10 minutes to allow time for riders from all six starting points to gather and continue as one group. Esther and I climbed from our bikes, finished our cheese ploughman’s subs and loitered while strangers took photos of us. Our mass departure from the square seemed to begin and then be halted again, presumably by marshals who wanted to make sure no-one was left behind.
Spotted whilst waiting to leave Forum Magnum Square
Cruising down Belvedere Road – © AntwoneWalters.com
We completed our trip south of the river on Belvedere Road, turning right into Concert Hall Approach, and then looping round onto Waterloo Bridge. This is a favoured place for dismounting and getting souvenir photos as there are no crowds on its pavements of the kind we encounter at Westminster Bridge. Esther and I joined in taking a quick break before returning north.
Pausing for a souvenir embrace on Waterloo Bridge
Field of dreams
Saddling up once again, we exited Waterloo Bridge a little after twenty past four, then pedalled down Lancaster Place, onto The Strand, arced around Aldwych and back on The Strand to pass by the Royal Courts of Justice. Somehow at this point Esther and I became isolated from other cyclists as the ride became a tad strung out. There were just enough naked bodies still in view for us to follow.
Leaving Waterloo Bridge, about to hit the north
Esther peering forward, me grinning behind – © infp69 Photography
I didn’t go barefoot this year, but Paula did – © infp69 Photography
Breezing past the Royal Courts of Justice
From The Strand, we made it barely fifty yards up Fleet Street before turning left on to Chancery Lane. The next left took us along Carey Street, and a right sent us up Serle Street, leading to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. We cycled three sides of the broad central field before coming to a halt amidst a mass of nude humanity near the public toilets. It was half-past four; the rain had held off and now we were even treated to some sunshine.
Natansky, fluorescent vest removed, body paint revealed – © Noctiel Alvarado
An ocean of nakedness at Lincoln’s Inn Fields
Our extended break at Lincoln’s Inn Fields lasted fully half an hour. We used the time to answer nature’s call and encountered some more familiar faces. One of those was Dermot, a fellow life model, who kindly took us another souvenir photo. Come 5pm, it was time to set off again along Newman’s Row and two more sides of the field, being heckled fiercely by a couple of homeless guys on the way.
Saddled up and loved up – © AntwoneWalters.com
The ubiquitous red-bob lady – always present
Street life
Now we were onto some of London’s less celebrated highways: from Remnant Street to Great Queen Street; then Long Acre, Bow Street, Wellington Street, and Tavistock Street taking us to Covent Garden; Southampton Street next, then cobbled Henrietta Street, Bedford Street, Chandos Place and finally William IV Street taking us back to tourist territory at the southern end of Charing Cross Road.
Can’t resist a reflection selfie – this at All Bar One on Remnant Street
Boxed on Great Queen Street, Dermot on the right in the green hat
These roads are much narrower and always busy with pedestrians, meaning there is less space between us and our public. Progress was stop-start, but the atmosphere almost always upbeat – not least when we passed the inevitable hen party. Only one unsavoury incident came when a drunken lout decided he wanted to cuddle a guy on low-ride cycle. Last I saw, the rider had pulled over and was headed for a showdown.
J-J-J-J-Juddering along the cobbles of Henrietta Street
Always a picture – Esther in front of the National Portrait Gallery
A different Mall
A combination of traffic lights and much more traffic in the vicinity of Trafalgar Square meant we were halted on St Martin’s Place for a few minutes. Happily, however, here we met another friend, life model and life drawing group organiser, Matt. We bantered and exchanged photographic favours until the roads opened before us, and at last we could pick up the pace, with crowds cheering all around.
Esther and Matt at St Martin’s Place
Photographing Nelson’s Column, but getting an evil eye from the woman in front
Disappointingly, this year we were unable to enjoy a magnificent ride along The Mall as it had been set aside for the Queen’s 90th birthday celebration. I rather rather felt our own celebration of body freedom was every bit as worthy, but there it is. Instead we detoured along Cockspur Street (tee-hee), Pall Mall, St James’s Street and onto Piccadilly. At this point we had a choice: a quiet finish, or photo voyeur bedlam…
Esther and me, photographed by Matt
Heading towards Admiralty Arch but not destined to pass beneath it this time
On Pall Mall – there’s a baby in that little trailer
The silver streak continues, passing The Ritz on Piccadilly
Click click
I’ve no idea where the quiet finish would have been, but we were following the masses to our traditional end point at Wellington Arch. We rounded Duke of Wellington Place and passed beneath the arch at ten to six. We had been on the road for almost three hours, and now had to face the awaiting grubby voyeur photographers. I pushed away the camera of one who was blocking the road. He called me a lanky twat. Yep.
Wellington Arch, the final frontier
Underneath the arch, across the finish line – © Ðariusz
In fairness, not all the photographers are bad. A few respectfully asked permission to take pictures, and this was much appreciated, while others captured the joyful mood of the occasion rather than trying to zoom in on genitals. Esther and I found a space, lay down our bikes, rested a while, hugged and kissed, then dressed sooner than we would have liked as the dodgier photographers closed in once more.
A rest… – © planetnd
…and a hug… – © planetnd
…and a kiss – © planetnd
Unlike last year there would be no naked ride back to Tower Hill, so all that remained for us to do was track down the friends we’d lost along the way and say our farewells. Chas, Cy and Natanksy had all made it to the end. As ever, Cy had recorded the ride on video and would soon share with the world. Gradually we drifted away and as if to prove how lucky we’d been with the weather, it started to rain. We’d been blessed.
- standing, leaning back, left hand over face, right hand reaching to the right
- standing, body twisted to the left, both arms reaching over, left and down
- standing, bent and crouching slightly to the right, both hands on head
- standing, upright with both arms gesturing up towards the left
- standing, legs crossed, arms crossed, hands on shoulders
- kneeling, facing to the right, like a sprinter about to start
- sitting, legs crossed in a full lotus position, hands on knees
- sitting, legs bent to the left, hands on the floor to the right
- standing, left hand on left hip, right hand on right side of neck
Then came my first 45-minutes in the pose that would take us through the remainder of the session. On this, my second visit to Lochaber Hall I was being drawn and/or painted by three female and three male artists, plus the group’s organiser, David. On my first visit just three male artists had been there, but now the group was possibly up to full strength. A nice, if rather quiet, atmosphere carried us through to our break for tea and digestive biscuits.
During this interval I felt immensely flattered when one of the artists asked me if I was a dancer. I replied that in the evening I would be going to a party, with dancing certain to happen, but this was the limit of my talents. After some pleasant conversation and a couple more digestives I resumed my long pose – sitting on the floor, as requested, similar to the long pose of my previous visit – and continued thus for 55-minutes, with one short break to stretch my limbs.
This was a 3-hour Saturday session, from 9:30am to 12:30pm. The three male artists slipped away separately in their own time, but those that went the distance had good work to show for it, and were positive in their feedback. I couldn’t stay chatting for too long, however, as that afternoon I was set to be cycling nude around London for about three hours – more of which in a later blog! For now, I just hoped I hadn’t over-exerted my legs in pose. The spring in my step as I walked away suggested all was well.
I particularly enjoyed this session. I have modelled at Eastbourne House in Bethnal Green many times; it is a wonderful space in which to pose for dozens of artists, but the pleasure of working on any given evening has as much to do with its atmosphere, the ambience, artistic inspiration and my personal mood. All that this evening lacked was its organiser, Adrian Dutton, who was away on personal business. On the plus side, however, it was great to see his partner, Anya, temporarily back at the helm.
Anya attended to finances and catering, while responsibility for timing my poses was handed to Gareth, an experienced artist and regular here. Adrian normally calls out a particular length of time then leaves me to choose the pose, but Gareth had ideas of his own that I was happy to try. After a pose of 10-minutes, and four of 2-minutes, he called for four identical-but-rotated 5-minute poses at all four corners of the space. A 15-minute pose closed the first half.
Thursday nights here are cheese and wine nights, and come the interval I made sure I was first to grab a measure of both before the artists descended like locusts. With the space fleetingly empty, I took a leisurely wander around to admire works that were left on chairs and the floor. The standard was pleasingly high. After some amiable chatter, Gareth asked if I would mind informally starting the second half with an unannounced 5-minute pose. I obliged.
We ended the session with 15-minutes and 10-minutes in similar stances at opposite corners of the space, followed by 30-minutes on my back with both forearms and one knee raised up. I could have gladly nodded off during this final one, and only the need to keep my hands in position prevented me from doing so. Many estimable drawings were created. It had been a pleasure to work for Anya and Gareth, and I look forward to resuming with Adrian in September.
“Why do I have to be naked..?”
“Because you’ll be in the bath!”
Wearing nothing but bandages on my head, I’d just been led down a flight of stairs and was standing before 21 artists and a fabrication of chairs, boards and materials that would serve as a make-believe tub. It may seem unlikely, but this construction somehow appeared rather authentic, and so did I. For the next half an hour, I was to be the corpse of 18th century French journalist Jean-Paul Marat, for ‘Revolutionary Deaths: Art Macabre at UCL Art Museum‘.
The Death of Marat by Jacques-Louis David.
It was my first appearance of the year for Art Macabre, and my first time ever at UCL Art Museum, in central London. The event had a French Revolution theme. Artists were invited: “Join us for a unique evening of drawing and history. View the exhibition ‘Revolution under a king’ and draw life models posing in theatrical tableaux, capturing the spirit and drama of the French Revolution. Create your own illustrations from these key moments in history.”
Liberty Leading the People by Eugène Delacroix.
I was one of two models booked for the occasion. First to pose was my good buddy Louise, who would be representing Marianne, allegorical spirit of liberty adopted by the French Republic. She had played this role just a couple of weeks before for The Secret Drawing Club, which she organises with husband Nick. They’d both arrived armed with rifle, bayonette, spear, flags and assorted other props to compliment her magnificent poses for 5, 10 and 30-minutes.
While Louise posed for an arc of artists in the exhibition room, I was out of sight on a balcony immediately above. Art Macabre chief, Nikki – aka Raven Rouge – described the historical context before each pose, and then gave it a contemporary bite with her accompanying riot grrrl playlist. Afterwards, I had enough time to pop downstairs and photograph a few of the drawings that had been inspired. The standard was high and I was keen to see what they would make of me.
“I need you to take your shirt off and I need you to be naked.” It was time to conclude my transformation into Marat. Bandages had already been applied to my head, and a floppy fringe of hair drawn on my forehead. Now I was to have a bloody wound painted on to my chest – significantly more gory than was depicted in the famous painting by Jacques-Louis David but, of course, this was Art Macabre. And the nakedness? Well, that’s just what we do.
It was only a single, well-cushioned seated pose lasting half an hour but it was tough going. My head had to be completely lolled over on one side, and my neck stretched taut throughout. It became painful quite early on and remained thus for the duration. I was mindfully counting down the seconds from about a third of the way in. As hoped, however, some excellent drawings were the reward for my suffering. That, and a little red wine. It felt good to be back.
“Disaster! I can’t make the class! The trains. Unofficial strike.” So began a busy text message I received five hours before my début at Diorama Arts Centre – sent by the chap who had booked me. It was followed by many words of comfort and reassurance about how the class would still go ahead and I would be looked after by the regulars; I savoured the frisson of uncertainty.
I arrived around 15 minutes early at the centre’s reception area and was directed to a ground floor room at the far end of a rabbit-warren corridor. Usually I arrive at a group and find someone in the throes of setting-up, but here the room was utterly devoid of people and objects. This remained the case nearly up until the moment we were due to begin the session.
Cometh the 6:15pm start time, a head poked round the door and offered a reassuring ‘hi’. At last I felt confident I had come to the right place. I volunteered my services for preparing the space, and the pair of us navigated corridors, stairs and umpteen doors to find a storeroom of art materials on the floor above. Boards, papers, a large box of pens, pencils, charcoals… quite heavy but we got it all down in one trip.
When we returned to the art room we found another chap busily setting out chairs. It didn’t take too long to complete our preparations. By the time we were ready to start, there were six artists in attendance, all from the same company of animators. Two of them would share responsibilities for timing the poses; I asked if they would like any particular format, but they were happy to leave the choice of pose to me.
We began with six poses of 3-minutes each. Being animators, I had wondered if they would appreciate a movement sequence, but they were unconcerned – this was their free time and I believe they were happy enough just working on their skills at drawing the human figure in any variety of stances. I gave them six standing poses, switching direction and dynamism at each change.
Poses of 7-minutes, 10-minutes and 10-minutes completed our first half. After a short interval, in which we admired the works produced thus far, we completed the session with two poses of 20-minutes: one sitting, one reclining. Aside from a cold-blowing air conditioner that finally got through to me during the last pose, this was a nice relaxed session. For a group with an absent organiser, it had been very well organised.
“The long and very lean Steve Ritter will be modelling for us again on Wednesday making for deliciously Schiele-esque studies“
So said the Facebook publicity for my return to the life drawing group run by Ceri Ann Littlechild at Cockpit Arts. I hadn’t been asked beforehand to pose specifically in the Egon Schiele style – indeed, Ceri suggested later that whatever my body did, it would naturally present that style – but I took a little time to remind myself of some classic Schiele poses before leaving home.
Upon arrival I found Ceri preparing easels, and Esther wondering where on Earth I had been. She’d come along to draw me, and had reached the venue from a modelling job in Hammersmith sooner than I imagined possible. Meanwhile I’d been dawdling along, posting one of these blogs on social media – the sinkholes of productive time. When half a dozen artists had joined us, we were ready to begin.
Ceri started her mellow playlist, and I started my opening short poses: 1-minute, 2, 3, 5 and 5-minutes to begin. Schiele’s poses are particularly angular, taut and unnatural so I attempted a couple of the trickier ones during this quick-fire sequence. The next two poses of 10-minutes and 20-minutes were favourites from my own repertoire, and took us to our break for wine.
Two poses of 20-minutes closed the evening session. For the first, I sat upon the arm of a sofa and made Schiele-esque shapes with my limbs. I asked the group what they would like for the last pose, and Ceri suggested simply sitting facing forwards. To mix it up, I held one knee crooked, which possibly undermined her required foreshortening effect but I felt it made the pose more interesting from multiple angles.
I had been a lot of fun – or rather, as much fun as it’s possible to have whilst entirely motionless, silent, and devoid of interpersonal engagement. I love the pose space at Cockpit Arts, it’s one of the best, and I love working when Esther is present. When I had dressed and she’d packed away her drawings we toddled off together for a meal at nearby L’Osteria 57. Now, it’s about time I drew Esther again…
I arrived at Mall Galleries about a quarter of an hour early and observed the clusters of artists forming around the pose spaces; as ever at Hesketh Hubbard Art Society, there was to be a clothed portrait pose, plus 15-minute and 30-minute nude poses in the main gallery. The portrait session had attracted its modest loyal following, while a similar number attended the 30-minute pose space. Meanwhile a crowd roughly three times the size had formed a dignified clamp around the platform for shorter poses.
I smiled indulgently as I descended the stairs to where I would present four 30-minute poses. The young female model providing eight 15-minute poses was a professional dancer, so I ought to be grateful that anybody was drawing me at all. Setting aside self-deprecating paranoia, however, I am very aware how seriously this experienced society takes its art. I was grateful they had booked me, and that an appreciation of the human form extended, for some, to a study of my own unusual proportions.
Having been introduced to the society as a model by Esther, this was to be the first time I had worked here without her also being present; previously we had duo-posed twice, and worked solo on the same night once. It was heart-warming that so many artists approached me to ask after her, and when they might draw her next. She has modelled here over so many years that one senses the relationship extends beyond professional respect to one of community or even family. Whatever, it’s lovely.
For me on my fourth visit, I still needed to earn my spurs. Previous visits had all been on half-hour poses too, so I’m getting the hang of it. Normally I would try to start with the hardest pose and then make them proportionally easier to balance the increasing strains my body would feel. On this occasion, however, I somehow contrived to make them progressively more uncomfortable, but not horrendously so; I was almost sleepy during my final twisted reclining pose.
Once up and re-humanised, I chatted again with the artists. Throughout the evening, when not posing, I’d been treated kindly; engaging conversations, showing artworks, one chap even taking my details for potential future bookings. It was particularly nice to catch up with the artist Lesley Dabson; the first two portraits on this blog are her art. Following my last visit here, I bought one her studies of me and Esther together (below); it now hangs on my hallway wall at home. Altogether a happy visit.
steve ritter 