#‘Just don’t stare’: a night of nudity and dancing at the art gallery

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‘Just don’t stare’: a night of nudity and dancing at the art gallery

Sydney Dance Company performs a world-first all-naked event to the delight of avid nudists. Just be careful where you look

Here? I ask. We undress here? The man beside me already has his pants off.

His name is Matt and he got a head start while the Sydney Dance Companys artistic director, Rafael Bonachela, gave a welcome speech on lower level one of the Art Gallery of New South Wales. As Bonachela talked Matt had removed his sneakers and stuffed his peeled-off socks inside. About 150 of us begin to follow suit.

Matt, naked already, beams at me. This was my idea! Matt, it turns out, is the New South Wales co-founder of Young Nudists of Australia. When he saw the nude dance performance advertised Bonachelas choreographed response to an exhibition of nudes from Londons Tate collection he contacted the gallery to suggest a naked night.

Bonachela had tabled, and discarded, the idea. We had talked about everyone participating, disrobing, at the gallery, he says. When he got in touch, I was like, We still have time, lets do it. The slowest-selling show was swiftly rebranded as nude-only and sold out within a day. Two nude nights were added. They sold out too, faster than the clothed shows.

Matt was delighted. Im no connoisseur of fine arts. We want to show people that the nudist lifestyle is not just old people playing volleyball. These one-off events are a way to interest people in nude social recreation.

Connoisseurs at Australias major arts institutions are indeed interested. Naked tours lead by the Melbourne artist Stuart Ringholt returned to Sydneys Museum of Contemporary Art late last year after premiering there in 2012. Ringholts tour was so enlightening for the MCAs director of audience engagement, Gill Nicol, that she is leading a womens naked tour in March for International Womens Day.

I learnt so much, Nicol wrote. It is just you, literally bare, and with your feet firmly on the floor no phones, no clothes, no bags just an authentic, real experience.

When the slowest-selling dance performance was rebranded as nude-only, it sold out within a day and two more nude nights were added. Photograph: Pedro Greig

Ringholt introduced nudity to the National Gallery of Australia in 2015 with tours of the perspective-defying work of the US light artist James Turrell. We eat light, drink it in through our skins, Turrell wrote. Hobarts Dark Mofo festival, meanwhile, programs a nude dawn swim in the river Derwent each year to mark the winter solstice. Up to 800 people dive into what organisers call a ritual that invites them to shed their skins and inhibitions.

Curator-speak aside, why are people drawn to the experience? Is it a gimmick for middle-class art appreciators to be titillated in a sophisticated setting? A plunge into the unknown in pursuit of shocks retreating frontier? An appropriation of niche scenes like nudism for artists whove run out of ideas? A desire to occupy our bodies at a time when we feel more disassociated from them than ever?

In Europe, nakedness is not novel. If you see a [dance] performance and there isnt a naked body, its weird, Bonachela says. In French Canada you have companies doing full nudity for the full show. Yet it is Bonachelas Sydney festival show that is by all accounts the world first: nude dancers in front of nude paintings before a nude audience. The extra combo deal.

Bras and boxers shed, we file as a fleshy mass towards the exhibition. Walking in the same direction, it is all wobbling arses, jarring tan lines and back tattoos. Its been a hot day; I smell sweat and its combatants. Isnt this great? Matt whispers. On entering the exhibition we disperse, as instructed, to see dance pieces going on simultaneously in multiple rooms and suddenly peoples privates are public.

I was told as a girl that making eye contact with a stranger signalled availability. The comment has never left me; not for a day. Like many woman Im afflicted by a conviction that unwanted attention is my fault. Still, eye contact has been a habit Ive struggled to shed. As a writer I am in constant, reflexive observation. I stare a lot. But Ive learnt to drop my eyes if my look is returned, especially no, always if it is a man.

Here, the tactic backfires. My gaze keeps falling on penises and pubic hair. To be clear, Im OK with that. Some of my best friends have genitals. But I dont want to look as though I paid to perve. Besides, the exhibition features work from Pierre Bonnard, Pablo Picasso, Gwen John and Tracy Emin, as well as the sublime bodies of seven dancers. Why waste eye time on randoms?

I keep my head erect and eyes level. I dont fold my arms or clasp my hands because it communicates a defensiveness Im elated to realise I do not feel. I find myself assuming the closest Ive come to Tadasana (mountain pose) outside a yoga studio. With nowhere to hide, yet everything on display, in a rapid and total way I quit trying. And Matt is right: it feels great.

I tap his expertise further. How does it work? Can I look at people?

Just dont stare. And by and large, people dont. Ive felt more scrutinised and objectifed in boots, beanie and a winter coat.

I didnt choreograph like, Lets hide this, explains Sydney Dance Company artistic director Rafael Bonachela. Photograph: Pedro Greig

For textiles like me (the name nudists give people whod rather wear clothes), this rush of freshly minted freedom distracts me from the task at hand: art appreciation. That is until I see a male and female duo entwined and circling Auguste Rodins The Kiss. The dancers are not only naked, they are very close to us. We watch in awed silence. No shoes clack, no bags rustle, no slacks slide.

An unclothed audience is quiet yet bold. The clothed audience, says Bonachela who strolls the eight rooms tonight as blithely naked as the rest of us held back a lot more. They were quite shy because theyre let into this room with nude people, oh my god, he says. The nude audience immediately spread through the whole gallery. They go in!

My second highlight is a coquettish cabaret-style routine danced by a female duo. Their hair hangs loose and they are makeup free. They look like two uncannily toned women whove sprung up from towels on a beach, unclipped their bikinis, and begun to joyfully dance. We laugh, agog, delighted. I barely clock Francis Bacons stunning, tormented triptych of paintings behind them.

They dont recoil from high kicks. When I created this work I was not going to be shy about it, Bonachela says. Like, I am bending forward and this is my bumhole. This is how between my legs looks. I didnt choreograph like, Lets hide this.

It is not all beautiful moments. Waiting in the Domain before the show a leathery guy on a park bench eyes me and I fervently hope hes not a ticketholder. Later, at the show, I retreat into a smaller room to be alone and look at art. When I turn to leave, three men close the exit with their naked bodies and a panic rises, primal, a need to escape. They turn harmlessly to the art, just three silly bottoms, and I sidle out.

In the room where Ron Muecks Wild Man looms, the hyper-real and oversized sculpture gripped by paranoias paralysis, a trio of three male dancers overwhelms me too. And in the main room when the dancers reach out to spectators and waltz them around, arrange them in formation like artworks themselves, I again retreat to the darkened room of The Kiss, one layer of interaction too much. When my clothes came off, so did an exhausting volume of psychic weight but processing its disappearance is tiring too.

Putting my underwear on in the foyer feels far more intimate than being naked a few minutes before. It evokes the sexuality of a striptease while there had been little of overt sexuality or sleaze about the 45 minutes among the artworks.

It is likely Australian audiences will have more chances to be exposed to living, breathing naked art. This has been a highlight in my career, Bonachela says. So who knows, I may bring more nudity to the stage. It may have another life.

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from ‘Just don’t stare’: a night of nudity and dancing at the art gallery

[lowdenfordays]

Heartbreak

 You pounded your fist against the door to Jack’s house, battling to make yourself heard over the sound of heavy Scottish rain. It was late, and the world was asleep. You were soaked to the bone, desperate, partly to get into the warm, but mostly to see your best friend. You needed his comfort.

“Jack!” you called, making as much noise as your weak voice could, raw as it was from crying.

After a minute of ramming the door with all your might, you heard footsteps approach, and the door opened to reveal Jack standing in the doorway. His face carried years of comfort and laughter, affection oozing from soft eyes. Even though the rain masked your tears, he instantly recognised your distress.

“Y/N! What in Christ’s name are ye doing out at this time of night, and in this weather? Come in before ye catch yer death!”

Without another word he bundled you inside, instantly leading you to the bathroom to have a hot bath. “Here’s a towel, I’ll find ye some dry clothes and have a cup o’ tea waiting for ye.”

 You soaked your cold skin in the hot water, trying to let the heat permeate through your body. There was a gentle knock after a few minutes, as Jack poked his head round the door. You sunk a little lower beneath the porcelain rim, hiding your nudity.

“Ye left yer fluffy pyjamas bottoms last time ye stayed the night, and ye can borrow a jumper.” He left the items in a neat pile on the floor, and edged out. You lay in the water for a little while, but you really craved the warmth of Jack’s embrace, and his gentle voice to lull you into calm acceptance of your situation. You were fuming, desperately sad, confused, and afraid. You got out of the water, dried yourself off and changed into the clothes Jack had left you, which excluded underwear. Yours was still too wet to wear, so you went without. The jumper hung off you, but it was soft and smelled like Jack. You took a deep breath and filled your lungs with his scent, hugging the fabric against your bare flesh. You wandered into the living room where Jack was sat on the sofa and two mugs sat side by side on the coffee table. You snuggled up beside him, curling your legs up beside you and leaning your head onto his chest. You hummed gratefully as he handed you your tea, cradling it in still slightly numb hands. The heat tingled as it spread up your fingers, but it was the feeling of Jack wrapping a long arm around your shoulders that made you shiver.

“Are ye feelin’ a little better now?” he asked. You shrugged noncommittally.  

“What’s goin’ on love? What made ye walk here in the rain?”. He spoke so tenderly, and you were so fragile.

“Darren broke up with me.”

“Oh hen,” he cooed, pulling your body in closer to his, “What happened?”

“He missed date night again this week, and I’d made such an effort. I made dinner, and bought new lingerie and all. He didn’t even tell me he was going to be back late from the office. I was sat in his flat like a lemon for three hours waiting for him. When he eventually showed up he barely apologised and we got into this big fight. Long story short he said he didn’t have time for me anymore and I wasn’t worth the effort. I ran straight here,” you finished with a sigh.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Are you?” you retorted with more venom in your voice than you had intended. Your emotions were all over the place. “You never liked him, you’ve wanted me to break up with him for months.”

“I dinnae think he was good enough for ye, but that doesn’t make me less sorry that he hurt ye.” “He wasn’t good enough? He was a lawyer Jack!” “So?” he said, his temper rising to match yours. “Tha’ makes him worthy of ye then? What about respecting ye and the things ye love. How many times did you try and take him to that art gallery? Did ye ever go? And what about making time to be with ye? What about making ye his priority every once in a while? What about showing ye how much ye mean to him, not just apologising fer cancelling a date again by buying ye some expensive present, huh? He took advantage of yer good heart. Ye forgive too easily and ye let him walk all over ye!”

You stared at him blankly, not knowing how to respond to his sudden outburst. He huffed before continuing, “I don’ understand ye Y/N. Ye have so much determination, ye won’t let anyone mess ye about, yer tough and strong and bright, but as soon as you’ve got a fella ye turn into some wet puppy dog and show yer belly any time he comes near.”

His words hit you hard; you were vulnerable from the breakup, feeling unworthy and unlovable as it was. Hearing your best friend berate you like that left you completely shattered.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture, Jack,” you said meekly, battling against the tears that were welling in your eyes. “I feel shitty enough without you telling me I’m weak. I know, okay?”

When Jack saw how he’d affected you he stood up, running a hand through his long hair, and pacing in front of you.

“Yer no’ weak, I just don’t understand how ye can be so blind about love.” He knelt before you. “Ye go looking in all the wrong places. You deserve someone who knows how precious ye are, who understands ye, and knows how to make ye feel better when yer down; when ye need him to tell ye how well yer doing and when to just hold ye tight and kiss ye.” He tucked a stray hair behind your ear, still wet from the rain, letting his fingers linger on your cheek for just a second too long. You started at each other for an eternal moment, your eyes darting rapidly between his. You were invaded by blue and suddenly it was all you could see.

“And where do I find such a superman?” you whispered, the tension hanging thick in the air between you.

Jack laughed gingerly and shook his head, all that tension dissipating as swiftly as it had appeared. He looked down, no longer able to make eye contact.

“He’s closer than ye think. Ye wouldnae have to look far.”

“So you’ve got someone in mind?”. You leaned in closer, some invisible force pulling you towards him.

“Yeah.”

“Who?” you prompted, already sure of the answer but longing to hear the words, see them form on his tongue, let them inhabit you.

He took a deep breath, seemingly setting himself. He looked up to meet your eyes again, and the words came tumbling out.

“I’m in love with ye, Y/N. I have been for so long. I cannae even remember when it happened, I just realised one day that all these feelings I have for ye, that swirl around in my head like a snowstorm, are more than just friendship. I love you. It hurt to see ye happy with Darren, but it hurts more that he broke yer heart. Ye see, I would never do that ‘cause it would kill me to know I’d hurt ye. Seeing ye pass me by again and again… it’s suffocatin’ me. I care about ye, more than I know what to do with. I just-”.

All of a sudden he stood up, unable to go on, unable to let himself be so vulnerable in front of you. He walked over to the window; on the glass the street lights and the raindrops danced together, chased each other.

 You stood up and walked over to him, needing to be near him. You slid your arms over his shoulders and onto his chest, pressing yourself into him. The tears that had been threatening for so long finally spilled over. This confession, this declaration of love, was so unexpected that you didn’t know what to feel. You were shocked and excited and frightened. He had opened something within you, a box that had been locked away for as long as you’d known him, a desire that had been forbidden until now. But still, you were newly out of a relationship which had left you wounded. You were damaged, tired, frail, but you knew you could have something with Jack more special than anything you’d ever experienced. You fit together, snug and comfortable, and you wanted that desperately.

 “I want you, Jack. I didn’t know it until now but I do.” He turned his head, his shoulders still closed off but a little more open to you now. You leant up on your tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek.

“But I’m still hurting. He hurt me. I can’t rush into something with you and risk ruining what we have, even what we could potentially have.”

He turned to face you fully now, and you cradled his jaw in your hands. He looked down as he played with the hem of your jumper, until you guided his eye line towards your face.

“Give me time Jackie.”

He nodded, slightly glum but mostly excited; like a little boy who’s been told he’s getting a puppy but not till Christmas. You smiled, already feeling better, and stroked the hair at the back of his neck.

He bent down and, with barely a touch, pecked your lips. You smiled as he rested his forehead against yours.

“I can wait,” he whispered.

[occupymelb]

'Just don't stare': a night of nudity and dancing at the art gallery - The Guardian

'Just don't stare': a night of nudity and dancing at the art gallery The Guardian Naked tours lead by the Melbourne artist Stuart Ringholt returned to Sydney's Museum of Contemporary Art late last year after premiering there in 2012. Ringholt's tour was so enlightening for the MCA's director of audience engagement, Gill Nicol, that ...