Read this disclaimer first!!
Thursday, Apr. 03, 2003 - 11:38 a.m.
Urban Nudity

This entry is inspired by Toronto hotness, sam.

On Saturday, May 26, 2001, I ventured down to the esplanade at Place des Arts at 5 am. There were hundreds of people there. We weren't drunk from partying and not sleeping the night before. We simply woke up really early and made our way there. Sober.

Before going out on the esplanade, we registered ourselves inside. We all signed waivers, 2253 of us, freely, eagerly. We were to be part of history, for Spencer Tunick had come to Montreal.

Spencer is an photographer/artist who specializes in mass nudes. He has been all over the world. His movie, Naked States shows him all over the U.S. doing his thing. New York was particularly bad, though. He has been arrested so many times it's not funny. The authorities were uncooperative, the people were confused; it was a mess. Montreal was pretty much the polar opposite of New York. We were easy to manage, everything went off without a hitch. It was just so easy. And we set the record for photographs of mass nudes, although that was shattered 5 months later on St. Kilda Road in Melbourne, Australia.

But the best part was the transformation as we disrobed. When we all took off our clothes, something else fell away. Pretension. Prejudice. Classism. All of it. We were just 2253 people up early on a cool May morning trying to do something good. Something purely for the sake of art. It didn't matter what your body shape was, or how old you were, or what disabilities you had. I have never felt more equal with my peers before or since. It was just amazing.

The first picture was on the famous Ste-Catherine Street at Jeanne-Mance, facing west. We were asked to stand in rows at arms' length from the next person in the next row. Then when the signal came, we were to collapse, as though we had all fainted (or had been gassed). I remember having a conversation with a young woman my age at this time. I was actually talking to her ass. I won't bother with further imagery, or the humourous implications of that.

The second shot was 90 degrees clockwise, on Jeanne-Mance at Ste-Catherine Street facing north. Similar scenario.

The third shot was the most interesting. It was on the steps by the esplanade. We were layered in this way; it was really neat. This picture (not Spencer's) doesn't come close to doing it justice.

I thought to myself that we should have an urban nude area. Somewhere on Mont-Royal, we could hang out and play bongo drums in the nude every Sunday for a few hours. That would be amazing. I would be there every week, without fail because it really feels that good.

When it was over, we all went back to our stashes of clothes. Everything was exactly where we had left it, pretty much. I felt a touch of sadness, though, because with each article of clothing, a measure of pretension and artifice was added to everyone. The clothes felt slimy somehow. I was meant to be naked except in dangerous or impractical situations, like rockclimbing or cooking over a stove. I realize that there are public health reasons for being clothed, but you shold have seen the change in attitude when the clothes went back on. The barriers were up again. It was startling.

There was one girl who could not find her clothes for twenty minutes after everyone else did. There were looks of pity, some smirks and outright laughter. The thing that struck me was the fact that she was now all alone. And she seemed to feel all alone, too.

There were a few who waited until the last possible moment to go get their clothes. They wanted to relish their freedom as long as they could. "Good for them," I thought. I had to go home, though. I had slept 30 minutes the previous night, so I was off to bed.

I woke up that afternoon feeling better than I had in weeks.

2 scrawls at the end of this hall

The look: reminiscent
The feel: content
The taste:
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