sydneyarchitecture.com

I attended the Tunick installation at the Sydney Opera House today.
There are some images below- they’re pretty rough and not really of the standard that the artist would want- just a quick intro for you to the concept.

Here’s my story-

I had to get up at 3am.

It began with the assembly of people before dawn. People were excited but quite withdrawn and I think quite scared. This, for me, was added power by the fact that we were divided into two groups upon arrival. The lucky few, the early arrivers, were given a “ticket” to the Opera House, so that they could be part of the installation. All the other comers were ushered through to the gardens without explanation and it appeared, in the cold pre-dawn air, that they’d missed out. There was a sense of despair. Myself, like the boy in the latrine in Schindler’s List, smuggled myself into the smug comfortably-seated group, and made a fake ticket (very poor imitation) from a torn page from my diary. Typical. And, I kid you not, the groups were patrolled by old angry booze-faced queens with loud pink shirts on. Terrifying.

Anyway, the approaching dawn seemed to dispel my Bergen-Belsenesque fears, and it raised spirits in general. It got better as affable yanks started to give us jovial directions, and then gentle-voiced “Spencer” came onto the podium and all was good again. The next highlight was when the previously doomed group stripped off in the distance and made for the Opera House steps. I was surrounded, it appeared, at this stage with gorgeous young women. Before I knew it our clothes too were falling around us and the next thing I knew I was a small boat bobbing in a miraculous sea of breasts and shaved vaginas of all colours, styles, etc. Heaven, pure bliss. Also, interestingly, were all sorts of peniseses. Jolly.

The next thing I knew I was moving with this great herd up the stairs. What joy, in the freezing dawn air. Everywhere I looked were carnal delights, tattoos, piercings, huge peniseses (here we go again..!).

Soon I found my place on one of the chalked steps and waited for commands from our great shepherd. Around me were some particularly fine specimens, although, needless to say, when it came time to consecrate our love with the command of “You must now hug and kiss the person next to you!”, I found myself lost in the valley of the penisseseseses. Oh well, when in Rome!

This was somewhat made up to me by spending the next 10 or so minutes standing next to a 20 year beautiful girl who was almost dancing she was so excited. And no-one had any inhibitions at all. I really love public nudity, you should try it given half a chance.

We then did a number more poses, but the growing day and the by now deafening roar of helicopters, rather dampened things. I was glad when it was done and I could slip away, now happy that I wasn’t being dragged into the Opera House with the ticketed ones.
I should just add, getting dressed was also quite cool (apart from the obvious fact that I’d lost my clothes, and was anticipating walking nude up Macquarie Street, which actually quite appealed at that stage). The dressing was also quite erotic- asian girls casually standing topless in their pink undies chatting to friends, shirts left open revealing breasts, etc. Top notch stuff that you really don’t expect to see downtown at 8 on a Monday morning.

Give it a go if you get the chance. There is a huge voyeuristic glee to it, and a strange carnal undertone. But, in that quiet hour (the only person I spoke to was my gay hugging chum), there is a huge amount of unspoken communication and connection.

Here are some wise words from a like minded, but more eloquent, fellow who did this in Montreal-

“We’re naked for what feels like an hour. We get moved and re-posed, but I stay close to the brown-haired girl, or maybe she’s staying close to me. We are developing a little relationship of half-glances and smiles. God knows, she’s a stunning woman, and very naked indeed, and yet I’m not getting aroused. It’s a calm, accepting feeling.

When it’s all over, we’re quickly dressed, and with one last smile, we’re gone our separate ways, platonic lovers who never shared a single word of conversation.

Spencer Tunick’s images are very boring. Thousands of anonymous pink dots. But every single one of those dots had to expose themself to the judgement of strangers. Every single one of those dots built a functioning intimate relationship with the others around them. Yes, at the end, I must say, art happened that day – not in spite of our sexual urges, but rather because of them.”

Source- http://teaseplay.sensualwriter.com/2007/05/09/spencer-tunick-and-mass-public-nudity/