“Skyclad” is a term used by naturists to describe going nude. A wonderful word that conjures peeling back the blue heavens and wrapping it around one’s shoulders, as if it were a cloak.

Naturists are not the same as exhibitionists – the latter being motivated by titillation, a desire to be seen; whereas the former simply feel inhibited by clothing and in discarding it bring themselves closer to nature. With decades of exposure to sun, wind and rain, older naturists are sometimes identifiable by their leathery complexion and golden brown colour (sans tan line) – as I discovered when I took a tour of the National Gallery of Australia last week, completely nude, along with 49 other art lovers.

Skinny-dipping in the void: the day I toured James Turrell's art show naked Read more

It is easy to write off a nude art tour as gimmicky; in fact, the experience was quite profound. To illustrate, though our skin does not see, would your experience in an art gallery be different if you were to wear a ski mask? There is some constriction there. And to remove the ski mask, to remove one’s clothing, is a physical form of liberation.



I am not a natural nudist. My mother taught me to always cover up my body. I’m now 31 and she still, on occasion, chastises me for clothing she believes is too sheer. But over time, I began to see how illogical bodily modesty was, and made a casual commitment to exercising my nudity muscle. I grew accustomed to changing in front of close friends, then in change rooms of public pools. Once I went topless on a beach. I remember my breasts feeling weirdly heavy, like sacks of flour. And having walked through the halls of one of Australia’s most prestigious galleries, naked as the day I was born, surely I have now completed “expert level” nudism.

It’s funny when you shed inhibition. You can no longer remember what it was like to care. And so I was baffled by the response from friends and colleagues after I published my story. “You’re so brave,” they said, as if I had returned from a month-long tour of war-torn Iraq. During an interview with the BBC on the topic, a listener sent in a two-word text: “no way”. That seemed to be how everyone felt, even those who I had otherwise considered open-minded. No way. No thanks.

All they see is terror, and multiple levels of it.

Everyone will look at me, people claim. Of course, we looked at each other’s bodies, but not with any real scrutiny. With so much visible flesh, it becomes as ordinary as an uncovered face.

As for those afraid of criticism – who is in any place to judge? Nudity enlightens us to the fact that human beings, truly, come in all shapes and sizes, and bodies that adhere to conventional beauty standards are as rare as Jennifer Lawrence. (And that there can be more beauty to a rotund bottom than a flat stomach.)

And the final terror of being naked in public is the fear of being turned on by it. But being naked taught me that a partially clothed form is infinitely sexier than a nude one. Clothing is what denotes our bodies as illicit. Consider this: which sentence is more sexual? 1) The man and woman were naked. 2) The man unbuttoned his shirt and slid it over his smooth back. The woman slipped her panties down to her knees.

Isn’t nudity, at heart, just a matter of personal preference and cultural norms? One woman wears a hijab, another a bikini on the beach, the last would prefer to go nude. And yet nudity (and wearing a hijab, for that matter) attracts undue vitriol. “Exhibitionists at an exhibition,” sneered one commenter. As if a group of consenting adults in a state of natural undress is somehow offensive. Allow me to fetch the smelling salts, should you be hit with a case of the vapours.

The UK is known for its prudishness – blame the Puritans, or Queen Victoria – but across the channel, continental Europe has a more relaxed attitude towards nudity. Even Catholic Spain is less offended by boobs on the beach than Britain. And just try entering a sauna in Austria or Germany wearing clothes. In Australia, public nudity is deemed illegal with the exception of a select few beaches and your local nudist club, usually located out of town in the bush (aptly enough).

#FreeTheNipple: liberation or titillation? Read more

If bodily shame began with Christianity’s formation of the doctrine of original sin, religion’s waning influence on our naked pursuits has given way to consumer society. As well as preaching bodily anxiety, the market promises the answers to any search for salvation (credit card fees apply): makeovers, protein shakes, gym membership, yoga class, nip and tuck surgery, fake tan, hair implants, fast fashion. I say, no way. No thanks.

I considered posting a nude photo of myself for this piece. Put my money (and my boobs) where my mouth is, and all. “I’m doing it!” I told my friends triumphantly. #FreeTheNipple and more. Let everyone see my little tyre belly and unkempt bush – these are bits and bobs of human body and nothing more.



But now I have cold feet. My attitude towards nudity is not shared by the general populace in Australia, what do I risk in future unintended consequences? Anything published on the internet is there forever, about as easy to clean up as an oil spill in the ocean. Instead, I compromised. Last week I allowed photos of myself to be taken: silly nude selfies that now sit in the phones of new friends, not a single non-disclosure agreement signed. It felt like a provocative act, more so than getting nude in the first place, and required accepting I may one day find them floating about the “nsfw” reddit thread, probably tagged “OK-looking Asian, with average-sized melons”.

Nudity, and nude photos, is the ultimate test of self-acceptance. Do you love yourself enough that you can give it all away? I want to believe my answer is “yes”.