Cheeky plan may be nude awakening we need
He was big, black – and naked. And his bareness so offended the residents of Strand, that he was forced to leave town. Now he stands in a field in the Hex River Valley, his modest man bits bronzing in the sun.
That was in 2006. The big, black, naked man was a sculpture called Positive, created by Angus Taylor and erected outside an apartment block in that architectural jewel of a seaside town.
It would appear blue-mirrored windows and facebrick are acceptable; an artful groin is not.
Cut to 2011 and residents in the nearby town of Somerset West are about to be exposed to exposure of a real and fleshy sort – this time the work of a different set of Taylors. Britons Mark and Samantha Taylor are reportedly in negotiations with a local businessman to open an upmarket naturist spa in this enclave of bratwurst and viognier.
I can see the brochures now: “Strip, sit and sip while topping up your tannins.”
I can also see the reactions of the town’s more crusty residents: “No ifs or butts. It’s disgusting. Naked. Eeeeeeuwww.”
I once frequented a nudist colony. By mistake. B and I were in Croatia. It was hot. I had thorns in my fingers and a mouth as puckered as a dog’s bottom. Turns out you can’t harvest prickly pears without asbestos gloves, and olives taste rubbish plucked straight from the tree. I felt as carefree and relaxed as David Cameron in a hoodie. I needed a swim.
After staggering along the shore for hours, picking our way through Italians wearing rubber booties and screaming children spiked with sea urchins, we found a quiet beach. “Woohoo,” I hollered as I stripped down to my costume and plunged into the water. I gargled, dived down, felt the thorns soften, and surfaced.
Then I screamed.
A pink eel floated next to my nose. Attached to it was a tangle of grey hair, like fishing line. Attached to that was a rotund belly, a chest and a sunburnt face.
“Das ist gut, ja?” the face said. I panted my fastest doggy paddle back to shore.
And there, in the shade of some scraggy trees, dozens of naked people milled about like some Clan of the Cave Bear convention. Most were old. Many were pendulous. A shrivelled man scratched his saggy bottom.
“Stop staring,” I hissed at B as we hurriedly gathered up our things. We crashed through the bushes, feeling like overdressed spies. At the urchin beach, I nearly hugged the Italians in their booties, hats and Speedos.
I’m not sure why the naked Germans frightened me. Maybe the pink eel was too surprising. Perhaps if I’d known what to expect, and shared an egg sandwich with Hans or Klaus before being introduced to their personal wildlife, it would have been okay.
Because, after all, going au naturel should be the most natural thing in the world. It breaks down barriers, is a great equaliser and encourages a sense of openness.
With this in mind, I reckon the Taylors would do well to extend their naked plans to other sectors of our society. Politicians would certainly benefit from a bare-cheeked phase. They would have no pockets to line and the only tender business they would be embroiled in would be their broiled tender bits after a day in the sun.
And imagine the equalising effect: Bheki Cele, sans Al Capone hat and Armani suit, letting it all hang out during a press conference; Julius braying on a podium with his love handles swaying. It’s that old trick taught by school drama teachers: imagine them naked, and they become diminished.
Other top nude candidates would include card-skimming waiters (no aprons for stashing devices), British rioters (no hoodies), fashionistas (no silly pointy shoes), paedophile priests (no hidden agendas), corrupt traffic cops (no back-pocket bribes) and gynaecologists (it’s only fair).
Those who should remain firmly clothed include bosses (it would be too weird), bakery staff (naked buns are unhygienic), pilots (we need focus in the cockpit), yoga teachers (in various positions) and Roseanne Barr (it’s only fair).
In the meantime, I might start preparing for a summer sojourn in Somerset West. I will stock up on sunscreen, dust off my birthday suit and learn some German phrases: “Your eel is too much in my vicinity” and “I be covered in newspapers because I am very much fond of reading.” Who knows, maybe this time round, a spot of overexposure would be a Positive thing.