Nakedness

There’s a brilliance in nakedness, wouldn’t you agree? A peacefulness in being fully exposed. No pretenses here. What you see is what you get.

We’re taught to cover up like we’re afraid of our own shadow. Like God didn’t make us this way in the first place. In my younger years, if I’m even old enough to have a younger years, I was a rabbit – quick to undress, rapid to redress, moving as fast as possible so as not to be seen. Not by you, not by him, not by me. Those curves are an embarrassment, that recusant swell a statement that sways and speaks for me. What does it say? That I am a woman? No worse, that I am wanton. If you put on unshapely pants it goes away. If you wear flats instead of heels, you barely sway.

Nakedness is less a bother these days. Every sway, every swing, is not a rebellious thrust toward something disgusting. There can be an elegance to it – the languid softness of a Rembrandt lady, lounging for her lover on a red velvet duvet. There’s a peace in having the folds of your body absorbed. Rembrandt never painted perfection, after all. He painted beauty. Better to embrace your humanity then to shred yourself in front of a mirror. A mirror is a terrible companion for nakedness. Sensuality is a state of being; the physical reflection in a plate of glass a mere morsel of what exists in the mind.

Nakedness has a ubiquitous fullness about it. In your birthday suit there’s no impressing by putting on. Your hips alone are your gift, the round fecundity God gave you your natural accessory. The Renaissance has nay a collared woman for a reason: true beauty lies underneath the surface. You’re beautiful. You’re squishy bits have been painted for centuries. Consider them are art.

This nascent nakedness is a rebirth – Venus emerges from the shell a woman. A secret just for you and the ones you choose. Not for the world like a painting in a museum, but you can smile knowingly at the next one you see. You know that look. Try nakedness if you dare. Put away your mirror and put on some silk. You are a Rembrandt after all. The languid lady lounging for her lover. Even if its just for you.

-inspired by the paintings ‘The Birth of Venus’, ‘Young Naked Ladies Sleeping’, and the Umstead Spa where Christopher the masseuse makes you feel beautiful