Nude

Acid flashback to Buffalo, I'm partying with hipsters, noticing nude photos strung out on the way to the bathroom down the hall. Meredith the photographer catches me staring at one, a side-view of a model holding a bicycle tire like an aureole around her naked torso, conjuring the image of a hula-hoop. I tell her about my fascination with tires and she presents it to me as a gift.


Eight years later in Brooklyn, I find the image in a forgotten stack and put it on the wall. I ask my girlfriend if she wants to see it, but she's distracted by the TV. Later in bed, I can feel the weight of her frustration. She doesn't like the portrait. I defend its artistic merit, but she doesn't want to hear it.

The next day, I'm in the locker room at the gym and there's a fat old naked man sitting on a bench like a centurion at a Roman bath. There are other white-haired, decrepit things prancing around the locker room without towels. I never see them in the gym lifting weights or hitting the treadmill, only back here among the steam and sweat of other men.

My girl doesn't have to say a word to get me to take down the picture. All she has to do is invite me over her house and have that fat old naked guy walk around, asking me if I saw today's Post.

When they ate the apple, Gwyneth (Eve) and Chris (Adam) realized they were naked and looked for clothing. And nude has been awkward ever since.

It is ethereal and repugnant. Sought after and rejected. It is Michelangelo and Spencer Tunick. Comported and vulgar like Kate Moss.


It is in the eye of the beholder.