(61) Justice in da buff, by Azouz BEGAG - (1) Me, posing nude ?

Justice in da buff

by Azouz BEGAG

(1) Me, posing nude ?

                   In principle, the idea of posing nude before a camera doesn’t bother me. I like to see and to admire bodies of naked women, in these I find soft lines, curves, fineness and grace. I don’t appreciate men’s bodies half as much. I usually find them rough, muscular, angular and bony.

                    And the idea of posing nude in front of a camera does not bother me, especially when I’m not involved! Other people, yes, they can do it, I will not judge them.

On the contrary, nude models are necessary, the world thanks them. But me, posing nude? No, thanks.

                     The question rekindles a peculiar violence in me.

                     One day, Pierre-Alain Gourion called me to ask if I happened to know people of North-African descent, men or women, who would be willing to pose nude before him.

Without thinking, by western instinct, I looked around me, I searched, I could not find one single person to make such a request to. No, the question itself was inappropriate.

Besides, I didn’t even know how to put it into words: to pose for a photographer or before him? The answer is probably both.

                     Pierre-Alain could not manage to find “that kind” of model among his acquaintances. After thinking it over for a few seconds, I faced the facts: it was impossible for me to ask a friend to do that, he would burst out laughing. For others, I already sensed it, the question would be considered provocative, people would think I am a “sleazy individual”, a weirdo, a sadist, an adept of shady internet groups.

                     How strange. I never thought about that before. When I take a look at my acquaintances, I can’t think of any model of North-African descent who would be willing to pose nude before a camera. I’ve been searching in art books, magazines, but nothing. To “us”, you’re not supposed to show your body to people. There is so much shyness regarding our relation to the body itself that we have it wear the veil, from our hair to the tip of our toes. I don’t know where this total concealment of the body comes from, as if there were a permanent risk of skin cancer under the Eastern sun!

But there’s one thing sure, it is deeply rooted inside of us, into our cultural being. You should not trust photographers, or their cameras.

                     I also have this reflex of distrust deep inside of me. Because when Pierre-Alain, who knows my taste for provocation and subversion, happened to ask me the fatal question: and you? What about me? Would I pose nude for him? At first I burst into laughter. The thing that was buried deep down inside  started to rise to the surface of my senses. I thought it was so strange, this fear coming from the depths of ages past. But I am not going to get drown, I am going to repel it. On the phone, Pierre-Alain was still here. For one moment, he thought I had disappeared, hung out, melted. I finally said, bravely, that I had no problem with it, I would go to his apartment and pose for those pictures, precisely those that would complete his exhibition project. We scheduled an appointment for the following day, at six pm.

ME, POSING NUDE?

                     I couldn’t sleep a wink all night. A fear, a terrifying anguish made my heart flutter for hours, till it definitely woke me up at 3.12 am, the fateful moment when all the depressive French people awake. I read this trivia matter in the 3.12 am novel! So I was depressive because of this unnatural acceptance to pose nude before a camera and to display my image in the lounges of an exhibition room. But why the hell did I accept? To change? To change the way I see myself by exposing my body to people’s gaze, to everybody’s gaze?

          At 8 am, that Sunday, I went jogging to relax. I grabbed my phone, I called Pierre-Alain. Luckily for me, he was probably still sleeping, I preferred that. I apologized for my withdrawal, I was scared to keep my word. I didn’t feel the thing anymore. And I had very good reasons: it really was an odd idea! Why would I display my body to the others? To make them like it, to serve my photographer friend’s talent? How could I be sure that people would look and not stare? That they would not just be attracted by the roughness of my body, its flaws, its flattering parts as well, but how could I prevent them from having an opinion on “me” and not on the picture? Everything was beyond my control. This is exactly what I hate most. Expose myself? In this expression, there was the word “myself” and I really didn’t want that.

          I was in a state of panic.

          When I hung up after I explained I wouldn’t pose, I felt relieved. I had never run the 10-km distance of my usual itinerary that fast before, because I felt light-hearted, and proud of myself to have been able to tell a truth against which I couldn’t go without bending.

          To display my nudity, was that what terrified me? No, since I recall the locker room showers I took in the soccer stadiums when I was a kid and had no feeling of embarrassment towards the others. We were there to wash ourselves, not to display the body itself. It’s like you’re at the doctor’s. That’s the difference. Why am I taking my clothes off? To take care of myself, wash myself… alright. But for pictures, no way.

          Who needs to see my skin, my genitals? Isn’t it a secret part of my anatomy that should stay in the dark, because it’s just a good thing, not to show everything. Otherwise, why don’t we take a picture of the inside of the mouth, the intestines? Photography intrusions must have limits.

          If I want to look at someone in the face, right in the eye, I don’t want him to be naked, because nakedness attracts your attention down to the center of gravity of the body, the mysterious area of one’s sex, the place where the world bends. There is nothing but the truth I can see naked. And yet… 

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