by Kara Bryn
"I kind of like this promise system," Rebecca said, looking hard at Trisha. What she wouldn't give to be sitting there with Trisha naked now. Louisa was beautiful, but Trisha was hers. Trisha smirked, reading exactly what was going through Rebecca's mind.
"Yeah, well, it can get out of hand," Louisa said, pointedly looking down at herself. Tania followed her eyes and involuntarily licked her lips. They all laughed again.
Another half an hour passed and Louisa was getting more comfortable with sitting there nude. Even the other girls were getting used to seeing her breasts move as she gestured with her hands, but Tania couldn't resist the sensation of resting her hand on bare skin, no matter what part of Louisa she touched.
"You know, we better get going," Rebecca said with a pointed look at her watch. In truth, she just wanted to get Trisha out of her clothes. She stood and Trisha did the same.
Forgetting herself, Louisa stood automatically to give Rebecca a hug. Instantly, every head in the pub turned in her direction. She shrugged: it was too late now. She put her arm around Rebecca regardless, and the embrace was enthusiastically returned. "Thank you for an unforgettable evening, Louisa," Rebecca said. Louisa laughed.
Trisha came around the table and likewise hugged Louisa, although in a slightly more reserved way than Rebecca. Tania did the same to the departing pair and they said their goodbyes.
As Louisa watched them disappear out of the door she asked Tania what the time was.
"I think it's past ten now," she said, "Do you want to hang around or go home?"
Louisa laughed and looked down at herself. "Oh, yeah, let's just hang around naked, why don't we?"
Tania laughed. "Well, if you insist," and pretended to stand and go to the bar again.
"Kidding! Kidding!" Louisa said to complete the act. Tania sat down and, picking up the crumpled sundress, she held it out to Louisa.
Louisa looked at it. "It kind of seems a bit late now," she said. Tania smiled. She wondered if maybe Louisa was enjoying herself now. She knew she'd deny it if she were asked, of course, but that didn't mean she couldn't encourage her anyway. The exhibitionist streak ran deeper than either of them had realised.
"Okay, c'mon then," Tania said, standing and curling the dress into a ball under her arm.
Louisa looked across the room towards the door then, with a shrug, she stood. An array of heads again turned in their direction as she stepped out from behind the table. Tania looked at her. She was beautiful, even in this drab environment.
Together, they walked across the room towards the door, although everyone only had eyes for Louisa. Tania reached out and opened the door for her partner.
Louisa turned her head and shouted across to the barman. "Thank you! Good night!" she called.
"Thanks! Come any time!" he said.
Tania watched as Louisa stepped through the doorway and into the darkness. It was only a few minutes to walk back to her flat and the street was deserted. Still, the air was cooler now, although it wasn't as if the dress would have covered a great deal even if Louisa was wearing it.
Tania put her arm around Louisa's waist. It felt so good to have her hand on bare skin and they walked home in comfortable silence.
"The washing machine will have finished by now," Tania said. Louisa laughed.
Tania leant closer and placed her hand on Louisa's stomach and then ran it up over her breast.
"Although, I hope it isn't," she whispered. Louisa smiled, knowing that Tania owed her some special attention once they were through the front door.
Interview With An Artist
I was already at the cafe when Mia arrived. I had seen photos of her, but still I wasn't prepared for the impact she makes when she enters a room. With her thick, black bob cut hair against the pale, white of her skin, her slender figure, shocking red lipstick and bright red shoes, and the ostentatious faux fur coat, she was certainly attractive enough to command attention.
But there was something else about her: the dance of her eyes and the way she looked around the room, the way she instantly assessed everyone and everything in it. It made you want to know what was going on inside her head and, thankfully, that was what I was here for.
"Mia," I said, "Pleased to meet you. I'm Rosie."
I held out a hand and Mia took it gently. It was barely a handshake and I was petrified I would damage her slender fingers if I gripped them too tightly. I gestured for Mia to take the high stool beside me. I didn't want the table to act as a barrier between us. She took another look around the room, as if she were worried about something, and then slid onto the seat.
"Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mia. I know that your relationship with journalists hasn't always been a good one."
Mia gave a half smile, but said nothing. I continued.
"And I'm sure many of my readers will already know your name and some of your work but I'd really like to hear you describe it in your own words."
Mia pursed her full, red lips and then spoke deliberately and with a rehearsed answer.
"I create art that challenges how people think about the human body," she said. Her eyes remained fixed on mine.
"And, specifically, through nudity?" I had to prompt her to say more.
"It would be fashion design otherwise," she replied scornfully, but I knew why she was being defensive: she had gotten mostly tabloid press coverage that belittled what she was doing at the expense of sensationalism and the license to print semi-nude photos with "censored" banners plastered over them.
"One cannot appreciate music without hearing it; and likewise one cannot understand performance visual art without seeing it," she continued.
I smiled and nodded. I wanted her to believe I was on her side, which I genuinely was.
"You've taken your art all around the world, or at least those countries that are… open minded enough to welcome it. But you've chosen to make here in Madrid your home. Tell me a bit about how that came about?"
For a moment it looked as though Mia's defences had dropped a little. I was right not just to go for the easy angle and to find out more about her first. I worried that the spell might be broken as the waiter interrupted us and Mia ordered a coffee, but she settled back into her stool and seemed relaxed.
"Artists like me are, I think, naturally nomadic, and we find our homes wherever we produce our best work. Growing up in Finland, we had quite a comfortable existence, but for me there was less of a challenge." She looked around the café again. "Here in Spain, I am able to reach much of Europe easily, and the culture and climate suit me. And, there are more days each year where we can take photographs. In Finland it's either always light or always dark." She smiled.
"And do you think it's your Finish upbringing that made you personally so comfortable with nudity?"
Mia visibly bristled at my turning to the subject so quickly. "There are over five million people in Finland. I don't believe all of them have become performance artists," she replied brusquely.
Her eyes seemed to bore into me and I had to look down at my coffee. "Plus, as you say, the climate's better here. I mean, for what you do," I continued without meeting her challenge. I glanced up and thought I caught the beginnings of a smile on her lips.
"Spain is a very tolerant society too and with a great artistic history," she replied, "But who knows whether I will be here in one year, five years, ten years… But for now, I am here."
Her replies weren't going to give me much to work with so I looked down at my notepad of pre-prepared questions.
"And how do you find the people here react to your work?" I asked her.
She shrugged. "That is the point of my work: to explore this. It is better to learn this from my work than to ask me for an answer. If I had an answer, I would stop the work."
So that was another dead end. I decided to go back to try to build a relationship again, and to think more carefully about the questions I asked.
"Do you think… Do you mind if we ordered some tapas?"
I asked Mia.
Her shoulders shrugged beneath the thick coat. "Why not," she said, "This café has a good selection."
She looked around the room with her strange manner again. She was like a bird, watchful for predators perhaps, and her eyes seemed to rest on each other customer for a fraction of a second before dismissing them as a threat.
I turned around in my stool to look for a waiter and put my hand in the air to attract his attention. I had lost some of my English reserve during my time as a journalist, but, as was to become apparent, not as much as I thought.
I must have been looking away from Mia for no more than two or three seconds but by the time I turned back the fur coat was gone and I was suddenly in the presence of Mia the performance artist. Or, more precisely, Mia the naked performance artist.
I wasn't sure what the etiquette was, so I said nothing. I was incapable of saying anything as she sat there, seemingly oblivious to her nudity, not even paying attention to how I reacted.
I had seen plenty of photos and videos during my research for this interview but, in the flesh, it was obvious what a truly beautiful woman Mia was. Her skin was a delightful soft cream colour and appeared flawless, although I was trying hard not to stare. There was barely an inch of fat on her and, as she sat with her legs crossed, I wondered if I was just imagining the whole thing.
I looked around the café. It was obvious from some other reactions that I wasn't dreaming, but although there were glances in her direction, and comments between groups at tables, it wasn't quite the seismic reaction that I would have expected.
The waiter arrived and I watched his eyes lock onto Mia's breasts for a second before he gained enough self-control to address her face.
"Do you mind if I order?" Mia asked as she looked at me. It was only half a question. "It's just… I know what's good here. There's nothing that you don't eat, is there?" I shook my head.
She ordered in fluent Spanish.
"I have ordered some wine for us too. It's impossible not to drink with tapas," she said.
I looked down at my notepad of questions. None of them seemed appropriate.
"Is this a regular of yours, then?" I asked, glancing around the café, wondering if they were used to seeing Mia like this.
"I come here sometimes. Not often, but a few times."
"And… were you naked before?" I asked.
"Nude," she said stiffly, "I prefer nude." I nodded. I had read about Mia's word preference during my research, but my mind wasn't quite with me at the moment.
Mia's eyes looked upwards thoughtfully. "I can't remember. Maybe once, perhaps." She shrugged. It was seemingly so commonplace to her that she genuinely couldn't tell for sure. If I'd ever been nude in a café, I'd damn sure remember it.
"Your work…" I said, trying to pretend the interview was still running as normal, "You usually record it on video or through photography." I looked around. "So is this being recorded?"
"Of course," she said with that steely glare again. I looked around the room; there was no sign of a camera anywhere, and Mia certainly had nowhere to hide one.
"But…" I started, "But how?"
"You have your notepad, no?" she prompted, "You are writing everything down?"
I looked at my notepad and mouthed an "ah". So I was the one recording this particular piece of art.
"And everyone in the café… there seems to be much less of a reaction than I would have thought there'd be."
Her half-smile returned again and I tried to hold her gaze. "I think this is prompting a strong reaction in at least one person, no?" she said.
I mouthed an "oh". She was right: everyone, especially Mia, seemed to be taking the whole thing as if it was an everyday event; everyone except for me.
I looked down, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Mia, it's just… well, I'm not used to someone being nak-… nude."
"Do you never shower? Or bathe?" she replied, "Or change clothes?"
"Yes, but…" But this was different. It was, but should it be? Mia looked satisfied with herself, or satisfied with my reaction at least.
"Would you prefer it if I put my coat back on?" she asked.
I smiled widely in relief. "Oh, yes please."
She tilted her head slightly to one side. "Interesting," she said, but made no movement. I realised that my answer to the question was not going to influence what Mia did.
The waiter arrived with our tapas. Mia had ordered four or five small plates and she started picking at a plate of prawns with her delicate, slender fingers. I was transfixed by her movements and she looked over at me.
"I would rather not get prawns on my coat," she explained. I nodded. Of course: sit and eat in the nude rather than risk getting any on your coat.
I looked down at my notepad for more help.
"Your art…" I started, knowing I was taking a risk, "Critics say that you are exploiting your sexuality. What do you say to those that accuse you of gimmicky?" It sounded as pre-prepared as it was.
Mia smiled: it wasn't as if this was the first time she'd heard a question like this.
"Critics criticise; it's their reason to exist. They latch onto something they barely understand and try to exploit a weakness. Was it a gimmick when Manet painted Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe? When Michelangelo made David? When Praxiteles sculpted Aphrodite? Even if she did have her hand covering herself." She mimicked with a hand over her groin area.
Despite the pause, I didn't want to interrupt Mia now that she was really talking.
"These… critics," she spun her hand in the air as if she was trying to conjure the right insult. "Critic" was obviously insult enough, and now she was animated she was even more beautiful than before. "If they wanted to understand, they would. But each one is afraid for his job, and they keep their jobs by making more and more noise about things they don't understand. Because if they stopped making noise, someone else would be making noise in their place. So they make noise, and they hope that they are making the most noise and can be heard."
She stopped suddenly but the fire was still burning in her eyes. I felt I had to tread carefully now, even if I was on her side.
"But…" I started, "Do you think they would say the same about you if you weren't a beautiful, young woman?"
She put her hand on my forearm. I felt the hairs stand on end. "Exactly!" she said, "And most of the critics are men who can only think of sex, sex, sex when they see a naked woman." She paused. "And they can think that if they like. I don't mind. Most of them can't help it, but if they at least try to understand what they are seeing and how they are reacting to it, then I can forgive them."
I felt it was too early to ask her about her relationships. From what I had managed to find out, there had been very few of them, and they'd been short-lived and from a time before her nude performances began.
"But to those who see you…," I said, "If you don't mind me saying, you have an amazing body, and you wear sexy red shoes, bright red lipstick and dark eye make-up and, for most men, the only time they see a naked – sorry, nude - woman who looks like you do is only in pornography."
Mia waved a finger at me as if she were about to contradict me. "Yes! Exactly! But you are wearing lipstick, are you not? And eye make-up? And dainty high heels too?"
"Well, yes, but I'm… I'm not naked."
Mia smiled the smile that I was beginning to learn meant that the discussion was going exactly the way she planned it. "And what do you think clothes are for, eh? To keep warm, yes. Maybe in Finland. And in the UK too, no? But in Spain? Spain is so often too hot. No, clothes are not for warmth. We wear clothes to make ourselves look more attractive. I look at you in your trousers and your blouse and I can imagine the curve of your hips and your narrow waist and your soft yet pert breasts with their small pink nipples. Or maybe brown. I have no idea whether you have those things or not, but what my mind does not do is fill in these missing details with sagging and folds of fat. No, it paints a very pretty picture, imagining what you might look l
ike naked."
She waved her finger at me again before continuing.
"No. Clothes are not for concealing what we are because it's shameful, but to force the imagination to fill in the gaps, to imagine perfection beneath them. I could put my coat back on, but then it's just as easy to imagine me naked underneath, isn't it? And is that not more titillating?"
Although there was something flawed in her logic, I could see her point: clothing often enhanced sexuality. But it felt like there was a big hole in that logic somewhere.
"But do you think you will still be doing this in ten years time? Or twenty," I asked, hoping it was implicit that passing years are rarely kind to a woman's body.
She shrugged again. "Who knows? What will make me think yesterday I looked good, but today I do not? When does one notice a change? From one day to twenty years, yes, but from one day to the next? If I should have stopped today, why did I not stop yesterday? Have I changed that much?" She had a point, although that didn't answer my question. "Perhaps, when I am old, the question I am posing to people will be different. Or, perhaps, it will be irrelevant, and then I would not be doing it."
I could see her point again: the challenge to society that was presented by a naked twenty-six year old was completely different to a forty-six year old. Still, it seemed impossible to deny the link between her art and her sexuality.
"So why do you think most people are not comfortable being naked?" I asked.
"Ask that question in Finland and people would wonder what was wrong with you," Mia replied. "Comfort is from conditioning, and conditioning is a construct of society. Artists exist to challenge those constructs; to challenge society."
"Okay, but what about Mia? How does Mia feel when she's sitting nude?"
Mia shrugged. "How do you feel when you're sitting clothed? For me, there's no difference." She continued to pick at the plates of tapas. "I would ask you, how do you feel, sitting here with me nude?"
I thought for a second. "I feel… self-conscious." Mia smiled.
"Then it is worthwhile. For both of us. Tell me, what is the time?"