Sven's life in Oz

As you know this past three weeks has been Mardi Gras here in Sydney, and when I wasn’t embarrassing myself by seeming to be a stalker (that all turned out ok, by the way; Dr Lego was very sympathetic and found it highly amusing) I was reverting to type by spending extended periods of time getting naked in public. This will be my last opportunity for legally exposing myself in front of crowd for a while, but in my defence I wasn’t the only one: this time I had 5000 friends along to join in the fun. It can only mean one thing: Spencer Tunick was in town.

Anyone who has lived with me, slept with or near me, or tried to wake me up of a morning knows that it is not an easy thing to do. It’s not that I’m “not a morning person”, because I’m perfectly charming once I’m awake. It’s simply that waking up is such a chore, and going back to sleep is almost too easy, so I’m always drawn to the route of least resistance. Last Monday morning was a personal challenge for me not because I had to strip naked in front of thousands of people and a national landmark, but because I had to get up at 3am to take part. I spent 20 minutes sitting on the edge of my bed wondering if I really wanted to go. My bed was so warm and inviting and the prospect of walking to the Opera House on a crisp autumn morning before the sun rose was almost enough to put me off. Thankfully I snapped out of it and forced myself to hit the streets. I didn’t shower or do my hair though – what was the point? Who would be looking at it?

The route from my flat to the Opera House took me down Oxford Street – the gay party strip – on the biggest weekend of the Mardi Gras. It was a strange experience heading out for the day at the time I would normally be coming home, seeing people partying away or ending their night just as my day was beginning. However, as I closed in on the harbour the party atmosphere picked up, though it was an eerie excitement as everyone tried to stay quiet. I’ve mentioned before how residential the CBD is; I’m sure it was quite a sight when people opened their curtains in the morning to see 5000 naked bodies waving back at them, but at least we all did our best to let them sleep while we got ready. For the record, Circular Quay on an autumn morning at 4am is a pretty nippy place to be, and don’t let anyone tell you any different. The waiting around in the cold sea air was worth it though – the sunrise usually happens while I’m in bed so seeing it from the steps of the Opera House was a pretty rewarding experience. No time to waste though: no sooner was the sun up than the trousers were down and the most surreal couple of hours of my life began.

It’s difficult to explain how odd a sight 5000 naked people moving in a crowd can be. From where I was standing I had a pretty good view and I can only describe it as a swarm of nudity, like those massive clouds of starlings you see from time to time, but pink, giggly and wobbling. There was the inevitable looking at people’s bits without looking like you were looking, but after 15 minutes the novelty rather wore off and one person’s bum looked just like the next. I thought it was infinitely fascinating to see the difference between the skin on people’s faces and that on their arses. I know it sounds obvious, but seeing how weathered your face cheeks are compared to your ass cheeks really drives home the message about sunscreen. I’m never leaving home without it again. I was also reassured that, in the entire crowd there was not one person with a perfect body. Being a Mardi Gras event, I had imagined the place would be full of toned Adonises who had been in the gym since the day they were born in preparation for this moment. There wasn’t a six pack in sight. As I looked around I saw bodies of every shape and size – some fatter or thinner, saggier or drier, paler, hairer, balder or bonier – and I realised that really I’m not that bad after all. I have bits that I hate, but so does everyone else. No one is perfect. We should treasure our blemishes: they make us unique.

We all assumed our positions and did as we were told while Tunick took roll after roll of film. A squeal would ripple through the crowd whenever a breeze came in off the water, followed by the clapping sound of 10,000 hands slapping 10,000 forearms, trying to stay warm. We all laughed awkwardly when we had to lie down, unavoidably resting hands on strangers thighs or torsos, trying not to touch anything too fleshy. We talked to the people next to us, waved to friends and identified people with kooky tattoos or outrageous hair colours so we can spot ourselves in the final picture. We discussed the weather, the traffic (at 3am there wasn’t much) and whether or not we would be on tv. It was pretty run-of-the-mill, except for being completely naked, outside, and waving to commuters on their way to work.

After the exterior shots were finished, 2000 people ran into the concert hall and filled every seat, lay on the stage and packed the walkways. I wish I could say it felt odd sitting on a plastic bag in the concert hall of the Sydney Opera House naked as the day I was born, but by then it really didn’t. Tunick directed from the lighting box, a disembodied artist booming out of nowhere to sit down, stand up, move left or right or turn around. It’s hard to know what left or right is when you have no frame of reference, but we managed nonetheless. When we stood up the bags we had been given to protect the seats from our naked bums stuck to everyone’s thighs: the sound of plastic sheets ripping off 2000 naked arses simultaneously is something few people will get to enjoy. After that we assumed various poses and just as we were coming to the end, while I was draped over the chair with my foot on someone’s should and my arm in the air, I looked around the room. The entire place, floor to ceiling and every gap in between, was covered in flesh in every conceivable shape, colour, texture and condition. It was a living sculpture and it took my breath away. People may laugh and think we’re all mad for doing it, but to get a moment like that was definitely worth getting out of bed for.

I’ve been following the weather in Britain with an envious eye since before Christmas – how dare it snow while I am living abroad! – but since the big freeze kicked in shortly after my sister sent me a photo of her snowman, I’m not so jealous any more. While everyone back in the UK battles on in the world’s largest ice rink, I am suffering 35C (87F) days and slowly turning a lovely shade of golden brown (via the obligatory lobster orange). What better way to enjoy the sunshine than to strip off to your underwear and take a train ride through the city with sixty strangers?

Last Sunday was the second annual Sydney No Pants Train Ride (it’s been going in NYC since 2002). Thanks to facebook it is now free and easy to gather a crowd of likeminded individuals and organise them all so they can ride the City Circle for an hour in nought but their underwear. I was amongst them. The plan was simple: get on the train and take your trousers off. Then get off the train in groups along the City Circle, wait on the platform in your undies, and get on the following train. By the end you have a train full of people in no pants. Then you all do a lap of honour and get off at Circular Quay, filing out through the gate one by one before disappearing off into the city. Oh, it was great fun.

Sadly I was too busy acting nonchalant to pay much attention to the reactions of other passengers. I looked like this:

but I am informed that many of the people around us looked like this:

So, after an hour or so of Pride & Prejudice & Zombies (review to follow in a few days), we all made our way to the Opera House for a final photo shoot and to get dressed again. The problem was that none of us actually wanted to put our clothes back on. Did I mention it was 35C? While the rest of the world did the ride in the depths of winter, we were all quite grateful not to have get fully dressed. So we didn’t. We hung around outside like semi-naked tourists for a while:

and then we decided to head for a bar that would serve us in a state of undress. It was a struggle, but we did it. I spent the afternoon meeting some really nice people, eating kangaroo and emu pizzas, and patting myself on the back for choosing a stylish yet practical pair of boxer briefs for the day. Now what shall I wear next year?

Back in July, Greg kindly gave me a voucher for Style Council to get whatever I wanted from their range of beauty products, therapies and accessories.  After three months and a range of reasons for not being able to use it, I managed to get myself around for a look at what I could get with my money.  My original plan had been to get a super pair of sunnies for the summer, but on the way I stumbled through Surry Hills market and managed to get myself a pair for $20.  Sunglasses are the very definition of sod’s law: the cheapest pairs about which you care the least are the ones that will last you for years.  Decent sunglasses, like my wonderful Alexander McQueen pair, will fall apart at the most inconvenient time no matter how well you look after them. (The arm snapped off my McQueens the moment I moved to Australia. It was most annoying.) Since I was now without a mission I decided to throw caution to wind and get myself a facial. Also, my voucher was out of date by a fortnight, so it was kind of the shop to offer me anything at all.

I like to take care of myself – I have quite a skin care regime to which I stick fairly firmly.  As you know, I am an advocate of Clinique, and I use their stuff daily to keep myself looking young.  I’m all for taking care of myself, but not much of a goer for the kind of girly crap I booked in for on Saturday.  I’ve never really enjoyed massages. There’s something about people touching me that just makes me feel awkward, which is ironic given I’m quite a touchy-feely guy most of the time.  I’ve never had anything waxed, plucked, scraped or shaved. I’ve certainly never gone for anything so decadent or pointless as a facial. I may be gay but there are limits. I arrived at the appointed hour and was lead upstairs for an hour of poncey self-indulgence.

Rose, my facial technician (beauty therapist? skin care technologist?) told me everything she planned to do, which involved all kinds of rinsing, exfoliating, masks, washes, lotions and potions, but the main thing was to relax. I had an hour with nothing to do but enjoy myself. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture my internal horror at a full sixty minutes with no input of any kind and zero productivity to show for it. Nonetheless, in I went, undressed, hopped on the table and awaited the start of my treatment. Apparently I have very good skin for a thirty-year old. Rose wasn’t thrilled at my using Clinique, but she conceded it clearly hadn’t done me any harm since she wouldn’t believe I was a day over 24. This is happening to me a lot lately and I’m not going to lie to you: I fucking love it. I closed my eyes and the party began, with all manner of organic enzymes eating their way through my nasal sebum and milky washes rinsing away the dirt.  After about five minutes I stopped caring what she was putting on me and just let myself go. It. Felt. Amazing.

One hour later and I drifted off the table like a new man. I was quite astounded. I’m sure the visual differences were less noticeable for others but you couldn’t pull me away from the mirror. I was shocked by how different I looked, and the feeling! Oh, it was like I had been suffering a layer of filth for thirty years and now my real face was revealed to the world, like a grimy Eustache Dauger. I practically skipped out of the place, but not before making an appointment to go back and have it all done again in a month’s time. Whatever I may have said before, I am total convert and you will find me one Saturday a month stripped to my undies on Oxford Street, with a hot towel around my face getting worked up into a lather.

And that’s just in the afternoon.