I’m an artist. And I miss figure drawing. Drawing from a live nude model was always a thrill for me. But not for the obvious reasons.

It’s been awhile since I’ve drawn anything from life. Much less a human figure. But I’ve been thinking about nudity lately because of some recent comments. And also because I’ve been thinking about art.

I think that we as a society are too uptight about nudity. There are sexual images everywhere. Tight little teenagers are supposed to arouse us into buying blue jeans or body wash. But the messed up part is that we get all enraged if someone dares bare part of a breast (pretty much the part you’d see in a low cut blouse anyway or on the beach in a triangle top bikini) in order to feed or comfort her child. We are scandalized and outraged when wardrobes “malfunction” under extreme public circumstances. Women are ashamed of a few extra pounds, natural and glorious curves, because of the collective worship of the anorexic prepubescent. We develop eating disorders and diet ourselves into obesity because what we’re given as the model of perfection is only one of the million different varieties of beauty out there, one that is, for most of us, just not possible to achieve. We spend so much time trying to “fix” appearances that are not broken because we’re somehow convinced otherwise. We have a messed up relationship with our bodies, and whether our puritanical attitude toward nudity is the cause or effect of this, I’m not entirely sure.

When I was much younger, I bared my breasts for the hell of it. For a reaction. Mostly among friends, and in a safe place. I was proud of them, and it thrilled me that it shocked people to see them under some unlikely circumstances. It is what it is, done and in the past. And though I do not regret my actions, there are certain things that an adult resume just doesn’t need to include. But, anyway, this was back in the nineties. When 35mm was king and often took more than an hour to print, even costing extra if you wanted it that fast. This was before. Before photo printers. Before digital dominance. Before camera phones. Before one stupid youthful indiscretion would be Googled to you for life.

Would I do some of the things I did as a teenager in the nineties as a teenager in the now? I should hope not. Because as much as I fought it, eventually, and to a certain extent, I did grow up. I grew out of whatever phase it was that made me do those types of things. And I realized that our choices and our actions carry weight and consequences, not only for ourselves, but for those around us. And what in the past might have easily been forgotten or become the stuff of legend, neither able to be confirmed nor denied,  today may be the same thing that is captured forever with one easy push of a button and distributed beyond imagination with another. A new kind of permanent record spinning so far out of control that any attempt at “delete” becomes a joke, an exercise in futility.

So how does all this circle back to art? Well, the artist’s nude reveals a truth about us. A truth from which a lot of people run. A secret. That we are bodies. We are animal. We are earth. We are real and dirty. We wrinkle. We sag. We are vulnerable.

We hide from this vulnerability not only in our clothes, but in our attitudes and pretensions. We wrap ourselves in knowledge, opinions and brand names. We hide in our houses and convince ourselves that we are important. That these illusions are the things that really matter. But what if they don’t?

The naked body is fascinating and forbidden because it calls us to a nature we might prefer to deny. It reminds us of our own imperfections, our physical presence and baser instincts. So we cover and cower, and starve ourselves of something we may not be able to name. But it has an effect. There are women out there, like me, who are proud of their bodies, no matter the shape. They are inspiration. As for me, I am more proud of this thirty-year-old body than I ever was of the teenage one, which is saying a lot. Though that doesn’t mean I’d do the same things with it today that I did then. I know better, and I’m well aware of the more sinister uses of modern technology.

But I just have to wonder how artists and models are handling this digital age. Because if I were to stand nude on a pedestal for a classroom of students with sketch pads on easels, I’m just cynical enough that it wouldn’t surprise me to see a cellphone slip out of the pocket of the one(s) whose only interest in art is the unrestricted access to a live nude for staring and click-and-send-and-save-for-later uses. Maybe to be a model these days you have to decide not to care about the ease and permanence that technology has delivered. Maybe to be an artist you have to step up your game in order to create something entirely other, above and beyond what any LCD screen or laser printer can.

For those of us who have always been called to art, art has always called for us to sacrifice something of ourselves in turn. The terms have changed since the last time I fully answered that call. And I am sitting here considering what it might mean to return.

And just to clarify, no, you can’t see me naked.