A nude was a jolly way to celebrate growing older!
My Portrait hangs behind my bed. It’s a fulllength, black and white photo taken a few years ago. I often forget it’s there, but occasionally I need a plumber or a carpenter to put up more shelves, and blush as their gaze falls on the frame because, well, it’s a naked portrait and you can see quite a lot of me in it.
It was shot while I was working for Tatler magazine, not long after I’d interviewed photographer Grace Vane Percy, who had published a coffee table book of her nude portraiture.
Her book was full of well-lit pictures of models posing naked in posh houses and castles. a peachy bottom climbs a stately staircase; another nude drapes herself over a marble sarcophagus; a rather chilly-looking woman hovers on the side of a fountain.
It was art, not pornography, and as Grace talked me through her portfolio, a thought-bubble formed in my head: ‘I wonder if she could make me look this good without clothes on?’
I’d recently run my third marathon, so was in relatively good shape, and was about to turn 30. I was throwing a birthday party but a nude portrait seemed a jollier, more unusual way to celebrate. also, my nipples were still pointing in the right direction and if I didn’t do it now, that might soon change.
There are countless portraits of dead relatives in my family — a great- great grandfather in military uniform, an ancient aunt in bonnet and lacy dress. a nude might shake things up a bit, I decided, give the grandchildren something to talk about.
a few weeks later, I arrived at Grace’s studio in West London. I had knickers and a bra in my handbag since she had emailed me stern instructions to avoid bulging lines in the pictures: ‘It’s important you do not wear any tight clothing or socks from the morning of the session. This includes bra and knickers.’ We had a polite cup of tea and discussed the poses she thought might work, before she sent me to her bathroom to undress. I emerged in a dressing gown and, like a child being coaxed to smile for his school photo, shimmied into position in front of the camera and cast my gown aside.
odd, for the first few minutes, to be writhing around the floor as nuddy as a newborn, being critically assessed by a woman I barely knew. ‘arm up a bit, turn your head to the right, no, too far, back a fraction,’ and so on, said Grace, as she started clicking. I soon forgot to feel self-conscious because it felt so liberating.
‘Here I am, as pert as rita Hayworth,’ I told myself optimistically, as I moved from my back to sitting on my bare bottom, glancing over my shoulder. I lay on my front; I lay on my side and rested my hand on my hip; I stood and she shot me from behind, one leg shifted slightly forward.
In nearly two hours, Grace took dozens of pictures which she later sent to me so I could pick which thumbnail to blow up for my bedroom. I didn’t love them all. The lighting was immensely tactful, but it couldn’t work miracles and the dimples on the back of my thighs still shone through in several shots. Ironically it was my pointy nose (as opposed to more intimate body parts) that I winced at in others.
But there were several which made me feel proud, more feminine than I could remember. In the V&a, visitors stroll past marble statues of women with real bodies — curved bellies and plump buttocks you want to squeeze with both hands.
I felt like one of those statues, and picked the full-length shot. My head is thrown back, my chest pushes towards the sky and my legs stretch out in front of my torso (although I do have the odd shy moment, which is why my photo remains in the bedroom and another of Grace’s models is pictured here).
There is a faint tan line visible around my hips which you don’t tend to see on Michaelangelo’s nudes, but it makes the picture more real, more me.
Not that I admit as much to any visiting plumber. ‘Sorry, forgive the art,’ I tell them, hurrying over to my bathroom, ‘can I show you where the leak is?’