Spencer Tunick: The Base

3AM is a fucking retarded time to wake up… it’s neither night or morning in a mental sense. The brain is still existing somewhere between sleepy and stupid – it’s no accident that the majority of hospital deaths occur in those godawful hours before dawn.

However when you get an email offering the chance to be part of a landmark international art work and get naked with thousands of other like-minded freaks at the same time, there’s no way to say no.

So, tired beyond belief and shaking with excitement, we faffed our way to Circular Quay and were met by a line that stretched from the Opera House, all the way to the Ferry Wharfs. We were sandwiched between a group of young German girls, and some heavyset bear-types from the States.

We had no idea how many people were going to be there, as the only information I had received was “Be there by 4AM.” However we were both horrifically excited about the whole ordeal and we jittered our way down the line like school girls at a Shortstack gig. The anticipation of getting nude is always a favourite feeling of mine, though I rarely get to indulge in it (while Cookie, my companion on this mission, spends most of his weekends on Oxford Street in various states of undress).

I haven’t always enjoyed getting my gear off, even though I came from a fairly nude house (I’m uncertain if dad ever wore pants before 8:00am). As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until University that my nude side really blossomed. Whether it was the ballooning confidence [Cookie says: ego] that grew uncontrollably due to a sudden injection of sexual encounters, or if it was simply a series of spumante induced nudie runs… either way, I grew very fond of getting nude.

If you ask my girlfriend, she’ll tell you that she unleashed the nude within me – as I once tried to sleep next to her with jeans on. I tried to explain that I’m just a really edgy guy who liked to sleep with his jeans on (she saw through my ruse and demanded I get my kit off).

Whatever unlocked the exhibitionist inside me, I’m thankful for it; as some of my favourite (foggy) memories consist of either being nude, or partially clothed. Suffice to say that this morning’s event will stick out like winter nipples in the unclothed annals of my memory bank.

After signing up (and receiving an ego injection as we signed the ‘model’s release form’), the crowd was herded like sleepy cattle into different nooks of the Opera House forecourt. Volunteers informed us that we were now waiting for the sun to come up, so we found a spot to flop and tried to get comfortable, surveying what portion of the audience we could see from our spot by the water.

It was an amazingly mixed crowd, with dreadlocked Newtownians, unshaven creative looking types, pearl wearing mum and dad types… and a man who looked like Ahab from Moby Dick, who calmly puffed on a pipe and said nothing.

We did our best to meet and greet the folks around us, but it was 5 in the morning after Mardi Gras weekend; so conversational skills were fairly limited. We were introduced to our production manager, a heavy-set bearded biker with a megaphone, and instructed that we should probably use the bathrooms before the shoot begins.

I’ll skip the next hour or so, as most of it consisted of me waiting to use a toilet.

Come 7 or so, the sun lifted and Spencer gave the signal for the first group to start taking their kit off. There were thousands of people in the Botanic Gardens, who I did not see earlier due to the dark, and the crowd went insane as these pink figures in the distance stripped in a nude flurry and began to march in double file through the cheering masses.

It was absolutely amazing, the line of nudes resembled a naked army marching in unison, waving to a welcoming crowd… at this stage, my smile dominated the majority of my face.

Then it was our turn.

We didn’t hear any signal, but all of a sudden, people around us were ditching their threads and screaming in a happy cacophony of exhilaration. We followed suit and stuffed our belongings in the provided plastic bags. Getting my shoes off was a struggle as I battled with my excited hands.

This was my first time being nude around so many (as I assume was standard for most), and I found it hard to tell where I was supposed to look. It was similar to the urinal, or a change room at the gym; in that you just focused on keeping your eyes at eye level… and used your peripheral for looking at everyone’s naked bodies.

Suddenly, there were thousands of screaming nudes ascending the steps of the Opera house, clapping frantically and slapping their buttocks (which gives an amazing sound – like a wet clap). The whole thing was very tribal and I couldn’t decide where to look – or what to do – as the Opera House steps were painted with flesh.

It was an amazing display of all humans great and small, a veritable tableau vivant of naked race, exposed sexuality and stripped religion – not to mention every shape of Sydneysider. There were fat guys with thin penises, short women with long breasts, wide women with thin breasts and tiny men with massive cocks. As a matter of fact, I got so used to people looking at my penis that I inturn felt comfortable doing the same. It was equal parts odd and liberating.

I was not the biggest man in the crowd by neither belly nor ballsack, nor was I the smallest; which had me feeling quite comfortable in my chubby flesh suit. However, the large gay cohort present meant that there was an abnormal amount of prefectly sculpted men about; which was somewhat harrowing as I stood there with my shaky hands on my jiggly love handles.

There was also an abundance of strikingly designed middle aged women, who stuck out like beautiful beacons of hope in the mess of man meat. However, their amazing breasts and teetering legs lost all sexual prowess when thrown in the context of 5,200 naked people on the Opera House steps.

I really thought that I would feel awkward or self conscious, as my adolescent years were spent comparing my penis to the big dick supremacy of my well-hung-heroes such as Macho Vidal, Ron Jeremy and Lexington Steele.

I’m also uncircumcised, which gives you very little for comparison in mainstream pornography (though I should mention that Michaelangelo’s David was a childhood hero of mine). Though as the models marched out and my peripheral was consumed by nude, any qualms I had were lost in the overwhelming emotion of thousands of people getting together, smiling and laughing for shits and giggles; art and equality (and the fact that worrying about it made as much sense as obsessing about the comparative size of my eyebrows).

The shoot was a peaceful and playful experience, with Spencer taking us through several poses, including one lying down (where my position on the steps became a back-breaking issue). We laughed with the guys and girls next to us (one of which had flown from Melbourne just for the shoot), we all giggled at Spencer’s gags and shuddered at the icy winds as they blew from the ocean. We could hear the wind coming as it brushed against the people further up and caused gasps and squeals along the way; creating a Mexican wave of buttock-clenching and genital-flapping.

Once Spencer was happy with his shots, we all clapped, laughed and moved on to shoot number 2 – deep inside the sails, in the grand concert hall. Some 2000 of us had been given tickets to the next shoot, so we grabbed our clothes and walked through the Opera House. After a few hours in the cold, we were too chilly to keep our shirts off… but also too proud to put all of our clothes back on. This was a once in a lifetime chance to shuffle through the Opera House naked and I wasn’t going to miss out. So I made sure to keep my pants off and let my dick dance in the Opera House air.

On the way to our assigned seating, worried looking Opera House staff handed us plastic sheets to cover the velour seats, and we sat around in the concert hall admiring the naked audience in front of us – as we chatted with the strangers next to us. This part felt a little less tribal than the experience on the steps, with the rigid seats forcing conversation beyond our control. That said – it was beyond words… the feeling of sitting there, nude and happy, as though that’s the way people have always sat in that art deco hall.

Despite the tired subject matter, the shoot was a lot of fun. Spencer covered the stage in nude bodies, asked us to stand on the seats and drape ourselves across arm rests. However, as the saying goes; all good things must come to an end.

The pack up was a little disheartening, with the majority of the models racing to re-clothe and avoiding the talk that had been so prevalent only hours beforehand. However it’s worth noting that the time was now 9:15, and the crowd looked ridiculously ravaged from the previous 6 hours.

We went to a cafe afterward, and I saw the woman who sat next to me in the concert hall. She was now looking dull in an olive green polo, but I couldn’t stop looking at her – imagining her naked. I couldn’t help but feel a close connection to her, as if we’d shared some kind of intimacy as we went about proving – both to ourselves and the world at large – that we really are all exactly the same beneath our clothes.

Fuck I love this city.

Simon Hills-Johnes