Naked - Opening and Exhibition

It takes me almost half an hour to do my jogging routine. I'm all flushed, out of breath and sweating profusely. By now my aching breasts are killing me. I lower myself to the floor and lie back, flat on the floor, spread-eagled. The coolness of the mirrored floor soothes me. Until I finally get cold... whence I get up, walk to centre stage - I am a performer - and bow. I receive applause from my ex-lover and friendly smiles from some of the others. Silent applause from Julia. Will she spend the night?

Julia mirroring

Julia suddenly approaches the glass divider and beckons me. We stand opposite each other, very close, yet separated by cold, hard glass. She presses her lips against it and I take the bait. I feel the connection. Then she takes one step back and smiles. Am I surprised when she slowly takes off her cardigan, then her jersey, both in burgundy mohair. A blue Vintage Marlies Dekkers bra is revealed, with its trademark multitude of bands and straps. She lowers her knee length skirt, black leather, and steps out of it. Grey thigh-highs and matching Marlies Dekkers knickers. Sexy. She takes off bra and knickers, matter-of-factly, followed by the stockings. We have gone to the beach a couple of times since her ordeal long ago, but I have not seen her stark-naked, displayed like this, for a long time. Women are at their peak between their late twenties- mid-thirties - I think I have said this before - but in her late forties, Julia looks great. She takes care of herself I am pleased to see. Trimmed bush, well groomed, but not shorn. She presses her body hard up against the glass. Her tits (I don't like the word, but I feel I should use it now) heavily compressed, as is her face. Again, I follow suit and press my body, tits and face to hers, to within the thickness of the cold glass pane. Again, I feel the connection, though, alas, not the warmth. Oh, Julia!

We may stand like this for five minutes at which point she abruptly kisses my lips, almost, releases herself, dresses like a shot and with a wave and a smile shoots off herself.

The critic looks at her disappearing back, looks me in the eye and makes a note.

I go to the fridge and get a glass of milk. Then I go into my 'bedroom', put on the sleeping mask and lie down with my back to the audience. Before I can begin to worry about whether I will be managing to get to sleep under this public scrutiny and without the comforting weight of a duvet, I am gone.

The day is over.

--------------------------

She is oblivious to the audience, headed by her ex-lover, all of whom will be looking at her bum, her curved cello outline, her hips and buttocks, her waist and shoulders...

Normally, she is not a restless sleeper, but during the night, under the eyes of all of them... who knows?

Who knows?

----------------------------------

THE NEXT DAY

Where am I?

Of course, when I wake up the next morning, I am puzzled as to where I find myself. Things are not normal. I have a mask on. However, I sober up quite quickly and remember where I am. I half get up, support myself on an elbow. I stroke my head and feel the stubble.

Oh, dear! What have I done, what am I doing? Why?

Now I'm awake. But that doesn't mean I immediately jump out of bed. No reason not to linger. I have a whole day ahead of me and little to do. I keep my mask on and lie on my back.

I need to dream up and issue a programme for today, I need to start writing or drawing. I am an artist, forget-me-not. But at this moment the prospect of thirty days ahead of me and little to do hold me back.

Masturbation

I think about masturbating, move my hands to my lap, but decide against it. For the second time since I came here, I think of masturbating and decide against it. For no real rational reason. Does the audience bother me? No, I don't think so... I just don't feel like it. Maybe later. It should be positive masturbation, not negative. I wonder if someone is watching me. I lose focus...

My hands don't agree with my conscious thoughts of a minute ago, have other ideas. My fingers are very, very experienced and know their way around and between the beautiful folds of my labia. They caress and pinch them, they wander along them, back and forth, until they finally find the love button and start caressing, circling, squeezing and pinching there....

There is no present, time is meaningless... there's no audience (is there an audience?), no other people, just me, only part of me, the primeval part.

And I shake and shout and arch and buck and roar...

And I relax and dose off again.

Is there an audience?

I have no idea what time it is. I've arranged to get breakfast and selected newspapers and magazines at 9am, so it must be earlier. Who knows?

It's so quiet in here. That is, there is no noise coming in from the outside. Nothing at all! But the noise I make myself, from the dragging of my footsteps to my breathing or coughing - my breaking wind! - sounds outrageous. I hadn't thought about that before, couldn't have imagined, but it's, well, terrifying. As long as the audience on the other side doesn't make a BIG noise, I'm pretty much alone with my heartbeat. And people in galleries are usually quiet...

I have three hours of music every day, four, five vinyl discs. No more. Lord...

But that's the idea: this is not a holiday, but first and foremost a dialogue with myself, intensified by being under public scrutiny. Not unlike what Julia went through twenty years ago, except that I have the attention of an audience, that is: if they continue to come, that is: if I make a show and make them keep coming. A challenge...

I shouldn't be moaning, but the time is hard for me right now.

I could masturbate again... No, don't! Do not masturbate on negativity.

What to do?! And I am only just starting.

Suddenly I decide to break away from these reveries and tear off the blindfold. The light hurts my eyes! I squint at it.

I look around. The mirrored panel is down. That does not help me at all. Am I alone? Between these walls, certainly! I see my wretched reflection all around me, naked and vulnerable, hair ruined. No hair to give me confidence, to hide behind and play with. Why do these many mirror images make me feel alone all the more? A dialogue with myself... exactly. The public side of the space may be full or empty - I see and hear nothing.

I feel like dancing

I decide to use some of the music time assigned to me. I need to raise my energy level. Sweet soul music. Marvin... I'm going to dance. I was allotted three hours, but no limits were set on volume. There... These walls will resonate. The bass will massage my abdomen, the high notes will tickle my erogenous zones.

'Let's get it on...'

And I dance, I waltz all through the room. I glide and flow with the music. I amuse myself and expand the excursions I make and include every inch of my space. My legs, my arms, my head, my whole body take part in the dance. My legs seem smooth, endless. My toned arms, muscular, with dexterous hands and fingers seem the last word of grace. My body, arching, stretching; my proud breasts leading the way. The flow of air around my moving body and body parts, my unusually naked head, is as stimulating as a feather-light massage.

The music gets louder and louder, the rhythms faster and faster. Like an actress, I react and change my character accordingly, becoming less ethereal, more earthy. I become excited; excited and hot. Now I am a go-go girl. I reveal and open up with pride. I wiggle my butt, sway my breasts. My mind moves out of the here and now and begins to lose its sense of the present.

When high-energy disco music accompanies me (Donna Summer), I am an animal. I am naked. Naked. I couldn't be anything else. Sweat trickles from my forehead (is not diverted away from my eyes by eyebrows.) My whole body glistens. I stay close to the mirrored wall and now dance with my reflection, as if in a competition, challenging my other half to see who will drop down first. I look directly into my eyes as if I were someone else. I am so close to myself. My hands go past every part of my body, kneading my breasts, caressing my flanks, slapping my bottom. My hands move along the inside of my thighs, up to my crotch. I squat down, my legs wide open, oblivious to anything but my own body. I lean back, am now supported on all fours, like an arch, my upper body is facing the sky. I look up at the ceiling. My opening is in full view, if there is an audience to view it, as I bob up and down. Fucking myself. Up and down, up and down, until exhaustion drains the last drop of energy from me.

I make it to the bed and am off.

END OF PART 1

------------------------------

In Part 2, you will see Vita make plans for if she should decide to live permanently naked. As a life-long performance. Could she pull it off, on the strength of her fame? What would it be like? Okay, I managing the cold is a factor, here and in many countries.

And we will see her write letters to iconic women, both dead and alive, concerning the feminine condition. The first will be one to Elizabeth I, on things red.