Naked Poets
I am driven to the station to meet a man for the first time, a man whose naked body I will see in about an hour’s time. Portraiture is all about reciprocity and very little about the act of wielding a camera. But as a photographer I am constantly aware of the discomfort people feel when faced with the penetrating stare of cold, hard glass. And it is disingenuous to pretend the camera is somehow an irrelevance. I get that I am not uncomfortable because I am holding that glass and casing and I am the person doing all the pointing, the looking, even the directing, sometimes. I am, ostensibly, in control.
The project conceived by Vik Bennett as a Wild Woman project instantly appealed to me because I am fascinated by this interaction between photographer and subject. That the subject will, in this instance, be naked adds a layer of complexity to the process, particularly in this country. We are not a nation known for our carefree attitude to nakedness. The ‘Carry On’ films were my earliest reference point to nudity; titillating, embarrassing, downright rude. When I am introduced to John Challis we shake hands and I want to giggle. Only because it is all so English, and I have no doubt that, in a couple of hours we will feel very much more continental. John is beautiful. The poet par excellence, at least in my mind. Tousled curls and pale skin, pools for eyes and a hint of sorrow. Well, probably not the latter, but all too easy to imagine. He is nervous and admits it. And I am too, because if I cannot be relaxed enough for us both the shoot doesn’t stand a chance. The ice is broken when, almost simultaneously, we admit to having wondered if it wouldn’t be fair if I were naked too.
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| The Poet's Boots |
Vik drives us to a location so perfect it might be a film set. Secluded and set amongst trees is a gypsy caravan beside a lake. A lake so perfectly surrounded by grasses and trees through which dappled light is falling that I want to cry. There is a treehouse, a yurt, a multitude of possibilities offering themselves up to us. I suggest the gypsy caravan as a starting point, and it provides a gentle beginning to that moment where, having gazed through the camera at length I am ready to see John in situ. He changes into a dressing gown while I busy myself with the camera, and then discreetly removes it, settling himself in the doorway. We have chosen to drape a blanket over him, the tongue of red wool lolling out of the open doorway. John looks at ease and natural, shifting his body this way and that when I ask. It is nice, but feels, well, staged. An ad shoot perhaps.
I suggest the trees beside the lake might provide a location, so we wander down a slope until I see how magically the light is falling. There is a tree against which John might lean, his back to the camera. I am aware of how much more exposed he must feel, but he doesn’t demure, just stands with his back to me. He throws off the robe and leans, naturally wrapping his arms around the tree behind him. It reminds me of how difficult we all find it, that arm/hand thing. “What do I do with my arms?!” is the eternal, plaintive cry of the person being photographed. This is the perfect solution and looks so natural, so easy. John hasn’t once asked me how to pose, which is interesting because it is what most people ask repeatedly when being photographed. It occurs to me that, when naked, there is little for it but simply to be.
I suggest a slightly different stance, a different weight in his body, but I know very quickly that we have got something lovely. As a final homage to this glorious location we walk down to the water’s edge. I lie on my stomach at the bank end of a wooden diving pier and gaze down its length. There is a lonely bucket at the end. John walks to the end and realises he will have to, yet again, remove the gown. But this time he stuck at the end of a gangplank. I laugh and leave the camera where it is, walk towards him and take it. He seems surprised as though I might have simply left the conundrum to him and enjoyed his embarrassment. He sits there in the shifting shadows and it is a lovely moment, that moment in a location when subject and environment are so at peace they seem made for one another.
We part just as we met, in a station car park. I kiss his cheek goodbye and sincerely thank him. I remember that device I have for breaking the division between subject and photographer, particularly when the subject is a “suit” – all resentful defensiveness at being put in a position of such submission. When someone in senior management is standing before me, impatient for the process to be over, there is always a point, early on, at which I step out from behind the camera and stand in front of them. I talk about what it is I might be after, then return to my position. And then, as if just seeing something, I emerge again, go up to them and touch them. Just a collar tweak, or the flick of an imaginary speck of dust on a shoulder. Just something to establish contact. It’s hard to be remote with someone who has straightened your tie. But even harder to touch someone you don’t know, who is naked before you and who is putting this much trust in you. No room for ‘devices’ here, just the reciprocity between photographer and subject.
