My life in the nude
Andy Tabbat traces six decades of nakedness, from a childhood backyard to the streets of San Francisco
Editor's note: This essay is an updated version of a piece Andy first published on his own blog in July 2018.
I believe, deep down, that I am hard-wired to be a nudist. There are times, in nature, at a social gathering, or on a city street, when I think, “This moment would be perfect, if only I were naked.” Being dressed can actually make me somewhat claustrophobic. Society has trained me to overcome the urge to rip off my clothing in most situations, but the feeling is real.
When discussing the importance of nudity in my life, I prefer to be as clear as possible. I describe myself as a “nudist,” not as a “naturist.” There can be no misunderstanding that a nudist is one who likes being nude, whereas I think the word naturist is too often confused with “naturalist.” Even when correctly understood, it conveys an image of communing nude with nature in unspoiled surroundings. That may be an apt description of many who call themselves naturists, but I am a city dweller. I am most often naked at home or in other urban spaces: I am an urban, sometimes public, nudist. I’ve been called an exhibitionist. If I am, then so is anyone posting selfies on Facebook or Instagram. I consider myself an activist for our basic right to be non-sexually clothes-free when and where we choose.
Nudity is our default state. Putting on clothes is an action. To be ashamed of (or offended by) the human body is to be ashamed of (or offended by) simply being human. I don’t buy the argument that we should always defer to those who are offended by nudity. Most of us are frequently faced with behaviors we find objectionable, but seldom are we harmed by them.
I did not grow up in a nudist environment. I don’t remember seeing my mother naked, nor my siblings except during shared baths when we were very small, but as a child I was naked a lot and it was a non-issue. My earliest memories of nudity outside the home, and certainly of seeing nude adults, involve weekly skinny dips with my dad at a YMCA pool in Los Angeles when I was about eight. I had no direct interaction there with anyone except my father, but I felt a powerful spirit of belonging among those naked men and boys. Several other memories of boyhood nudity remain equally vivid. It’s undeniable that I now feel most alive when I am nude, and I think this was also true during my childhood.
Shortly before I started junior high (aka middle school), my family moved east to a suburb of New York City. Around that time I went from total comfort with my body to being intensely embarrassed by it. I can’t say anyone imposed shame on me, but going through puberty brought extreme self consciousness. Just telling my mother that I needed a jockstrap for gym class was difficult for me. In my teens I loved being naked more than ever, but I was furtive about it. I secretly began sleeping nude. Home alone, I wandered through the house with nothing on. Late at night I crept naked into our backyard to lie down on the grass or climb trees, marveling at the sensations of breezes, tree bark, and moonlight touching my skin.
I was sixteen at the time of Woodstock and the Summer of Love. Previously, non-sexual nudity had been virtually unheard of, except for snickering remarks about art models and “nudist colonies.” Suddenly, images of naked people were everywhere. Nudity in films became commonplace. I saw “Hair” on Broadway, with its famous nude scene. Comfort with nudity was a fixture of the era’s hippie culture. I admired and envied those confidently naked people in magazines and on stages. I yearned to unlearn my body shame and be like them. I wanted to stop hiding my nakedness and let it be seen, because without clothes I felt like my truest self. I still feel that way.
After graduating high school in 1970, I moved into my own tiny apartment in Manhattan hoping to pursue an acting career. I found work ushering at an Off Broadway play that featured a nude sequence involving most of the cast: this made me a wannabe on the fringes of both the theatrical community and the world of body freedom.
I soon began dating a man who introduced me to Riis Park, a [then] clothing optional beach near NYC. On hot days it was mobbed, with only narrow paths of exposed sand to walk on between “wall-to-wall” beach towels. The great majority of people wore swimsuits, but nudity was legal and accepted. It was my first opportunity to be naked outdoors without fear of being caught. I spent long happy days in the nude, body surfing, gathering shells, and sunning. Unlike my boyfriend, who nurtured his tan-line, I got brown all over. It was very public but also very anonymous; a liberating combination. Well, it was anonymous for the most part… I once recognized my former summer camp counselor, and one day I saw a retired couple who lived upstairs from me. All of them wore swimsuits. My first impulse in both cases was to turn away and hope that I had not been seen, but I pushed myself to say hello. We had friendly conversations. My nudity was neither acknowledged nor awkward. When I later encountered those neighbors in our apartment building, I realized that their having seen me naked changed nothing. That was a moment of growth.
I forayed into a different kind of social nudity later in that summer of 1970, when I attended a party given by a friend’s girlfriend. Among those dancing in the crowded living room was one naked (and very stoned) man. I was awed by how free he was, and by the fact that no one batted an eye. I could imagine how wonderful it must feel to move like that in the nude. Knowing I’d be disappointed in myself if I missed this chance when a braver soul had already cleared the path, I mustered the courage to take off my clothes… but then sat in a corner, pleased to have met the challenge but too self conscious even to cross the room for a drink, let alone dance.
When autumn came, I began working as a model for college art classes in Manhattan. Modeling was different from my previous nude experiments. At a beach or party, no one was necessarily even looking at me, and I had the option of getting dressed if I felt vulnerable. But a nude modeling gig was a commitment to three hours of being literally on display. At first I found it overwhelming. I got through it by imagining myself elsewhere or fully concentrating on whatever music was playing in the studio. After a few classes I was able to be more present. I could return the gazes of the students. It was interesting to listen to the instructors coaching them, often calling their attention to the particulars of my body: “See how he’s bow-legged?” At first I was mortified by such observations, though I knew them to be true. I came to understand that no one was criticizing my body; they were merely stating facts about it. In the long run, the experience bolstered my self-acceptance. I built up a callous on my body shame.
Meanwhile, I still had my job as an usher. I had watched the show dozens of times and knew it by heart. One desperate evening when several actors were out sick, I was asked to go on as an understudy with one quick rehearsal. I was mainly focused on being in the right place and getting my lines out, but in terms of nudity it was a watershed moment for me. There I was, eighteen years old, naked on the stage of a sold-out theater in New York City. Unlike the dimly lit nude scene in “Hair,” the all-white stage set was flooded with light. Previously, I had mostly kept quiet about my love of nakedness. Few people (except strangers) knew I went nude at the beach. I had talked with almost no one about being a nude model. But I was so proud to be in a professional play that I announced it to my family and friends without hesitation. There was no need to mention the notorious nude scene; everyone already knew about it and wondered how I dared. Their curiosity provided an opening for me to discuss my deepening convictions regarding body acceptance and shame. I came out as a person to whom being naked is both enjoyable and important. Since then it has been a facet of myself that I share pretty easily. I went on to act in dozens more plays and musicals, occasionally nude, more often not. Between acting jobs I held down a variety of “day jobs” where I managed to keep my clothes on (!) but seldom hid the fact that I was a nudist in my time off. I have continued to model nude for artists, including some well known photographers.
In my thirties I left New York for San Francisco, a city with a reputation for tolerance, eccentricity, and freedom, and with a history of public nudity. Here I have been nude (and photographed) at more street fairs, parades, demonstrations, foot races, bicycle events, and parties, than I can count. I think being naked in public and online is beneficial in terms of advancing acceptance. Seeing bodies of various shapes and ages “normalizes” nudity by desensitizing viewers and resetting their expectations. Until San Francisco changed its public nudity laws in 2012, I could sit naked in a sunny little plaza near my home, sipping coffee, reading a paper, and chatting with friends.
I often stepped outdoors to bring in the mail or put out the trash bins without covering up. A neighbor once phoned, offering to send her husband over with some soup she had made. I asked her to delay for a few minutes because I had nothing on, and she replied “What else is new?” When a nude photo of me was published on the front page of a local newspaper during the political battle leading up to the city’s ban on public nudity, a dentist’s receptionist greeted my spouse with “We’ve been seeing a lot of Andy lately!” Even when clothed, I have frequently been recognized as one of the city’s Naked Guys. I accept that title with pride.
I find it easy to be nude around most people, no matter whether I am among fellow nudists or am the only one. I have always had non-nudist friends who are comfortable if I am clothesfree in social situations, and others who are not. I generally broach the subject early in a friendship. If a person reacts favorably I might disrobe on the spot or ask whether they would mind if I were naked during a future visit. This way, as a friendship develops, my nudity has already been established; I find it more difficult to introduce nudity once there is a pattern of always being clothed.
My family knows I am a social and public nudist. They have seen published photos of me. My sister and cousins seem to have a “so what?” attitude, but they live thousands of miles away and I have not spent time naked around them as an adult. When I went to Burning Man for the first time, my aunt asked to see photos “from the waist up.” I would guesstimate that ninety percent of people in my life are aware of my nudism and perhaps fifty percent have seen me in the flesh.
I prefer to let my freak flag fly rather than stifling myself in an attempt to appear “normal” …speaking of which, what could possibly be more normal than a human body? Each of us has one, and there are few surprises among them. 🪐
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