26 The Times MagazineI didn’t look at Titian’s Venus of Urbino
thinking she should have had a flatter
stomach, didn’t consider the circumference of
Danaë’s thighs in Gustav Klimt’s painting of
her, didn’t worry about the Venus Esquilina’s
hip-dips. Didn’t think that Rubens’ Three
Graces should have laid off the Reubens
(although those are some of the least
believable breasts I’ve seen).
In refocusing my gaze, I wasn’t interested
in seeing myself through a male one. I had
no interest in being pruned and perfected
into a male artist’s idea of what a woman
should look like. And, because even a
commission is usually more about them
than you, I didn’t want someone’s Oedipus
complex projected onto my body. Hester,
who works from the home she shares with
her husband and two children, places women,
often passively sitting, in a domestic setting
and focuses on the female perspective and the
different roles women are forced to fulfil.
I don’t look at the women who sit for her
and think: tummy, tits, potato-smiley knees,
cellulite. I don’t wonder how much they weigh,
how old they are. They give Hester something
to create art with, and so their bodies are
art-worthy. Maybe, then, mine could be
too. So, 0 to 60. I slid into Hester’s DMs
on Instagram and asked her for her rates- apologetically, of course, because she’d
have to draw me – bought a bristle body
brush and then used it a total of twice,
tweezed my nipple hairs and off I went.
Hester doesn’t let her clients peek as she
works. I sat in two poses – with a tea break
in the middle – each for about two hours in
a wonderfully warm room (hence the boob
droop), despite the cold day. We talked almost
without break. The instant intimacy that is
often felt between a hairdresser and their
client, which can turn a haircut into a therapy
session, is nothing compared to that between
artist and nude sitter. She took photographs
to work from once I’d left, when she’d choose
the stronger sketch to finish over the course
of a few weeks.
The second sketch, she said, often went
to waste. Would I mind if she finished it,
obscuring my face, and sold it on Partnership
Editions? The question surprised me and,
perhaps even more than the sitting, made
me feel good naked. Commissioning a work
of me was one thing. Hester’s unquestioning
confidence that a stranger would want to buy
an artwork of my naked body was another.
I loved the idea of someone buying my nude
for no other reason than that they loved the
way it looked, that my long-hated bum or
breasts or thighs might become the backdrop
for some stranger’s dinner parties and nights
in front of the TV.
On my way to Hester’s house, sitting naked
for an artist felt like an insurmountable thing.
And then – it wasn’t. It was relaxed and
informal and not such a big deal after all, as
is often the case with the things we’re afraid
of. And I felt quite good naked. Not suddenly
compelled to become a naturist; not instantly,
magically like a million quid – I wasn’t
hypnotised into believing I was a Sports
Illustrated cover star, just drawn. But I felt
braver – brave enough to take my kit off again
a few days later to be photographed for this
piece, albeit after a spray tan.
When looking for a reference to send
the photographer, I struggled to find naked
photographs of women with body types like
mine that weren’t pornographic or ads for
shapewear. If you’re more than a size 10,
you’re either selling sex or Spanx. In the
end, we settled on an image by German
photographer Ellen von Unwerth of
supermodel Elle Macpherson, a woman
with a body about as different from mine
as you could get. Even so, walking home
afterwards, I felt almost giddy.
The photographs show a very different
person from the portrait. I’m more tanned,
yes, and the better for 90 minutes spent in the
hair and make-up chair and some incredibly
good lighting, but also poised, controlled.
This is me “on”. Smile, say please and thank
you, perform. Don’t rack up any overtime.
I thought it would be stranger than it was to
be showing so much skin – I’ve never even
been photographed in shorts or a sleeveless
top – but it was oddly easy. I didn’t have to
wonder if I was showing too much leg when
I was showing all of it. The photographer was
male, but a million miles away from the ickykind and couldn’t have worked harder to
make sure that I felt comfortable, sprinting
behind a screen every time I moved an inch
so that he never saw any more than you
can in these pictures.
By rights, even though my bits are
covered, it should be the photographs- in perfect focus, a precise version of me,
no artistic licence or softened edges to hide
behind – that show me at my most exposed.
No one’s ever been the victim of leaked nudes
or revenge porn with an oil painting. But the
me in the photographs is Charlie the fashion
editor. She’s the front that I’ve built, a woman
invulnerable to trolls in the comments section
( just this week, one called me pan-faced).
The me that Hester has captured is a
different one. No professional switch turned
on, no stomach sucked in. I tried, naturally,
but there was no way I could hold it in for
two hours. My shoulders are rolled forward,
my hair is dirty and pulled back into a bun
without a mirror to guide me. I relaxed
completely (thanks in no small part to Hester,
whom you should all be so lucky to spend a
lazy, chatty afternoon with) and resisted the
urge to ask her to make me thinner, to make
me better, to make my body a “good” one.
I allowed her to see the version of myself
that I am less sure is worthy. The woman
she’s drawn isn’t the one you’d meet on
a photoshoot, but the one you’d find at home,
should I choose to let you in. They’re both
true versions of me, but Hester’s is the version
of my naked body that I’m trying to learn
to love. And because this is how she sees me,
the roundness ripe, the folds organic, my skin
refracting the multicoloured light, I think it
might be working.
I am not just a pair of tits or an arse.
But if I were just a pair of tits or an arse,
70cm x 50cm, framed, I think I’d be worthy
of hanging on the wall. (You might not get
the opportunity to hang me on your wall
because I’ve asked Hester for first refusal
on the second sketch once it’s finished. Is it
possible that I like how I look naked so much
that I want to see two different angles?) And
while hiding my nude in the attic might help
stave off the otherwise inevitable grey nipple
hair, should you ever be invited into my
flat, you’ll find it in pride of place over the
mantelpiece instead. Welcome, do come in.
Why thank you, I think she really captured
my essence – and my nipples. nI loved the idea of someone buying my nude,
that my long-hated bum or breasts might be the
backdrop for some stranger’s dinner party
Gwyneth Paltrow posted a nude shot on Instagram@GWYNETHPALTROW/INSTAGRAM. HAIR AND MAKE-UP: MALIN COLEMAN USING GIORGIO ARMANI. OPENING SPREAD: CHARLIE GOWANS-EGLINTON WEARS SHOES, JIMMYCHOO.COM. RUG, TEAPOT, CUP AND SAUCER, UK.JONATHANADLER.COM, TABLECLOTH, NEXT.CO.UK. PREVIOUS PAGE: SHOES, MANOLOBLAHNIK.COM