I was just about to turn 13 in a couple of months. We were about to leave Paris, and were staying in an old in-town hotel. The night before, I had caused the entire hotel to be awakened, and the door broken into, because I didn’t awaken to the noise and knocking as my parents returned. I was supposed to let them in. The old place only had one key.
The folks wanted to see the Follies one last time. It was decided that I was old enough to go with them. It was after all art, they said. Have I made clear the subtle decision making compromises and justifications? I was seen with new light as mature and promoted by necessity.
I sat somewhere about fourth row centered, dad wanted to see the art up close. The young budding boy got a kick out of his new unsheltered privilege. “Wait until the guys hear about this,” was cancelled. I had already had to say good-bye to my friends.
I watched my first actual moving nude bodies and of course, the nude ballet. I realized that bodies were fascinating to watch. I pondered why the star wasn’t as Playboy beautiful as the others. When it was a memory, I treated my response as “mature” and “art” and then, I overheard my dad telling a friend that, “Yea, we were close enough to see the pubic hairs,” which was my observation and sentiment. “Oh boy,” did I think that that was a sexy treat, but I kept my cool.
Saturated by old European art for several years prior, I had grown to know how to separate the sex and the humanity and art of the nude body, but there was a continuing confusion of any black and white demarcations. American culture dominated my outlook after that, until I had a shower with my girlfriend at 16. I then discovered a wholesomeness that I was not aware of. It ultimately took the experience of social nudity to come to realistic terms, which was later, during the late 1960’s early 1970’s.
Jbee
