Pepi's Symposium: Exposing the human form.

Recently I coined a term that I thought expressed a need to free ourselves and our society from the influence of those who wish to restrict our behaviour, our nature, our beauty, our expression.
Militant Nudity!
Will save the world
(click to enlarge)

Here in Australia we are suffering from excessive interference from the Nanny State. Governments instead of creating an ever increasing free and flourishing society are endeavouring to dictate behaviour in areas that should be left to the individual. The consequence is that they will crush originality, choice and our ability to fail, make mistakes, learn, grow and evolve. Personal development is just that; Personal. As an expression of that I encourage, support and admire those who place themselves in the firing line of so called standard setters. Expose yourself to honest appraisal. Challenge the accepted norms, Be naked.

Terms like Norms, Normal, Average, Common, Accepted, Standards, Majority mean nothing, except a dry statistical approach to life. They mean nothing to progress, creativity, originality and expression of the self. They are the often sought observation of this world as a stew of over-boiled images that blend and make bland. They remove all spice from life. They suck dry the juices of inspiration. The grey day of the common man.
There are artists who are often described as 'out there', 'notorious', 'over the top', 'confronting', 'in your face', 'infamous' etc. who are said to 'push the envelope', 'challenge standards' and 'defy the norm'. Thank the heavens that such beings exist.

Smart, witty and wonderfully executed. (33.35 minutes)

From my novel 'Dance with the Sun'

Sunny had by now become accustomed to meeting up with some friends at Piccadilly Circus after his dancing lessons. Together they sat and discussed existence beneath the centrepiece of Christian Charity. The naked youth raised high on his pedestal amongst the rubbish and poverty of one of the great centres of western civilisation is a glorification of Charity and often mistakenly referred to as the pagan love god Eros. To him the sentiment was the same, and the boy took it as an omen for establishing his new life. The bronze boy was his own personal talisman, his secret friend and brother. Some of this motley city tribe were slightly older, from the University and others, unfortunately he thought, were just stoned. The 'just stoned' ones had little else to recommend them, as that was their reason for existence, which kept them too occupied to participate in many other activities. Disillusioned, without confidence in the future, they sometimes sought escape in personal relief that further relieved them of the need to achieve anything. To him this was a sadness that he could not accept. He liked them but what could he absorb from those whose actions offered little. Selfishly he realised that if he could change them they would have more to give, to return to his life, but he now belonged to that group and he had to survive. The only way he knew was to open himself up to the world. He had no secrets. He had no need of them. He wanted to be accepted, but it had to be in truth. How could people form a judgement of him if he did not expose everything within himself? He was no longer the innocent introvert shying away from strangers. That time, drawn out of necessity had passed. Now he was developing a mission, his light must come out from under the bushel. Without seeing all that was there to know of him, they would be accepting a half image, a lie. Gradually and with rising confidence he began to speak of his longings, his fantasies, his hopes and his dreams. If he set this example, perhaps they would in turn open up to him and from there the inspiration would gather. His stories fascinated them and his participation in life excited them. In those grey days in the dirty city he began to shine. He stood apart.

At night, in his shambled, clothes cluttered bed; Sunny would lay on his back with his feet stretched above him, resting on the cold smeared plaster wall, and think over with impatience the direction his life was taking. So much was being fed into his mind that the need to explore what he could do with it, festered like a swollen boil requiring urgent lancing. New friends were gathering all around him, but the newfound, and now constant fear of stagnation pushed his dreams into a smorgasbord of wildly wonderful images of creativity. He hungered for the spectacular, the extraordinary, and the fulfilment of his existence, just as he had done when a child. In those days though, he knew the constraints that must be obeyed. Today this was no longer relevant, and an inner urgency told him that time and life should not be wasted. He must make a start.

Michelangelo Buonarroti always saw his creations hidden secretively inside a lifeless block of marble needing only his guiding hammer and chisel to release them. The potential was there. It only required the eye of understanding and the faith of love to be fulfilled. Almost certainly it took courage to strike a blow for beauty. Something so delicate could be shattered easily if care, appreciation, and skill were absent. The boy struggled to free himself just as the unfinished Captives of that great sculptor twist and turn in an attempt to wrench free of the mass of stone that imprisons them. The fight for the spirit of life, or art's creation pitted against the restraints of that which is wretched and physical, swirled throughout the boy’s existence. A blow must be struck. Negligence can be destructive. People had expectations. Yes, the need was urgent, his time was short.

Surprises were common in the late sixties. Change was everywhere and ironically, like the eye of the storm, that busy crossroad of London tourism and commerce grew to be one of the most publicised magnets to the disciples of the anti-establishment. One particular grey and dismal day he ran to meet his friends who had gathered directionless together on the polluted, black, trodden steps at the foot of his bronze hero. He looked at them, and in a moment of delirious, spontaneous inspiration he placed his bag on the cemented ground, and began to step rhythmically back and forth in front of his pensive comrades. At the foot of the statue of Eros, Sunny threw off his shoes, quickly peeled himself out of his shirt and trousers and began to dance. A crowd naturally gathered in awe and surprise at the sight of this unexpected, brazen, but beautiful boy. His buttocks were white and shimmery and his dew drop covered pubic hair and penis swayed like a small flower as he moved around the island in the centre of this crowded and hurrying city. His friends expected cheers or cries of derision, but the boy showed such confidence and joy that he was soon surrounded by the silence of a colourful, sheltering crowd blessed to be part of this occasion. Like a young faun the vision pranced from one side to the other, his hair became damp as it flew in the air and two small delicate feet stamped in the puddles, as they kicked the rubbish aside to create his stage. It became impossible to distinguish the sweat from the rain gently falling on this offering to Eros. His nostrils flickered, his mouth panted and his heart beat visibly in his chest, as he spun around and around, with arms outstretched, faster and faster, until at the height of his excitement, he screamed just before collapsing in exhaustion, from the adrenalin that pumped furiously through his body.

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Yoko Ono's famous Cut Piece in which her clothing was cut away from the body.