Featured in Farrago Magazine Edition Six 2026 

The day the body became an object of sexual desire, there was the absence of a loud bang, no foaming at the mouth, no dilated pupils. Instead, it happened subtly and subversively. It became inappropriate to shower with your childhood best friend or run around the house naked. Before the brain was developed enough to even conjure the slightest sexual thought, it was decided that sexuality would be autocratically imposed. Even if I hadn’t considered my prepubescent body as overtly sexual, society had handed down its verdict. I became conscious of the body as something that needed to be hidden, even if I could not conceptualise why. I learnt to avert my gaze—exposed legs soon turned into a symbol of shame. As the body became a sexual entity, I slowly found myself more and more disembodied. I could barely reckon with my own flesh, stretching, growing, changing, let alone with the thought of others’. Nakedness became somewhat a morbid fascination heightened by a childish curiosity. I would imagine the men on the street without their suits, holding only their briefcases. Would they have been just as respected if people in the office could see their nude, uncensored bodies, or would their identity implode? If a woman walked topless through the city in the smouldering heat, would she experience a social death? Or worse, would she now be a criminal? By nature, when something is heavily restricted, it becomes the epicentre of interest. As I eventually grew into sexual desire, the body became something so unknown, so stigmatised and distressingly enigmatic. It was the elephant in the room. You have a body—how on earth could I reckon this disturbing information? The nakedness I was told to hide and avoid was now only inches away from me at all times, veiled by nothing but thin pieces of clothing. A cold war erupted between my eyes and bodies on the street, which seemed to be everywhere that I turned my head.

How can we deconstruct our current image of the body? How can we move from desire to appreciation? It was a cold evening in July, and I had just arrived at Parliament station. As I exited the station, a man approached me and told me he wanted me to feature in his erotic film. I entertained the conversation, mainly due to the previously mentioned morbid fascination, and because a part of me was flattered. The exchange eventually came to a close, and I was relieved. I could hear the words of my mother—stranger danger. I continued my walk up Collins Street to the Coates Community Arts building, where I was met by a woman. She was voluptuous, in her late sixties, with glasses and red hair. Someone I probably wouldn’t look twice at on the street. Normal enough. She asked me if I was here for life drawing. I told her I was, and she pointed me to the elevator. I went up to level four and walked through the hallway of what appeared to be a standard office building. When I approached the door at the end of the hall, I was greeted by the organiser, Lou. She handed me a board with some butcher’s paper and directed me to the art supplies. I peered down at the table and picked up a piece of charcoal, then walked over to the nearest chair and sat. I looked across at the thirty or so other people in the room and felt a sense of unease. In sheer moments we would all collectively stare at a naked body and pick it apart. I grimaced a little at the thought. It seemed voyeuristic, blatantly sexual, antisocial. Then the soft jazz started, and the red-headed woman, who had guided me to the elevator, appeared from behind me in a towel barely covering her breasts. She walked to the centre of the room, looked around to acknowledge everyone and, without hesitation, dropped the towel. And at that moment something miraculous occurred—a sense of peace, because nothing had happened. She propped herself on the highchair, pulled her hair back, and for the next two hours we were ordered to draw, starting with thirty-second poses, eventually building our way up to twenty-minute poses. I stared at her body, which stood there, not asking for anything, only to be witnessed, and I came to the realisation that I had not observed a naked body outside of a sexual context for years. I felt, for the first time since childhood, that I had been both vindicated and liberated. The body had returned to its natural state of something that was worthy of attention purely on artistic and academic merit. I could, in fact, sit in front of a naked body without a plethora of sexual thoughts racing through my head.

A fascination consumed me after my first life drawing session. After a few months of attending, I approached Lou—who has been the organiser of this particular life drawing class for over 18 years—and asked if I could interview her and one of the models to gain some perspective on the process. She messaged me a few days later and said she would be more than happy to do an interview and that Chanelle, a model for that week, would join us. When I did this interview, I was astounded by the insight Lou and Chanelle possessed. There was a depth and understanding of how the body intersects with art that only veterans in the industry, such as themselves, could express. When I asked Chanelle, “How does life drawing empower you?”, she explained that the process is liberating, as she gets to use her body as a tool that inspires people creatively, rather than simply being an object that is sexualised without consent. This led us down quite the rabbit hole, as we began discussing the idea of vulnerability pertaining to the nude body. I proposed that there is an imbalance in the room as one person is completely naked and everyone else is fully clothed. Both Chanelle and Lou countered this by explaining that there is a shared vulnerability when you step foot in life drawing. The model displays vulnerability through physical nakedness; however, those who come to life drawing convey their vulnerability through artistic expression. Lou explained that people have to show up honestly to life drawing—leaving no room for an ulterior motive. I resonated with this notion, feeling a shared sense of vulnerability in the room. I’m no Picasso, so to draw, to express, to not feel shame about what I create, is an act of vulnerability. This has created the fabric of a strong social bond between the people in the class. I’ve started to make friends with the regulars, people of all different artistic abilities, and there is never an ounce of judgement. Chanelle mentions this idea of an “undoing”—that to draw the body you must accept it without judgement or prejudice. You must surrender. What makes the space so special—I have come to realise—is that vulnerability is met with vulnerability. Honesty is met with honesty. Everyone stands naked together, in different ways, but still equitably. Betty Grumble—a multimedia performance artist specialising in physical theatre and cabaret—questions quite plainly: “Who made the body a dirty thing?” When Chanelle quoted this to me, I resonated with it deeply. Who did make the body a dirty thing? When I mentioned how sexuality is imposed on us from an early age, both Lou and Chanelle agreed. Life drawing allows us to reconnect with our bodies in their raw form. A catharsis, as Lou puts it, a call to arms to reclaim—and the ultimate call home.

Popular media, my parents, the law, had told me that the body was rigidly private and that it orbited around a sexual gravitational pull that was unwavering. But as I sat there, drawing the models’ thighs, their ears, their breasts, I knew that pull had loosened its grip. When I leave life drawing now, there is a calmness that exists in the place that confusion and uncertainty once stirred. I feel that I have broken free of some convention, that my horizon has now forever broadened. I find myself thinking about my interview with Lou and Chanelle quite a bit. The overarching themes of vulnerability, agency, and reclamation continue to stick with me. It can be disorienting to navigate a society which has vilified nudity and painted the body as a one-dimensional sexual entity. In a world where we are forced to ingest ideas about our bodies, it is nice to sit down in a place free of judgement. Now, every Monday at 7 pm, you’ll find me drawing nude models in a little building off Collins Street. An activity—and a form of expression—that would have been inconceivable six months ago. And through this artistic endeavour that celebrates nakedness, we can pivot from an overtly sexual way of thinking and come to a more grounded appreciation—an appreciation of all bodies, regardless of age, shape, or colour. It’s time to drop the robes, sit down, and look at the bodies we have been told to shy away from.

Art by Alex Homoc