Dublin Man Removes Clothing in Public

Conor Horgan joined the masses who undressed for art in Dublin last weekend.

We sped towards the South Wall at 4.00 a.m. The streets were empty but we were late and starting to feel a little anxious that both of us might not get in. I'd registered a week ago, but they'd closed the list before K had arrived from Rome and it was such a balmy night that every amateur nudist in Dublin was probably there ahead of us. The sea of cars in the temporary car park didn't reassure us much.

We managed to get on the last bus taking participants from the carpark to the bottom of the pier. I saw two people I knew on the bus and couldn't help thinking that on average, two people by maybe 60 buses equalled around 120 people that I'd know on site.

(Even though K has lived in Dublin, she wouldn't know half as many people, and now she had the somewhat alarming prospect of being introduced to some of my 120 while completely nude.)

A spectacular sunrise was brewing over Sutton, with rich oranges and pinks that looked almost Californian. There were already more than two thousand people on the South Wall, all clutching transparent plastic bags for their clothes. We threaded our way towards the front, and found a Portaloo for a landmark to help us find our stuff later.

There was nothing much to do for the first half an hour, other than trying to decipher the instructions that came from what sounded like an over-excited American station announcer, via Tannoy horns hidden in the rocks to our left. This was Spencer Tunick, broadcasting from the top of a cherry picker lift. His directions were a little unclear at times.

"You may be strong", he bellowed, "but the person next to you may be weak - help them out."

What could this mean? Would we be propping each other up?

Then we saw a Mexican wave of nudity coming towards us, starting at the lighthouse end. Getting naked was remarkably easy, with no self-consciousness at all and a great feeling of freedom. Everyone was cheerful, the barriers were down, and to be in the middle of this mass of naked people having such positive feelings was an unexpectedly exhilarating experience. Jokes started being cracked and laughter rippled through different sections of the crowd.

We shuffled along the pier, leaving the cherry-picker behind and hopefully beyond the distance where we could be recognised in the photographs, especially reassuring for those of us with distinguishing characteristics even when naked (just to be clear, I'm talking about beards here).

The Evening Herald's front page piece about the Cork event earlier in the week had already sprung to mind, with its picture of a hundred nude bodies under the headline "See Anyone You Know?"

As we found our final place there was much milling about, deliberate eye contact and an increasing amount of shivering. The early promise of a good morning had disappeared with the sun and the sea wind was beginning to make its presence felt. Nothing happened for a while, other than the occasional opportunity to wave, shout and moon at passing container ships. The few passengers they carried were all lorry drivers, and we could clearly hear the wolf-whistles coming back across the water. At this stage the laughter was also helping to keep hypothermia at bay, and I did my best to keep K warm while trying to ignore the uncontrollable shivering in my right thigh.

Once we started, the pictures didn't take long - there were three different poses, each punctuated by Spencer's pleas - "Heads to the sky - not hands, heads! ", "Please stop kicking that guy’s butt", and "Knees to the front, I'm begging you." Someone near us yelled, “Beg harder!” 

For the last one we curled up in a foetal position, facing the person in front. The view wasn't great, I have to say, and it didn't improve much when the large male arse in my direct line of sight started to jiggle with laughter after another nearby wag finished off Spencer's countdown to the photograph with "..and clench!"

Then, mercifully, it was over, and we headed back down the pier to find our clothes. Before we got there we passed the camera position and I recognised one of the documenting photographers up on the crane. I couldn't resist the urge to give him a big hello and he spun around, shouting "Gotcha!" as he took a picture of me with a huge grin and K's face buried into my shoulder.

It felt like we were all completely comfortable being nude but the cold was another thing altogether. I've never experienced such pleasure from the simple act of putting on clothes. Rain started to pelt down as we walked back towards the bus, and we met neighbours, former assistants and many others I knew, including the bus driver. Some of the people who'd been near us for the photographs walked by, and we both noticed that everyone seemed much more open and just somehow nicer when they were naked.

We were home by seven, getting stuck into hot chocolate and porridge and buzzing with the sense of achievement.

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