In the buff

The monthly boondoggle for supporters, in which the author is fully undressed. Plus the week's recs for new fashion, new music, new luggage to lust over

“Mt. Wilson (Infanta Margaret Theresa III),” 2024, Andy Woll, via Night Gallery

Nudity is a lot of things, but it’s probably funny most of all. These strange human bodies, these containers—all the scars, tattoos, and protrusions. If I stare at someone’s ear or nose too long, it becomes alien. What odd shapes!

A little over a month ago, New Year’s Eve was celebrated two hours outside of Los Angeles, at a party in the countryside. There were maybe 30 adults, ten children, and several dogs, going in and out of a large rustic house. The crowd was artsy—musicians, artists, a writer in a crumpled navy suit (me). We cooked a big meal, drank champagne, played music, and danced. Then, the next morning, after dishes were done, the hosts suggested we hit a hot spring, they were friends of the folks who owned the land and we’d have it to ourselves.

The tradition, they said, was to go nude, though we could do how we liked.