The Bowdoin Orient

If you are reading this on the Bowdoin campus, there is a decently good chance that you have seen me naked in the past few days. I am one of more than 150 women who modeled for the “Celebrating Women, Celebrating Bodies” photo exhibit, showing now in the Lamarche Gallery of Smith Union. 

In the gallery you will see me on the back wall, in black and white, sitting quasi-comfortably between three of my best friends. You will see our breasts, a tangle of legs, one arm in mid-gesture, and four laughing faces.

What you will not see is the sweat dripping over our bodies, the stilted conversation that somehow produced this happy coincidence of a photo, the worry and uncertainty that preceded it. As Julia Mead ’16 did so eloquently last week, I wish to lend another voice to an exhibit that already speaks volumes. I also respectfully disagree with her.

I had many reasons for participating in this shoot: self-proclaimed feminism, an interest in destigmatizing and demystifying women’s bodies, and probably (definitely) a little exhibitionist streak. As a senior, I also felt that it might be the last time in my life that something like this is acceptable. In the weeks before the shoot, I spent a lot of time looking at my naked body in the mirror, figuring out what parts I liked best and which poses looked good. I found myself wishing I had asked for a morning slot, so the creases in my stomach that form throughout the day wouldn’t have time to emerge. And then I scolded myself for worrying about stuff like that in the first place.  

When, days later, I found myself fully nude in front of my roommates for the first time, little stresses about my body—fake tooth! weird hair flip!—suddenly disappeared. 

Seeing my roommates’ naked bodies under the hot studio lights was a remarkable experience. As liberal and sexually active as I am, I was taken aback at realizing how rarely I see female bodies—I realized, abruptly and uncomfortably, that, outside of magazines and art, I have seen far more naked male bodies. Given the variations between male bodies, it shouldn’t have surprised me how different our nipples looked, or how our hips were all shaped differently, or how I wasn’t the only one who gets those annoying bumps from shaving. But it did. 

When the photographer began arranging us, we tried to make casual conversation. We sweated, we lamented about our awkward hands, and we expressed pity for professional models. Then, what felt like just five or six minutes into our shoot, the camera died. We all looked at one another bemusedly as the photographer exited the room to look for another camera. Had we gotten any good shots? Had we even done any poses that worked? The experience, as one friend described it, was “overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time.”

This over/underwhelmed feeling stayed with me for several days after. When friends asked me what it was like, I told them that I was glad I did it, but I didn’t really know what I had accomplished—I hadn’t had an epiphany; I didn’t suddenly want to be naked all the time, and I didn’t love my body any less than I always have. I didn’t feel particularly—as Mead put it—“empowered.”

I eventually realized that what had stuck with me most was the strange and strangely wonderful experience of seeing others naked. It was a reminder that we have very few arenas in which to acceptably appreciate our differences. We compliment one another when clothes are flattering, but how often do we tell people that the curve of their hips is attractive? I don’t think I am alone in feeling like this rarely happens outside of the bedroom. On the other hand, we are quick to notice flaws in public and whisper about them from the corner of parties, regardless of how feminist we are.  

I’m not suggesting that hanging out naked is the best way to change the tide of inequality that all women face daily. Rather, I think we should see these photos as a challenge to individuals. I invite the Bowdoin community to go to the exhibit and indulge in a little healthy, nonjudgmental voyeurism. If the thought of walking through the papered door of Lamarche makes you uncomfortable, know that overcoming that feeling is part of the challenge. If you think you will feel awkward seeing your peers, friends, or students naked, embrace this awkwardness. It is an opportunity to be critical of the social rules that encourage us to ignore bodies (especially women’s bodies) and judge them at the same time. 

As I learned while posing, looking at the naked bodies of others can help individual insecurities to fall away. Even though I had stressed about the dry skin on my arms and the roll at the bottom of my stomach, they seemed insignificant when I saw the vast diversity between the four of us. So on a more personal level, I am confident that everyone who views the photos can walk away from the exhibit empowered—empowered in your ability to support the women who took part in the shoot, and this reminder that your own imperfections are just as wildly unique as everyone else’s. 

I heartily agree with the bulk of Mead’s argument: all women, especially privileged, educated women like us at Bowdoin, need to expand our view of feminism beyond the topics of body image and sexuality and act accordingly. However, I do not find exercises like engaging in “Celebrating Women, Celebrating Bodies” to be “spinning our wheels” in a constant search for empowerment. On a day-to-day level, the feminist battle is fought not on national policy battlefields, but on individual ones. On our campus and in our lives, it is fought in the way we engage with one another, the way we appreciate or denigrate one another. It is for this reason that empowerment, and the continual pursuit of it, is so very important. 

In the spirit of Out Week, I’m coming out. Hello world, my name is Emma, and I am a SWUG.What is a SWUG? Short for “Senior Washed-Up Girl,” SWUG is a term apparently coined at Cornell, but now part of countless college lexicons. Definitions are numerous and imprecise, but they generally reference senior girls (or, dare I say, women?) who have ceased caring about various aspects of college life, including hookups, big parties and even grades. SWUGs don’t need a hookup or a wild, all-over-campus night to feel fulfilled. They just need a bottle of wine and Netflix.

SWUGs entered pop consciousness last April, when a Yale Daily News article caught the attention of New York Magazine, which then caught the attention of the Internet. On the one hand, many self-proclaimed SWUGs boasted about being self-actualized and above all the petty underclassmen worries. Meanwhile, critics made sad, pitying judgments about girls who were “washed-up at 21,” not caring at a point in their lives when caring is most important. Being abroad, I missed all this, and was first introduced to the idea on the August evening I moved into my beautiful new off-campus residence for the year. When I popped the champagne bottle my housemate and I planned to share that night, she informed me that we were beginning our descent into SWUG-ness. 

“Washed-up? Me? Never!”