The French and Nudity

Statue striptease (Louvre). All photos by Brittany Petersen.

The French feel differently about nudity, and I think I know why: It’s the art. Naked men and women grace the outside of museums and monuments nonchalantly. They've been there for decades, centuries, and the world hasn't collapsed, so why make a big deal about it? Magazine stands sell Playboy next to People, without the protection of a black sleeve (though a few stickers may cover the particularly naughty bits). One need only spend ten minutes wandering the Denon wing of the Louvre, with its Greek and Roman and French and Italian statues, to get a full lesson in the art of finely crafted, flaccid male genitalia.

I don't need pants to cut off your other hand, child, so watch it. (Louvre)

It's not just inside museums; male penises are on full display in public, as well.

Apparently clothes were optional when heading into battle. (l'Arc de Triomphe)

 
Seriously, they're everywhere.

 Hey guys, how's it hanging? (Louvre)

It's desensitizing, to say the least.

But while sculptors spent a lot of time studying and perfecting their recreation of the male member, they got lazy when it came to the women. Girls and goddesses alike are portrayed in incredible detail, with fully erect nipples and an ass Beyonce would kill for -- but their crotches are left strangely blank.

Sorry, Venus, but you're going to have to hold your bladder for eternity (Louvre).

In the dozens of statues I saw portraying women naked from the waist down, only one (of the Biblical Eve, that minx!) offered any hint of definition. The rest were blank triangles.

Also, apparently everyone shaved.

Is it weird that I'm a little offended? Why go to the trouble of a life-size statue of your favorite goddess, and then condemn her to a life of a Ken doll? It made me wonder whether little girls get confused when they visit the art museum and see these otherwise impressive and accurate human portrayals.

Well, mostly accurate portrayals. If we are to learn about human history through our art, it seems that anyone worth their weight in marble was a devotee of a rigorous ab workout. It took me two hours to locate a statue with any fat rolls, but it was a satisfying find.

This is sort of the equivalent of sinking your head into your neck to create chin rolls, but I'll take it. (Louvre)

Body image issues aside, nudity is alive and well in Paris, as are public displays of affection. (If I can see your tonsils from across the train, maybe it's time to get a room?) But every time I stop, startled by the nudity or affection, I felt silly. What an American reaction, I think. The French don't make a big deal of it, so why should I?

Strangely, even with all this freedom of bare skin, the en vogue Paris fashion is actually quite buttoned-up. On a Friday night, you're more likely to see short skirts and low necklines slinking through the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago than around the bars of le Quartier Latin in Paris. What does that say about the taboos of our two cultures?

I guess that, when you walk past seven sets of nipples just on your commute to work, it loses a bit of the mystery.