Justin Hayford's review of the Naked July fest at National Pastime Theater—rating asses and daring to bring up feminism—has sparked a vigorous discussion.
Does the antiintellecualism of the neoburlesque movement undermine its ironic intentions? Are there enough male asses here? Commenters disagree.
Showing 1-1 of 1
Well, National Pastime's "Naked July" will soon yield to the un-salacious doldrums of August. Their
midsummer nights' madness ends but it's good to remember that nudity is in the eye of the beholder.
The worst state of the art is being ashamed of the human body, pulchritudinous or Rubenesque. We've
endured all too often the really dirty deeds of sexophobic fundamentalists from John Ashcroft to the
Taliban to not appreciate this ultimate honesty. Shame on shame!
For gays in particular, as Bailiwick Repertory has long practiced, nudity has always had a special
message: It’s the exact opposite of being in the closet cowering among your clothes. You're out in the
sun (or under the lights), as sure of your sexuality as of the full frontal effrontery that so many would
love to forbid. It's that spirit that the Naked July shows celebrated (like Williams' ode to artists'
lacerating self-exposure) and more power to them!