NEO NATURISTS BY GRAYSON PERRY

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The Neo-Naturists, who since 1980 have been performing rigorously amateur rituals in ó as their name
suggests ó the nude, are the subject of a long overdue exhibition at England & Co in Notting Hill.

Líve known the NNs since their inception but have never really known where the original inspiration came
from, so I asked a founder member, Christine Binnie. She went to Berlin in 1979 and met some German
punks. What impressed her was that they were not mired in repressed angst like English punks ó ìall
white-faced girls in black bedroomsî. They had tans and walked around in the nude and swam in the lake,
yet were still punks. It was this mix of anarchy and health and efficiency that characterises the NNs.

Another influence was the drag queens she saw at the Black Cap pub in Camden. ìThey seemed to be just
having a laugh on stage so I thought, why canít I, a real woman, do the same?î Binnie says.

She saw neo-naturism, with its core philosophy of having fun, as a reaction against the dangerous
sado-masochistic body art of people such as the Viennese Actionists. She also cites her mother, who was
the sort of woman who ìalways had a craft project on the go, a bag of raw wool needing to be spun,
elderflower wine bubbling awayî. Her mother was also a Girl Guide leader, and the influence of camp-fire
singing, the Church of England and cooking with Calor Gas runs through the entire NN oeuvre.

Performances can involve up to 25 wobbly, painted bodies, but the core of the group are three women,
Christine, her sister Jennifer and Wilma Johnson. Christine met Wilma when she was life modelling at St
Martinís art school and Wilma wanted literally to paint the model. She painted a large face on Christine’s
torso, breasts doubling as eyes, covered her in a floor-length fun-fur coat and went off to the British
Museum, where she took photos of Christine flashing next to ancient statuary when no one was looking.

I was going out with Jennifer, who shared in much of her sisterís creative energy. Christine seemed to turn
over the culture she encountered like an antique dealer picking up a cracked jug at a car-boot sale. She was
the first person I had met who listened to pop music with playful irony, embracing Abba with a teasing
enthusiasm even before they had split up.

The Binniesí ability to take the mundane materials of their own experience ó Girl Guides, holidays in
Scotland, folk festivals, Rolf Harris, the vanities of the Blitz Kids ó and weave them into their style with
seemingly innocent delight left its mark on me.

Living in squats around Fitzrovia, Christine was both muse and pupil to a collection of queens, trendies and
arty farties, including Boy George, the film-maker John Maybury, the artist Cerith Wyn Evans, fashion
designers Body Map and the milliner Stephen Jones. Her original voice stood out among the drones of
cool London like Kathleen Ferrier duetting with Duran Duran. I, along with many others, was happily roped
in to perform.

By 1982 the Neo-Naturists were appearing regularly in clubs. Performances were planned but never
rehearsed, more ritual than cabaret. We would convene the afternoon before the event and decide on a
theme that was often a seasonal festival such as May Day, Halloweíen or Christmas. Then the flat, a skip or
the local supermarket would be searched for the necessary supplies. Bodies were painted accordingly as
artworks: lederhosen, cheerleaders, Mao suits, fruit or mythic creatures. Common elements would be
cooking, poetry, choral singing, Sellotape, lame gymnastics and a wilful disregard for entertainment.

The resultant tableaux brought the obscurity and longueurs of performance art to nightclub audiences,
who responded with a mixture of delighted shock and cries of ìget them onî. The girls were fearless but I
was always nervously aware that the dangling presence of a male member painted blue with a bell tied to
it lent the performance an extra edge to which some of the crowd could take exception.

Memorable highlights included trying to fill a paddling pool with urine from a balcony, into which we then
ìlaunchedî a book for Derek Jarman; appearing in an early ballet with Michael Clark; and the fulfilment of a
long-planned ambition to cavort in the fountains at the base of Centrepoint painted as fishermen and
mermaids.

For me the quintessential Neo-Naturist event was a weekís residency at B2 gallery in Wapping in 1982. Like
a chaotic hippie tribal version of Big Brother, people could come and just stare and hang out with 15 nude
people. Each day had a theme: fashion day, art day, Macbeth day or punk day. From midday we would be
naked and paint ourselves accordingly. We would stage an appropriate event such as a black-day picnic on
the muddy Thames beach, consisting of Guinness, black pudding and black bread.

I particularly remember the pain of trying to wash off body paint that was welded to my body hair ó it had
been mixed with Scotts porridge oats for my role as Birnam wood in a cursory staging of the Scottish play
that fielded seven witches and Mrs M cooking pancakes.

There was no career strategy, no money and just a few free drinks. I salute you, Neo-Naturists, true
bohemians.

text by   Grayson Perry

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