Miss Naturism ((install)) Here

I opened the file. The first page showed a photograph of a woman with silver-streaked hair, standing on a rocky beach, arms raised to the sun. She was naked, but you didn’t notice that first. You noticed her smile—wide, unforced, the kind of smile you only see on people who have just finished a long swim in cold, clear water.

The contest took place on the third day. There was no stage, no swimsuit round, no evening gowns. The “competition” was a long, meandering walk through the forest, ending at a clearing by the river. Each participant was invited to speak for three minutes about what naturism meant to them. miss naturism

And then there was Elara.

“Miss Naturism,” he said, sliding a thin file across his desk. “The annual pageant in the south of France. Get the spirit of it. Not the… uh, anatomy. The spirit.” I opened the file

The title, I learned, had nothing to do with youth or conventional beauty. It was awarded to the person who best embodied the philosophy of the event: integrity, comfort in one’s own skin, and a deep, uncompetitive joy in the natural world. The prize was a hand-carved wooden sunflower. You noticed her smile—wide, unforced, the kind of