Miss - Naturism

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.

I kept the sunflower on my desk for years. And every time I looked at it, I remembered that the most undressed I had ever felt was not when I finally took off my clothes by the river on the last morning, but when I realized that no one had noticed I was wearing them in the first place. miss naturism

When it was her turn, she walked to the center of the clearing and stood for a moment in silence. The sunlight fell through the oaks and painted shifting patterns on her skin. She was not a conventional beauty. Her body was the map of a life lived outdoors: sun spots on her shoulders, a long faded scar along her ribs from a fall onto coral in her twenties, the soft strength of someone who had spent decades digging in soil. The title, I learned, had nothing to do

Her name was Elara. She was sixty-seven, a retired botanist, and the reigning “Miss Naturism” from the previous year. I kept the sunflower on my desk for years

I raised my camera. For the first time all week, I knew exactly what to capture.

“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.”