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Dishabille And Dubonnet

By Sarah Swett

      Nudity is the height of luxury.  Well, skinny-dipping with my grandmother was the height of luxury but, as one can only skinny dip in the nude, it seems to me that the two must be connected.

      On hot, muggy, New York summer afternoons my family used to gather at Grandma’s pond.  The men would collect under the white pines beyond a clump of concealing bushes, the women and children by the dock and “beach.”  Grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts and children would shed their clothes and swim together in the clean, refreshing green/brown water.

      We exclaimed with delight when we swam over the icy blast of a spring, or with disgust when we misjudged the depth and accidentally touched  soft mud with our toes.  We paddled by lily blossoms and graceful willow branches sweeping the glassy surface.

      Eventually we would emerge, everyone climbing back to “their” area to rest, drip, chat and finally to “dress.”  Grandpa donned a white, ankle length robe, Grandma a skimpy terry cloth “cover-up” not worthy of the name.  The rest of us wore shorts and T-shirts.

      Once dressed, it was time for Dubonnet and ginger ale, perhaps accompanied by goldfish crackers, in the men’s area where there was shade and the best chairs. With his pipe clamped between his teeth, Grandpa presided over the ice, dispensing cubes that clunked hollowly in insulated plastic cups. The water dripped from our hair into bubbling ginger ale and ran in rivulets down our backs so that our shirts and shorts clung clammily to our skin.  I would gulp my ginger ale, sneeze at the bubbles and run to the other side of the bushes to peel off sticky clothes and fling myself back into the water, cracker crumbs and all.  Bliss.

      Myriad summers by the pond taught me that no clothes was better than clothes and that Grandma was the most beautiful woman in that world. Dubonnet in hand, her slightly embarrassing garment displaying her pubic hair every time she moved, she was the height of chic.   I longed to be like her. Beauty clearly had nothing to do with wrinkles or dimples or a five-baby-belly, but rather charm, confidence, grace and an inherent comfort in one’s own skin.  I looked forward to being 50 and claiming that grace as my own.

      Grandma died several years ago and the only ponds by which I now spend time are images that I weave into tapestries.  I do, however, have a group of friends, graceful, interesting women who love books and yarn and taking saunas. These beautiful women are clever and generous with their ideas, their food, their wine and their laughter. They remind me of life by the pond with Grandma. Best of all, they glory in spending time without clothing and will model for me at the drop of a hat. 

      To be with them is to open myself up to a collective and playful creativity that invariably takes a simple idea of mine and turns it into something far more exciting. “Don’t you just love lying face down in the hot sand after a plunge into an icy river?” one asks. We follow her lead, five beautiful backs, lined up like dunes on this otherwise flat beach, observed by a sixth friend too offended by the invasive nature of sand to participate.

Sarah Swett, Indigo Bath, 48" x 24", 2003

Sarah Swett, The Green Man, 35" x 45", 2003

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