Body of evidence

There I was, nude, at 49, in front of someone young enough to be my son, and he was neither my lover nor my gynaecologist.

IT … FELT … GREAT!

Jason’s charming tripod-side manner put me at ease. He gave my physique the thumbs up. “Oh it’s so nice to photograph curves! I’m so sick of those stick insects with fake tits.” It was at this point that he revealed he’d shot for magazines like Ralph. Had he told me that earlier, I may have baulked, but to quote the wonderful Patrick Stewart: “It was too late, he’d already seen everything”.

I hadn’t really thought much about the “glamour” part of the shoot, but it was fun. Every woman needs to feel like a sex symbol at least once in her life (and the success of those aforementioned retail outlets would attest to this fact) but it wasn’t really why I was there. We went back to his lap-top and had a quick peek at those images - and I steeled myself for the inevitable feeling of confrontation. I was determined to suck it up and not cast too critical an eye over them. I did wince a bit though.

But now the real fun was about to start. Our theme idea was to cover me in foot prints and hand prints … to illustrate my journey on the planet. We then perused the net for landscape photos for inspiration (I really dug this way of working) and armed with ideas, we returned to the carport.

Clever Tracy had fashioned a mould of a small foot - and it was her job to first draw and then stamp little foot prints all over me. I won’t lie, I really enjoyed this part, it felt rather bohemian. I was really excited about becoming a human canvas. This wasn’t about my ego; this was about Jason’s art.

Rose Cooper

In fact, my ego really had to take a back seat. Jason would now be zooming his high powered lens directly onto my sun-damaged skin, the stretchmarks on my butt, my rather worn-out looking nipples (which had nourished my babies for a combined total of four and a half years) not to mention my pot belly and my hysterectomy scar. All of this would serve to add texture to the hills, and valleys.

When I rolled from my front to my back, there were sheet imprints on one of my breasts. The image that depicts this accidental marking of my skin, ended up being my favourite image. The marks conjure tyre tracks.

After the footprint shots, I showered and then I applied hand prints to my body with some bright blue house paint (as you do). This created a tribal vibe. After that particular set up I had to do a nudie run through his house, to get to the shower - without getting paint on anything. No biggie.

All told, I was there for about six hours. It was surreal, but I left feeling lighter than air. I don’t know if I’ve served my original purpose - to prove to other women my vintage that they should feel OK about their bodies, but I certainly proved it to myself. When Jason sent me his “best of” selection from the shoot, I resisted the urge to concentrate on my perceived flaws, and instead, I quite like most of them and even love a few of them - the “body-scape” pix, especially.

I’m keen to do more now. I mean really, who wouldn’t want to be a mountain range? I’m even willing to veer further into more risqué imagery if I get the opportunity. I don’t feel old anymore. I suddenly feel ripe and Rubenesque. Mine is the kind of body that inspired Norman Lindsay (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). Oh, and I also later found out that Jason’s only 23. This just makes him even more amazing to me.

If a 23-year-old boy can view my natural, un-botoxed, un-taut and un-airbrushed state and seek to preserve (rather than obscure) the truth of its appearance, in his art, then maybe a bit of sanity prevails after all.

So here I am, world. I’m turning 49, this is my unfashionably-mature “post-baby body” and I love it. I really love it … do you hear me? Roll on, 50.

My god, I think I’m actually buying it.