Naked or Nude? Chiaroscuro, Not Chippendales

Recently, I found myself in a familiar debate with the curator of my book—a man of sharp intellect and, as he readily confessed, old-school Southern propriety. I joked that his deep-South upbringing might explain his slightly puritanical take on nudity. His stance was firm: every nude image is inherently erotic.

I disagree. (Though perhaps with a hint of mischief.)

Having grown up in Italy, my relationship with the human body was shaped differently. Nudity wasn’t taboo—it was everywhere. In political magazines, Sunday supplements, museums, and frescoed chapels, the body wasn’t something to hide; it was celebrated. At the Academy of Fine Arts in Turin, life drawing was as fundamental as learning to mix paint. No one batted an eye at a nude model.

So when the curator sees eros, I often see something else entirely—vulnerability, defiance, even mundanity. A body can be tense, tender, or awkward without being an invitation. Not every exposed hip is a proposition.

I understand his perspective, of course. In much of the U.S., nudity—especially male nudity—still carries a charge. When you rarely encounter it outside of commerce or censorship, the line between art and provocation blurs. If the only nudity you see is meant to sell or shock, of course the association sticks.

But that’s precisely why I resist the assumption. The nude can express grief, pride, isolation, or quietude—it doesn’t always signal desire. And intent matters: a photograph of a body in unflinching light isn’t necessarily about arousal. Sometimes it’s just about seeing.

In the end, our disagreement isn’t just personal—it’s cultural. Where he sees nakedness, I see form. Where he senses seduction, I might see stillness. The same image can be a mirror to one viewer and a provocation to another.

We left it at that—agreeing to disagree, with mutual respect and a shared love for the medium. And if I occasionally tease him for seeing lust where I see chiaroscuro and tone—that’s the beauty of interpretation.