The Art of Acceptance

As I sat bare-arsed on an armchair that was not my own on Sunday afternoon, wishing that the room was chillier so that my boobs would perk up a bit, I had time to think about my relationship with my body. It was hard to think about anything else because, three feet away, the British artist Hester Finch was furiously sketching my nude form in vivid pastels. Whenever she looked away from me and concentrated on the sketch on her easel, I would surreptitiously tweak my nipples–they’re much more laidback than I am–to attention.

I met Finch last December, when by chance I was seated next to her at a Christmas dinner party for an online platform that works directly with a growing roster of hand-picked artists. Art isn’t my usual beat–I’m a fashion editor–but I’d been eyeing Finch’s work on the website for weeks, and here she was. Ever the nosy journalist, I asked about the sort of women who commissioned nudes of themselves. Some wanted a record of pregnancy bodies. I could understand that; less so the many nudes commissioned by women as gifts for their partners.

At the time, I marvelled at the thought that anyone might like their naked body enough to commission an artwork of it and to be confident that someone, even the someone who loves you most, might want to hang