Naked Stage Dancing Taught Me Male Bonding Beyond Bravado

In my early 20s, I had an unusual job: I worked as a naked dancing ghost. This came about unexpectedly when I replaced someone in a production of Richard Wagner’s “The Flying Dutchman” at Malmö Opera. A few nights a week, I walked in the dark to the opera house, a functionalist building with marble-clad columns and large, warmly lit windows.

Backstage, the environment was reminiscent of a pre-game locker room, with men chatting and joking. However, the transformation everyone underwent was stark; after makeup, we emerged naked and corpse-pale, our bodies marked with black splashes, lips chalky-white, and eyes circled in darkness.

The makeup artist had faced offensive comments from one of the previous ghosts, leading to his dismissal—that’s how I got the job. Remarkably, I began the very night of the dress rehearsal, performing in front of nearly 1,000 spectators.

Despite the stereotype that Swedes are comfortable with nudity, I was embarrassed and ashamed of my body. Oddly enough, that’s why I applied for the job. I believed it would serve as a sort of therapy, thinking that regular exposure would melt my shame under the audience’s gaze.

The real issue, however, lay deeper. I struggled with controlling my urges, drinking excessively, lying, and generally acting out. The deeper shame was about my behavior more than my body.

Wagner’s opera tells the tale of a man haunted by inner torment, a sea captain doomed to sail forever until he finds a woman who will love him faithfully. The opera’s theme of redemption resonated with me; I hoped for some clarity through this unique experience.

On stage, covered in spray paint that hardened our pubic hair, we danced to the powerful voices of opera singers. The experience was surreal: male camaraderie, nudity, and vulnerability merged seamlessly under the lights and music.

Before this, I found it hard to relate to groups of men without freezing up. Yet, this performance context made it different.

***

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on this experience, especially with war’s return to Europe and Sweden abandoning neutrality. The military, often glorified in our culture, is a recognized form of male bonding. Traditionally, male friendship in groups often forms under external pressures. Without this intensity, maintaining male intimacy can be challenging.

Male emotional and relational issues are often met within the high-pressure settings of professional sports. Numerous articles in Swedish sports newspapers reveal underlying emotional strains: infidelity, violence, illness, friendship, love, and gossip.

The male community I experienced during “The Flying Dutchman” felt almost utopian. In our nudity, we shared a unique form of communal vulnerability and connection.

Though we were the spectacle, often receiving boos and cheers, we stayed separated from the leading actors between acts. In the smoking room, adorned in dressing gowns, we discussed anything and everything.

Even now, twenty years later, the experience is deeply etched into my being. When I hear the notes of Wagner, I still feel the impulse to strip off my clothes and dance.

***

Over the years, expressions of male friendship have evolved. I now go to the gym with friends, talking candidly while working out. A friend and I recently started a podcast on culture and masculinity, exploring these themes in depth.

Modern male friendships can be intimate and open, fostering better health and more fulfilling relationships. However, the journey isn’t easy. Influencers often direct men toward modern masculinity, but they can be contentious figures. The backlash against US podcaster Andrew Huberman, for example, led a Swedish columnist to ponder if it signaled increasing demands on male friendships and the movement of #brotoo.

The significant issue with male friendship, much like art and literature, involves ceding control and embracing vulnerability. Modern male support can be found in surprising contexts, but the question remains: have we modernized enough to allow such vulnerability?

***

This summer, I traveled to Berlin with Författarlandslaget, Sweden’s writers’ national football team, to compete in a European championship. Through this, I’ve connected deeply with teammates like Fredrik Ekelund, who came out as a transvestite, and Martin Bengtsson, who transitioned from professional athlete to writer following a suicide attempt.

Wearing the national team’s jersey temporarily lifts the burden of always having to appear big and strong. The competition allowed us to foster genuine connections, teaching me much about vulnerability.

Beneath our culture’s superficial layers, masculinity can indeed change. Men can open up to each other, discuss shame, fears, and the violence we might inflict on others and ourselves. Stripping away our defensive layers, as I did on stage, can paradoxically give us more control. True self-expression enables us to break free from traditional masculine roles, embracing our fragility and, in turn, our humanity.

Source: The Guardian