Two Cuts of the Same Afternoon: On Filming a Naked Video and Watching It Back

There's a folder on my hard drive with two files in it. Same afternoon. Same room. Same square of light moving slowly across the floor. One is the cut I'd show anyone. The other sits behind a warning label, because that's the honest thing to do.

I've been thinking about what that folder means. Not the footage itself, but the fact that I needed two versions of the same hour, and what each one says about me.

Why I film myself naked at all

I'm not a filmmaker. I own one tripod, a camera that's older than my phone, and a lens that creaks when it focuses. But I've come to believe that the act of recording yourself, unclothed, with nobody directing you, is one of the strangest and most useful things a person can do for their own body image.

Here's the thing nobody tells you: you have never actually seen yourself. You've seen mirrors, which flip you. You've seen photos, which freeze you at your worst blink. You have never watched yourself move through a room the way other people watch you move through a room. The camera does that. It's uncomfortable in a way that turns out to be useful.

The first minute is always the worst

Every single time I hit record, there's a minute where my body forgets how to be a body. My shoulders climb up toward my ears. My hands don't know where to go, so they hover, stupidly, like I'm about to catch something. My breathing is audible and slightly wrong.

Then something loosens. Usually around the ninety-second mark. I stop performing the idea of being comfortable and just become a person standing in a warm room, and the footage from that point on is always better. Softer. More like me.

If you ever try this yourself, know that the first minute is not a verdict on how you look. It's just nerves, and nerves are ugly on everyone.

What the boring parts actually look like

People imagine that filming nude is glamorous. It is mostly logistics.

I moved the tripod four times because I kept casting a shadow on my own face. I had a towel on the floor by the door the whole time, because bare feet on old wood are cold and I'm not a hero. The light I wanted only lasted about twenty minutes, so I shot the same small sequence maybe six times. I stopped twice to drink water. At one point my neighbour started a lawnmower and I stood there, naked and waiting, until it passed.

None of that makes the final cut. All of it is in the uncut version, and honestly, I like the uncut version more.

What "nsfw" means to me, and what it doesn't

Labelling a piece of work nsfw isn't an apology. It's a courtesy. It says: this contains a naked human body, and you should choose when and where to meet it. That's it. That's the whole warning.

What the label doesn't mean is that the work is dirty, or that I'm ashamed, or that the only reason to watch is arousal. I've written before that nudity gets flattened into one meaning by people who've never sat with it for longer than five seconds. A body in afternoon light, moving slowly, being watched by no one in particular, can be tender or funny or awkward or quietly beautiful. Often it's all four in the same minute.

The two cuts exist because different spaces have different agreements. Some places want the version with the towel and the elbow and the mistimed laugh. Some want the full thing. I'd rather make both honestly than make one and lie about it.

Watching yourself back is the real practice

The first time I reviewed my own footage, I did the thing everyone does: I went straight to the parts I hate. The softness under my ribs. The way my posture slumps when I'm not thinking about it. The pause where I clearly forgot what I was doing.

I watched it four times over two weeks. By the fourth pass, I noticed something I hadn't seen once: I looked relaxed. Not thin, not toned, not impressive in any of the ways I was taught to want. Relaxed. A man in a room, comfortable in his own skin, moving without apology.

That's not a small thing for someone who spent twenty years angling himself away from cameras. The footage didn't fix my body image. It just gave me evidence, which is harder to argue with than a mirror.

The rules I don't bend

Filming yourself naked is a private act. Publishing it is not. So a few things I hold to.

I only ever film myself, or someone who has given clear, specific, revocable consent, and I mean in writing, before the camera comes out. If someone's face or body appears, they approve the final cut. No exceptions, no "it's just a second."

I film indoors, on private property, with the curtains closed and nobody in the room who hasn't agreed to be there. Outdoor naturism is a different conversation, and it starts with local law, landowner permission, and the people around you who never signed up for your shoot. I won't romanticise the alternative.

And I don't post anything that a stranger couldn't have consented to see. That's what the label is for. Courtesy, not shame.

What the uncut version holds

The longer file has the fumbling and the standing around. It has me checking the frame, sighing, starting over. It has the moment I step into the light properly and my whole face changes. It has three seconds where I just stand still and breathe, and I think that's the truest thing I've ever recorded.

The clean cut is the better video. The uncut one is the better document.

Closing

If you take one thing from this: the camera is not an enemy of the body. It's a witness. It will show you everything you've been hiding and a few things you've never let yourself notice.

Start with the first minute. The awful one. Get through it, and see what's on the other side.

If you're curious about the rest of the work — the essays on body image, the naturist etiquette guides, the ethics of photographing the naked form — it's all at nakedwill.com. Contacts and collaborations live at contacts.nakedwill.com, and everything else is at linktr.ee/nakedwill.

Thank you for being here. Truly.

— Will