Spencer Tunick in Granada

t was a little embarrassing, I’ll admit. Going for a routine medical examination several weeks after a Spencer Tunick photo shoot and the doctor still finding a small blob of green paint in my belly button. I had showered every day. Honest!

To set the scene…

Alhambra Reserva 1925 is one of my favourite Spanish beers, with its crisp full-bodied taste and distinctive green embossed bottle. And getting naked and doused in green paint to resemble said bottle seemed like a fine idea at the time: for me, and around 1,300 others who showed up for the shoot in an olive grove on the outskirts of Granada in late September. However, I can say with full confidence that, apart from those who’d been painted up for previous mass nude shoots, none of us had a clue how hard it would be to get the stuff out.

Chance

It all started in June, with an advert calling for volunteers. 2025 was the centenary of the renowned beverage, so what better way to mark the event than a mass naked photo from the king of the genre. With everyone painted Alhambra bottle green.

For naturists living in the area like us, and many of our fellow naturist buddies in the Cantarriján Naturist Association, it was a no-brainer: a naked day out, the chance to slather ourselves in green gunk, form part of a unique artistic project, and eventually be presented with a signed photo of the project.

The day began with streams of shuttle buses shipping us twenty minutes outside of Granada to the olive grove location. Once there, we were shepherded by a team of assistants, firstly to pick up a bag of items we would need, and then to a numbered and roped-off waiting/painting station. A decent-enough toilet block was within easy reach, but there were no seats or lockers, which was to be expected. There was also no shade. But it was warm rather than hot at the start of the day, there were plenty of refreshments, and the vibe was happy and positive.

As we waited for instructions, we chatted to those around us. Some were naturists, though most were not. One group of English tourists (a mix of naturists and non-naturists) had arranged their holiday to coincide with the event; for two Italian guys, this was their second shoot; for one woman from Switzerland on her own, this was her fifth Tunick session – including one in Hull a few years back that publisher Sam and several other H&E readers took part in, involving blue paint. She definitely knew what lay ahead…

Fun

By mid-morning, the megaphoned instructions in English and Spanish started to blare out. Previously we had been warned not to get undressed yet, nor to open our tubs of paint (although a few in our group were at least topless by this point). But now we got the go-ahead. We were warned to close our eyes while we painted our faces, and encouraged to help each other get an even spread over the rest of our bodies. “It is essential to cover every part of you,” we were told. And they meant every part: eyelids, inside ears, butt cracks, belly buttons…

It was great fun; there was much laughter and messing around, and plenty of cries of “Hey, you’ve missed a bit.” We also managed to take a few sneaky comedic pix.

A comment about the paint. Once fully coated, we all looked brilliant. Absolutely top-to-toe, and everything in between, was solid bottle green. Spencer, via his interpreters, had insisted that anyone with white or non-green bits showing would be immediately identifiable and banished from the shoot. He is, after all, a perfectionist.

We were then herded – in fairness, in mostly orderly fashion – towards the hillside where the main shoot would take place, and told to position ourselves between the olive trees. Husband Guengo and I, and a couple of other Cantarrijanos, found ourselves in the far bottom left-hand corner. Everyone did as they were told. Or thought they did. “You lot down there, in the bottom left-hand corner, spread yourselves out,” or words to that effect, megaphoned Spencer. Followed by other commands to his minions. “That large man in the middle isn’t green enough. Get him down to the back! To the back! Now!” The minions ran up and down the field, doing their boss’s bidding.

Forgiving

By now things were really heating up. Hoping Spencer wasn’t looking, we sought shelter under a nearby olive tree. The sun poured down and the green paint rebelled upon our bodily imperfections. Sweaty underbellies, bosoms, necks, armpits, and nether regions creased and streaked our previously uniform greenness. Hopefully, the camera – and an increasingly irate Spencer – would be forgiving. (Again, to be fair, he had warned us that he might end up shouting at us, but he didn’t really mean it, honest, and it was simply due to the stress and adrenaline of needing to get things right).

At last, all of his little green soldiers were in position. Time for the shot. And then - “Espera, espera, wait, wait” came a voice from the middle of the field. “There’s a woman who’s not feeling well.” Down and in swooped the first-aiders to help her out. Emergency over. But then, “Over here, over here, someone’s fainted!” And back they came, this time with a stretcher.

We took shelter once again under the tree. An eternity – and quite a bit of screaming at the minions later – and we were ready. Click, click, click, and the shots were in the bag. “Thank you so much everybody, that was great,” beamed the maestro.

Hike

Except we weren’t quite done yet. Next up, all of those under the age of 40 (around 150-200), presumably because they were deemed fitter and svelter (?) were asked to follow Spencer and his entourage to another location which required an uphill hike. The rest of us rested and waited on the grass by a stream, greenness streaking and smearing by the minute.

Then, discrimination over, and it was our turn again. “I’ve been told that Spanish people can tolerate the heat,” yells Spencer. Everyone cheers. “So are you up for one more?” Some – including Guengo – had had enough, and sloped off back to the waiting stations to pick up a complimentary sandwich. The rest of us toughed it out, and allowed ourselves to be herded once more, this time up a type of wide, sloping firebreak. I hung back to avoid the uphill bit, and despite having insisted I wouldn’t be laying down on the ground on top of a rough gravelly path for anyone, least of all a man who had been screaming at me all morning, I found myself doing so. And then it was all over.

Unique

The verdict? We had gone from super-enthusiastic and full of beans to hot, hungry, uncomfortable and barely able to face the slog back up to the coaches. But we all agreed it had been a truly unique and (mostly) positive experience. The organisation had been smooth prior to the actual shoot. The helpers and security guards were friendly and helpful. We had been fed and watered (though no beer!) and given a cute tote bag. Spencer hollered, it’s true, but he also cracked jokes and showed gratitude.

However – and it is a big however – little thought had gone into what would happen after the shoot had finished. There were no makeshift showers or a cordoned-off area with hoses, the rubbish bins were overflowing, and the fields littered with papers and plastic bottles. Most people just got dressed on top of their greenness. They would be going back to their homes, cars, or hotels. Others, like us, desperately attempted to get the worst off with wet wipes, tissues and bottled water. A bad idea, as we were obviously contaminating the land.

We had our reasons. We had travelled to Granada by coach – our car had died days earlier – and were coaching it back. Would they let splodgy green aliens aboard? The buses back from the olive groves to the pick-up point were covered in plastic; the regular coaches wouldn’t be.

If it hadn’t been for Carmen, from our Cantarriján group, I don’t know what we would have done. She lives in Granada, overheard us discussing our plight and, incredibly generously, offered to let us shower at her house. Grateful doesn’t begin to describe how we felt.

After endless shampooing and scrubbing – flooding and smearing poor Carmen’s bathroom green in the process – the visibly worst had gone. Encrusted fingernails and green-streaked hair we may have sported, but our toenails, soles of feet, and stubbornly-streaked backs, calves and upper torsos were at least out of sight. And the driver only raised the slightest of eyebrows as one bedraggled-looking couple boarded the Málaga-bound bus.

©H&E Naturist 2025

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