In my early twenties, an unusual job found me: I became a naked dancing ghost. It was a last-minute replacement role in a production of Richard Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman. Several evenings each week, I would walk in the dim light to the Malmö Opera, a building known for its functional design, marble pillars, and expansive, warmly illuminated windows.
Backstage, in the dressing rooms, the atmosphere felt oddly familiar, like the moments before a minor league soccer match. The men were relaxed, joking around, talking casually. However, the normalcy ended when each man emerged from the makeup cubicle. They were transformed – naked, corpse-pale, their bodies marked with splatters of black paint. Their lips were ghostly white, and dark circles around their eyes created a startling, almost shocked expression.
The reason for my sudden employment was unfortunate. The makeup artist had endured offensive remarks from a previous ghost, leading to his dismissal. This opened the door for me, and I was hired with very little notice. My first night was also the dress rehearsal, performed in front of nearly a thousand spectators.
Despite the common stereotype of Swedes being at ease with nudity and readily disrobing in public settings, I felt a deep-seated embarrassment and shame about my own body. Paradoxically, this discomfort was precisely why I applied for the role. I hoped it would serve as a form of personal therapy. My reasoning was simple: if I spent a couple of nights each week completely naked, the shame might dissipate. I imagined the external exposure could somehow heal my internal insecurities, aided by the audience’s judging eyes.
However, the physical shame turned out to be a superficial issue. Deeper within me, a more profound shame resided – the shame of lacking self-control, of my drinking, my lies, and my generally inconsiderate behavior. I was gripped by the fear that if people truly knew my thoughts, feelings, and actions, I would be utterly rejected. As soon as I was intoxicated, which was frequently, my need for validation from women became overwhelming, regardless of my relationship status.
Wagner’s opera itself explores profound inner turmoil. It tells the story of a sea captain, the Flying Dutchman, cursed to endlessly sail the oceans. Only once every seven years can he go ashore to seek a woman whose unwavering love, until death, can offer him salvation. Essentially, The Flying Dutchman is a narrative centered on the possibility of forgiveness and redemption.
In a strange, personal parallel, I think I was subconsciously hoping for a similar kind of redemption. I longed for clarity and to redefine the boundaries of my own body and self. Perhaps, through this bizarre experience as a Naked Dance Male, I could find some form of personal absolution.
On stage, the effects of the spray paint were quite peculiar – it stiffened our pubic hair. Simultaneously, the powerful voices of the opera singers sent shivers down our spines, making the hair on our bodies stand on end. We moved and danced with them in the dimly lit space, our facial expressions deliberately frozen. It was a truly captivating sensory experience, a fusion of sound, light, and movement.
We were an ensemble of contrasts: fragile yet powerful, ridiculous yet strangely dignified. Our penises swayed in unison with the rhythm of the music. Male camaraderie, often elusive and hard to combine with genuine presence, vulnerability, and meaning, seemed effortlessly natural and self-evident within this unusual context.
Previously, the idea of connecting with men in groups had always intimidated me. I simply couldn’t relax and be myself in male group settings. But this experience was different. There was a unique bond formed through this shared nudity and performance.
The return of war to Europe has prompted me to reflect on this experience. Sweden’s abandonment of neutrality and the warnings of potential Russian aggression, of war, resonate with thoughts of masculinity. The military has long been celebrated as an idealized form of male bonding in our culture, depicted in countless movies and books. A potent, honorable male connection is often portrayed as being forged through a collective will to compete, even to fight to the death, against another group of men.
While the military ideal might be an outdated representation of male companionship, the concept of large groups of men engaging in activities together beyond sports, performance, drinking, or fighting still seems limited in our cultural imagination. Intimacy among men in groups, when it occurs, is often triggered by an external threat, whether real or perceived. Without such pressure, we often struggle to connect, lacking shared foundations.
Finding group environments where men are allowed to express sensitivity outside the high-stakes world of professional sports is challenging. Within these restricted, ritualistic spaces, men are still forced to confront a wide spectrum of emotional and interpersonal issues.
This societal pressure is palpable. One only needs to glance at the headlines of Swedish sports newspapers like Sportbladet to see beneath the veneer of athletic competition what truly matters: infidelity, domestic violence, illness, friendship, love, and gossip. Headlines scream out, “The mother’s anger: my son was weak and sick.”
Other headlines reveal deeper, more personal struggles: “I’m not going to hide any more – football star comes out as gay,” and “Handball player’s strange shoe addiction.” These glimpses into personal vulnerabilities contrast sharply with the stoic, strong image often associated with masculinity.
The male community I experienced during The Flying Dutchman felt almost utopian. We were masculine in our nudity, yet we were placed in a situation where conventional strategies for male bonding simply dissolved. The shared vulnerability of being naked performers created a different kind of connection.
Although as nude men, we were a spectacle, eliciting boos and cheers each night before the curtain fell, we remained separate from the principal performers between acts. We were a diverse collection of individuals, huddled in dressing gowns in the smoking room, waiting for our next cue. In this shared space, we felt free to talk openly about anything and everything. After months of performing these stripped-down waltzes, the arias and the sense of community had become ingrained in me. Even now, twenty years later, hearing Wagner’s music still evokes a peculiar urge to shed my clothes and dance.
Expressions of male friendship have evolved since then. I now regularly go to the gym with my “gym bros,” and during workouts, we discuss almost anything. A friend and I recently launched a podcast exploring culture and masculinity. I’ve learned that contemporary male friendship can be intimate and honest – a formula for improved well-being and more fulfilling relationships and careers.
However, it’s still complex. While there’s no shortage of male influencers guiding the way towards a more modern masculinity, they often stir controversy. The recent backlash against U.S. podcaster, male influencer, and wellness figure Andrew Huberman led Swedish columnist Catia Hultquist to question whether this signaled increased demands on male friendships and the start of a “brotoo” movement – a wave of male disappointment, moving beyond the #metoo era.
The fundamental challenge with masculinity and friendship remains that, like art and literature, friendship necessitates relinquishing control and embracing vulnerability in another person’s eyes. Masculinity doesn’t need to be confined to football and pub bravado, just as it shouldn’t be exclusively linked to warfare. Similarly, male support systems can emerge in unexpected places. But the crucial question remains: has male culture evolved enough to truly accommodate this vulnerability?
Earlier this summer, I traveled to Berlin with Författarlandslaget, the Swedish writers’ national football team. Over a weekend, we participated in a European championship against teams from England, Italy, Germany, and France, fostering a sense of male European writing community.
Within Författarlandslaget, I’ve met individuals who have taught me about vulnerability firsthand. Our team captain, Fredrik Ekelund, publicly came out as a transvestite, and I’ve played alongside Martin Bengtsson, who, after a suicide attempt, left professional football to become a writer and musician. The pressure to appear strong and stoic, which men often carry, temporarily lifts when I wear the yellow and blue jersey of the national team.
Men are spending more time looking after their children – and it’s not just cultural, it’s in their genes | Jonathan Kennedy
The pervasive anger and aggression in our world necessitate building defenses. However, when we strip away the superficial layers of our culture, masculinity has the potential to transform. Men in groups can open up about their deepest fears and insecurities, discuss what fills them with shame, and confront the emotional and physical violence they are capable of inflicting on each other, on women, and on themselves. The paradox of shedding our defensive, buttoned-up exteriors – as I discovered, naked and ghostly before an opera audience – is that it ultimately gives us back a sense of control.
Exposing our authentic selves can liberate us from the constraints of outdated ideas about masculinity. It allows us to embrace our inherent fragility and, even facing potential disappointment, become more fully human.
- Gunnar Ardelius is a Swedish author.
