In my early twenties, an unusual job landed in my lap: a naked dancing ghost in a production of Richard Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman. Twice a week, I would find myself at the Malmö Opera, a building known for its modern architecture and expansive, warmly lit windows.
Backstage, the atmosphere among the men was surprisingly ordinary, reminiscent of a locker room before a local sports game. Casual banter and jokes filled the air. However, the normalcy shifted as each man returned from makeup, transformed into a corpse-pale, naked figure, marked with black paint. Chalky white lips and dark circles around their eyes completed the startling, ghostly look.
My hiring was last-minute, a replacement for a ghost who had been fired for making offensive remarks to the makeup artist. I started on the night of the dress rehearsal, performing in front of nearly a thousand people.
Despite Sweden’s reputation for comfort with nudity, I felt a deep sense of embarrassment and shame about my body. Ironically, this shame was precisely why I took the job. I hoped it would be a form of exposure therapy. By being naked regularly, I reasoned, the shame might dissipate. I imagined the audience’s gaze as a kind of external healing force.
Yet, the physical shame was a surface issue. Deeper down, I wrestled with shame stemming from a lack of self-control. I drank excessively, told lies, and often behaved selfishly. I feared that if people truly knew my thoughts and actions, I would be ostracized. Driven by insecurity, I constantly sought validation from women, especially when drunk, regardless of my relationship status.
Wagner’s opera tells the story of a tormented sea captain, condemned to eternal sailing. Once every seven years, he is allowed ashore to seek a woman whose faithful love until death can break the curse and offer him salvation. At its core, The Flying Dutchman explores themes of forgiveness and redemption.
Perhaps, on some level, I hoped for a similar redemption. I yearned for clarity and a renewed sense of boundaries for my body and self.
On stage, the spray paint stiffened our pubic hair, and the powerful voices of the opera singers raised goosebumps as we danced with them in the dim, dramatic lighting, our faces fixed in ghostly expressions. It was a captivating blend of sound, light, and movement.
We were a paradox: fragile yet powerful, ridiculous yet compelling. Our penises swayed in unison with the music. Male camaraderie, often elusive and difficult to achieve with genuine presence and vulnerability, felt unexpectedly natural and straightforward in this bizarre context.
Group dynamics with men had always intimidated me. Typically, I would freeze up in male group settings. But this experience was different.
The return of war to Europe has brought this experience back to my mind. Sweden has abandoned its neutrality and is preparing for potential threats, including Russian aggression. The military has long been idealized as the ultimate form of male bonding in our culture. A strong, noble male bond, forged in competition and, if necessary, unto death.
While the military ideal of male companionship might be outdated, imagining men in large groups doing anything beyond sports, performance, drinking, or fighting remains challenging. Intimacy among men in groups often arises from external pressures, real or perceived threats. Without such pressure, finding common ground and support can be difficult.
Finding spaces where men can be sensitive and vulnerable outside of high-pressure environments like professional sports is rare. Even within these ritualized arenas, deeper emotional and relational struggles surface.
A quick glance at Swedish sports newspapers reveals headlines that, beneath the surface of competition, expose real pain: infidelity, domestic violence, illness, friendship, love, and gossip. “The mother’s anger: my son was weak and sick,” one headline screams. Others declare, “I’m not going to hide any more – the football star comes out as gay,” and “The handball player’s strange shoe addiction.”
The male community I found in The Flying Dutchman was almost utopian. Our nudity stripped away usual social pretenses, forcing a different kind of connection.
Although we, as nude men, provided a spectacle and drew nightly boos and cheers before the curtain, we were separated from the lead performers between acts.
We, this diverse group, would gather in dressing gowns in the smoking room, awaiting our next cue. There, we felt free to talk openly about anything and everything. After months of this stripped-down waltz, the arias and the camaraderie had become ingrained. Even two decades later, Wagner’s music can still trigger an impulse to shed my clothes and dance.
Expressions of male friendship have evolved since then. I now regularly go to the gym with “gym bros,” and we can discuss almost anything while working out. A friend and I have even launched a podcast about culture and masculinity. I’ve learned that modern male friendship can be intimate and honest—a formula for better health and more fulfilling relationships and careers.
However, it’s still complex. While male influencers promoting a more modern masculinity are abundant, they often spark controversy. The recent backlash against US podcaster and “wellbeing bro” Andrew Huberman prompted Swedish columnist Catia Hultquist to ponder whether this signaled rising expectations in male friendships and the beginning of a “#brotoo” movement—male disappointment, rather than #metoo.
The enduring challenge in masculinity and friendship, like in art and literature, is vulnerability and relinquishing control in front of another person. Masculinity doesn’t need to be confined to sports and bravado, just as it shouldn’t be defined by war. Male support can be found in unexpected places. But the question remains: has male community evolved enough to truly embrace vulnerability?
Earlier this summer, I traveled to Berlin with Författarlandslaget, the Swedish national writers’ football team. We participated in a European championship against teams from England, Italy, Germany, and France, fostering a European writing community.
Within Författarlandslaget, I’ve met men who have taught me about vulnerability. Our team captain, Fredrik Ekelund, publicly came out as a transvestite. I’ve played alongside Martin Bengtsson, who, after a suicide attempt, left professional football to become a writer and musician. The pressure to be strong and stoic, a constant weight for men, temporarily lifts when I wear the Swedish national team jersey.
The daily aggression and conflict around us necessitate defenses. However, when we peel back the superficial layers of culture, masculinity can genuinely transform. Men in groups can open up about hidden fears and insecurities, discuss shame, and confront the potential for emotional and physical violence we inflict on each other, women, and ourselves. The paradox of stripping away our defenses, as I discovered, naked and ghostly before an opera audience, is that it ultimately gives us back control.
Exposing our true selves can free us from limiting ideas about masculinity. It allows us to own our inherent fragility and, even with the risk of disappointment, become more fully human.
- Gunnar Ardelius is a Swedish author.
