The moment draws near. Men pass by carrying metal ladders for Spencer and his translator. Here comes Tunick (with the face of a Gringo and really short hair). He carries with him a megaphone and his translator has another. He says something about position “A,” and the crowd says, “Aaaaaaaaaaahhh.” The translator cracks up laughing. Spencer doesn’t get it. He’s a little concerned about working with so many irreverent and relajienta people. “This is not a party or a festival. It is not a political protest. It is a work of art and for it to work, you need to listen (por favour, please!), be silent and follow directions.”

But this is Mexico and everything always has a festive flavor to it. We are not merely obedient peons, chess pieces ready and waiting for the chessboard. We are cheerful. We make everything a party and we are a desmadre. Tunick says something about “filling out from behind,” and the crowd laughs without the artist even realizing his albur.

Patience. The moment draws near. Not yet, not yet… “We are racing against the sun,” says Spencer. Everything must be quick, with the light of the sunrise. The zócalo lightens little by little, the cathedral, the Palace of the Governor.

Spencer speaks to us from the height of a balcony, megaphone in hand, “Okay. Take those clothes off.” We quickly take our clothes off, nervous. The people yell, “Wooooo!!” and applaud as though we were at a concert. We are the concert, all of us. They announce that we broke Barcelona’s record. We head, naked, toward the zócalo’s platform. The crowd claps and chants, “Mé-xi-co, Mé-xi-co!”

We are there under the same circumstances. We are all exposed. We are all vulnerable. Maybe that is what keeps us from pasarse de lanza, from taking advantage of one another. We all share the same fragility.

We each claim our small stone square on the zócalo floor. It’s not easy to organize thousands of people with a megaphone, especially Mexicans. As we receive instructions from behind us, they again start the wave. Move three steps back, now 20 to the right. Don’t leave any squares empty. In the back there are empty squares. Move back… It’s cold and it seems to take a lot more time to get everything ready than we were expecting.

We are nothing but unprotected bodies in the morning cold, shivering a bit, unable to hide bellies, freckles, cellulite… we are all so imperfect (and beautiful). We breathe deeply. We keep silent for the photo (no smiling, por favour, please). This moment is poetic. How vulnerable and audacious we are. How exposed and strong… and we are so many (qué bueno).

He takes the photo. We applaud. Here comes the good part. Position “B,” sprawled out on the cold floor. No levantarse (por favour, please). Sprawl out. Do not lift your heads. Everything is lighter with the prevailing good mood. We don’t see faces or bodies but we hear our voices. Someone does an excellent job imitating Tunick’s tone and accent, “Por favour, please, Spencer, por favour please, take the damned photo!” It seems to last an eternity and there we are, sprawled out on the cold floor. Someone says, “They’re changing the roll of film!” “They went to Sanborns to buy batteries!” And we all laugh, this temporary community of strangers that now find each other near. (That’s what I remember most, laughing a lot, partly out of nervousness and partly out of happiness). We see the blue sky lightening and a few pigeons flying near the hoisted flag. We hear the same voice imitating Spencer, “Miren, miren. Volar el pajarito. Miren como vuela.” Who knows why, perhaps out of happiness, we all laugh again.

He takes the shot. We applaud, grateful to finally be able to get up off of the floor.

Source: Netwalker100