Nude is a term that gives me the creeps. Nude were the stockings I flipped past when I started wearing them as a teenager, preferring warm bronze colors in summer and dark coppery stockings in the winter. Bold red, ghostly white, or glittery lips were what called me out of the tasteful, painfully alienated, and safely ordered Waspy world into which I was born, and from which I yearned to flee. Nudes were what the portrait photographer showed me when I applied to be his assistant. He informed me that the soft-focus, warm-toned prints were not dirty pictures, but rather high-art testaments to the young naked women who posed in the safety of his studio.