Topless in Mallorca

A celebration of all bodies, breasts, and beings ☀️

Sep 03, 2024

A beach scene made with pen, markers, and watercolors. Blue and purple ocean, light blue and seafoam sky, tan sand, gray rocks and cliffs, green trees, and purple, pink, and maroon houses and umbrellas. In the ocean are various characters - a girl in a purple unicorn floating device, a tattooed father with a daughter in pink hat and long sleeved shirt, a couple standing together looking at the waves, a topless woman with her arms raised, boats, and more. — “Topless in Mallorca” created with pen, markers, and watercolors. Created on July 9th 2024 on Paguera-Tora Beach in Mallorca, Spain.

Written July 2024 —

I am hot, and happy to be; here on a beach in Mallorca.

Sweat and sunscreen lay thick on my skin. This time in the sun feels finite and I desperately wish to literally soak it in, while achingly balancing the knowledge of my family’s melanoma history. It’s plastered on a billboard in the back of my mind, overbearingly large, but still overshadowed by the promise of sunshine curing my psyche that simultaneously exists in loneliness and chaos.

I cozy up, laying on my stomach as the blaring sun lays her weightless body on the back of mine; neck, arms, legs, soles of my feet. How rare for the soles of our feet to commune with the sky, drawing in the sun’s rays? This limited surface area holds the pressure of our entire body weight day to day; what an enormous burden to carry. We are so lucky.

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He rests next to me. I’ve pulled my chair a few feet away so that our umbrella protects him from the sun, but I am free to be kissed. I unhook my top so copious amounts of sunscreen can be applied to my back. Just those few moments are a reprieve from the fabric we’re accustomed to wear daily, designed to hold us in and up. Bound, restricted.

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Women of all ages wear bikinis here.

That’s a change from what we’re used to at home, with women covering up not just in one-piece suits, but in full outfits.

I am grateful to see all types of beautiful, sunbathing bodies – with their softness and curves, cellulite and wrinkles, in every shape, color, and size. These bodies all belong here on this majestic island. They complement the gift of nature’s existence, enhancing our experiences as we walk in the sand, swim in the water.

These bodies have rolls like waves; waves that pour onto the shore in movements that make children laugh and adults take in the deepest breath that they’ve had in months. Years.

These bodies are different from what I’m used to seeing. I am better for it. We are all better for it.

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As my sweat pools onto the towel, I abandon the shore to bathe in the water. I see bellies. Bellies that have grown human life. Breasts that have sustained them. Strong, thick, generous legs that move the human attached through this physical plane.

I see arms with padding that embrace their loved ones with warmth. Arms that move in an outwards motion, careening down the coastline, allowing one to float and fly through the sea with an abandon we can only experience with the weightlessness of water. Arms that toss children so that they can make a splash, scooping them up with shared giggles and affection.

Hands – some calloused, some silky, some gentle, some aggressive, applying sunscreen on loved ones’ backs and sweet children’s faces, catching and throwing a ball with a pal, collecting shells along the shore.

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I love the lines and creases in the back of your legs.

The way your booty splays out to the either side when you sit.

The way your stomach folds over itself when you're not paying attention, not making yourself smaller and slimmer like we were trained to at some point.

Smaller, slimmer; all of a sudden you’re not breathing as deeply and you don’t feel as well and your precious time at this magical landscape is ridden with, ruined by, someone who told you that your body was less natural than the sand you walk on, the water you melt into, the sun you exalt to. Less perfect than the breeze embracing your cheek, the trees tethered by its roots, the sky without a cloud in it overhead.

I love the way your belly pours over the edge of your bottoms.

The extra body that sinks under your bra line.

Your flesh that jiggles with vibrance each step you take.

The countless shades of gray hair on your chest, on your head, in your eyebrows.

The varied patterns on your skin from scars, tattoos, imprints of chairs and towels.

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There are different levels of affection displayed on this public beach. Some sneak together for a sweet, gentle kiss. There are others whose bodies commune with the water shielding outside eyes to the intimacy they dare to publicize.

It appears that the sexualization of bodies does not exist with such intensity and taboo here. Topless women with breasts that rise and fall in the water, breasts who have differing relationships with gravity as they walk, carry on without shame. Without note.

They exist in their fullest form, in a place that hasn’t realized to ostracize their freedom. Of course it makes perfect sense that these bodies may be free, that there is nothing wrong with topless displays, that the oppression of breasts is antithetical to our natural existence.

What a blessing to not have service. Look at what can be observed in the real world without the distraction and depletion intent on sucking me endlessly away from the reality I so desperately wish to feel connected to.

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There’s a dad covered in both tattoos and his bleach blonde daughters. The tattoos will stay, his daughters will not. For now, they hang onto the safe haven of his body; it is all they know of home.

A toddler in a neon pink hat that bleeds into a matching long sleeved shirt kicks her way through the water, assisted by the neon green floaties in squeezing her teeny, tiny arms. Her older brother fluctuates between impatience and adoration as he eagerly urges her deeper in the water, parents beside them. “All in due time,” I think. “She’ll get there.”

A deeply tanned man in his seventies with an almost ironically square-shaped haircut blows up the rectangular orange float with the ease that’s only granted with repeating trips to the beach. His familiar actions demonstrate this is a familiar place; he has learned the lay of the land and found a routine that suits him.

A few feet away stands a glamorous grandmother, with a fitted black and white one piece, elegant straw hat potentially bought for this very vacation, sunglasses suited for a movie star, and most importantly, a waddly little boy looking admiringly up at her as his mother beams behind a camera, capturing a timeless moment for their family’s history.

What an honor it would be to give our parents the priceless gift of grandchildren. I can see the role each would play in their lives, the special love that necessarily skips a generation. I take a moment to daydream before coming back to the sensations in front of me. I feel the spaciousness, I hear the splashes, I am brought back to this divine place.

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My bathing suit feels tight and I am bothered by the constant need to pull it up. I wish that I felt more comfortable just taking it off. Having my partner here makes me more inclined to do so, knowing that I’m less likely to receive unsolicited stares, comments, or worse. Maybe I’ll go into the ocean and let its powerful presence be my protection.

There is a unique freedom to this sea; a tangible release that it invites.

Our souls know the potential of its strength to overtake us, yet it sits here with us subtly moving, enough just to hold us up. Sometimes it sneakily, but gently, pushes us over when we are slightly off balance. Who knew the waves had such a sense of humor? I suppose it would be obvious that with all of its wisdom, the water still loves to play.

“Remember my majesty, don’t pollute me, and let’s lean into each other.”

My view from my beach chair. Looking out at the ocean, laying on a blue and white striped towel, markers and pens and watercolors sitting next to the sketch of what will become the "Topless in Mallorca" piece — The art supplies I brought on the trip and the beginning sketches of “Topless in Mallorca”

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I unhook my bikini top while my chest is underwater. This alone feels rebellious, and I giggle to myself. One step towards freedom. Still feeling stifled by having to crouch down, I declare that others’ eyes are not worthy of making my stance smaller. I stand up, the sun finding parts of my body it's never seen.

Well, that feels nice.

The joy outweighs the discomfort.

I notice that no one cares. People are used to seeing breasts and bodies in every form. There is a particular wildness to feeling this revolution inside of myself that does not touch anyone else’s consciousness.

Experiencing the community’s sense of empowerment invites me into my own. Their assurance leads me to the behaviors that take me home to myself.

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I saunter back to my chair and notice I’m sucking in my stomach. It is not conscious. It’s an innate practice that’s been embedded into my being for half of my life, starting when I learned that skinny was more important than breath.

Even as we evolve and unlearn the brutal pressure on our physical existence, much remains. We’ve been conditioned to focus on what and where and when and how and why we eat rather than feeling joy. Feeling whole. Feeling full.

We’ve been taught to idolize hunger and fitness and aesthetics, rather than health. To engage in practices that make us miserable, weak, and exhausted, rather than energized.

Why can I fall in love with your cellulite and not my own? Who taught me that there was something wrong with the fat keeping me alive? What made me compare what I look like to you, or you on them?

It’s an endless unraveling to come back into the body that supports you. I celebrate that I have come to a place where as soon as I notice this constriction, I consciously release my belly. I pray that the next time, or maybe the time after that, it will do so innately. How peculiar to have to teach your body that it's allowed to exist with less effort. No wonder we are always so tired.

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I walk past all of these beachgoers who I would have previously believed were looking in judgment, no matter what I looked like. I intentionally invite my body to do as is most natural. My muscles release. My breathing deepened. I move more freely, with ease, and my body sways in a dance just for itself. This is revolutionary.

All of your bodies have gifted me the freedom to sit hunched over on a beach chair, not worrying about how my stomach will look to outsiders' gazes.

Because of this, I get to bring my watercolor practice to the beaches of Mallorca. I use ocean water to create the scene that I am living in. I am engulfed in the shapes and sizes of all bodies, the bright colors of swimsuits and umbrellas, the sparkling waves matching eyes that twinkle, the precarious cliffs helping us feel oh so small, the sun sustaining us all.

All of your bodies have invited a rebellious celebration. You are here, as you are meant to be, in your fullest form.

I hope that you’re breathing.

I hope that you're frolicking in the waves, inviting the water to unite with your beauty.

I hope you love the body that I love when I see all of you.

Thank you.