Going Naked

 BY ILSE GHEKIERE; IMAGE BY ELSA B MASON

Note: This article was published in Stance on Dance’s spring/summer 2025 print issue. To learn more, visit stanceondance.com/print-publication.

Onstage nudity served as free content for pornographic websites? These days it’s just a click away. This phenomenon affects performers disproportionately and raises questions about artistic freedom and ownership of one’s own image in the digital era.

Once in a blue moon, I Google my name with the word “porn” next to it. I started this habit after some of my dancer colleagues discovered images of their naked bodies on pornographic websites. These weren’t cases of revenge porn by ill-meaning ex-lovers, but professional images – pictures or stills from performances, albeit nude ones, on stage. Having performed “in the nude” early in my career, it seemed likely a revealing picture of my younger self might be out there.

These incidents surfaced during MeToo discussions in the performing arts. However, they didn’t align with typical sexual harassment cases. Often, there was no identifiable perpetrator or direct confrontation. Instead, the issue was the image – something out of one’s control, no longer belonging to the individual, but to others.

“Porn,” “nude,” “pussy”

I first encountered these images through a case about a livestream video. A Belgian company, known for its radical dance and theater, left a live recording of a performance with explicit scenes online for months. Soon after, still images from the stream appeared on countless pornographic websites, revealing the dancers’ identities. These images, often paired with sexual comments like “Keep stroking that little kitty,” filled search results when I entered the dancers’ names alongside words like “porn,” “nude,” or “pussy.” Edited videos from the stream amassed over 100,000 views. One dancer wrote to me: “It feels as if those 100,000 views equal the times my physical integrity was violated.”

Around the same time, I received an email from Hungarian dancers about a blog called “Theatrical Erotica,” run by someone named “Season of Monsters.” The blog showcased naked performers, described as “erotic visuals” taken from the Hungarian dance scene. The introduction, written with self-declared authority, framed the images as if they were collectors’ items in a supposed project for the public good.

Réka Oberfrank, a dancer whose image appeared on the blog, shared her shock at finding portraits of herself and a colleague as adolescents on the site. The blogger paired their smiling young faces and full names with their naked pictures. This disturbing juxtaposition of nudity and innocence was a consistent theme across the blog, where viewers were encouraged to leave comments.

Much of the blog’s content could be traced back to promotional material posted by artists. In Oberfrank’s case, however, she initially didn’t understand where her pictures came from. The performance was filmed, but she never uploaded any pictures online. Then she recalled a cameraperson appearing unannounced before the premiere. Her performance, part of a youth-talent program, was a big deal, showcasing first-time choreographers. The cameraperson, sent by the program for a young critics’ initiative, filmed the performance. Oberfrank, preoccupied with stress and excitement, didn’t object to being filmed. However, the footage was later used in a YouTube series without her knowledge. Soon after, the still images of the video appeared on the “Theatrical Erotica” blog.

In an attempt to regain control, Oberfrank’s colleague contacted the person behind the YouTube series to request the images be removed. This individual, a prominent critic in the Hungarian theater scene, refused, stating they had “nothing to be ashamed of.” The video stayed online, and “Season of Monsters” continued expanding its “collection.”

When Oberfrank and her colleagues considered further steps, they encountered a new challenge: Not every dancer featured on the blog viewed the situation as problematic. Opinions differed, with some feeling deeply violated while others dismissed it as an inherent risk of performing nude.

Of course, everyone is free to feel what they feel. Some may argue that taking nude pictures on stage and later complaining about their misuse is not only naive, but hypocritical. Others might say it’s the shift in context that poses a problem, reinforcing some kind of “moral dichotomy between art and pornography.” Why is it that the naked body in the context of dance (or art in general) is seen as more sacred than the nudity of a glamour model or porn star? Some people might even argue that this feeling of victimization comes from a sense of hostility towards pornography and sex work. Regardless, you don’t need to feel victimized to speak up against a violation of your rights. Even performers indifferent to their images appearing in porn might question whether it’s acceptable for strangers to profit from their likeness. Sex workers, too, would rightly object to such exploitation.

It’s likely that part of the allure for viewers comes from the fact that these images were never intended as pornography. It’s precisely this exploitation – the lack of consent or awareness from the subjects – that some find thrilling.

My image is my profession

In most Western democracies, laws clearly state that publishing someone’s picture without their permission is illegal. However, despite these cases appearing to violate such principles, seeking justice has proven complex, especially when the internet is involved.

If you are a performing artist, your image is your profession. However, working for someone else can significantly alter your rights and say over your image. When you perform, your dancing and acting become part of the work of art, as does your body. Choreographers or companies often record their work for promotion, sales, or archiving and will seek the performers’ permission to use the material. Legal experts advise obtaining a broad release to avoid future disputes over authorship or royalties. For instance, a choreographer planning a retrospective 10 years later wouldn’t want to track down each performer for consent. After all, there is logistic convenience in having you (and all your rights) become part of their work of art.

When we talk about ownership and responsibility in these cases, we encounter a legally complex web of parties claiming varying degrees of ownership. In most Western democracies, copyright typically belongs to the “author” of the performance. A “picture” of a performance is usually copyrighted by the photographer, and additional parties may hold “exploitation rights” for recordings or distributions, as in the Belgian livestream case. In the United States, performers generally hold stronger copyright protections than in Europe. Yet, even with robust laws, questions remain: What other rights are left for the performer, whose talent, body, and image are central to the work?

Performers can always rely on fundamental human rights, including personality rights and privacy laws. Even if someone legally “owns” an image of you, they are not free to use it in ways that harm your reputation or integrity. Using such images in a damaging manner violates basic human rights. While proving harm to reputation or integrity can be challenging, the nonconsensual spread of naked pictures almost always crosses a legal line.

Cease-and-desist

How do we act on those rights? And whose responsibility is it to act? The Hungarian dancers quickly realized that collective action would be difficult. Oberfrank went to the police, but the case was dropped within weeks. When it became clear they might need to raise money for a lawyer, people quietly withdrew their support. Asked whether the group contacted the blogger, Oberfrank explained the blog had no contact information. She felt abandoned by the system and deprived of her rights. Together with her colleagues, she decided to give up.

I wish someone had told Oberfrank that Hungary, even under an extreme right government, includes image rights in its constitution. By that law, Oberfrank’s privacy rights were clearly violated. I also wish someone had informed her that contact information could be found through a website’s domain name, even if no email address was listed. However, perhaps none of this would have made a difference. Most importantly, these dancers needed free legal support – someone to help clean up the mess.

In the case of the Belgian livestream, even with many lawyers involved, removing the images proved nearly impossible. One dancer described it: “Once you think you have an overview of the website, yet another link with the same content pops up. It felt like a virus.”

The plagiaristic use of the dancers’ images from the livestream was primarily a violation of the company’s author rights. Additionally, the company failed to protect their employees’ privacy, leaving the dancers theoretically able to sue. This likely explains why the company quickly offered to cover legal costs.

After the first cease-and-desist letters were sent out, it became clear the company’s lawyers were not making sufficient efforts. The dancers were tasked with finding and reporting their own images online – a frustrating and disheartening responsibility. While the company claimed to care about stopping the spread of the pictures, their actions suggested otherwise. The dancers felt abandoned by their employer and the legal system. To this day, many of the pictures and videos remain online, available for consumption.

Problems with nudity

These cases raise artistic questions alongside legal and ethical concerns. What distinguishes nudity in art from nudity in porn? Why does context matter? If performance art can so easily be turned into porn, does that reflect on the art itself? Alternatively, what if we embraced this new cyber era, where all images can be used and manipulated, even at the cost of losing ownership of oneself?

The conversation about nudity in the performing arts often centers on defending the naked body as an expression of freedom. While this argument holds value, it overlooks the rapidly shifting status of images in today’s world. The rise of deepfake nudes – shockingly realistic AI-generated pornography based on real images – has introduced unprecedented challenges that the art world must confront.

What sets performing art apart is its live and ephemeral nature, almost always involving real people on stage. The stage gives dancers agency, though there will always be spectators with other intentions. Once captured – in a picture, moving or still – the dancer’s image, body, and actions become part of an object they no longer control or own.

In recent decades, technologies like camera-equipped smartphones have altered the fleeting qualities of live performances. At any music event, you see an ocean of screens held high. It’s not just the audience capturing and spreading performances online; artists and institutions also promote their work extensively by documenting and sharing it. This “making content by taking it out of context” has become essential for distribution but has also made performers’ images increasingly precarious.

Better practice

People often view the Internet as an uncontrollable force. While this perspective has merit, we must educate ourselves and act accordingly. Since these cases affect not just dancers but also choreographers, directors, photographers, theaters, and audiences, a collective effort is needed to protect individuals’ rights and images.

In the wake of MeToo, some “better practices” emerged to safeguard performers’ images. These changes resulted from dancers’ demands. For instance, in one performance, the performers didn’t do anything explicitly sexual on stage; however, the scenes were definitely suggestive, and naked. When choreographers decided to film the performance, it sparked a discussion about how shifting the medium altered the work and its implications for performers. The dancers insisted on precise contractual terms specifying where and how the film could be used. The contract also stated that in case of “non-authorized use of the captured performance or images,” the company would take “immediate action.” Such informed, detailed agreements are already being implemented and should become the standard.

Immediate action is crucial. One dancer managed to stop the spread of her image on pornographic websites by acting early and tackling the issue on multiple fronts. She contacted search engines to remove specific results, enlisted her lawyer to approach websites directly, and worked with an equal rights organization that used software to track and block revenge porn images. While her name may still appear in certain searches, the images are gone.

As I was writing this article, the Hungarian “Season of Monsters” blog, after more than six years online, suddenly went dark, displaying a message about a server crash. Above it, a looping GIF of Arnold Schwarzenegger in sunglasses declared, “I’ll be back.” The inactive blog remains a tab on my browser, one I check occasionally to see if it revives. Once in a blue moon, I still Google my name (and others) with the word “porn” to see what resurfaces.

~~

Note:

Except for Réka Oberfrank, other individuals did not want to be referred to by name. Their nonconsensual pictures are still out there, and they do not wish to draw attention to them. For legal reasons, I also needed to simplify each case. Pronouns of people are accurate. The gender of the Hungarian blogger is unknown.

If you are a victim of the nonconsensual spreading of explicit images in the USA, please contact The Cyber Helpline or call CCRI Crisis Helpline at 844-878-2274. You can also preventively hash any explicit picture of yourself on the website StopNCII.org.

This text was first published and translated to Norwegian in Norsk Shakespearetidsskrift #2-3, 2024. The content has since slightly been revised.

The research for this article was made possible with the support of Kulturdirektoratet Arts and Culture Norway.

Ilse Ghekiere is a Belgian dance artist and researcher based in Norway with a background in dance and art history. As the founder of Engagement Arts, a Belgian artist-run organization fighting sexism, sexual harassment, and abuse of power in the arts, she has become a prominent voice on these issues, speaking at venues ranging from art institutions to the EU Parliament. Her research-based artistic practice and extensive writing explore the complex tensions between sexual liberation and oppression within the context of dance.

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