It was a cultural revolution of sorts. As Mao Tse-Tung might have said: ‘Let a million bosoms bloom.’
It started almost as a local event. Legend has it that the first bikini tops came off at Tahiti Plage, near St. Tropez. The year? Most plagistes would settle for 1970, give or take a season or two either way.
Take in the scene.
An unremarkable summer day with a faint breeze coming in off the sea, rustling the palm trees, setting the beach boys to work tightening the parasols, and wafting the first pungent smells of the plat du jour – mmmm, l’epaule d’agneau aux herbes – across the patio to the serried rows baking bodies on the sand. Monsieur Felix is starting on his rounds with a sheaf of menus. Fingers are snapping to order aperitifs. The beach is coming to life after a gloriously somnolent morning.
But what’s this? That agreeable strawberry blonde in the white bathing suit is sitting up at the windbreak. Without her bikini top? According to Tony, she’s a Swedish-speaking Finn, although what that has to do with it I’m not sure. Of course, we’d all noticed her undoing her top when she turned over on her front an hour or so ago. And, of course, several of the girls do that. Still. And look, there’s another a few yards away. And another. Why, it’s our very own Martine! And Jean-Pierre doesn’t seem in the least concerned, quite smug in fact. As well he might; what a figure! And there’s another. This is incredible.
It’s almost as though there had been a pre-arranged signal for all tops to be peeled off. Within a few minutes, right along the far row of matelas a dozen pairs of bare bosoms are wagging saucily. Under the benign auspices of Monsieur Felix, who looks as though he’s seen it all, and more besides. To be sure, a few tongues are wagging as well. But no bolts of lightning from the scandalized gods, no screaming police sirens. Just a few venturesome Tropeziennes quietly starting a new fashion along the Cote d’Azur. A fashion? More like an institution. The shape of things to come.
Before long, at neighboring beaches along the peninsula, at Pampelonne, at Plage des Salins, at Plage de la Briand, at Plage de l‘Escalet, at Plage des Graniers, and, of course, at the famous poolside of the Hotel Byblos at St. Tropez, there was an effulgent, but cautious, flowering of bare breasts.
Aficionados reported four distinct phases in going topless. Women would start, with understandable hesitation, lying on their fronts with their bare breasts nuzzling the sand. Then, they would experiment with lying on the backs exposing their breasts to the sun. Then, they would progress to sitting up, and finally would graduate to swimming, and walking around the beach topless.
At the end of that first lustrous topless season, ‘Seins’ Tropez, the capital of summer chic, had become the Mecca of the MLS – the redoubtable ‘Mouvement de Liberation des Seins,’ an offshoot of Women’s Lib, infiltrated, one suspects, by a number of self-serving men. By the end of the summer of 1971, within a dozen kilometers of St. Tropez, bikini marks had become almost as rare as parking spaces in the Place de la Republique. Topless sunbathing was here to stay.
But for the next couple of seasons, ‘going topless’ remained the almost exclusive phenomenon of the sybaritic peninsula. It was written about, talked about, indulged in, and awesomely photographed, gushed over, and deplored. But it seemed to be just another local event, another St Tropez self-indulgence, condoned by tolerant authorities. Elsewhere was more staid. A far cry from bathing machines, to be sure, but at most private and public beaches along the coast, bikini tops remained, more or less firmly fastened. It was a quiet revolution, so far.
Until Thursday, June 14, 1973, the day that Nice-Matin splashed, ‘Nice has been invaded by the bare bosoms of St. Tropez.’ The beachhead for this assault was the irreproachable Ruhl Plage on the Promenade des Anglais, in front of the Hotel Negresco, that rococo home-from-home of the bourgeois chic, and to be designated in 1974 as a monument historique. Under a photo of three topless beauties, the paper laconically avowed that, the scenery of Nice is none the worse for a few discarded bikini tops.’ One expected the earth to fall in, or at least a tremblement de terre of force five on the Richter scale. But Monsieur Malacarne, who, with son Bob and daughter Claudie, runs Ruhl Plage with a genial but firm hand, was curiously unfazed. Claudie was reported chatting to one of the topless denizens, Sandra, who predictably came from St. Tropez. A neat bit of PR.
Other beaches along the front were quick to follow; the Opera Plage, the Forum, the Bains de la Plage. The latter was managed by Monsieur Jo Burdin, president of the Syndicat des Plagistes des Alpes-Maritimes, who offered a Gallic shrug. ‘I’m not aware of any municipal or prefectorial regulations forbidding topless sunbathing.’
But the very next day, June 15, Nice-Matin soberly declares that while indeed there were no specific provisions in the law, the penal code could be invoked under the catch-all clause of ‘public order and decency.’ Adding, ‘There may have been an armistice at St. Tropez, but we may have a war on our hands in Nice.’
And war it seemed to be. There were ugly scenes on the Promenades des Anglais in front of Ruhl Plage and other beaches. The police, always impeccably buttoned-up, turned out in force to take the names and addressed of topless sunbathers. Jeering crowds gathered. A reporter from Radio Monte Carlo was photographed interviewing a topless girl, who had covered her face to avoid prosecution. A real revolution was in the air.
Finally, French pragmatism prevailed. On June 17, 1973, Nice-Matin quoted the then mayor of Nice, Jacques Medecin: ‘I think that the topless fashion is now an established part of our social life. In no way, does topless sunbathing represent an affront to public decency. And I am delighted that our pretty girls are exploiting their natural advantages in this way. The police have more serious matters to attend to…’
An armistice was tacitly declared, and all was fairly quiet on the topless front until August 2, 1976, when Nice-Matin observed that topless sunbathing had become so commonplace that nobody really took any notice. Well, not quite true, perhaps. Men, it seemed, were either ‘discreetly interested,’ or ‘falsely indifferent;’ the wide variety of bare bosoms having presumably invited more aesthetic discrimination. Aesthetic became an issue; should freedom to go topless extend to the old or blemished, as well as the nubile? The thought of topless harridans sending putative shivers down male chauvinist spines. There was discussion about the harmful effect on children of seeing their mothers baring their breasts in public. But children, when interviewed, appeared to be unconcerned. ‘Bof!’ was the universal Gallic rejoinder. So much for that. Even the most conservative commentators agreed that all the unleashed pulchritude was not exactly rending the fabric of society.
From then on it was pretty plain sailing. The topless debate became more technical, turning to matters of health and beauty. It was generally agreed that for certain women with heavy or pear-shaped breasts, a bra is to be recommended during vigorous exercise, in order to avoid the ‘breaking down of the elastic mammary fibers,’ and the consequent ‘falling’ of the breasts. New cosmetics proliferated; nipple oils and ‘specially formulated’ sun-screens and ‘nutrients.’ Topless sunbathing was applauded as a major factor in the ‘psychological liberation’ of women, ‘freeing them from the straitjackets of their puritan upbringings,’ and ‘enabling them to come to terms with their physical limitations.’
You’ve come a long way, baby!
All the way, in fact, to ‘Miss Seins Nus’ competitions at beaches all along the coast; 1979 was a record year for ‘Miss’ elections, the great event of the season being ‘Miss France Nue’ who was elected on August 23 at St. Maxime, just across the Golfe de St. Tropez from the resort of resorts that started it all. Florence Satizelle, the 19-year-old Parisienne, who won the title, will put her charms to the test once again in Canada next spring in the ‘Miss Nude World’ elections.
At Tahiti Plage, it’s business as usual. A casual eye is kept open for parasol pirates. A Chriscraft gurgling at the jetty is unloading a bevy of topless beauties for lunch. Monsieur Felix, perennially distinguished, is making his rounds with the menus. The plat du jour chalked up on the board on the big palm tree is ‘rouget a la nicoise.’ An unremarkable day.
But what’s this? A couple of very pretty girls are walking across the patio to the restaurant. Wearing bikini tops!? Heads are turning. A faint ripple of amusement. Ah, well we’re a cosmopolitan crowd. After all, the topless revolution is over. We can afford to be tolerant.
Roger Collis 1980, Health & Efficiency; Radio Nova