It’s not every day you find yourself in an artist’s studio, completely topless and wearing a waterproof apron as plaster is applied to your chest.
Sounds surreal, but it’s all part of the experience of getting a bust cast - something I decided to do earlier this year, after a friend took part in a casting session and told me how empowering it was.
You might have thought I’d feel awkward or nervous about the process of bust casting, or having a total stranger seeing me topless, but I was at ease the whole time.
Bust casts are a growing trend in body positivity and body neutrality that I couldn’t wait to take part in.
To me, it’s about reclaiming a body part that often comes laden with shame or insecurity - my breasts.
After all, you can’t even show women’s nipples on Instagram or Facebook without being censored, and some people still complain about breastfeeding in public, with mums being told to cover up.
Like many women, I’ve always had complex feelings towards my breasts.
I remember the extremes of lad culture, with magazines like FHM and Loaded creating a ‘lads mags’ genre; this was alongside the so-called ‘heroin chic’ of the ‘90s.
These opposing factions demanded women either have a perfect boob job, or the body of Kate Moss and the ability to go braless.
As a teenager in the noughties, I was in the thick of the gossip magazine era, where celebrities’ imperfections were scrutinised. Whatever my fluctuating size or health, I felt heavy and insecure.
Looking back now, I see that my friends and I had built up a negative body image based on the idealised woman we saw in these magazines – one that didn’t reflect what was in the mirror, or what we were worth as people.
I remember being teased by boys in the junior school playground for wearing my first bra (a very simple M&S number).
At secondary school, where our shirts were unfortunately translucent, we were told to wear certain coloured bras to avoid ‘distracting’ pupils and teachers – a rule that felt weirdly sexualised and designed to shame us.
By the time I was 17, I was convinced that boobs were tied to self-worth, sexuality and relationship status – something it’s taken me years to unlearn.
Recently, like many others, I gained weight throughout the lockdowns and I’ve gradually accepted that this larger body is here to stay.
One of my motivations for bust casting was to celebrate the shape I am now – not to mourn for past versions of myself – and embrace my curves.
Another major motivator was having a family history of breast cancer. My grandma died of it in the 60s, and my aunt survived breast cancer seven years ago after a mastectomy.
Fortunately, I don’t have the BRCA gene (which raises the likelihood of breast or ovarian cancer in women, and breast or prostate cancer in men), but I regularly check my breasts.
Having that family history, and reading that one in seven women in the UK will get breast cancer, meant that the bust casting seemed like a good way to freeze-frame a vulnerable part of my body that can be changed by illness, or if I’m lucky, just by ageing.
To honour my grandma and aunt, I also donated to a breast cancer charity on the day I did the casting session.
I didn’t want the casting to just be a symbolic gesture; it needed to involve giving back, too, and helping other families.
When I told my aunt about the bust casting, she was very supportive and proud.
My parents were more uneasy because we don’t really talk about our bodies, in that very British way, but they came around to the idea (though I will turn the cast round when they visit, to avoid any awkwardness).
I deliberately booked my casting at short notice so I didn’t have time to back out.
Having done life drawing for many years as a hobby, I’m not fazed by other people’s nudity, especially for art, but showing my own body was a new challenge.
The day of the casting was very hot, and I was worried about being sweaty and uncomfortable, but the artist, Ellen Downes of Every Body’s Story, kept her private studio as cool as possible.
It was strangely relaxing and therapeutic; I was surrounded by other casts of busts, torsos and pregnancy bumps in gold jesmonite or paint.
I sat on something similar to a dentist’s chair, and had to prep my skin with soothing grapeseed oil. Then Ellen applied plaster of Paris bandage strips over my bust towards my back, creating an arched shape.
The cast set quickly, but it wasn’t too restrictive – more like wearing a corset. I didn’t feel exposed or vulnerable at any point, just calm. Ellen and I talked about the different reasons people choose to cast a body part, from eating disorder recovery to gender reassignment surgery.
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Ellen reminded me that having a cast means you see yourself in 3D, which is more accurate than the 2D photos we agonise over – or the flipped version in the mirror.
Two days after the casting process, I went back to the studio to pick up the finished piece, covered in gold. It was truly surreal to see a part of myself in 3D.
I did have a default moment of shame at my size, which I think was an automatic reaction to seeing my chest and the top of my waist as someone else might see them, but body acceptance doesn’t happen overnight – it’s an ongoing process.
I’ve learned to respect the cast and accept how I look in it.
The finished piece now sits on a bookshelf in my living room, making me feel like a work of art, but not sexualised or seen through the male gaze.
Every time I see it, I’m reminded that being ashamed or self-critical won’t actually make me feel better. My body has value and substance, even if I struggle with self-worth.
Ultimately, this bust cast captures a moment in time, and a form I might not have forever, whether due to cancer, ageing, or a possible pregnancy. It shows me the frame I have right now, with no airbrushing or cropping.
The experience of body casting isn’t for everyone, but I can honestly say it has been empowering for me.
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