After I had checked in to the Holiday Inn in downtown Buffalo on Saturday evening, I booked a cab for the following morning to take me to the old Buffalo Central Terminal on Paderewski Drive. The receptionist never heard of the place - that didn't sound too good, but she ensured me that the cab driver would know - which would be nice! The cab duly arrived on time outside my hotel at about 10:30. It was huge, like a St Patrick's day parade float - I got in the back and re-set my watch to back seat time i.e. one hour behind the driver's. We wallowed down the still deserted streets. I chatted to the driver, Dave throughout the journey, and he gave me a quick tour of the streets and neighbourhoods. I noticed in a shop as we cruised on by that they had $1,000,000 notes for sale for $5 - thought I must get a couple of them on the way back - should clear the mortgage. As we went down some vast expanse of a boulevard he gratefully enquired if I watched the TV show "Cops" - he then states that this area is one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in America and frequently appears in the news and on that TV Show - charming! "Could you speed up there" I mumbled to him, from the relative safety of the cab floor.

I could see the soaring tower of the Buffalo Central Terminal looming in the distance. It was like a siren - eerily beckoning me this-away. Heralded as one of the premier examples of railroad art deco architecture when it was built in 1929, the Buffalo Central Terminal is still an imposing and majestic building. The terminal originally included the main concourse, 15-story office tower, train concourse, and the mail and baggage buildings along Curtiss Street. The office tower is 271 feet high. The concourse measures 225'x 66' and is 58.5' high. Amtrak took over the majority of the inter-city passenger service in the United States in 1971 and used Central Terminal as its Buffalo terminus until October 28, 1979 when the terminal was abandoned. At the end of August 1997 the Central Terminal Restoration Corporation (CRTC) took possession of this grand old edifice with the primary focus on restoration and preservation of this landmark site. The CTRC is an entirely volunteer organisation with no paid staff. They rely on government funds and donations, and all the money received is put directly into the building or to stage public events (tours, Picnic on the Plaza, etc.). After well over ten years of neglect, sterling efforts are ongoing to repair one of Buffalo's favourite buildings. The best thing Central Terminal has going for it are all the people who love, and want to help save this magnificent building.

We arrived near the old terminal site at about 10:30. At first the place appeared deserted, Dave asked me was I sure I had the right place, probably fearful his was letting Mr Deeds out into a wild jungle. At the roundabout at the bottom of the hill leading up to the terminal, a police reservist was directing traffic. I paid Dave and he gave me his card to 'phone him when I wanted collecting - on the back was the name of a good criminal injury lawyer! I negotiated the roundabout - just about - they drive on the wrong side of the road and the wrong way around roundabouts over here - phew! Walking up the hill towards the tower, I noticed that a lot more people had arrived than had first appeared. The car park was half full already for the 11:00 start.

The tower and complete fabric of the old terminal was just as I had imagined it from the photos from the web sites devoted to it and its restoration. It was and is a magnificent and evocative building - memories and reminiscences are its foundations and ooze dreamily from the framework. At the chain link fence halfway up, a checkpoint was set up to examine the model release forms and liability waivers (won't be able to use Dave's lawyer on this occasion). I had mine already dutifully filled out all week, impatient to take part in another Spencer Tunick experience. These forms were also being handed out to the arriving multitude, gathering for their messiah. People were in all sorts of contortions trying to fill out the forms - bending down/leaning on their own knees, writing (stabbing?) on their partners backs - isn't it impossible to write standing up? All were busy frittering away their human rights, preparing to release themselves from decent societal norms. Others were wandering around with blank forms lusting after a writing implement - anything would do, a feather in your cap wouldn't have lasted long, such was the desperation.

People were still arriving in groups of 3, 4 or 5 and the odd singleton as I entered Checkpoint Spencer. I handed over my forms to the nice lady there. Once perused and my credentials checked - "everything in order Sir, please proceed". Up to the next checkpoint then and the two forms were taken off me and placed in a grey plastic crate. The admin people were affable and efficient in processing our paperwork. The security was welcoming and necessary - it gave a good sense of organisation and deference towards the people who would volunteer themselves for Spencer's art. Remember clothes, car keys etc would be left lying about whilst we were doing our stuff away from this area. I was expecting a strip search next - but thought what would be the point!

Walking around the side of the building I was allowed into the large outdoor area, outside the front of the old terminal. The groundwork was decaying, concrete crumbling underfoot, gravel and stones rustled with every step, tumbleweed rushed by. But the brickwork of the magnificent building was intact. It was like an oasis in a desert of decay. There was about 100 or so people already assembled in this inner cordon. Standing in clumps of 4 or 5. There were some solitary figures, standing pensively. So this is my crew. I joined them in mutual pensivity. At this stage the makeup of the assembled was predominately male, 70:30. I thought surprisingly the age range was a little older than previous experiences, the majority was roughly about 40 or over.

As time passed by, more and more people, having negotiated the checkpoints, starting gathering on the crumbly Serengeti. Like the summer rains and as the season of the disrobement approached, the trickle turned into a steady stream. The pool of volunteer models inexorably filled up to flood the front of the terminal. Here now life and art and experience would metamorphose.

As the people mustered, I observed the gathering of the different tribes and species. Singletons idled around, - some demur, some brazen. Men proudly paraded their trophy girl friends. One chap, about twenty years old, sauntered up and down dressed in a tiny grey shiny lycra swimsuit/leotard. It left nothing to the imagination, he even brought an extra courgette for his lunch, safely stowed in the front pocket - at least I think it was a courgette, I could be mistaken. Anyway, he was ready for action - two straps down and eureka, good on ye!

Some people dressed in normal everyday clothes. Others took Holly from the Albright Knox Gallery's email advice too literally and dressed lightly, with no underwear - very lightly. One chap I noticed looked lairdly in a kilt - no underwear you see! Another girl arrived resplendent in a rather fetching grey flannel bathrobe and flip-flops - just the thing, with no fiddly straps, buttons or straps to impede her transition into immediate nudity.

People still gathered. Amongst friends they huddled. Others, recognising friends/acquaintances called over to lonely figures to join them. Couples joined together to form larger groups. Two thirtysomething women speaking to two similar males of the species, spotted another single woman, recognised her and ran screaming over to her. The other woman, not wanting presumably to be seen naked later on by these ones, sheepishly moved out of range of these predators and meshed into the human undergrowth. But is was too late. They captured her and dragged her over to their lair, deftly stripping her of her prerogative. Screaming all the time "what are you doing here" - Duh! (Waiting on a train)

People wearing their "I Posed For Spencer Tunick" tee-shirts from the MOCA/Cleveland Installation in June 2004 mustered in front of the building also. The Buffalo Central Terminal was built by New York Central Railroad who chose architects Fellheimer & Wagner to design the terminal. Fellheimer & Wagner are also famous for designing the Cleveland terminal - so there's a linkage between the two installations and cities.

We waited and waited. I spotted Spencer briefly, mingling and chatting. He was handing out coloured pieces of paper. He usually goes around perusing his models and offering invites to the select for a private installation at another time/location. One chap asked Spencer for an invitation, but was declined - the cap didn't fit! People stood, sat, hunched, knelt and even lay down as the waiting continued. A few conversations were struck up. Young males hovered around single females. One chap near me with chat up lines at the ready worked his way around a couple of girls. A girl standing near the hunter squirmed in dread of him approaching her. Single people alone and lonely, eyed other singletons, but were paralysed and unable to utter even the most mundane pleasantries.

I overheard a group of college girls talking about observing one of their college professors in the gathering crowd. They huddled together, shivering at the thought of him seeing them naked and facing him on Monday. Maybe, I thought, he was reticent of them seeing him naked. The waiting went on and the sun shone down. A steady queue formed to the toilet cabins on the left of the apron.

At about 12:00 a megaphone burst into life. "Right Folks" Spencer was speaking to the multitude. As always, he was sincere and concentrated as he addressed the crowd. He went through how he was grateful for us being here and it would be a wonderful experience. He said he was going to have a female only installation first. Sadness abounded, both from the men who wanted to be part of everything and the girls who just realised that they would have to strip off and walk naked past all these oogling men (and college professors presumably) on their way into their privileged installation. Spencer disappeared off the ladder and went inside the terminal to set up his equipment.

The men and women were separated into two groups - women on the left and men hovering uncomfortably all around them. "Okay Girls - STRIP" bounded the commanding orders across the ear waves. There was some decoding necessary for this cryptic message. Girls looked at each other, at their now separated partners and as the enormity of the situation sunk in - of what they must now do. One girl looked sheepishly at her boyfriend, he gestured to her what to do - the look in her eyes said "what have you gotten me into?"

The trickle of tops and skirts turned into a deluge as the women stripped - some boisterously and others more self-consciously. There was some, very few really, smart ass remarks and wolf whistles but overall the men were in silent awe of such a wonderful sight. As the girls got naked they huddled together. The pink and blonde mass slithered towards the chain link fence at the entrance to the interior of the terminal building proper. Fronts were deftly manoeuvred away from prying eyes leaving only the backs of the girls in the viewpoint of the remaining men. They funnelled their through the narrow gap, past a solitary male grey uniformed security guard, the only person dressed at this location - some people get all the best jobs!

 As the last of the girls disappeared into the entrance, a girl who I had originally seen as an organiser at Checkpoint Spencer came out to us residual volunteers. She responded to a question that there was 1826 people in attendance on this installation, very good indeed. A manageable and useful size for Spencer I thought! With this little part on the whole event now over, the men forlornly without their earthly mates wandered aimlessly around the concrete apron.

 It seemed like an age, more waiting and waiting. The sun was up and beaming intensely down on us. It was unusual to hold Installations so late in the day. Usually installation occur very early in the mornings about 5 or 6 at sunrise - better colour from the sun and no citizens around to be demented! I figured that Spencer chose this later time for this installation as he wanted the sun's rays to beam in the terminals vast mosaic leaded windows. I sat down on the gravel and ruminated on what was going on inside at this time. I thought back to Spencer's installation the Grand Central Station in New York in October 2003 in a similar women only event. I spoke later to a girl, Lorraine, who told me that they went through three poses in Buffalo Central Terminal.

As we waited, I shifted position to a strategically placed lump of broken concrete beam and made my self comfortable and settled down to the continuing indeterminate waiting. Meditation did not last long though. Booming across the apron from the hand held megaphone, some bloke was belting out the orders. "Okay, Gentlemen…strip!" - charming, were did he come from?

All around me men were stripping off with gay abandon. A little tip for any of you contemplating taking part in one of Spencer Tunick's Installations is to find a landmark, a pole, lamppost, sign or whatever, where you place your discarded apparel for ease of rendezvous at a later time. Either that or wear Bay City Roller trousers for a quick and ensured retrieval - easy to spot and no-one would steal them. However, this was nigh on impossible in Buffalo. On the vast concrete plain, the only reference point I had was somewhere between the ground the sky. However, more anon. I stripped off quickly now, my meandering had left me almost behind everyone else in this stripping race. Most of my remaining male colleagues were swiftly disappearing down through the chain link fence gate and into the terminal building. Once naked, I appreciated the warmth of the day and negotiated nearly every little stone and crumbled outcast from the once pristine concrete plinth - and made my way through the gate and inside into the building.

Walking inside, I first noticed the musty smell of this now disused building. It was an aroma of character and memories - the dust I thought was the ashes of the souls who passed through here over the years. We made a swift left turn, directed by some more security and admin people waiting at the entrance into the main concourse. All the girls were waiting patiently for us. Some spouses were reunited with their wayward partner, others by the look on their faces were as yet to be rescued.

Spencer was up on the roof of the disused ticket office or package reclaim on the left hand side of the concourse as we came in. Beside him he had about 4 or 5 of his little helper. I recognised a couple of them from previous installation and knew they were in for a rough time from the director. Underneath Spencer in an area corralled off was an assembled mass of what looked like Press people, cameras, notepads and TV news beavering away injudiciously. The crowd of people stretched all the length and breath of the concourse - a pink carpet in the dark light - beautifully adorning the building. We all stood around some with arms folded, others gesturing and waving about in animated conversation. Some people were chatting, others in silent contemplation. As I looked around, for the first time today, I noticed people's faces! Outside when we were all dressed and decent, I tended to notice what people were wearing, how they were posturing/manoeuvring in societal gatherings yet inside when we were all naked one only looked at people's faces. This wasn't just from trying to keep ones gaze politely from wandering below the neckline. People's souls are in their faces and we are not our bodies. I have not written of the different ages and body shapes and coloured skins that I saw written in some other published accounts of this day's events. It simply doesn't matter to us. The whole Spencer Tunick Experience is about freeing yourself and releasing your soul - this is the energy that was being harnessed in the hall. Lit by sunlight sneaking through broken windows, the nude volunteers walked proudly into the cavernous terminal. As the last of the men arrived now into the great hall, we all took up our positions and faced Spencer on high, waiting for instructions. The light beamed in through the stained glass window behind him and onto our faces. Back at the entrance there was about six fully dressed people, admin and security, just standing there watched us in awe. In the middle of them I noticed a completely naked girl just standing nonchalantly amongst them. I tried to figure out what she was doing - was she too shy to stand naked with us or preferring to seek solace among the clothed folk.

Spencer now on his megaphone, boomed orders out to us. He thanked us again and spoke how this would be a wonderful time for all of us. He asked people to take of their glasses, people with tan lines to go to the back - he even asked one older bloke with a bright red Mohawk with huge tattoos to go right to the back. The first photo he took of us was in the standing pose we were now basically in. Facing us, he took his light meter and waved it all about. Camera ready now he snapped away as we gazed up at him. With that pose now complete, he told us to turn around and face the other end of the concourse. This time we were to lay down on our sides.

We struggled from our standing pose to find a clean spot on the dusty floor (not easy) to lay down. Each person was careful not to touch his/her naked neighbour, in polite deference to one's personal borders. I asked a girl standing beside me, Gina G, as she lay down on the marble floor if it was cold, she said "oh, ah, just a little bit". As we lay there, I noticed the structure and pattern of the floor. It was a vast marble dais on this occasion. Although cool in pure temperature terms on our bare skin, it was nonetheless inviting in other ways. Spencer again snapped away at the strewn bodies on the concourse - each an individual, collectively a mosaic. It was very serene and still. We that pose now over, we struggled to our feet. Each one of us now well and truly dust covered. The soles of our feet and palms of our hands were black, some people had a great big seam of grey dust on their side or back. Spencer wanted us now to kneel down facing again the back of the concourse. He wanted half of us to angle ourselves to the left, half to angle ourselves to the right and the other half to retake their accountancy exams. This was too much for some of us. Was I in the left half or the right half. "Don't turn around" boomed Spencer. I just did what he girl in front of me did, she angled left then she angled right. Should have picked a better role model. This wasn't working too well for Spencer, so he ordered one of his little helpers, I think it was poor Jonathan again, to go down into the throng and part the waves of still life. "No, no, no" boomed Spencer, "That way, This way, That man, That girl" Finally Jonathan got it right. Spencer was now happy, poor Jonathan just shrugged it off and retook his position beside the artist. "Get on your knees, bend forward and curl up in a ball," Spencer instructed. "Be quiet please. One mad wun started an animated discussion with Spencer as to what he meant - she was really argumentative with him. He basically kept his cool with her and we all wished she'd just shut up! "Heads down. Heads further down!" "Very good. That's very good. Don't move," he said. "Stay still, don't turn round" ordered Spencer as he presumably readied his equipment and began committing his vision to celluloid. Regarding Spencer, he was very gracious and appreciative of the group and tried hard to remain so despite moments of the crowd giggling and chatting while he was giving directions. He did a fine job at working to set up his shot while trying to minimise the amount of time the group had to remain in a position.

It was an uncomfortable pose, heads creaked, back muscles seized, hipbones snapped. We knelt over at the angle for a few minutes. No one dared to look around - fearing a bark. Then it was over. We groaned once again to our feet. This time we were really filthy but it was worth it. We turned around and faced Spencer, still up on top of the ticket booths. He began to speak again to us, but first he said he wanted to thank the assembled press and surprising to some of them, asked them to leave. There was palpable disappointment on some of their faces. Cameras, tripods and notebooks were packed up. We stood there naked as they filed past us and out the main doors that we had just entered. One girl reporter didn't know where to look - so close to all these naked men and women - the cameramen did though, I think it was something to do with the visual creative eye always focussing through the lens?

Some people chatted with each other. A woman beside me spoke politely to a tough looking biker dude, handle bar moustache and tattoos. She asked him of one of his tattoos, was that his daughter's visual rendering emblazoned in his skin. He reply was very reticent and murmured an affirmative, Surprisingly, I figured he was very embarrassed to be standing there naked and to be speaking to a naked woman. She had no problems though with her nudity. Other people just stood there looking up at Spencer and waited. People and parents stood side-by-side with grown children, joined by groups of siblings, friends, couples and mothers and daughters - all a beautiful sight.

Second installation over and some guests now uninvited, Spencer spoke now to the masses once again. He thanked us for helping him in his creations. This made us chuffed. But then he made another announcement that he wanted to continue the installation but with a drastically reduced assemblage. He asked those under 30 to raise their hands. Those between 30 and 50 to raise their hands - which I did, that's me. He then asked the over 50's to raise their hand - which they did. What's going on here, some thought! Artistic culling one presumed. Spencer asked the under 30's to separate themselves from the group and go to the back of the hall. He then said he wanted to speak to the 30 - 50 age group - that's me. Please be honest he pleaded to us. He thanked us for coming but because he had too many for the rest of the installation he would be requesting that we leave. A huge disappointment swept through the hall. I felt sorry for these people and I stood with the rest of us over 50 years old. Sad, perplexed people shuffled off, heads bowed and slightly miffed they dutifully filed off and exited stage left. Lit by sunlight sneaking through broken windows, the erstwhile volunteers departed, some begrudgingly, out of the terminal building en masse into the cavernous reality waiting outside - still naked. As the tail-ender disappeared, we said goodbye and mingled together in our age group thankful for the baby boom of the 1950's.

Spencer got down off his position over the disused booths and moved to the other end of the hall to rendezvous with his younger models. There was about 500 or so of them waiting patiently at the far disused ticket booths. We wondered what was coming next what exactly he had in mind for us. I couldn't really observe the details of what was going on at the far end of the concourse. I saw him give out flyers, I quessed this were invitations to a rather select installation that Spencer had planned for another time soon just like in Barcelona - they could also have been invitations to the post installation party, I heard being discussed after the installation. Spencer then got up on his ladder and arranged his models as he pleased. He was dutifully handed his camera and began snapping away. There was some movement constantly as the beautiful people went through their routines. The wise people waited patiently our end. There wasn't much chat going on amongst us, just arms folding and unfolding, some people were in animated conversation, other just ruminated. It was too dusty to sit down, so we all stood.

I wandered over to the right hand side of the concourse to what I believe was the old lunch rooms and dining rooms. I peered into the dark abyss, through the broken window frames and absent glass. The place was derelict and full of rubble - yet still seemed plentiful in memories yet to be told. I remembered seeing an old postcard of Martin's Restaurant in the terminal and wondered if this was that place. I wondered what "brief encounters" went on is this place over the years. I couldn't see Celia Johnson anywhere, although I swear I could hear Rachmaninov's 2^nd piano concerto echo from the dark halls. If you could ever believe in animism this place surely proves a point.

Out of the silence I heard "Thank you". I awoke from my ponderings and realised, too late, that Spencer had finished this installation and had now dispensed with the nubiles' services. Too late because as the tide of nubiles suddenly turned on the rip, I found myself pinned to the dining room walls, as the deluge of youth washed towards me. I was engulfed in a sea of buff surf (sorry Craig!) I managed to grab a handhold behind an old electrical fuse-box barely hanging from a pillar. As the youthful extravaganza surged by, I noticed all their faces. They all had an expression of having been somewhere new. They all had experienced something wonderful. I saw a couple of people I had been near as we waited originally outside and exchanged greetings and farewells. It was a great moment for me.

As the last of the naked youth passed silently out of the main exit doors, the concourse fell silent once again. We, the remainders, waited on our own movement orders. Spencer beckoned us forward. We migrated in his direction and gathered around him at his feet at the ticket offices. His dais was empty but ready for his next installation. This is what we'd been waiting for, our time had come. "Ready when you are, Mr Tunick"

From his ladder perch, he spoke to us. He spoke of what a magnificent place the Buffalo Grand Central Terminal was (and is). He asked did anybody have any memories of having been here during its years of glory. A couple of men spoke of leaving from this very concourse to go to boot camp and presumably to war - what great and terrible memories they could have shared with us. The original buffalo featured in the main hall was a real stuffed buffalo. During World War II men leaving Buffalo for the war often rubbed the buffalo for good luck, thus wearing out the buffalo's hide. The stuffed buffalo is currently residing in the Buffalo Museum of Science.

One woman spoke to her neighbour of having leaving her home in Buffalo from a platform here all those years ago to go and make her future elsewhere. This was her first time back in all those eventful years. The majority though was silent. Yet this silence spoke volumes for the evocative conjuring this place and our naked participation was exuding. I was taken to a world of reminisces and thought of all the people who had travelled through the terminal and, for whatever reason, never returned. Thus this edifice remains a monument to the souls of the departed - lost, forgotten yet remembered. I'm sure when people read in the following days news reports and papers of this installation, memories of the BCT will also flood back in peoples thoughts.

Enough mawkishness - after all, I am standing naked in a disused train station. Spencer speaking from his ladder said he was half of us to go up the stairs to different floors and look out of the arched windows over the main doors. We all swivelled around at the direction of the windows he was pointing at. Looking curiously at the broken glass panels and height of the structure, not a few of us thought this was a bit perilous not withstanding our naked state and agile years. However, a second observation at the structure gave the artistic eye and opportunity to see what a brilliant canvas this arrangement would make. So we decided to go for it. 

Naturally enough, being in the half that Spencer picked for this installation, I joined my fellow models as we made our way from opposite the ticket offices to the stairwells. We passed through the once magnificent hall doors and approached the broken down frames of the doors to the stairs. We were beckoned by some of Spencer's little helpers towards them and directed us dutifully to the stairway. As we entered the stairwell, the smell of dust and feeling of cooler air greeted us. I was expecting a rather ornate marble or teak art deco structure - but what we got was something that looked like any narrow winding stairwell to any 1930's era office building. The place was obviously disused, and although derelict the rubble previously strewn everywhere had been cleaned up and a path readied for us. This thought was a supreme effort by the BCT Restoration Society to have the stairs returned to a workable state. Credit to those volunteers who put in a magnificent achievement into cleaning up the place, not just here but in the other areas of the terminal. Their gargantuan deeds allowed all these naked folk to pass safely around.

We were funnelled up the stairs, two abreast. In our now tight confines, we chatted as we motioned slowly heavenward. Folks greeted us merrily on every landing, directing us here and there. We were told to go to first floor windows by an embarrassed (clothed) girl - not knowing were to look as scores of naked folk ascended to her. She knew where to point though and was very efficient in her task. We passed through some disused offices to reach the window face. There were now too many of us on this floor now, so we were about faced and marched back out again - like the Grand 'oul Duke of York. We were ushered by the girl again this time to a higher plain. Up more dusty and cold underfoot stairs. I decided to bypass the second floor and head for the third only to be sent back down again to the second. I was really getting to see a lot of this place, but was enjoying every moment just the same. I thought of the people who had been sent home earlier and just what an opportunity I had been given.

Back then down the cold stairs and crumbly walls. On the second floor we walking again through disused offices, broken doors, hanging ceilings, bricks, glass, rubble strewn but with a path deftly pioneered by the BCT volunteers. I remember seeing on an old plan of the terminal that the police offices where located somewhere in this location. I wondered if the Chief of Police of days gone by was looking down on us naked people now manoeuvring delicately through his former precinct. But here we are and had now arrived at the windows as directed. More clothed little helper assisted us to our position. There was space enough for all that had arrived here. I negotiated myself a position at a window. People were still gathering though. A little woman stood behind me demurely - too small to get into a decent location at the front. Being the gentleman that I am, I ceded my vantage point to her and stood to one side. Gladly, she took up the spot. Other people were bringing chairs or other implement to stand on in a tier effect at the windows. The clothed helpers were great in assisting people - offing advice and helpful directing. I managed to look out over the little woman and down onto the expanse below where Spencer had gathered so didn't fare badly out of it at all. As we waited, I noticed for the first time the precarious nature of some of the glass panels gingerly clinging to the frames. One careless dislocation could send a pane hurtling down to the concourse impaling someone or else guillotining someone's toes on our side of the glass. But our naked state made us all very cautious of this peril.

With all the nude models now in position, Spencer was informed and now made his moves. He had his light meter out again and taking readings. He started directing people to move to fill gaps at the windows - after a bit of shuffling he was contented. Then with camera handed to him he began creating once again. Staring awkwardly out of the windows, Spencer wanted us to close our eyes and on his command suddenly open them. We did this a number of times, each time Spencer snapped away merrily. "Close you eyes - now open them" boomed the orders from below - we were like Lemurs peering out all bushy eyed from our darken caves. When posing like this you can lapse into a daydream. Concentrating, we held our positions for a few minutes, it's impossible to tell the time when you're naked. But we were enjoying every moment, no grumbles here - apart from an imminent amputation. Deep from within our musings we heard the "thank you very much". That was it was over, that part any way - this was the sign to move to the next phase. As we backed away from the windows, we counted our toes and attempted to straighten up. Not quite the scenario Mr Kellogg had for the cure of lumbago back in the same vintage as the BCT. Daintily we stepped away from the precipice and walked back through the offices to the stairwell. One of the little helpers, a girl was conscientiously routing people away from a nasty piece of jagged metal protruding from the floor, right in the middle of our path. Thanks to her no injuries occurred, but it did bring back home to us that we still had to negotiate a minefield to get back down to the concourse safely. This we did though with the assistance of all the little helpers still on station.

Back down the cold steps, we entered the concourse and rejoined the other half of the wise ones, waiting enviously. It was a sight to behold coming out of the dark recessed of the terminal's corners into the war, light still streaming thought the mosaic glass up above us to be greeted by all these naked people. Spencer obviously worried about the light fading addressed us urgently. He now wanted the other half of the models, that naturally you guessed included me, to move to the top of the ticket offices to pose for the next series of photos. He was going to go to our erstwhile lofty position at the arched windows and this time shoot down on us.

We then moved from the floor of the concourse towards the doors under the "exit to street" sign but this time we turned left to go up some stairs - still cold and dusty - and out on to the roof of the old ticket offices. The floor of this rooftop was clean - obviously the BCT volunteers had done another excellent job. We spread out on the roof top and awaited our orders. My fellow volunteers were still full of excitement and commitment to the project as are all of Spencer's volunteers, such is the level of devotion they hold for him. There were still a number of Spencer's little helpers up in the glass arch peeking down on us, some took photographs others just marvelled. There was no sniggering at all these naked older folk though and everyone was comfortable at what was going on here today. Spencer appeared beside me on the rooftop with his light meter aloft in the fading sunlight - he was getting very concerned with the level of decay and felt the unwanted urge to getamoveon. He stared at the light meter wishing for a burst of sunlight - just 1/125 of a second would do. I said to him the when we lay down it would be brighter as the sun would reflect off our bodies to give a glow effect. He mmmed 1/60^th, a bit wistfully and turned tail to head off for his shooting position in the hope everything would turn out okay.

Spencer duly negotiated himself up the dusty stairs and through the decayed offices to reach the broken window arch. He peered out of a window on the second floor, roughly in the same spot as I had previously been. His helpers passed him his cameras and he peered though the lens trying to frame us below. He ordered us to spread out but there were to many gaps on the ceiling for our numbers. He then ordered the other remaining half of the wise ones waiting patiently if not forlornly on the concourse floor to join us on the rooftop. No second order needed here - and in a flash I never seen so many people hi-tail it up to our position.

As they mingled with us, Spencer still ordered us about - spread out, move down the end he bellowed. We did our shuffling bit - left leg in, left leg out, shake it all about. Then he was happy. He began then to take some photographs. He vision through the lens was intense. So intense that Spencer managed to snag his right forearm on a broken window pain. You could see that it really speared him and there was a trickle of blood that started to emanate from his wound. But he just wiped it with an offered handkerchief and carried on. How we missed doing similar damage when we where up there was a miracle.

Spencer took some photos of us as we stood on the roof looking up at him. This went on for a few minutes. We were then ordered to lay down on the roof surface with our feet facing the arched windows. I could feel another cool concrete slab coming up - and sure enough it slammed into us. As we lay down together we jostled to get into position but careful not to touch any of our naked neighbours. There were some oohs and aahs from the rapidly freezing bodies as we lay there. Spencer took photographs of what was to be the last of his group installations here today. We lay there and waited. Squashed together, tummies rumbling - it was now about 3 o'clock, it must have been the longest ever installation. And then it was over, we heard the "thanks folks" and our destination had arrived and it was time to disembark. We got up gingerly and dusted ourselves down. I was filthy - from head to toe. I noticed one mans feet and it looked as if he had just walked though the old coal yards of the terminal to arrive here, such was the caked dirt on his soles. But who cares?

We shuffled off the roof top and funnelled again down the one flight of stairs to reach the main concourse. People gathered their to say their final farewell to friends, neighbours and colleagues. Spencer arrived down and joined us on the concourse floor. He mingled and spoke to some if not all of us at one stage or another. Everyone he spoke to thanked him for such a wonderful experience and he was obviously chuffed at a goods days creation. Reluctantly we moved from the ticket office and began to make our way back to the entrance we had come in all those hours ago. It seemed like an age since we first entered the hallowed portal. I overheard one girl hovering around speak to Spencer asking him if he wanted her to stay behind. Maybe he was going to do an individual installation with her?

And then it was over. I took one final look up at the ticket office rooftop, the baggage hall, the arched window over the exit to Curtiss St. and the main leaded window at the concourse extremity. Everyone was walking down the side of the concourse on the restaurant side - everyone happy but all a bit sad it was over. But we got exactly what we wished for here today. I veered into the centre of the nearly vacant terminal to where the famous clock had once stood. There is only a broken down radiator standing there now in the middle of the concourse. Previous owners removed the clock during the stripping of the building. The clock appeared for sale out of Chicago on ebay several years ago for $20,000.

I continued my lonely naked walk down the terminal's length and approached the final doorway out. I had one more glance back and said goodbye to this wonderful place. It was dark as we left the building halls but the brightness and heat of the afternoon sun greeted us passionately as we marched triumphantly out of the doorway. There were still some security personnel at the doorway and fencing, keeping us safe. Some of Spencer's little helpers too gathered at the entrance/exit.

We walked naked across the crumbly concrete apron towards our previously hastily discarded apparel. Our clothes lay in little bundled, this time thinned out as our numbers had dwindled throughout the day's events. I spotted my clothes and bade a hasty beeline for them. Dressing, I could still see people coming out of the terminal but this had been reduced to a trickle. People were now dressing. I sensed a bit more embarrassment from people as they dressed in contrast to the enthusiasm at which they had gaily disrobed earlier. It was if people had put their abashment in their pockets when they originally stripped and took it out when they dressed. Naked people mixed with half dressed folk. Chat, memories and anecdotes of the day radiated from their expressions, attitudes and language.

As I finally dressed and managing to put my shoes on the right way round, I noticed that Spencer (still bleeding) had come out of his art studio and was talking to people in groups of 3 to 4. Everyone thanked him and he returned the compliments. This is one of the best things of Spencer that at each installation he always has time for the ordinary folk. You could see he is genuine in his approach to us all. Some people got him to autograph tee-shirts, books DVD's and even previous installations photographs that had been sent to participants. This he duly did without even batting an eyelid. The girl I saw speaking to him at the end of the installation inside was still hovering around him - I don't know if she managed to get that exclusive installation. People took photographs of Spencer and themselves standing with him. The mad wun though who had been giving Spencer grief appeared inside during the main installation on scene again and continued her arguments with him. Spencer listened patiently but it all ended amicably. He finally said his farewells to us all and stated that he now had to go back inside to give interviews to the press and media. We clapped and cheered as he disappeared inside and away from our view.

The conversations continued until we all had dressed and had wrung every last and little excuse for still to be hanging around here. There was no more reason to be still here though - so I headed off down the slope and back to my hotel. I took one or two more mental photographs of the terminal in the vain hope of capturing some of the days events - but you had to have been here to feel what went on. The fondness for this place grows greater by the minute.

A train rumbled past to remind us that this is still a working railway albeit utilising the track only these days. The old platforms still belong to Amtrak, the railway company and I just thought of what a magnificent site they would have made for an installation - - all those naked people lining the length of the platforms - maybe some other place or time?

So one final glance back from the now empty carpark, I stood at the roundabout on Paderewski Drive and wondered what to do now. Thankfully, I met two great blokes, Mike and Chuck, who offered to give me a lift back to my hotel. On our way down the road, a car pulled up beside us when we stopped at the traffic lights. Two women waved in at us, Chuck waved back. He knew them from the installation - I didn't recognise them with their clothes on. It took only about 10 minutes to arrive at the Walgreen on Delaware, near my hotel. I said my sincerest thanks to Mike and Chuck - best of luck to you lads!

It was now about 4:30 and I debated whether to go and visit the Albright-Knox Gallery to see their exhibitions including one of Spencer's. But it was too late in the evening and since it is closed on Mondays, I regretted that I had to give such a visit a raincheck. Maybe I'll be back someday - perhaps on a train!

So back into the hotel and in bad need of a shower, I headed up to my room. After depositing a layer of the terminal's concourse in the shower tray, I headed off to downtown for a late afternoon wander. There was a Caribbean carnival ongoing outside City Hall - which was brilliant. Back in the hotel that evening I scanned through all the TV channels picking up the news reports on today's events. Most of the reports were in the "and finally, a humorous story" from Buffalo, New York section - many a pun was played on the "Buff" part of Buffalo and the installation. But at least Spencer gets the exposure.

Next morning, over breakfast I perused the reports in the newspaper, I searched to see of was I in any of the photographs but I wasn't - no 15 minutes of fame. Still it saved embarrassment of the waitress serving me at the time. On my way to the airport, the shuttle bus driver asked me what I had been doing in Buffalo. I told her I was at the Spencer Tunick Installation - this meant absolutely nothing to her. As I flew out of Buffalo I tried to spot the central terminal as we flew out over the city, but couldn't see it. It amazing how one day your whole life is wrapped up in the place and the next it's nowhere to be seen - literally. Still I have all the memories - especially of the wonderful people of Buffalo and beyond. On then to Philadelphia and then a long wait in that airport for the next stage of my long journey home over the Atlantic. The little souvenir bell I bought in Philadelphia turned out to be cracked when I got it home.

There was a special party organised in the terminal on 21 May 2005. By all accounts it was well turned out and everyone had a great time. Spencer was there to show off the pictures that the Albright-Knox had commissioned and meet and greet former participants. I suppose everybody met up and reminisced - sorry I couldn't make it. But I finally sat down to write this essay in May 2004 - pushed along the way by Boyard and Mike Cooper. The Buffalo installation was brilliant - different to Barcelona, Santa Maria da Feira and Brugge - but equally memorable. It has taken me a long while to commit my memories to hyper text - I have so much to recall that I could only really recount half of what happened. If you have any more memories email me. My dad loved trains - he would have loved this place.

I hope you enjoyed journeying with me - if you did please consider helping the Central Terminal Restoration Corporation - www.buffalocentralterminal.org

So final words go to all the people I met, the central terminal itself and to all that organised the latest episode of the Spencer Tunick Experience - Thank You Buffalo!

See you all in Newcastle upon Tyne on Sunday 17 July 2005 - watch this space.

This essay was written in the spirit of good fun and not wishing to offend anyone. Anybody reading this and recognises themselves or any event, has any photographs of the event to share or just wants to say nanú, hi, hello, hóla, óla, bonjour, salut, hallo, nee-hao, ciao, konnichiwa, shalom, salem or just comment on it – please email me at ator@eircom.net

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