When a beautiful rose dies, beauty does not die because it is not really in the rose. Beauty is an awareness in the mind. — Agnes Martin
I was asked to model for a photographer during a visit to San Francisco in the mid-90s. I was in a club called (if I recall correctly) Special K, and I was drunk enough to entertain the idea of modeling, but sober enough to know that I would never have the confidence to do so. I had felt unattractive my entire life starting when I had been made fun of because of how I look and how I move. There was a small part of me that observed that under certain conditions I looked handsome, and this part was screaming from the inside of me; go ahead and seen, be bold and do this scary thing.
This was long before Instagram and cell phones so I couldn’t confirm this person was a photographer. Jeffrey Dahmer was on my mind, this was the 90s after all. I had arranged to meet the photographer the next day to see his portfolio, thinking all along that there was no way a serious photographer would want to work with me. He suggested we meet at the Subway that was once below Cafe in the Castro. I expected to be forgotten but he did show up, and I looked poured through his work; mostly beautiful nudes of gay men. I told him I did not look like these men, but he said he didn’t care. (It was the peak of the muscle gay era -and I was skinny- a mortal sin for the gays back then). I told him I was too nervous (I was terrified), but I thanked him for the offer. A few hours later I left a message telling him I wanted to do it after all, but I’m sure he had already invested too much effort on me and I never heard back from him. It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to model. I always assumed that this was because I was tall, looked vulnerable - an easy victim. It never occurred to me to consider these solicitations were meant to be a compliment, or an acknowledgement that I gave off the collaborative-performer-vibes that I now look for when searching for models.
Over 10 years later in Brooklyn I befriended an actual model named Jay. I friend-zoned him right away because he was too gorgeous for me (he told me years later he was trying to date me). I went to see his place early in our friendship. He lived in a large artist live-work space, the kind of place that was made for people like me; but I felt like such a poser. We watched Derek Jarman’s film War Requiem and then went to see a designer friend of his. Jay started to try on some new long coats his friends had just finished. He instantly assumed the posture of a model, all legs and statuesque positions that I always associated with arrogance and self-esteem (blech), but I could see that he was actually just engaging with the garments, showing how it looks in different shapes and movements. He was a fellow artist lending his body in what amounted to choreography. I took a lot of mental notes that day. Jay and I were actually similar in many ways, but I saw him as a superstar, and he saw the same in me, he was just so much more aware of his powers, and he used those powers as attributes of his artistry.
A few years later I had found myself in front of the camera of my friend Josh. When we were getting to know each he was apparently entertained by the ways I would sit. Like so many gays before me, sitting is always an opportunity to do some yoga. He would catch me in an absurd position and sneak a photo. I know that this was funny to him, but that he wasn’t making fun of me. I suppose that this is why I felt comfortable enough to channel my model friend Jay and actually pose. Over the years we did around six impromptu shoots, two or three planned shoots, and at least one shoot that I thought was impromptu but wasn’t (another story entirely). Josh took the first pictures of me where I didn’t cringe seeing them. Importantly, I learned that it wasn’t about looking a specific way, or even looking conventionally good; it was about being interesting, engaging with my surroundings and taking advantage of the long legs and pointed nose that used to embarrass me. This is how, in my early 40s, I had gained confidence in front of a camera, and this is how I came to lament that I was too afraid for that photoshoot in my 20s. Who knows, I may have found some of that confidence earlier.
I tell this story from time to time when I’m working with a model. While there are so many collaborators who have a fully developed sense of themselves and know how to move themselves with confidence, I am empathetic for the models who are nowhere near that confidence. This project is for people like me who benefit from the affirmation that their mere existence is a beautiful thing. I am driven with the desire to help people find that part of themselves, to inspire the realization that it is not about how they look, or how they pose. It is about how well they perform the singular dance of themselves.
The sessions with Josh inspired a series of self portraits that became a powerful part of the work I was starting in my MFA program. I knew I needed to excavate many of my beliefs from childhood; that I was ugly, unworthy of love, and fundamentally wrong. I was exploring these through writing and drawing, and my advisor pointed out that there were exciting connections between the feelings I wrote about, and the self portraits. Hiding was a theme in both. I didn’t even realize I was doing it, but I was wearing a mask or covered in fabric in most of my self portraits, and when I began to photograph others I was doing the same thing. It was more than mere modesty (although I carry a lot of puritan shame with me too), it was setting up a sensual riddle; am I covering myself, or in the act of revealing myself. This riddle, this space between, is at the core of Queering Beauty. The implements of hiding/revealing are the major aesthetic devices: they are flowers, sequined dresses, masks and lace robes. They are the things a proper boy shouldn’t want to play with.
Over the years, and hundreds of photoshoots later, Queering Beauty feels like a community. The look of it is not trendy or fashionable. It’s all about saturated color because I’m trying to saturate the world with my own colors. It hasn’t made me any money. But it has given me the opportunity to discuss the issue of hiding/revealing with a lot of people who know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve learned things from every collaborator, and I hope that most of them received the gift of seeing themselves in a new way.
Wishing you all the best of luck, and looking forward to more. I've added you to the Qstack directory... ;)