“Not complying with the rules of a heteronormative world is a deeply emotional, sometimes shattering and isolating experience” – Bérangère Fromont

The politics of visibility have long been the purview of portraiture for members of the LGBTQIA+ community, who have used the medium to provide evidence of their love and lives since its inception. As a visual strategy, photography has been a tool for radical coalition and solidarity, building and nurturing self-regard and togetherness. While portraiture as a mechanism may seem deceptively simple to a cis-heteronormative audience, existing through images is not just a survival strategy for Queer people. It is proof of existence in a world in which law and institutions continue to deny our fundamental human rights.

As Boulos’ work reminds us, portraiture has been central to the ideology of resistance. Yet, the tension between visibility and safety is increasingly complex, especially in the context of social media, where identities and personal information can be easily accessed. “Since the revolution, I’m very conscious that images can put us in danger,” she explains. “It’s not the right time to bring the book to Lebanon. In the last month, politically charged, anti-LGBTQIA+ campaigns have drastically reasserted that homosexuality is against the law and the consequence is the death penalty. We’ve also seen increased attacks by radical groups as intimidation tactics. It’s too risky for me and my collaborators to be seen now.”

The personal is political

Boulos is not alone in her safety concerns. The UK prime minister regularly promotes preaching anti-trans rhetoric and health bans in the United States are fundamentally altering the material reality of transgender people. This summer, Italy removed the parenting rights of non-biological lesbian mothers, and Hungary instigated a law encouraging citizens to report same-sex families for violating the constitution; meanwhile, parts of Poland still uphold LGBT-free zones.

Despite the many hard-fought freedoms won over the last 100 years, the rise of the far right foreshadows a future in which the LGBTQIA+ community is increasingly marginalised in violent and insidious ways, rendering hyper-vigilance the only way of life. Where do we stand now? How are the politics of representation shifting? How does portraiture function as a care modality? And perhaps most pertinently, what does it mean to make work in an era in which visibility is both liberating and dangerous?

While the representation of the LGBTQIA+ community in culture is evolving, Queer image-makers are rarely recognised for their contribution, and most mainstream storytelling is still told from an outside perspective. “We are fetishised, objectified and routinely targeted by hate speech. How can we possibly build a sense of self in such conditions?” says French artist Bérangère Fromont, who uses her work to reclaim space and fill representational gaps. “I’m fond of the idea that Queers anywhere are responsible for Queers everywhere.”

In L’amour seul brisera nos cœurs, Fromont’s recent book, the artist celebrates dyke identities, creating an “archive of our memories, our imaginations and our dreams for the future”. The project, published by À La Maison Printing, presents a monochromatic patchwork of lesbian love through a playful exchange between Fromont’s images and poetic texts by Elodie Petit. Focusing on the representation of lesbians at the intersection of several forms of discrimination, the duo use gesture and proximity in their fight against Queer women’s erasure in wider culture.

“Not complying with the rules of a heteronormative world is a deeply emotional, sometimes shattering and isolating experience,” explains Fromont, who considers photography a space in which marginalised groups can share knowledge and build a survival network. “Staying in the shadows doesn’t have to be an obligation. I wanted lesbian love stories to be shown and enacted by people who experience it, for whom it is a physical reality.”

For the last four years, Jesse Glazzard has been documenting his transition in Testo Diary, a deeply personal exploration of his life after top surgery. Through the images, we witness Glazzard finding himself anew, with the loving support of his then-partner, Nora. The project was initially born out of boredom, during the London-based artist’s six-week recovery post-surgery. But over time it became more mission-led, an opportunity to address the lack of trans portraiture in the UK.

“We are living in a weird time,” says Glazzard. “We can exist freely but equally face so much backlash. On the one hand, the community is bigger now. It’s been powerful to witness the changes in my friends over the years as they are transitioning. But with greater visibility comes risk and hostility.” For many individuals, the journey to gender euphoria is not linear, and is deeply affected by sociopolitical contexts. “Some friends take testosterone, then they will go off it briefly. Even for me, sometimes I think I should go back because it’s so scary right now. This experience is just one of the reasons why we need to tell our own stories.”

Self-portraiture is just one facet of Glazzard’s practice. In Camp Trans, he collaborates with a community festival that exclusively hosts trans, non-binary and gender non-conforming people in a safe space, encouraging joy and rest from the binary pressures of everyday life. In his latest work, Soft Lad, he reclaims the northern slur in a series of luscious portraits of transmasc individuals resting and relaxing at home and in nature.

“I’m only documenting the private spaces of people I’m close with, and most of the time, the work doesn’t become public. And if it does, it’s consensual,” says Glazzard of the delicate ethos of his practice. “I’m not sure I will ever be able to show the Camp Trans work, but it felt important to make it.” For Glazzard and others, building the archive and centring care in a practice is more important than showcasing the work, though it is work that also explodes our understanding of the linear, contained and sequential conventions of the cultural production of photography.

“As Queer people, we can’t wait for laws to change; for someone to tell us we can do certain things. We have to take chances, embrace our desires and express ourselves” – Janina Sabaliauskaitė

Create safe spaces

Contemplating modes of display and circulation which best serve the community is also integral to Devyn Galindo’s practice. A non-binary Mexihkah transdisciplinary artist based in Los Angeles, they opted to launch their first book in a space in which those who had participated would feel most comfortable. “I feel like I’ve been very centred on ‘by us, for us’ from the jump,” says Galindo. “I try to keep it more for the community, even to the detriment of my work being seen more broadly.”

While these values hold true for the artist, the rising violence across the US is also something they have experienced first-hand, and that has motivated a change in approach. “Right now, the work needs to reach beyond our community because we’re living in such an isolated echo chamber; the ramifications of that charted with the rise of hate crimes. I’m optimistic that if the work has a wider reach, it could create more safety and understanding about our community, instead of divisiveness.”

In God in Drag, a project Galindo has been working on since 2017, they explore their gender journey alongside their transmasc siblings in a multifaceted, intimate series made across the US. Like Glazzard, Galindo’s collaborators embody trans joy and speak to a new era of body positivity in which masculine femininity and feminine masculinity are not just seen but celebrated. In particular, God in Drag speaks to the sweet and tender friendships accompanying the tougher masculine aspects of taking testosterone, creating a remarkable contemporary portrait.

Galindo sporadically appeared in their previous bodies of work, but in God in Drag they centred themself as much as their collaborators, reconfiguring the power dynamics of the work. “I’ve hidden behind the camera for so long,” says Galindo. “The only way to push through this heightened fear is to create work where I can [also] see myself through the lens of my community.”

Being vulnerable in front of the camera is just one of the evolving aspects of creative practice for artists such as Galindo. The lateral experience of kin-building is also central, and goes beyond film and photography production to engage with all kinds of community work, from art collaborations to a monthly dance party. “I’ve been trying to think of all of my life as part of my art practice these days,” they explain. “The fear just motivates me to go even harder.”

Building community

For Queer artists, manifesting care goes beyond the politics of representation or their photographs alone. It is an intrinsic part of the work. Janina Sabaliauskaitė is an image-maker but also an educator and archivist, who curates festivals and runs a black-and-white darkroom in Newcastle for the Queer community. In her hands, photography is a tool for organising, as well as an act of resistance, reflecting her desire to build safe environments for creativity and play.

“Amazing things can happen when you empower somebody to use a camera or develop film and print pictures,” the Lithuanian artist says. “The most important thing is that people have the tools to start archiving their own lives.”

In Sending Love, an exhibition of Sabaliauskaitė’s work at Northern Gallery for Contemporary Art, Sunderland, earlier this year, she presented sensual and erotic collaborative photographs celebrating a sex-positive perspective on masculine femininity – a love letter to her transnational LGBTQIA+ community. The project features Sabaliauskaitė exploring her identity as both an immigrant and gender non-conforming lesbian, and is a provocation to listen to the experiences of Queer folks from a wider geography.

For Sabaliauskaitė, inclusion and collaboration are vital, and she is committed to participating in other photographers’ work as much as her own. She hopes this gesture of “building visibility together” will create a chain reaction, helping others feel safe and empowering them to take risks, to push the boundaries of how Queer bodies can be seen and represented. “I always make work with the intention that it will be visible,” she says. “First and foremost, because in Lithuania, there isn’t much. As Queer people, we can’t wait for laws to change; for someone to tell us we can do certain things. We have to take chances, embrace our desires and express ourselves.”

If the past is any indicator, the significance of today’s visions of Queer life will go unrecognised for years. Yet, these artists instinctively understand how vital it is to create a living archive of, and for, LGBTQIA+ people, and the endless and vital ways in which queerness is experienced and performed. Queer culture, like photography more generally, is entering an era in which the mechanics of cultural production are perhaps more meaningful than the final shot. As we contemplate the role of images in our lives, my focus has shifted from ‘Is this good?’ to ‘What might this do for someone?’

A new book, What We See, is the next step. Curated by Zalcman and Sara Ickow, senior manager of exhibitions and collections at New York’s International Center of Photography (ICP), the book features 100 photographs from women and non-binary photographers, including Carol Guzy, Patience Zalanga, Paula Bronstein, and Yumna Al-Arashi, covering diverse subjects: conflict, the natural world, family life. The book is divided into four chapters – Identity, Place, Conflict and Reclamation – and laid out simply, with each photo accompanied by a short text by its creator, making clear the diversity of female photographic perspectives. 

Currently, around 85 per cent of photojournalists are men, suggest Women Photograph, a statistic reflected in the World Press Photo state of the industry report. (One study found that nearly 89.1 per cent of photojournalists are men in the US; another that 85 per cent of newswire photographers are men). The collective analysed global newspapers and found the percentage of lead photos on front pages by women and non-binary photographers is shockingly low – just 7.2 per cent for the Wall Street Journal in the first quarter of 2022, for example. 

This isn’t just an issue of work equality. Media coverage helps to determine which issues and causes people talk and care about, including influential lawmakers, activists, and politicians. “We’re all missing the story,” Sara Ickow says. “We’re missing details, layers and levels of stories, such as the people impacted by different conflicts or climate change.” 

“The photojournalism industry desperately needs to be more inclusive and more diverse across gender, race, geography, class, religion, sexuality, age”

Ickow believes many women approach subjects, such as conflict, differently. “Lynsey Addario’s photo from the book is of Taliban members sitting around having a chat, which doesn’t feel like the typical ‘hard news’ conflict image from Afghanistan,” she explains. Ickow also references an image by Suzannah Ireland, in which a soldier’s hand bearing a wedding ring is foregrounded while a military helicopter looms behind. “It feels like these are moments from the fringes or with a different framing than what you’d think of as a traditional conflict image,” she says.

Women can also access stories that men can’t. “Nada Harib’s photo from Libya, on the book’s cover, is literally not a space a male photographer would have access to,” Ickow continues. “She’s photographing women in her community. There are other feature stories where ethically you might not want to put a man into a space where a woman is talking about sexual assault or trauma.”

But Women Photograph and What We See go beyond advocating only for women. Ickow has set a goal that all Women Photograph efforts need to include at least 50 per cent photographers of colour. “We advocate for photo editors to think about hiring locally,” she says. “A local person could speak to a photographer who speaks their native language, who’s from the place they’re from, who looks like they do, and form a connection differently.

“It’s also a core part of our mission to include gender-marginalised photographers,” Ickow adds. “The non-binary photographers in the book are some of my personal favourites – Lola Flash and Jess T. Dugan are two of my idols. We lose so much if women and gender-diverse, gender-marginalised people are not included in these spaces.”

Ickow believes things are moving in the right direction, but both of the book’s creators want to see further change. “The photojournalism industry desperately needs to be more inclusive and more diverse across gender, race, geography, class, religion, sexuality, age…” Zalcman says. “This business has been dominated by the white, Western male gaze for its entire existence, and that has a huge impact on how we determine what deserves to be documented in newspapers or history textbooks. It’s urgent that gatekeepers encourage, mentor, and support photographers who can bring other experiences and ways of seeing to the table.”

What We See, curated by Daniella Zalcman Sara Ickow, is out now (Quarto)

The images Troeller takes of herself – masturbating; dressed up; at one with nature – are often instinctive. “An emotional experience will come over me that calls me to investigate myself,” says Troeller, who still makes images of herself now. “During Covid, I packed my bag and took the first bus out of New York City to my summer house. I automatically got out a pair of high heels and started taking self-portraits. I realised I was going to look and feel different as I had no one to look at me in the neighbourhood. But I could put on a pair of heels and feel hot.”

Depicting other women in intimate moments requires nuance and sensitivity. Her 2013 book Orgasm: Interviews on Intimacy combines conversations and images of women discussing their most memorable orgasm. Trauma and pleasure are often interlinked, highlighting the complexity of sexuality in a world where many women have simultaneously painful and ecstatic memories woven through their bodies. 

“Whatever the women offered, I would move in close and participate in finding dignity,” she says. “Many of my pictures have a spiritual aspect to them. Sometimes I am bearing witness to traumatic things that have happened to women. With Orgasm, I asked the women to look at every frame; if there was something that didn’t feel right, I deleted it.”

“The female gaze has exploded. The multiplicity of how women are seen is so important. We are many-layered”

Troeller is excited about the open discussions around masturbation, pleasure, and equality that have happened in recent years. “People more than ever want to feel fulfilled,” she says. “They aren’t as afraid of masturbation. I think during lockdown people silently learned a lot about themselves. If they were lonely, they would find a way to pleasure themselves. And the female gaze has exploded. The multiplicity of how women are seen is so important. We are many-layered.” 

But the artist also recognises there is a long way to go. “One of my famous pictures is Bridal Rite [depicting a woman’s legs, vulva, and ripped bridal dress hovering above a large cactus]. The cactus is the male penis, which was always in my way. When I was taking the image, I said to myself, you don’t have to be a regular wife anymore. But it was about so much more. That picture affects people today because there are still the pricks; a world run by men.” 

Troeller has continued taking intimate images of herself as she has aged. It is unusual to see older naked bodies in art, let alone those exploring sexuality. Age is sadly still a deep-rooted taboo. “I believe in ageing justice,” she tells me. “We have left behind many words, but ‘senior citizen’ is still around, ‘grandma’, ‘nana’. If you’re sexy and still attractive, you’re a ‘cougar’. I think that’s so disgusting. The healing of our culture should involve respect for older women, and respect for older women masturbating. There are all kinds of creams now that create sexual comfort. There is no reason you can’t be a functional, healthy sexual person at any age. Pleasure is a wonderful thing.” 

Self Power | Self Play by Linda Troeller is on display at Museum of Sex, New York, until 19 January 2023.

When the revolution began in 2019 – a reaction to ongoing government corruption, the failing economy, and the country’s dilapidated infrastructure – Boulos was there with her camera. She spent two years documenting the collective pain and euphoria born from citizens putting everything on the line to fight for a better life. Compacted by the pandemic and a devastating explosion in Beruit’s harbour in 2020, life for the Lebanese was more fragile than ever, rendering Boulos and her community in what felt like a never-ending nightmare. The artist found herself caught in a cycle of processing life through photography, simultaneously affirming her survival while repeatedly reliving these traumatic events through people’s stories.                                       

Initially, making Sexual Fantasies was an attempt by Boulos to interrupt this anxiety and focus on something independent of the country’s turmoil. It was about holding space for female pleasure and how fantasies are a world in which you can retain control during times of uncertainty. And yet, for both artist and sitters, visualising their sexual fantasies became a tool of resistance. Formed by, and in opposition to, the beliefs around her growing up, the tender and emotional images embody a movement of women intent on asserting agency over their own lives and bodies in a subversive act of defiance.

“I want to take this whole world we all have inside of us and make it visible,” explains Boulos. “I wanted to undo this impulse we have as women not to take up space. In most cultures, [women’s] pleasure is shamed. It doesn’t have a place in our lives – it’s almost taboo. The revolution was not just happening on the streets but also within us. The project is about confronting the patriarchy and [also acknowledging that] the biggest tyrant we need to rise up against is the one within ourselves.”

In life and art, so many aspects of women’s lives are deemed unserious for critical, academic and creative study – simply because they belong to the world of women. Socially and politically, subjects like masturbation, menopause, birth, menstruation, work and sex have been rejected, shamed, ridiculed and dismissed in the culture – often by women themselves. Boulos’ project speaks to this inculcated sexism and the nefarious ways patriarchy cultivates the unconscious. What makes this project particularly radical is that the stakes are so high. Boulos and her collaborators have taken on the challenge to make a subject of sexual fantasies – contending with experiences that are immensely vulnerable and private – at significant personal risk.

While the open call was spontaneous, the genesis of Sexual Fantasies precedes the revolution. It can be traced back to Boulos’ early works, which offer glimpses into the rising dissent emerging in underground spaces across Beirut. Boulos spent two years documenting the city’s fragmented nightlife in Nightshift (2015) – illuminating the normalised oppression of women and the LGBTQ+ community – while also describing the collective freedom born in these sacred spaces. In contrast, Tenderness (2018) depicts sexually liberated lovers and individuals shot naked in the city, offering a more poetic riposte to state violence. “It was our way of reclaiming our streets and bodies,” says Boulos. “Everything that is supposed to be ours.”

The project is now expanding; Boulos collaborated with women in Paris and Berlin this summer, while continuing the work in Beirut. Through this complex entanglement of power, politics, territory and liberation, the artist illustrates how revolutionary it is for women to exercise such powerful desire in Lebanon and worldwide.

@myriamboulos

On the surface, Close Shave centres joy and affirmation. The striking portraits reveal the strength and empowerment of a new generation of Butches that are defiant and unapologetic. Upon closer look, the images also describe the tenderness and care within a community historically misunderstood and discriminated against outside the queer community and from within.

Butch is an aesthetic and identity that conveys an attitude that is impossible to hide, which, together with its rejection of the male gaze, creates a threat to the patriarchy. This has resulted in Butch women bearing the brunt of homophobia for decades. Published in 1928, Radcliffe Hall’s The Well of Loneliness – a semi-autobiographical novel in which a female protagonist longs to be accepted as a man amongst her peers and lovers – was made illegal in Britain under the obscene publications act. Butches in the 40s and 50s risked being arrested and losing their jobs and homes for wearing men’s clothes. It went beyond overwhelming societal pressures to appear physically palatable to the heterosexual majority – these individuals were fighting for their lives and the right to live openly. 

Despite the social, political and cultural repression, Butch pioneers like writer Gertrude Stein, painter Romaine Brooks and activist Stormé DeLarverie paved the way for gender non-conforming people in the early part of the 20th century. It wasn’t until the 90s that Butches began to infiltrate the mainstream culture when a shedding of cultural prescriptions about what it meant to occupy your sex started to emerge. Trailblazers like comedian Lea DeLaria, poet Eileen Myles, writer Roxane Gay, and model Jenny Shimizu gained visibility in their respective fields, while the Butch aesthetic began to be appropriated in fashion, cinema and TV. Photographically, Catherine Opie’s Being and Having and Phyllis Christopher’s Dark Room offered radical artistic celebrations of the culture that had previously gone unseen.

“Close Shave is about prioritising the Butch gaze. It’s about connecting with the gaze looking back at you. It’s for the community to see themselves”

“We’re always going to look back and reference queer culture from our past,” says Garnett. “It’s inspiring to [now] see people just putting themselves first, living their truth and not giving any attention to what mainstream culture thinks. That Butch confidence is attractive to me. Close Shave is about prioritising the Butch gaze. It’s about connecting with the gaze looking back at you. It’s for the community to see themselves.”

This notion of proximity is palpable in Garnett’s short film, Elio, which accompanies the exhibition. With the hum of the clippers and shards of hair effervescing across the frame, the sensate experience of buzzing your hair comes to life. The camera occupies the mirror’s perspective as Elio tracks their progress. “The film is about looking at your reflection and liking what you see,” says Garnett. “It’s a moving image portrait that captures the satisfying sensation of buzzing your hair.” For Garnett, it was necessary to reference the DIY mode of self-care that represents how many butch, dyke and trans-masc people live their lives.

What is radical about Close Shave is how it irradicates the lone-wolf stereotype of Butch people and instead pictures a more nuanced story of deep camaraderie and care. For Garnett, making this work has been vital on many levels, most profoundly because it’s the first time their work has become intrinsically linked with their identity journey. “I’m exploring things in my personal life through the work, and that’s a new experience for me,” they say. “Previously, it’s always been about creating for a client and trying to please others. Close Shave is the first body of work I’ve made for myself, and to give back to my community feels amazing.”

Close Shave by Lydia Garnett can be viewed by appointment at Sunbury Studios until 17 November 2023.

boihugo, 27 years old and born in Beijing, studied Fine Arts at Capital Normal University, before moving to the UK to study an MA in photography at London College of Communication. Their work is a deep, long look into the conditions born from the social landscape we live in and under: race, gender, queerness and sex, which all exist in a matrix of labels and expectations. boihugo is on the hunt for their causations, citing capitalism, colonialism, and racialised patriarchy. 

Whether we like it or not, we can’t escape the lenses we view the world through, lenses built with specific bodies in mind. Binary – or perhaps the myth of it – becomes the modus operandi as they play rough against soft; gentle against violent. cuddle me, don’t colonize me does not just highlight these binaries, but demonstrates their ultimate fallacy – there is no binary. Structural powers create this apparent duality, boihugo argues, and exemplifies this through illusions of “ideal” masculinity. It exists not through rigid characteristics, but by negating undesirable ones. “It cannot exist without a generated opposite: the feminine, the non-white, the other,” they say.  

In one image [below], fishing wire presses uncomfortably against the skin.“That tension is a nuanced interaction. The feeling isn’t the direct violence of a stab or punch. If I don’t look too closely, I won’t even notice,” boihugo explains. Bodily subjection is ever present, always pressing down. This “slow violence” is caused by “every construct being the result of a conflict between power relations,” the artist adds. They say this almost as a mantra, a reality hard to swallow, impossible to ignore.

The artist shoots with a pace and urgency akin to paparazzi photography. The “snappy snapshot” images have a caught-in-the-act feeling, made possible through the use of a decade-old family camera and its built-in flash. “I am sensitive to the hierarchy of images, especially those considered elegant, ‘good’, fine art,” they say. Race and queerness are not boihugo’s only concerns. The camera possesses its own imposed logic of right and wrong, high and low. 

Queer sisterhood becomes boihugo’s solution to these tensions. They point to an image of bejewelled hands [above], representing their childhood love of toy jewellery and the feminine playfulness it brings: playing dress up with friends, painting nails and buying flashy outfits in pound shops. Discussing this makes the artist laugh. 

cuddle me, don’t colonize me is an ongoing series, intensely aware that no person, object or thought generates in a vacuum, instead originating within a complex web of power. By stitching these binaries and hegemonies together, the illusion is revealed. There is no dominant without the submissive, no hard without the soft.

boihugo.com

Tompkins has been working on Bedfellow consciously since 2018, but the earliest images in the book are from 2015. “A lot of the images are just me making pictures in my life, and realising after that I was working towards something,” she says. Other images are staged, based around memories, feelings, or her own experiences. After college, Tompkins dated an abusive man, and suffered recurring dreams in which she was covered in leeches. She later learned that in the dream world, this was commonly interpreted as a symbol of people or emotions sucking the energy out of you. Tompkins became obsessed with making this into a photo, so contacted all of the listed leach therapists in Brooklyn – “they were like ‘absolutely not”. Eventually, she turned to YouTube and studied videos of how to safely place and remove leeches onto human skin. She bought her predatory worms on leech.com, found a willing friend, and made the image [below]. “I kept them as my pets for a few months after. But they were pretty freaky,” she laughs. 

Tompkins’ subjects include friends, ex-boyfriends, former hook-ups, strangers – the punters of a nudist festival she photographed for Vice – and herself. “I included the self portraits to have skin in the game,” she says. Her introduction to Bedfellow begins with an account of her subjection to revenge porn. “I sort of feel nothing about being naked on the internet now,” she says, “I feel a bit nihilistic about it, where I’m like ‘well, it just doesn’t matter’”. 

This nihilism underpins Tompkins’ introduction to the book. Somewhere between prose and poetry, it is based around anecdotes from her own life – from highschool prom, to one-night stands, and spiralling toxic relationships. The stories are astute, revealing dark and sobering truths disguised by jokes: “I’ll never be one of those women that oozes pure sex because I’m too invested in being funny,” she writes. The tone resembles a kind of feminist fatigue, elicited by a dissatisfaction of living as a sexual being in constant battle with the many faces of mysogyny – harassment, double-standards, slut-shaming, etc. “I’m interested in the way in which women kind of make that into a meme now, as a way of dealing with it,” says Tompkins. The photographer keeps a “big archive” TikTok videos, in which a new generation of young women are using humour to vent their frustrations. “They suggest comebacks for catcalls. They show the black eyes their boyfriends gave them. Pleasure and danger in the same fifteen-second clip,” she writes. 

The introduction sets the mood for the pages that follow. The sequence ebbs and flows in intensity – though ecstasy and pain; power and subservience; relief and dread – mimicking the tension that Tompkins experiences in relation to sex and relationships. “Once you start thinking about it, you see it everywhere,” she says. The photographer resists speaking on behalf of all women – “this is just my experience,” she says – but her work does feel universal. Not just to women, but to all sexual beings. After all, sex and death are two of the most powerful, exhilarating and terrifying forces that define the course of our lives. And throughout any tedium or adversity, humour can become our most comforting ally. 

Bedfellow by Caroline Tompkins is published by Palm* Studios. An Exhibition of the work is on show at 10 14 Gallery in Dalston by appointment, until 25 November.

What sets Rosa Kwir apart from similar LGBTQ+ cultural ventures is its emphasis on the experiences of trans men, transmasculine people and gender-non-conforming individuals. This is, in part, inspired by elements of co-founder Roxman Gatt’s practice, which he describes as including “documentation and archiving of trans and queer experiences” as well as the “critical observation of macho behaviour, specifically in relation to Maltese men”.

This attention to queer masculinity is at the heart of Rosa Kwir’s ethos, so much so that it’s embedded in the name. While “Kwir” is derived from the Maltese spelling of “queer”, the first half of the gallery’s moniker is a reference to Rosa Mifsud: an intersex person who in 1744 petitioned the Grand Court of Malta to change his legally recognised sex. Mifsud is an important reference point to Roxman Gatt and Cauchi, with Maltese LGBTQ+ history seeming to overlook gender diverse individuals like him. “When there are references to trans and queer experiences Malta, the focus tends to be on trans women and cis gay men in the 20th century,” Cauchi explains. “There are rarely any references to trans men, gender non-conforming people, or non-binary people in books and hardly any discourse or visual representations.”

Rosa Kwir’s first physical exhibition – Tender and Masculine – is dedicated to depicting the ways that “masculinity can be beautiful when detached from patriarchy”. Curated from an online open-call, the work spans a range of media. By way of photography, El Hardwick and Orion Isaacs present T-fags [above]: portraits of gay trans men and transmasculine relationships. Presented as part of an audio-visual installation, these images of passionate embraces and tender kisses create a visual account of trans homoeroticism.

Elsewhere, Heather Glazzard’s bold black and white images [below] document the artist’s journey with testosterone and top surgery. Other artists include Amy Pennington, Carlos Maria Romero, Dagmar Bosma, Elio Mercer, Harry Hachmeister, Jasmine Johnson, June Lam, Luca Bosani, Lucinda Purkis, and Remi Graves.

The show also includes perspectives from a range of identities. “All our artists identify in very different ways but the selection of artworks shows other forms of masculinities from a queer and alternative perspective,” says Cauchi. “While the discussion can be challenging, we also feel that there is some really beautiful commentary running throughout the show. Malta is still highly patriarchal and speaking from a local perspective, we really felt that this discussion is necessary. We wanted people – however they identify – to feel like they can contribute to this conversation.”

Cauchi sees Rosa Kwir as complementing the cultural efforts which may lead to greater social acceptance for gender diverse people. “I genuinely believe that as much as our community needs to be protected by the law, the law on its own won’t necessarily protect us or make our day-to-day lives easier or equal to those who fit comfortably within the confines of gender norms,” Cauchi adds. “We need to educate people, young and old, from schools to workplaces, about inclusivity and acceptance.”

Tender and Masculine runs until 09 January 2023 at Rosa Kwir, 38 Main Street in Balzan, Malta. 

Manifesting as a hybrid of non-fiction, memoir and photobook, Holding Space is a moving reflection on the challenging reality of intersectional relationships. Published by Princeton Architectural Press in November, the book traces the stories of 100 queer couples across the United States. The result is a rollercoaster of emotions, illuminating the tension between public and private, how the conditions of a relationship can be safe and hostile simultaneously, and how life’s biggest lessons are often learned the hard way.

Pfluger has been ruminating on the book’s concept for over a decade. “My first serious partner, 20 years ago, was a Black and Native American man,” says Pfluger. “I loved that person, but I wasn’t taking into account how different our upbringings were. There was a lot of stuff unsaid in our relationship. There was so much naivety [on my part]. After being in several loving, intimate relationships, I realised how much I didn’t know and how much that affected the relationships.”

Beyond intimacy, the photographs in Holding Space tell us little about the relationships of folx like Brandon & Matthew, Akeem & Samuel and Andi & Connor – until they collide with their text. It’s here they become images interrupted. Interrupted by feelings. By events. By history. By everyday battles and uncomfortable truths. Pfluger does this by carefully engaging in the act of witnessing, enabling thoughtful questions to surface. Together they start a dialogue about the growing pains of modern relationships and how they entangle with our lived experiences.

“While the book is about intersectionality, it’s also about how we relate to one another,” Pfluger explains. “The judgements we make, based on our own lives, the way we treat different groups as a monolith rather than taking the time to understand everyone’s personal experience. There is so much unlearning in the book. We see individuals reevaluating their upbringing and themselves. Thinking through what that means to truly find yourself, especially at an older age. I wanted this project to go deeper into the emotional baggage we carry our entire lives.”

 For Pfluger, the project has been a framework to grapple with the inherent power imbalance in portraiture. For the last 15 years, his practice has centred on photographing social, cultural and political leaders, family, friends and his wider community. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how I can interact with my subjects ethically,” Pfluger shares. “I was figuring out the difference between what I’m drawn to and where my voice is appropriate. As a white person, I wanted to think about how to approach [the topic] authentically, so I wasn’t fetishising or using a community for my gain.”

 The result was a collaborator-led process. Each couple chose to participate, deciding where and how they would be photographed. They selected the final image based on an initial edit from Pfluger and authored their own text. From now on, each collaborator will control their image and where it is seen. They can also opt in or out of any future presentations of the work.

“I feel like [the process] is important to talk about,” explains Pfluger. “I decided I needed to remove myself as much as possible. While it was fulfilling and a true passion project, this work was the most logistically complicated and emotionally draining thing I’ve ever done. It was a very new way of working for me, and I think it’s interesting to think about what it means for a photographer to relinquish control. [Making the work] also felt like a physical release. I realised I don’t need to be so precious about it because the moment itself was so precious.”

While the book has guided Pfluger towards new ways of working, its creative force is rooted in its nuance. Holding Space records the contemporary moment while illustrating the precarity of marginalised identities past and present. Perhaps most importantly, it asserts the intention of the LGBTQIA+ community not simply to have their love accepted by the dominant group, but to reimagine the possibilities of being together in limitless and free ways. 

Holding Space: Life and Love Through a Queer Lens by Ryan Pfluger is published in November by Princeton Architectural Press and is available to pre-order now.

The first entries are dated in January 2019, around eight months after Philomene began taking testosterone. “I started making self-portraits as a challenge to myself,” they say. “My goal wasn’t to make a masterpiece everyday, but just take a picture of whatever it is I was doing.” Philomene posted the images – often of “mundane” daily scenes of breakfast, walks or household clutter – to Instagram. Until then, the artist was mostly making studio portraits, but their followers were responding to the new work “in a way I didn’t expect,” they say. 

This was the genesis of what is now published as a two year document of Philomene’s transition. The images are immersive, flowing as organically as the artist’s process, particularly alongside their handwritten notes. However, the photographer reveals that the writing part came at the very end. “The last step was that I took a lot of shrooms, looked at the photos, then wrote all the captions,” they say. Philomene discovered the creative potential of magic mushrooms the first time they took the hallucinogen in the winter of 2018. They told all of their friends before, in order to create a safe environment. “But then all I did was archive all my prints,” they laugh. “For some reason, I just needed to organise it all… That was when I noticed that mushrooms really help me focus on my photography.”

Philomene’s images are not ‘psychedelic’ in the strictest definition of the word, but the artist’s approach to aesthetics and colour feels kindred to the philosophies of psychedelia. They are inspired by “beautiful things”, like nature, friends, and colours. “Colour is like a different language that we all understand. Certain colours have certain codes in our society,” they say. “At the same time, colours can also have a very intuitive feel to them… a certain energy. I like to use that to communicate what I’m feeling.” Philomene’s favourite colour is pink: “I know people always think it’s orange – orange is more what I identify with – but I just love pink, like a hot pink.” 

This intuitive approach is present in all facets of Philomene’s practice. For example, the artist has curated a spotify playlist – mostly contemporary pop, but also nostalgic hits from the 00s by artists like Avril Lavigne and Weezer – that they listened to while editing. “[It was a] little ritual just to ground myself and be really present with the work,” they say. These personal interactions are important in nurturing a community around their work, which is an integral part of their development as an artist.

Born and raised in Montreal, the 29-year-old found photography in their early-teens. Back then, Philomene was mostly photographing Blythe dolls (Japanese collectable dolls) and posting the pictures on Flickr. Doing this, they found a community of people with similar interests, and a “subcategory” of photographers who were posting self-portraits. This inspired Philomene to start making portraits too, and they got hooked: “I would do it after school, and be online all night.” Around 2010, the community migrated to Tumblr, staying in touch and “essentially growing up together”. Many of the artists turned out to be Queer and Trans. “In hindsight [it] makes a lot of sense,” says Philomene. “We found each other online and connected even though we didn’t have the words… Now, a lot of these photographers in the group are making work about gender.”

Looking back, Philomene feels that the online community of the early 2010s was more “candid, genuine, and earnest”. Life online wasn’t about chasing likes, optimising reach, or monetising your content. “It felt more insular,” says Philomene. “I didn’t have my entire community following me, it was just a small group of people who were on Flickr or Tumblr… Now, literally everyone is on Instagram.” At the time of writing, Philomene has 54,000 followers on the social media platform. “That’s the main thing that keeps me going,” they say. “I work in Montreal – it’s an artistic city, but it’s not a big city like New York or London – so I do feel kind of isolated here. But I have a really great connection online with people who have been following my work for 10 years or more.” Philomene also has a patreon account, where their more devoted followers can pay a subscription to receive a monthly print and letter.

As a young photographer, Philomene was “obsessed” with artists like Wolfgang Tillmans and Tim Walker, and magazines like Love Magazine, Pop Magazine, Dazed, and I-D. Ten years later, their own work is featured in the very titles they idolised, including Dazed and i-D, but also mainstream publications like The New Yorker, Vogue Italia, and CNN. Now, they have published a photobook, and launched a solo exhibition of the work at Fotografiska New York. Sharing such personal experiences with the public must feel daunting, but Philomene is committed to using photography to humanise the Trans experience. They see their work as “a love letter” to their community. “I was sharing the process as it happened over the last few years. At that point, I felt like it wasn’t just my story. I was always sharing it with others”.

Puberty by Laurence Philomène is published by Yoffy. Their exhibition at Fotografiska New York will be on show until 28 August 2022.