Here

2010 - 2020

Exhibition & Publication Forthcoming

“A photograph can bring clarity to a past that was not evident at the time of its making. All photographs are time capsules, few are predictive.”  - Stephen Frailey, Looking at Photography 

The people I often photograph were and are close friends, or those within my immediate social bubble. There’s a liberation in the comfort of photographing people I know on an intimate level.  Some of these subjects, with the nature of our relationship being more transient, satisfied me on a more superficial level. We created work that captured a specific moment and the feeling of a short period of time. Other subjects had a deep impact, and the images we made have an intensity, however, the value in the images far outlived the relationships. Then there are the rare few that remain constant in my life and in my work. These people have vigor; they change, shift, and evolve parallel to my own life. These subjects create a mirror not only for myself, but for the time and social climate we created for ourselves and existed in between 2010 and 2020. This collection of photographs made from the ages of eighteen to twenty-eight is about these people, although ultimately a process of self reflection.

As a teenager I was in search of an identity, and the camera quickly became more of a character trait than a hobby. I felt stifled by the endless facade created by my family and weighed down by the guilt of catholicism and shame of my secret homosexuality. I slowly found people whose ideals and need for a reprieve from their imposed reality matched my own. Together we created a safe bubble to explore our truths and desires. In addition to documenting, I knew I had to go out and find similar stories as the mainstream media at the time was still devoid of any alternative queer representation. Books like Disco Bloodbath by James St James and films like Nowhere, and Totally Fucked Up by Gregg Araki became my religion. They depicted a colourful nineties world where freaks and gay people were empowered and free. The sexuality presented was rarely a struggle; these characters didn’t need to come out and being gay was only a small facet of their personality. This perspective was refreshing as any other homosexual content I had been exposed to at the time, other than pornography, had been about assimilating into heterosexual culture and the perils of a gay life. 

I moved from Vancouver to Toronto in 2010 and having access to the resources of a bigger city found works by artists like Derek Jarman, Nan Goldin, and David Armstrong. Jarman’s film Caravaggio introduced me to the importance of lighting, simplicity, and to the idea that something can be romantic, steeped in historical reference, and still maintain its queer punk values. I fell in love with the depth and technique of classicism; the perfect decay in Caravaggio’s Basket Of Fruit. The work of Nan Goldin and David Armstrong resonated deeply with me as they revealed the intimate queer stories I craved to see. Their 1994 book A Double Life, which combines Goldin's more spontaneous images with Armstrongs more formal portraits, exposes their world from two very different lenses. One of Goldin’s images in the book, Gina At Bruce's Dinner Party, NYC shows a woman eating alone at a table. Pinned casually on the wall next to her, above a large bouquet of flowers and basket of fruit, is a print of Carravagio’s Bacchus. This body of work and specifically this image gave me confidence and validated my practice.

Capturing an image happens at a fraction of a second, but its true development happens as it sits quietly between viewings. Every time one looks at an image it has changed, not necessarily in its physicality, but the way one relates it to their own subjectivity. When they leave the privacy of my personal collection, they will be put into a new and public environment; the prints and books that sell will go into someone’s personal space and take on new meaning in relation to surroundings and viewer. Sontag states in On Photography that “because each photograph is only a fragment, its moral and emotional weight depends on where it is inserted. A photograph changes according to the context in which it is seen.” The images will adapt to the owner’s sensibilities and either be cherished for a long period of time or swapped out for something else as the owner's taste evolves. It fascinates me that a photograph itself remains a silent slice of space and time; forever chained to the reality of its own moment of creation, but able to absorb the perceptive timeline of any viewer.

I’ve always been excited by the idea of perception; that everyone sees the world based on their own story and awareness. We are all choosing to see what we want while trying to avoid or to build emotional blinders against things that don’t serve us. Photography, like any other form of artistic medium, grants you access to someone else’s point of view. Unlike other mediums, photography’s immediacy leaves little room for reflection in the process of making. Post-production, the editing that happens after developing exposed film, leaves some room, but you can’t fundamentally change what's been recorded. Based on my practice, and the way I've come to make images, I believe photography is inherently impulsive and adaptable, even if the subject isn’t and I don't want to be. This isn’t to say that an image is always spontaneous; often the image I want to make gets built in my mind well before the film even is loaded. I set the scene, design the lighting and style the subject. Photographer Henri Catier-Bresson maintains this idea; “thinking should be done beforehand and afterwards - never while actually taking a photograph.” What transpires in the process is a game between all the elements, the subject, and me. The best pictures happen during a collision of these elements, where everything falls perfectly into place with an almost transcendent ease. Sontag confirms these notions saying “most photographers have always had - with good reason - an almost superstitious confidence in the lucky accident.” Sometimes I have a hard time feeling ownership over images, in that the elements have come together so harmoniously that it seems impossible I would be able to create something so close to my own idea of perfection. 

Whether the image is staged or spontaneous, what’s captured is a frozen moment that can never be recreated again (as much as I’ve tried.) When you make autobiographical work the process is never done until the shutter is released for the last time, and even then the pictures will live on and continue to evolve with age. Perhaps one day, when mortality has caught up with myself and the people in these portraits, will this story finally reach a conclusion. In Roland Barthes book Camera Lucida, a text one could argue has more to do with death than photography, the author states that “young photographers who are at work in the world, determined upon the capture of actuality, do not know that they are agents of death.” It's ironic that in my goal to capture the essence of life within my subjects, I've actually created documents revealing versions of themselves that cease to exist. In his 2019 book The Social Photo Nathan Jurgenson conflates these ideas:

“Documenting the present as a future past, as conventional photographs do, acknowledges and foregrounds the facts of change, impermanence, and mortality in an effort to defy them. In every permanent image is the looming context of loss and decay; each view of one's past is to see death itself, each permanent photo of ourselves is an image from when we used to be alive.”

There is an automatic ease when photographing the people I'm close to, and I've been lucky that my favourite subjects have a seemingly natural urge to be on camera. What makes these people captivating in a final image is their depth, vulnerability, magnetism, and presence. I realize now that these qualities, among others, stir up feelings of both admiration and intense jealousy within me; emotions I feel extremely drawn to explore. The subjects I’ve gone back to over and over are often people whose journeys closely mirror my own, or who have traits I wish to covet. More often than not I’ve styled the subject, or simply put them in my own clothing, photographed them in my home, my studio, or in a space that’s comfortable or familiar for me. I project a fantasy onto them, roleplay my own narcissistic self-image. They become the canvas of my own self-portrait, an idealized version of myself stepping into what I see myself as, or what I wish I could be, at the time of capture.

As time has passed and I’ve repeatedly reviewed my images, I’m always shocked at the camera's ability to break down the barrier between conscious, unconscious thought, and decision making. These representative changes are subtle and maybe only perceivable to me; it’s discovering a new way to light a subject, images becoming lighter or darker based on mood. Photographing in black and white or colour often carries a message of presence vs distance; the gaze of the subject nods at avoidance or directness. In images like “Jonna,” from 2010, her face is turned away from the light source, almost completely obscuring any defining facial features. She wears my open dark denim jacket revealing only a sliver of her breast. The black backdrop drawing in her entire figure. I took this image when I was eighteen; a period of dark depression, deep insecurity about my personal appearance, and confusion about my sexual identity. These symbols and metaphors repeat many times over in the photographs I took during that year. Over time the lighting brightens, softens, becomes more frontal and revealing. In Images from 2015, like “Nikki,” and “Sydney,” the women are nude, the gaze assertive, and the poses expressive. In the last few years the images I've made express confidence, clarity and empowerment. In images like “Emily” the light is direct, the focus is crisp, and her body takes a stance of sexual assurance. Her physical presence and overt sexuality dominate the frame, a far cry from the image of Jonna nearly fading into darkness. 

I realize that perhaps my gaze and projection is problematic. Frequently, my subjects are young nude women; often very close friends or those who feel comfortable being exposed, whether in a sexually performative way or not. As the female body is in a never-ending cycle of being constantly exploited and exhausted, I hope to reinterpret that mostly oppressive heterosexual male gaze through a homo-social, queer lens. As a gay man, I feel safe around women and hope that while we make photos together, they feel the same. Because of my orientation, I strive to be objective about the sexuality presented in a way I find impossible when photographing men. Men become symbols of lust, while women become beacons of power and liberation. In Camera Lucida Barthes states that erotic imagery “does not make the sexual organ into a central object; it may very well not show them at all; it takes the spectator outside its frame, and it is there that I animate this photograph and that it animates me.” I want these subjects imperfections and realities to break through the surface value of form and sexuality. I intend to expose the truth behind facades of flesh; exploring the corporeal form not just as a bodily landscape but as a sexual, living and spiritual vessel. I am drawn to make these types of images above all others. To be female, nude, in front of a camera, and be seen with such permanent scrutiny, fills me with envy for what I will never be. It allows me to embody aspects of the divine feminine that exist within my own duality.

Over the years I have constantly thought about whether my rampant documentation of the people in my life has altered not only their self image, but the trajectory of their lives. Through this reflection I've come to wonder if in the process of my storytelling, have I manipulated people and settings to create camera worthy moments? Did I make my life into a stage and create characters for my own self indulgence? 

The people in my life have in some ways become a sociological study. In psychology, the Hawthorne or Observer Effect states that people being watched will change their behavior. Therefore one cannot document without interference or creating a disruption to what may have otherwise occurred. I continue to be interested in individual subjects, however what fascinates me most is the dynamics that occur within a close group of people. I am both an active participant and a peeping Tom into my own life. Of course how people relate to another person, and a person with a camera is very different; but if the camera is always there, and the camera is rarely separated from the person behind it, are people able to let down their walls and be captured as they would be if nobody was observing? Or would their behaviour, appearance, mannerisms, and interpersonal relationships be permanently altered to meet the needs of the ongoing surveillance?  The camera has in some ways become for me a type of camouflage, however I fear that my voyeurism has shifted the natural life trajectory of my closest subjects. Despite this, I hope I have been able to capture the truth of myself and others.

In photographing my life on a daily basis, having a good memory has become practically unnecessary. Important moments will always be documented; birthdays recorded, weddings and milestones archived, parties are never missed and always re-lived. Mundane scenes that one wouldn’t think to record or even remember, like the way the morning sun falls on a vase of flowers, become bookends in a period of time. The images overwrite my actual memories; I can recall a photograph of a moment, as opposed to the actual emotions and feelings held within that memory.  I'm able to see a record of what we were wearing, the faces that were there, and the places we inhabited. These details however often lack real presence and are filtered through a romantic lens. What comes up is generalized anxiety and a fear that I wrongly chose to acquire, exaggerate, and tamper with moments instead of actually living them. Nathan Jurgenson speaks to this dilemma in his 2019 book The Social Photo:

“Over Documentation is the self-defeating impulse to produce so much knowledge about yourself and your experience that you arrive at confusion, chaos, and befuddlement. Photographers perhaps best know the danger of how documentation can spin out of control, the possibility of the camera eye seeing nothing unworthy of capture.”

The camera may unapologetically record, but it is not without bias, and rarely tells the truth. The more I look at images, the more detached I get to them. They become aesthetic objects instead of representations of real people and feelings. Purposely leaving the camera behind and taking breaks from this process seems like a healthy decision in the moment, but I always end up feeling a sense of loss and regret that I’ve let time go undocumented.

I’ve always felt some level of disassociation and distance from reality. A few years ago, I came to the startling realization that I wasn’t sure I was completely alive. I felt I was stuck in a cyclical purgatory-like state waiting to cross over to whatever comes next. More than a decade ago the process of shooting film, and having to hand it over to another individual for printing, gave me a sense of solidification; today It still makes me feel physically and psychologically connected to my existence. I realized that this need for confirmation has been my driving force since I started taking pictures; I need proof that I do exist, and that the experiences and relationships I have are in fact tangible and real. 

At the end of 2019 I returned home to Vancouver from a trip to Montreal. On the flight home, I found myself without any distractions for what felt like the first time in my life. I took this time to reflect on the experiences of the last few months, as I often do after periods of intense living and making. This reflection process is an important aspect of my practice as it allows me to find meaning and develop context to the images. In a rather intense and uncomfortable way, I became overwhelmingly aware of how much power taking pictures has had on the trajectory of my life and that the desire to create and feel inspiration has always seemed like something I had to do without much choice. 

Photographing my perceptive reality is an intrinsic need, and a means of survival that came from somewhere else. When reviewing the images I've taken over the last decade and more, the pictures become a manifested trail of breadcrumbs through my life, in and out of different states of ego and consciousness. Photography lets me investigate life's most perplexing question, “Why is it that I am alive here and now?” Taking pictures of my life, and the people, places, and things that pass through it is what keeps me tethered to reality. Making these images is what keeps me here.