Preface

I first sat down to write this preface in June of 2020. I did so against the backdrop of weeks of critical and long overdue protests against racial injustice and police brutality, as well as the first months of an unprecedented global pandemic. Like most people, I was feeling a mix of emotions: frustrated at the world of racial injustice we live in, inspired by the collective actions of many, and uncertain about what the future held.

And although we were facing what still feels like a constant and unrelenting battle, our LGBTQ+ community had also just experienced a hard-earned and critical milestone: in deciding the case of Bostock v. Clayton County, Georgia, the United States Supreme Court ruled to uphold the civil rights of LGBTQ+ workers: “An employer who fires an individual merely for being gay or transgender defies the law.” At face value, this major decision ensured that the protection of gay and transgender rights is covered under the 1964 Civil Rights Act and was, indeed, a cause for joy. But, like so many things in life, not everything is as it appears on the surface. A closer look at the Court’s majority opinion reveals escape hatch language that employers, citing religious freedom, may ultimately be able to use against us.

Fast forward two years: as I revisit this preface, the COVID-19 pandemic persists and the steady and sustained demand for change remains more crucial than ever. Since this book’s inception, there have been a historic number of bills attempting to limit, if not completely erode, LGBTQ+ rights and dignity. We’ve seen proposals ranging from restricting healthcare services for transgender youth to legislation that dictates how we discuss, address, and interact with LGBTQ+ individuals in schools. These bills signal one undeniable fact: the fight for our humanity must continue, and we must grow stronger.

This project, this collection of portraits, feels all the more urgent to me now. And despite the enormity of that feeling, the initial idea to create these pictures came at an otherwise relatively routine moment. I’d long had a habit of keeping pen and paper and tape nearby, in case any insights or ideas occurred to me that I might write down and tape on the walls around me to consider, even while in the bath. And so it was, sometime around the end of 2011, while lost in thought and soaking in the bathtub, that the idea for Gayface first came to me. It seems as if it were just yesterday: the feeling of sinking down into the water, holding my breath, eyes closed, aware of my body, aware of being my Self suspended in a state of submerged vulnerability. Then the contrast of what came next: the obvious coming up for air with a feeling of emerging, surfacing, clearing the water away from my open eyes, suddenly back in the world and now aware not of internal vulnerability, but my external nakedness. (Despite any sense of security and warmth felt from the full embrace of the bath water, we know that if we stay under for too long, we drown.) It was just then that I quickly drew two squares with a human figure in each—one with eyes closed and one with eyes open.

It would be more than a year before the full concept came into focus, but as it evolved, I knew that I wanted to create a series of portraits that would attempt to capture the LGBTQ+ community that I knew and loved, in all its beautiful, raw and occasionally flamboyant, full-spectrum glory. I began to see this project as a way to get closer to my community—my own chosen queer family of friends and strangers.

Before long, I was traveling across the United States, photographing in homes, community centers, galleries, nightclubs—wherever I was invited or welcomed. What began with Craigslist ads seeking portrait subjects soon turned into dozens of people reaching out, inviting me to their cities after hearing about my project via word of mouth.

This project—and this journey—has been such a blessing in so many ways. One moment that stands out in particular was when I was invited by Philadelphia’s Mural Arts to bring Gayface to help build cross-generational relationships within Philadelphia’s queer community. We held a series of workshops that brought together residents of the John C. Anderson Apartments—Philadelphia’s first housing project devoted to serving LGBTQ+ seniors—and young adults from the Attic Youth Center. Together, we explored everything from personal histories and shared freedoms to emotional vulnerabilities and aspirations. In those moments, we created a safe space, and in doing so we felt powerful.

When I first conceived of Gayface, I didn’t anticipate that creating a series to highlight our community would become an act of community-building in itself. I’ve kept in touch with many of the people in this book, whether they were friends from the outset or became friends because of the project. For many, the shared experience of participating and subsequently seeing their images as part of a larger collective portrait created a shared bond with a community they had perhaps only partly known.

Because portraiture is always a collaboration and the resulting document is a record of that relationship, I want each interaction with my subjects to be as meaningful as possible. Sitting for a portrait, being portrayed in a photograph requires trust—a certain amount of giving of oneself by both subject and artist. My offering was to try to create an experience in which each individual would not only feel empowered, but more importantly, seen. Perhaps we could also simultaneously, and together, offer some kind of meaningful reflection back to the viewer.

And so I ask: Do you see yourself, maybe your reflection, here, anywhere within these pictures? Do you see a friend or family member? And those whose portraits are not present in these pages—are they here? What about those who are not part of your own immediate community? Can you see them? This book is about more than representation. It’s about more than allyship. It is about accompliceship. For we are your mothers, fathers, grandparents, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends and acquaintances, and we will not be shamed into staying hidden in the shadows but rather will celebrate ourselves (and each other) for the beautiful, complex and wondrous human beings we are.

I hope this series will help educate—and inspire—every person who comes across it. I also hope it inspires many to become more involved, and to educate themselves about this incredibly important and diverse community. In the back of this book, you’ll find a selected glossary of terms to help foster greater communication and understanding about the LGBTQ+ community. I sincerely hope you take the time to read through it. By doing so, you’ll be taking a small—but essential—step toward creating greater visibility and raising up the power of our community.

April 2022

Light and love,

Ash Kolodner