eros in a patterned shirt.

waffling over if i want to remake or just. revamp. (thoughts?) because of sentimental attachment. so, watch this space. or the next one. also it’s so, so lovely to see folks returning here/writing again. y’all are so good at what you do.

    the spread of contact sheets identifies perry as photographer, not poet. nevertheless, this fact hardly precludes him from inflecting his briefing with a heartened grandeur – all zest expressed: “you are the conductor. think of me as part of your orchestra.” the uncapped snap! of a red marker ( or instrument, if you will ) heralds his slow, boyish grin and invites the first batch of exposures.

    with huffs of laughter, he just about collapses against summer’s side; languorous and soft-whimpered. she’s all citrus and sweet fabric softener, a sillage strengthened by the kiss and chemistry of an afternoon sun. “new look?” he tries, affecting his best smolder, but sighs as he scritches the scratch of his prickly cheek. “darling, blame it on the darkroom. spectacular vacuums of time.”

jasper johns & robert rauschenberg, art history.

the foundational artists for perry as mccarthy era gay lovers who coded their work and through a well-formed visual vocabulary.

“their art offers a number of interesting clues. that there is some kind of pictorial dialog at work in their artmaking is undeniable. not only do they share a number of motifs–from light bulbs to the use of newsprint–some images directly mine gay cultural references and a few actually seem to invoke aspects of their relationship.” – the art of code, jonathan katz.

work!: a queer history of modeling, elspeth h. brown.

i promise it’s not solely academic media, but i recommend this book which highlights how fashion photography was largely an interwar lgbtq+ production seized by cishet men by the 60′s who weaponized it, really, to reinforce gendered power structures. perry’s my reimagining of this history. he is my intervention into it via a “but what if?” lgbtq+ reclamation.

bertie wooster, jeeves and wooster (1990).

differences in positionality, similarities in energy. mannerisms, boater hats, “i say!” and sitting like this.

studio 54 lore.

multidimensionality and intersectionality, babey!

“disco environment was an inclusive and accepting sanctuary. so it was not out on the streets. there was homophobia worse than today.” / “as soon as they entered the disco, they were safe. they were included, accepted, and part of unity.” – studio 54, 2018. documentary.

maurice, e.m. forster.

“i shouldn’t have bothered to write otherwise. i was determined that in fiction anyway two men should fall in love and remain in it for the ever and ever that fiction allows, and in this sense, maurice and alec still roam the greenwood.” - terminal note to e.m. forster’s maurice.

and of course, all the fainting from the turmoils of heteronormativity: suddenly clive cut in with “i say — i’m going to faint,” and fell off his chair.

   “my, my. i am a most accomplished stripling. but i fear that you’ve given me false pride.” it takes great strain to pull the wide reaches of his grin down into a contrived pout. “wherever shall my title go at the end of this marvelous year?”

  ‘I doubt they’ll get much out of me.’ She always seems to know just when to turn her face to ruin a shot, corrupting the photographs somehow. If a particularly lucky photographer manages to capture her without her consent, the film simply won’t develop.

A thousand separate instances of bad luck and no one can make heads or tails of it.

Worse, still, when they’ve all gathered to gaze upon photographs they could never hope to replicate. Faye’s delighted; there’s a rare sort of satisfaction in being able to see the frustration and jealousy in a man’s face as he realises he cannot take what he wants from you.

‘Is it what you want?’

    there’s a falter in perry’s brow as he severs his gaze from faye. focusing on the ironed gallery, his eyes swim in sterile floods of window light as he somberly says, "i ... haven't very much choice.”

    where the photographer is frank with his familiars, he is cunning with critics. just as faye is eloquent in her silences, perry is eloquent in his hints and ellipses. indirection and misdirection ensure his work's survival, and once upon a time ( before the title 'artist' vindicated him ): his, too.

    it's decreasingly thrilling to confound those who would not otherwise approve of him, but it's comforting to confound them with another who is like him. so, emboldened, perry undercuts the solemnity with the raise of a gloved index. tap-tapping his lips, his grin is resurrected by the restored sight of the star. “mum’s the word.”

  it’s a clement spring day, damp breezes mingling with daffodils and lilac now flowered and fragrant, suffusing woods’ office in a perfume that breathes cleanly through the open window. clear daylight eliminates the need for electricity, and with the occasional glance from his studious burrow towards the lush campus outdoors, the professor finishes grading his papers by the luminous glow of reflected sunshine. a familiar sound of light footfall in the hallway nearing his door draws his prescient head up expectantly, but rather than a student or coworker, woods is overjoyed to be greeted by his partner. he makes this evident in his immediate bound of humorous energy, and flits a glance at his wristwatch.

         “awh, love, you’ve just missed office hours… but, ah - i s’pose i can make an exception…”

@voirverite  

    a scholarly ladder of sunlight binds the two mentors, slanting from one tall window to glow over the professor’s desk, and warming a walkway toward it. with the spring of a smile, perry arrives at one of the twin chairs tacitly designated for his partner’s pupils. it’s an antique that’s sun-warmed, and a tad timeworn, confessing its age in a meek creak beneath the retiree’s weight.

    as his gaze flits up to woods’, this vantage point triggers a flash of his past – questionably studious – from which he absolves himself with gentle laughter. he’s all airy gusts and bobbing emerald shoulders, still accented by boyish dimples which bridge the years.