When my gaze fixes on men, my mind explores the dimensions of the pleasure they can provide; from the pleasures they can unwittingly inspire, to the pleasure they can themselves enjoy in making the pose. Newly-created scenes, or stolen clichés, my camera never really lies.
To my eye, real virility is not found in images of genitalia. Proudly displaying a hard penis does not define a man. Nor does the image of a resting cock free it from a pornographic context. For me, the eroticism of the male body is always looming in its contours and its confrontations.
The male sex organ isn’t at the heart of my work as a photographer — which not to say that it doesn’t matter. But the man himself: the ‘he’, is. To inhabit a male body is to harbour a host of enigmas, flaws, ambiguities, and contradictions. To play at giving signals; to accept compromise; to relish many options – my photos cannot possibly show every facet of the masculine. The many truths are always lurking behind the scenes. Crouching somewhere off-set, one becomes both actor and voyeur. Obscenity and candour exist side by side.
The representation of the masculine form in the days of our forefathers can have as powerful an impact as the more provocative, let’s say modern, poses which seek to shake up our established concept of virility. My images are inspired by a bygone era, a time before the fixation on performance became the driving force of everything; before the obsession with hygiene destroyed any appreciation of its absence; before cruising by numbers had begun to dehumanise all eroticism. So much for nostalgia!