I worked on the periphery of my subject for almost a year before turning to face it directly. Many months were spent scouting locations, arranging portrait sessions, searching for props, and hiring assistants before I decided that what I really needed was to get the men in front of me to take off their clothes.
Despite having existed among them for half a century, I cannot claim to be comfortable around male bodies. The truth is, the male body is not a subject that I’ve ever been encouraged scrutinize the way we do women’s bodies. It’s as though the act of looking at men is inherently dangerous. Asking the men to remove their clothing introduced a degree of risk that propelled my fifty-year-old imagination even as sexual desire continued to elude it.
Mostly, I photographed men who were older than me. Maybe I was more interested in seeing masculinity in decline than admiring male prowess. Or maybe older men are more visibly vulnerable, making me more empathetic towards them. Some of them unveiled their bodies with adventurous curiosity; others were willing to partly reveal themselves, letting go of their reservations as an act of generosity. Some got an erection and stood still in front of me, wondering where to direct their gaze. One person kept bending over to make sure I captured a view of his anus.
Once I started stripping away the clothing and props and scenery, what I was left with was a body alive in time, like mine. Its authority dissolved when I took the liberty to look.