I went to Pride to photograph the parade. It took me very little time to realise that wasn’t my intention at all.
The spectacle was there, that is certain. Music spilled from every corner, massive crowds of people dancing in the streets. Pride flags waving overhead, draped from shoulders like capes, tied around necks, wrapped around waists. Feathers, sequins, glitter, sweat, and bodies pressed on one another under the burning sun. But the closer I got, the less interested I became in the scale of it all. I wanted proximity. I wanted to be in people’s space.
I found myself drawn to individual subjects: people mid-conversation, bodies touching, small moments of intimacy unfolding in the middle of thousands. Everywhere I looked there was skin. Bodies muscular and soft, bare and hairy, big and small moved through the streets of Soho. Some in thongs and briefs, others towering in heels above the crowd. People in leather, bondage gear and masks.
Two figures in pink caught my eye mid-dance. No words were exchanged. They looked at me, then at my camera, their faces formed a question and I understood immediately. They folded into one another beneath pearls, feathers and a beer in hand, and for a moment I was invited in. Only meters away, a man in a tiny blue thong had sort of become the centre of attention, stopped every few steps by people asking for photographs. Across his lower back, a tattoo read: “ruck me”. These were the people who made me stop. Sometimes turn around. Occasionally chase them halfway down the street.
My favourite subject of the day never looked at my camera. Dressed in silver sequins, a cigarette resting between her lips, she stood absorbed in a moment I had no part in. I was in her space, close enough to catch the light bouncing from her dress, yet I went unnoticed. It was exactly the kind of proximity I had spent the day chasing.
I was shooting on film and had, somewhat stupidly, brought my big manual camera rather than the point-and-shoot I usually rely on for gigs and events like this. My manual camera takes time. Focus. Settings. You can’t just snap a picture and disappear. To photograph someone, I had to approach them, ask, and then stay in their presence for a moment longer.More often than not, a photograph became an exchange for a conversation.
Sometimes it was no more than a compliment about an outfit or a few words shouted over the music. At other times, the conversation lingered. My camera became an excuse to lessen the distance that usually exists between strangers. Perhaps it was the heat, the music, or simply the day’s atmosphere, but that distance felt unusually small. Sweaty skin, bare legs, stomachs and chests pressed against each other. For a day, boundaries seemed to soften. Nobody felt entirely unknown.
A few hours in, I ran out of film, and my feet were absolutely killing me – my decision to wear heels felt quite indefensible. I quickly ran home, changed into shoes that were more suitable, replenished my film and returned to the streets. By then, I had almost entirely forgotten about photographing the parade. What I was seeking were the people inside it. The faces that appeared between shoulders and disappeared again. The bodies taking up space without apology. The conversations interrupted for a photograph, the fleeting moments that allowed me to get as close as possible.
