Your work captures both strength and vulnerability in male portraiture — what first drew you to photographing the male form in such an intimate way?
I think it started from a fairly personal place. Growing up, I didn’t see a lot of versions of masculinity that felt relatable to me. Everything was quite rigid, quite performative. When I picked up a camera, I realised I could explore a different side of that. Something quieter, more honest.
The male form is often presented as strong, but rarely as open. I’ve always been interested in that space where those two things overlap. The moment where someone lets their guard down just enough that you see the person, not the performance. That’s where it gets interesting for me
How has living and working in Sydney influenced your artistic style and the stories you choose to tell through your photography?
Sydney has this beautiful contradiction to it. It’s very outdoors, very physical, very body-aware, but at the same time there’s a laid-back ease that softens everything. I think that combination has definitely shaped my work.
There’s a natural light here that’s quite forgiving, quite revealing in a gentle way. And culturally, there’s a quiet confidence in how people carry themselves. I’m drawn to that. My work tends to sit somewhere between polished and relaxed, which probably mirrors the city itself.
Representation matters deeply within LGBTQ+ media. What do you hope queer audiences see or feel when they experience your work?
Ideally, I want people to feel a sense of recognition. Not in a literal sense, but emotionally. To see that masculinity doesn’t have to fit into one narrow definition.
There’s strength in vulnerability, in softness, in intimacy. I think a lot of us grow up feeling like parts of ourselves need to be edited down. If my work can give even a small sense that all of those parts are valid and worth showing, then I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile.
Many photographers focus on aesthetics alone, but your portraits often feel emotionally charged. How do you build trust and authenticity with your subjects during a shoot?
It’s never really about the camera at the start. It’s about conversation, creating a space where someone feels comfortable enough to just be themselves.
I don’t rush that process. Sometimes the best images come well after you’ve technically “started” the shoot. I’ll give direction when it’s needed, but I’m also watching for those in-between moments when someone forgets they’re being photographed.
Trust isn’t something you can fake. If someone feels safe, it shows immediately in the work.
Male figure photography can challenge traditional ideas of masculinity. Do you see your work as political, cultural, or more personal in its intention?
It’s personal first. That’s always the starting point.
That said, anything that challenges a traditional idea, even quietly, becomes cultural by default. I’m not setting out to make overtly political work, but I am interested in expanding the definition of what masculinity can look like.
If that resonates more broadly, then that’s a good thing.
Social media has transformed how photographers share and monetize their art. How has the digital era changed your relationship with your audience and creative process?
It’s been a bit of a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s opened up direct access to an audience I never would have reached otherwise. That’s been incredibly valuable, especially with more niche work.
On the other hand, there’s a constant pressure to adapt to platforms that don’t always support the kind of work I create. You have to be quite strategic about what you show and how you show it.
I’ve learned to separate the work itself from how it’s distributed. The creative process still needs to come from a genuine place. The rest is just navigation.
Is there a particular shoot or portrait that changed the way you saw yourself as an artist?
There have been a few, but the ones that stand out are usually the shoots where something unexpected happens. Where a subject brings a level of openness that shifts the whole dynamic.
Those moments remind me that the work isn’t just about technical skill. It’s about connection. Every time that clicks into place, it resets my understanding of what I’m trying to do.
LGBTQ+ creatives often navigate censorship differently online, especially when working with the human body. Have you encountered challenges balancing artistic expression with platform restrictions?
Constantly. There’s an ongoing negotiation between staying true to the work and working within the limits of different platforms.
It can be frustrating, especially when the human body is treated inconsistently depending on context. But it’s also forced me to think more carefully about presentation, cropping, and storytelling.
At the end of the day, the work exists beyond social media. Those platforms are just one way of sharing it.
What advice would you give to emerging queer photographers who want to create bold, authentic work but may still be finding confidence in their voice?
Give yourself time. Your voice doesn’t appear overnight.
Shoot consistently, experiment, make work that feels honest rather than what you think will get attention. Confidence tends to follow clarity, and clarity comes from doing the work over and over again.
Also, don’t wait for permission. No one’s going to hand it to you.
Looking ahead, what stories, themes, or collaborations are you most excited to explore next in your photography journey?
I’m interested in pushing further into narrative. Creating bodies of work that feel more like a series than individual images.
There’s also something in exploring age and masculinity that I’d like to spend more time on. It’s not a space that’s been fully explored, and it feels quite personal at this stage of my life. And, as always, collaborating with people who are open to going a bit deeper than just surface-level imagery. That’s where the best work tends to happen.
