I ’m in the market for some gay art. My partner feels the want for it, too, but we have put it off, wary of becoming the cliché: thirty-something gay men with a Tom of Finland book on the coffee table and a line drawing of an appendageless male torso hanging over the fireplace. It’s the basic starter pack of cis-gay domesticity. To succumb feels at once predictable and, somehow, too inevitable.
The trouble, I’ve realized, is that my idea of queer art — what it is, what it means — is limited. Somewhat of a blunt instrument. Still, it’s not entirely my fault. There’s a recurring convergence of styles and themes persuasive enough to suggest, if not a singular queer aesthetic, then at least its shadow.
