Zach and the City: Fuck Art
I was lying on my bed, just about to kiss him, when he stopped me. “I need to warn you of something,” he said, intently holding my gaze. “I don’t have sex; I make art.” Cue the eye roll.
Okay, admittedly, we traded fewer than 100 words — and probably as many photos, ahem — on Scruff before he came knocking IRL. Even so, I thought it was abundantly clear that this was a 20-minute lunchtime romp, not an artmaking extravaganza. (Despite the cryptic, cheesy comment, we thankfully still banged — he was very attractive, after all.)
Living in Brooklyn, it seems like everyone is some form of artist. That is partly why I relish living here, surrounded by creative, inspired people. But sometimes I wonder: Are we taking this emphasis on art a little too far?
For a while I wanted to be an artist too, to fit in with my queer Brooklynite community. So, I began to consider some of my writing, as well as my professional nude modeling, a form of art.
Now I am no art theorist, but I have to believe that a fundamental component of art is its ability to evoke. Does experiencing the item in question elicit an emotional response? If the answer is yes, it’s art (an oversimplification, I’m aware, but I don’t think too far off-base).
Not all my writing falls into this category, but, as readers’ comments have made plain to me on numerous occasions, many of my personal essays do trigger such reactions. Take my viral 2018 Out piece, "The B in LGBT: Why Bisexual Awareness Week Matters", in which I share my long journey to acceptance of my (bi)sexuality. Today, nearly two years later, I still receive emails about this piece from strangers. They tell me how much my words resonated with them, and how they no longer feel as alone in the world.
My photographs have been received in a similar manner. As one example, after posing for a set of artistic black-and-white nudes and sharing them on Instagram, I was contacted by multiple photographers asking to shoot me, or as one said: “Let’s make art together.”
Thinly veiled horniness as that was, I still couldn’t help but consider myself an artist. Admittedly, I was also feeling myself as such. I even archived all my non-modeling photos to turn my Instagram into a showcase of artsy nudes. A complete rebrand, if you will.
This aesthetic posturing didn’t last long though, because something inside me changed. I can’t link it to a single “a-ha” moment, but one day I suddenly lost interest — I didn’t care whether others considered me an artist, or even whether I did. Was my writing art? Were my painstakingly composed photos? Who cares? I felt just as happy to post candid thirsty naked bathroom selfies, tongue stuck out. Once I realized this, I scrapped the high-fashion, artsy Zach Instagram. That shit simply isn’t me.
Part of what prompted this shift, I think, was the way I saw some artists belittle the work of others. Don’t get me wrong — most of the artists I know support the living hell out of each other. But there are others who insecurely judge and dismiss others’ work by labeling it “not art.” “Art”, in other words, became code for “value.” If it didn’t achieve a specific, narrow set of presumptuous, superimposed goals, it apparently had no reason to exist.
To this day, I still have no idea what constitutes “real” art. But far more importantly, I no longer care. Something made from the heart has value regardless.
Take my writing: I hope to help people when I share my story, making them feel less alone. I also uplift the voices of others when I write a reported feature or an as-told-to piece. Based on the responses I have received, and the fact that my work continues to find an audience, it clearly has value to people, regardless of its status as art.
And my thirst traps? They’re thirst traps! Let’s not overthink it here. Still, I believe these naked selfies have worth. They certainly have worth to me. I love being affirmed for being attractive. Plus, I love the attention. (Get off your high horse if you think validation only comes from within!)
I’d also like to think these images have value to other people. If looking at my hairy chest brings someone a little joy, that’s great! Or maybe it just makes them horny. (In which case, thank you — I’m flattered!) Sexual arousal, too, is part of a healthy, happy life. Which is why, when my Scruff buddy and I were lying in bed, soaking in our post-coital glow and catching our breaths, I turned to him and said, “I don’t think that was art, but damn, that was still fantastic.”
Published Sep 30, 2020
Updated Jan 25, 2024
