Arts & Entertainment
Images and outrage
Controversy aside, ‘Hide/Seek’ is a groundbreaking show
A still from the video that caused controversy in the current "Hide/Seek" exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery.
Catcher Yogi Berra once famously called it “deja vu all over again.” But it was Karl Marx who perhaps defined it best as “when history repeats itself — the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.”
That was the feeling at least for a moment last week, when officials at the National Portrait Gallery censored a video component of its exhibit titled “Hide/Seek,” the show about gay and lesbian sexual love and its impact on American art. Complaints by right-wing Catholics over 11 seconds of a depiction of ants crawling on a crucifix was enough for NPG director Martin E. Sullivan to decide to turn tail and yank an entire half-hour-long 1987 video, titled “A Fire in My Belly” — a meditation on the ravages of AIDS by David Wojnarowicz, the gay artist who died from HIV-related causes in 1992.
Shades of Robert Mapplethorpe and the cancellation of an exhibit of his erotically charged photos by the Corcoran Gallery of Art in 1989. And now as then GOP politicians are on the attack under the banner of “no promo homo,” and also as before, another gallery — this time Flashpoint — courageously took up the challenge and began to show the offending video.
But what about the groundbreaking NPG show itself, which opened in October and runs through mid-February? It’s stunning with 105 pieces of art from the canon of America’s greatest artists of the past century and more, depicting the ways in which their sexual orientations expressed themselves — usually coded and concealed — visually on canvas and other surfaces and as images in motion.
The exhibit is titled as a playful reminder of the childhood game of hide-and-seek, when concealment is the first task for survival. “HIDE/SEEK — Difference and Desire in American Portraiture,” with its range and breadth of seeing and finding works of art that dare speak, however sotto voce, the name of taboo love, boldly snaps in two the several decades-long taboo, welded firmly in place after the Mapplethorpe fiasco, of acknowledging same-sex desire in major U.S. museums.
The range of artists begins with Thomas Eakins and his scenes of naked boys swimming and passes through other giants of American painting — John Singer Sargent, George Bellow, Georgia O’Keefe, Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, Andy Warhol and others — to our own new century. But as co-curator Jonathan D. Katz contends, “seeking and noticing” the sexual subtexts of their work “are two very different acts,” and this exhibit “seeks to turn such seeing into noticing.”
As with their work itself, nothing is as it seems at first. Therefore, “HIDE/SEEK” features, says Katz, “straight artists representing gay figures, gay artists representing straight figures, gay artists representing gay figures, and even straight artists representing straight figures, when of interest to gay people/culture.”
For Katz, considered the dean of academic study of gay and lesbian art history, this has been the curatorial work of more than 15 years. Katz shaped this exhibit with Smithsonian historian David C. Ward, who has openly called Katz “my camerado — per Walt (Whitman).”
Ward also says that Katz, who founded the gay and lesbian studies program at Yale University and is the first tenured professor in LGBT studies in the nation, “is a model of the engaged scholar” and as a result ran afoul of academic norms in the past for his avowed interest in these subjects.
“He’s someone who managed to be thrown out of two institutions, the University of Chicago and Johns Hopkins University,” Ward says, “for daring in the 1970s to want to write about gay and lesbian Americans.”
In the magisterial catalogue accompanying the exhibit, Katz confesses that their choice of subjects is “firmly canonical” and rooted in “the register of great American artists … within the American mainstream,” so that many artists, less well known, have been excluded. The key objective, says Katz, is to show that “the assumption that same-sex desire is at best tangential to the history of American art” is “utterly unsupportable.”
With “HIDE/SEEK,” and even with the Wojnarowicz censorship fresh at hand, it now seems safe to say, in Katz’s words, that the “pervasive silencing of same-sex desire in accounts of American portrait painting” is over.
Perhaps the most interesting feature of the exhibit comes in its revelation that American artists at the turn of the 20th century could in fact be much more open about their subject matter than those of the mid-20th century in a period haunted by sexual McCarthyism and the hunt for “reds and gays” in government, the schools and the clergy. During that era only on the fringes of the entertainment world, and there not always, could different sexual proclivities find open or even closeted refuge.
In other words, same-sex desire could be expressed more freely in the arts at that earlier time “prior to the advent of ‘homosexuality’ as an available category,” says Katz, even though same-sex desire acted upon was literally a crime. But this was before an explicit “homo/hetero binary” was established as the enforced norm, he says, and before “gay” and “straight” were paired as strict opposites instead of subtle inflection points on a spectrum of the sort spelled out by Alfred Kinsey in his scale of zero to six.
Key to this transformation, Katz says, was when “sexual behavior evolve(d) into sexual identity, from what you did to what you were.” In the earlier era, after all, sexual identity was premised not on the gender of one’s sexual partner but rather on one’s own gendered role —insertive or receptive — in the sex act. As Katz notes, “it was socially acceptable to penetrate a queer” for sexual relief and as “tolerable stand-ins for women.”
Thus, Katz begins the exhibit catalogue with a searching exegesis of George Bellows’ print from 1917, “The Shower Bath,” where two naked men are depicted front and center – one thin and effeminate, looking seductively over his shoulder and thrusting his posterior provocatively at a second man, beefy of build, butch and masculine, whose towel barely conceals his sexual arousal. Opposites in every way, “they are made a pair,” says Katz, and what he calls “the odd couple” are “the focal point of this image.” But the forward homoeroticism of the Bellows print did not hamper its commercial success at the time. And Bellows himself was a man devoted to his wife and children.
There is, of course much more in this exhibit, with many works coded with layers of longing, that NPG director Sullivan — before the controversy erupted over the video — spoke of “with pride” as offering “a new lens with which to view the panorama of American life.” It is indeed, as he said earlier, “a sumptuous survey of more than a century of American portraiture,” asking “new questions and risking new interpretations.” It dares to be at once risky and risque.
With portraits such as these, we enter the lives of others, to explore how identities were forged in the past. With portraits such as these, we end up staring at ourselves.
Arts & Entertainment
Horror genre has evolved into space to explore queer identity
Forbidden love among topics explored
Spooky season is here, making it a fantastic time to talk about queerness and horror. More precisely, it’s a chance to explore how the horror genre emerged and transformed our perspective on queer identity.
Horror is far more political than most people realize.
Personally, if sci-fi was the genre that helped me understand what it feels like to be different, it was horror that truly allowed me to explore queer relationships and queer rage.
Let’s dive into how horror as a book genre has evolved — moving from portraying queer and transgender identities as monstrous threats to becoming a space where queer people can process our own fears, rage, sexuality, and trauma: from the deeply queer undercurrents of vampire fiction to the liberating “monstrosity” of trans rage.
The ‘monstrosity’ of transness
It’s 2026, so let’s begin with the elephant in the room — or rather, the biggest conservative scapegoat in our community (thanks for actual political monsters). But trigger warning: trauma crawls to the surface like a monster breaking through.
Imagine two scenes:
Fifteen-year-old me, a trans teenager who didn’t yet know they were trans, was reading Thomas Harris’s “The Silence of the Lambs” (1988) for the first time (yes, for me it was first the book, then the movie.) I “encountered” Buffalo Bill, a serial killer who used human skin to make a female costume because he wanted to be a woman. How did I feel? Cringed out, humiliated, and even more determined to hide. And I wasn’t yet permitted myself to think that I’m trans, but I felt terrible without knowing why. It was one more message from mass culture: if you think you belong to a gender different from the one assigned to you at birth, you are a “psycho.” The intersection of ableism and transphobia is striking in stories like this. People with mental illnesses, who in real life are much more often victims than aggressors, are portrayed as dangerous to society, while transness is presented as a mental illness.
Now imagine an adult me, a couple of years after coming out as trans, reading Andrew Joseph White’s young adult horror novel “Hell Follows with Us” (2022). It portrayed actual monsters and a trans boy, Benji, turned into a monster by his cultist family. I felt joy and sympathy for Benji, who stood up against the apocalyptic cult that destroyed humanity, despite his parents raising him to destroy what was left of the human race. His trans rage and rebellion felt justified, and the main character never felt like a pathetic freak.
This is the main difference between classical portrayals of trans people in horror and the changes made by trans authors and creators reclaiming the genre.
When Harris wrote “The Silence of the Lambs” and Jonathan Demme directed the movie (1991), the story made it clear that Buffalo Bill was not a “real” trans person and that real trans people were harmless. But this raises an important question: how can we decide who is a “real” trans person and who isn’t if someone’s gender identity differs from the one assigned to them at birth? The trope of an aggressive, perverse person who “wants to be a woman” has existed throughout modern fiction, with the “Psycho” (1960) movie being another famous example, that stigmatizes cross-dressing and gender non-conformity and, by association, trans women.
Aggressive trans characters and trans characters in serial-killer fiction have every right to exist. White’s young adult horror novel “You’re No Better” (2026), which is coming out this October, features a trans autistic boy trying to prove that he is nothing like his famous serial-killer father. There is also the transgender novel “Manhunt” (2022), featuring two trans women, Beth and Fran, who survive by hunting men transformed into monsters.
Honestly, I’m currently querying a vampire novel with a trans teenager who runs from his transphobic MAGA family and has literally become a monster, so it would be hypocritical of me to object to controversial or monstrous trans characters. They can be violent — but not because they are trans. They can be driven to become monsters by society, but not because of their supposed “perversion.”
Trans horror written by trans and trans-friendly authors can help process rage and alienation. Many trans horror authors reclaim the label of “monstrosity” without turning their characters into caricatures, perverted villains, or pathetic creatures, as often happened in more classical, cis-hetero normative horror.
Queer romance and forbidden love
For me, “The Vampire Chronicles” by Anne Rice was my first introduction to non-judgmental, queer-centered fiction as a teenager. As Rice famously observed, all her vampires are bisexual, and it was remarkably brave to publish books in the 1970s and 1980s where queer families, desire, and drama were simply part of the plot without any silly sensationalism. The 1994 film adaptation of “Interview with the Vampire” was the movie through which many people I knew who weren’t into queer stories first saw these dynamics onscreen. And the new AMC’s “Interview with the Vampire” (2022-current) TV series is, in my opinion, one of the best representations of messy queer relationships between traumatized people, addressing family trauma and the intersection of race and queerness. I recommend it even more than “reality-based” shows such as “Heated Rivalry” or “Queer as Folk.”
Gothic literature has always had a queer undercurrent. From Lord Byron’s homoerotic image of the undead to the lesbian desire of “Carmilla” and the obsessive relationships surrounding “Dracula” (book published in 1897), vampires have long been associated with forbidden desire, sexuality, and relationships outside social norms. “Carmilla,” published in 1872 by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, still resonates with the lesbian community today. “Carmilla” is unapologetically queer, declaring romantic passion for the human woman Laura without hiding her desires. Of course, “Carmilla” is literally a monster — but how else could an author write a forbidden queer love story in 1872?
New retellings of “Dracula” and “Carmilla” have become even more increasingly queer. Kat Dunn’s “The Hungerstone” (2025) is a sapphic story about feminine agency and the relationship between Carmilla and Lenore, a bisexual British woman in Industrial-era Sheffield, framed around sapphic emancipation and forbidden love. “Dracula” has also inspired plenty of retellings, most notably S. T. Gibson’s “A Dowry of Blood” (2021) — an explicitly polyamorous, bisexual retelling told from the perspective of one of his brides. It explores abuse and the importance of breaking codependency in queer relationships — a topic underrepresented in more “serious” fiction.
Vampires have also become a cross-cultural way to speak about queerness. For example, Dawn Chen’s “A Vampire in Beijing” that will be published in 2027, offers a sapphic story about the modern Chinese queer community and its unique struggles.
Together against the monsters
Another major trope in queer horror is queer people, especially queer youth, fighting monsters together. Those monsters may be supernatural, as in “The Dark We Know” (2024) by Wen-Yi Lee or “This Raging Sea” (2025) by De Elizabeth, where groups of bisexual, queer kids fight side-by-side with an old evil. Ultimately, these external threats represent a conservative society, oppressive stereotypes, and real-world mental health struggles.
Although horror historically mostly exploited queerness for sensationalism — harming real-world queer people in the process — today it has transformed into one of the most effective spaces to explore queer identity and trauma in our own language.
Photos
Center for Black Equity honors leaders, activists at BE. Gala
Miyake-Mugler, Oakes co-host annual awards ceremony
The Center for Black Equity held its annual BE. Gala at Conrad Washington, D.C. on Saturday, Oct. 5. Lolita Leopard Miyake-Mugler and Anthony Oakes co-hosted the awards ceremony.
Honorees included journalist and producer Justin Stewart; nonprofit leader Nikki Alexander; HIV advocate Marlene McNeese; the nonprofit organization FreeLux Project; actress Monroe Alise; public health advocate Tori Cooper; Manassas Park Vice Mayor Darryl G. Moore; Rev. Dr. Carmarion D. Anderson; Bishop Steven Sawyer; government relations professional Courtney Snowden; Senior Deputy Director of HAHSTA at D.C. Health, Clover Barnes; and Texas state Rep. Venton C. Jones.
The event was presented by Gilead.
(Washington Blade photos by Michael Key)
Books
In ‘The Lost Brontë,’ a complicated lie can lead to danger
New book features sweetly romantic girl-meets-girl twist
‘The Lost Brontë’
By Catherine Friend
c.2026, Bywater Books
$22.95/335 pages
Mom always said to tell the truth.
One lie leads to another and another and you have to remember them all until pretty soon, you’re caught. Fibs are hard, mistruths are messy, even little white social lies can destroy trust. Worst of all, as in the new novel, “The Lost Brontë” by Catherine Friend, a complicated lie can lead to danger.
Though Lilianne Loxley was very young when she lost her parents, she understood that her uncle didn’t really want her. As time passed, though, Lily made herself useful to Uncle, writing and signing letters for him and she became a good companion, helping him with his collection of Brontë memorabilia. Uncle was a keen enthusiast.
She had no idea that his obsession was out of control and he was deeply in arrears. The day Lily learned of his debt was the day she learned that he’d agreed to send her to his debtor’s home to work off the money owed.
It was so sudden. One minute, Lily was at Loxley House, happy and loved by Uncle’s staff … and five hours later, she was at Crag Thorn Manor, home of Lord Bexton, who informed her that she’d be working on his ledgers – work that seemed routine, but Lily tackled it.
Uncle always did say she was headstrong.
But would headstrong be enough to survive, when she was restricted from most of the Manor, when she was forced to dine with Brexton and his slimy friend, or – the worst! – when Brexton told Lily that her next task was to forge a letter from Emily Brontë? And then an entire manuscript?
Lily struggled to do what was right. She had to get Uncle out of debt but this last order horrified her. Did she dare refuse Brexton’s orders and commit a crime? It was unthinkable!
The only brightness in the whole situation was Wren, the ladies’ maid assigned to Lily’s room. Wren was adorable with freckles and the sweetest smile. But with everything else happening at Crag Thorn Manner, could Lily act upon her feelings?
This time of year, you may come to crave dark, spooky stories, and “The Last Brontë” fits those needs perfectly with its Gothic deliciousness. Think: Daphne du Maurier-type, stormy-night squirms with a dangerously chaste, sweetly romantic girl-meets-girl twist for fun.
If it’s been awhile since you’ve read a Gothic novel, you’re in for a nice reminder of why you love them here. You can almost tick off the must-haves: a novel like this is nothing without a foreboding stone manor with damp walls; stone steps to a dank basement; a mysterious portrait; and a nearby bog, and author Catherine Friend gives readers every one of them. You’d be disappointed if there was no ghost, wouldn’t you? Ha. You can practically feel the cold blow through the attic, right? Yeah, it’s that kind of book.
If you’re a fan of the Brontës, you’ll like this novel. If you love Gothic mysteries or Victorian romances, ditto. “The Lost Brontë” is good, no lie.
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