Finding myself in art
Growing up different
In my rural English village, I was different, and the other kids knew it. While they were playing football, I was lost in the fantasy world of camp sci-fi TV shows and fantastical cartoon adventures. Looking back, I realise I was searching for reflections of myself. Something to help me understand who I was and who I might become.
It started with comic books. I don't know if they were Marvel, DC or something else—all I remember is being captivated by the strong, masculine heroes filling those pages. At the time, I thought I wanted to be like them—to have their confidence, their strength.
Then came Disney. Ariel's longing for the human world resonated with me in ways I couldn't fully understand. I'd sing along with 'Part of Your World' over and over again: I felt a connection that went beyond the music. Here was a character who yearned for a world she couldn't reach—expressing feelings I couldn't yet name.
Finding myself in art
Today, I understand why those illustrations meant so much to me. Many of the artists who created those worlds were gay, like Howard Ashman, who wove queer themes into The Little Mermaid. They embedded their experiences of being outsiders, of searching for acceptance and belonging, into their work. Their messages were so subtly coded that most people wouldn't even notice, but for those of us searching, they were there waiting to be found.
As I got older, everything became clear. My attraction to men wasn't just admiration—it was desire. Finally, I could name it: I was gay. When I discovered Tom of Finland's (Touko Valio Laaksonen's) work, everything made sense. Here were men—unashamedly masculine, unabashedly gay. His art was rebellious, subversive and liberating. Unlike the coded messages of my childhood, this was an open celebration of gay identity and desire. It was what teenage me had been searching for all along.
I remember the first time I saw one of his drawings. It felt like something I shouldn't see, but I couldn't look away. I felt a mix of fear and excitement. Much like Tom's work had to remain hidden in the conservative, homophobic culture of 1950s and 60s America, I, too, felt the need to keep my newfound understanding of myself a secret. Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I saw gay characters, actors and programmes on TV, but being gay in real life was still taboo.
Making art for others
Today, as an out gay man, I find myself following in the footsteps of other gay illustrators. I draw inspiration from creators like Albron, BoBo Bear, and Rogui. Their illustrations do more than depict thick, hairy men—they tell our stories, communicate our unique experiences and give our community visibility. The AIDS crisis taught us that silence equals death. These artists are neither silent nor invisible.
This is vital in a world where gay bears are rarely represented. Their images bring us together in places where we can't fully be ourselves. They tell us we're not alone. They show us possibilities for love, joy and self-expression that we might not always see in our daily lives.
Whenever I create an illustration, I think back to that boy who was desperate to see himself reflected somewhere. That's why each piece I create isn't just art—it's a message to people who might be searching for themselves: you are seen, you are beautiful and you belong.
