Queer Joy

A SHORT STORY

WRITTEN BY

CRIMSON FOSTER

The images and creative writing were produced on this page for a unit of my university course, at UAL, entitled Publishing and Social Change. In this unit, we explored how a history of personal works, publications and writing from photographers and creatives has led to changes in the power of photography and the camera to bring change or challenge ideas around representation, identity, faith practices, gender, social justice and more.

To explore this topic, we had to answer the following question: How can photographers ensure their work empowers rather than exploits those they photograph when working in communities?

The deliverables were as follows:

01. Please choose one theme/question to explore through image, text and page design. You can present your response in a PDF with exactly eight pages (A5 sides).

02. Your writing can take or mix various forms, including a think piece, interview, prose, poetry, fiction writing or a journal entry.

03. The limit will be 1000 words (+/- 10%).

04. The images used in your content can be drawn from research (archives, found images, scans, online sources) and your own photos or visual documentation.

05. All images should be correctly sized to print media and cited/appropriately credited.

THE IMAGES I TOOK:

THE SHORT STORY

We follow two stories, set forty years apart from one another. In the early phase of the 1980s, a young freelance photographer, who’s the leftist child of a high-ranking conservative MP, manages to worm his way into a hospital to photograph and document the young, predominantly gay men who’re being treated for AIDs or HIV. Despite his good intentions, his limiting background as a white, upper-middle-class, cis-straight man creates barriers around his ability to understand his marginalised subjects.
Forty years after the peak of the AIDs epidemic, in the 2020s, a trans social media influencer is on his way to getting top surgery with the support of his non-binary partner, photographing and documenting the whole journey. This couple's intimacy and shared understanding bring a new virality to our trans content creators’ content.

The two timelines parallel one another - like a tone poem, the story beats of the two timelines rhyme.

Queer Joy:
A Short Story Written by Crimson Foster

30/04/1981

“Any plans for the week, Adam?” says, mother.

“Photos”. Maybe this one-word answer will suffice. However, Father disagrees with this cage I’m locking myself in, “Of anything in particular, or is that confidential?”. If it were my choice, MI5 would hire me, thereby I’d never have to speak a word… but they don’t, so I shall. Now, glaring at me with absolute disdain are these spooky, old-school gremlins. Maybe a mission photographing AIDs patients isn’t their vibe.

“Only fags ever get this THING”.

It’s hard being a straight, cisgender man like myself in this climate. Father’s a Tory MP in Maggie Thatcher’s government. They’re refusing to speak publicly on which sexual acts likely cause AIDs, given it’s a “gay disease” and…

“Public talk of gay sex harms the minds of teenagers.
It’s fucking disgusting.”

It’s 1981. We have four TV channels, a whole community that legally can’t get married, along with a murderous government. How will the world know what’s happening? This should be fixed by people who care! But that longing in my parents’ eyes, wanting to understand, doesn’t fade. The world needs to see.

I drive from my parents’ six-bedroom home, with only silence and cameras following me into the hospital. Six in this ward? I’ve not counted, but my camera’s snapping. This got me feeling like a nature documentarian on safari. Close-ups. Wide shots. Mass coverage. Nurses watch through the door, with faces giving, ‘Get a load of this FUCKING guy’.

“Are you visiting anyone, David Attenborough?”

This voice belongs to some woman in bed. From ten feet away, I mention my name, Adam, along with the whole Mister Rogers The World Should Do Better™ MO.

...awkward silence…

My mouth slips, “Wow, the same look of disdain as my parents”. Shit. A tap on my shoulder from a nurse. Time to leave. As I do, I hear:
“You never asked, but my name’s Jamie”.
Her eyes don’t like me.
But still, I don’t know the names of the others on the ward, either. The world will know Jamie’s face but not her name - the face of some vanity project by a kid trying to outsmart Daddy.

Questioning all my life choices, I ask the white nothingness of my bedroom ceiling for answers. Should I get ice cream and wine or move out of my parents? Am I solely motivated out of spite for them? Am I?

“ADAM! TIME FOR DINNER!!”
“It'd be nice if it were ice cream and wine.”

It’s the nightly dinner time with the gremlins, and quite honestly, the silence could be cut with a knife. Are there glances of concern in their eyes? The gremlin's eyes, not the knives. It's time to just entirely ignore. WOW! I’ve never been this focused on fried chicken and salad - how can anyone be THIS focused on salad? It’s fucking salad! But amidst the silence, I hear:

“How’s the photography project going, son?”
Mother eagerly enquires.

Unfortunately for Mother, she doesn’t get much more of a response than a grunt. I sound like a dishevelled caveman. Father insists on ending the caveman's speech - he’d rather we all speak like gentlemen in this house, like Ted Bundy or something; they say he’s articulate, right? Will Father care what’s happening with “the fags” anyway? He responds that he cares about what’s happening with his youngest son.

“Well, I want to move out.”
God, that was blunt of me.

It’s the separation I need. I need my parents, but only on my terms. There were so many actions as a reaction against the gremlins who raised me. Maybe I need to grow the fuck up.

Back in the hospital, a nurse feeds and laughs with Jamie. The nurse walks towards me, in the doorway, stopping to say:
“It’s not all about your photos”.
“I didn’t know that. Tell me more.
(…)
Does she have a family?”
“Being a nurse isn’t just about feeding them.
Ask her”.

Adam goes in and smiles at each patient in the ward, one by one. He then walks over to Jamie and pulls up a chair beside her.

We spoke about my shitty parents. And then about hers. Being kicked out. The homophobia. A father who hasn’t spoken to her since she came out. A mother refusing to see the child she birthed as that child now has an AIDs diagnosis. Friends who are also unaware of her diagnosis - Jamie’s only friends, now, are the nurses who feed her. Shame triggers Jamie to willingly fade into nothingness as she dies. My fingers roll across my camera as I try to respond appropriately until “two trust fund babies on their own” slips out. Finally, Jamie smiles - a smile now captured forever. Is this the start of a beautiful friendship?

27/06/2025

Otto’s second-hand car runs on the motorway. Is it blasting One Direction? We can’t tell what’s louder: the engine screaming or the couple’s tone-deaf singing. Their singing sounds akin to that of seals being euthanised.
Otto giggles at Ember’s silly arm flailing as Ember then photographs the giggles. “For the socials”, they suggest before noticing their partner’s manic finger-tapping. Anxiety about the upcoming top surgery? No. Otto’s an influencer sharing his trans journey. Being so vulnerable to thousands scares him, yet he declines Ember’s offer not to continue documenting.

“Why are you doing this again?”

Otto’s a trans man, and Ember is non-binary. Neither wants future queer kids to lack media representation, thereby feeling as alone as they did. Social media is the spark that’s lit their fire to burn all the bigotry down. Otto doesn’t want to be perceived as annoying or too “woke”, though - he feels like some guy who isn’t anything special. Ember hates the watery look in their partner's eyes. So, the couple interlocks their pinkie fingers. Their pinkies dance together as their secret handshake. And now you’re in on it too.

The receptionist at the middling hotel is a dick. She disregards Ember’s they/them pronouns despite being corrected. Ember lets out:
“Okay, listen here, you little shit, why’d you—”
But Otto interjects, calmly ending the receptionist’s invalidation. Now, in the privacy of their room, Ember rants about how cis people will never truly understand. Otto listens, holding their hand, but reminds them that these people are often products of their environments. Some can change.

“Fuck these people. This world needs people
who cares about fixing it.”
“Fucking these people won’t help.”

Finally, Ember smiles.

Later on in the evening, Otto is preparing to go to the hospital the following day. Ember helps him prepare by putting boxers over Otto’s head and taking a photo. Otto gives them the middle finger.
“New big-boy boxers to accompany your new big-boy chest.”
Otto giggles.
Embers' camera captures the bliss on their partner's face. They then run their hands through Otto’s hair and kiss him.
“Maybe you can use the excess skin from your boobs as beanbags.
Do you think the doctors will let you?”
Otto quips that they could be used as cushions (Ember's favourite kind of cushions, in all fairness). But in a moment of sincerity, Ember compliments Otto on how proud they are of him and how they admire all the steps he’s taking. Ember finds how vocal Otto is about trans rights endearing and lovable.

SURGERY DAY!!! Otto’s in his private ward. BOOP! Ember’s bare toe pokes Otto’s arm - unsanctioned buffoonery erupts in laughter. A nurse smiles at this through the semi-opened door.
Somewhere between five and eight hundred hours pass. A nurse finds Ember eyeing the ward's white ceiling, longing for Otto’s return. Spotting their camera, she enquires…

“You’re a photographer?”

They touch on documenting Otto’s transition process. Given that surgery is often anxiety-inducing, the nurse commends Otto's relaxed aura, with her strong sixth sense of why. Barely aware of what’s happening due to all the codeine, Otto gets wheeled back into his ward. The man’s ecstatic to see his partner, declaring his love for Ember. At this moment, he also declares his love for cheese and beans on the dinner menu - it’s baked beans… Otto’s a man of culture, of course.

The couple now watch evening game shows. Holding hands, Ember feeds Otto apple juice through a straw. Otto, wanting a photo, tries lifting his shirt despite it hurting. Ember helps. The camera flashes, revealing Otto’s new chest scars... and Ember’s “fuck me, daddy” eyes. Otto can’t help but blush. Ember suggests Otto post the photo to his Instagram story; it’s an idea Otto grins manically at. Ember has one question:
“Will you move in with me?”

Ember runs their pinkie across Otto’s hand. He gleefully nods. The two pinkies interlock for another dance.