An Interview with Tom Atwood by Jim Gladstone

Photographer Tom Atwood recently published Kings in their Castles, a collection of richly textured, large format images that are neither classic portraiture or fashion-conscious decor photograpy, but concise visual narratives about the relationships between gay men and their homes. Many of his subjects are fellow queer artists, including a number of writers, among them poet Richard Howard, novelist Edmund White and playwright Edward Albee. Atwood sat down with VM to talk about the impetus behind his work, the insights he came upon, and, of course, his cherished shoe collection.

Jim Gladstone: What drew you to the theme of gay men at home?

Tom Atwood: I felt like there was a profound need for a serious photo documentary of the gay male community. There really haven’t been many such documentaries and I’ve never encountered one featuring men at home. Many gay photo books highlight sexuality, and I wanted to offer a different perspective. Also, I sort of seek out subjects and situations that sing to me, and I think that many gay men have a flair for design and some of the most intriguing living spaces in this country. So from an aesthetic point of view the subject matter is fascinating to me. I chose to do a book because I think that art should be democratic and accessible by all—the whole reason to take pictures is, you know, to share them with others.

Gladstone: What’s the story behind the title?

Atwood: I sort of see kings in castles as a telling metaphor for the subjects in the book in many ways. Manhattan is literally like a castle—on an island, separated from the country by a moat, i.e., rivers, with spires, i.e., skyscrapers, souring to the sky. Many of the subjects are kings of their professions—leading writers, designers, and so forth. And many of the interiors of the book are visually rich in the way that medieval decorations were—with strong, deep colors, and lavish fabrics.

Gladstone: What can you tell us about your process?

Atwood: I really see photography as a social, interpersonal process—as an interaction between the personalities of the subjects and myself. I think that some people can be nervous about being photographed. So through a steady dialogue with my subjects, I try to ensure that they relax and don’t have too much anxiety. Also, when people are in front of the camera, they often do things that are contrived or unnatural because they are ill at ease—you know, awkward expressions, movements or poses that are not as common in real life and don’t represent a subject’s true personality. So part of my job is to also recognize these and suggest poses that are more natural, or switch gears and do something different to get the subject to be more comfortable and forget that the camera is there. I try to make the experience fun and exhilarating for subjects, although it can often be exhausting, as well.

Gladstone: I assume that in many cases, you met the men you photographed outside of their homes before you actually did your shoots. Any instances where the home proved surprising based on your prior impression of the resident?

Atwood: Most of the time I would actually arrive at their doors having never met them or seen their homes, and conduct the shoot in less than two or three hours. But for the public figures in the book, I would often have an impression of them before having met… Most often their castles accurately fit their public image. John Waters is a case in point. He had an art installation depicting a table where a terrorist was manufacturing anthrax in little plastic bags… an execution chair and all sort of other arcane things that seemed like they could have been props in his films.

But sometimes I find the opposite. I encountered a lot of subjects that seem to use their personal space as a way to create a sort of sanctuary which can sooth them. John Bartlett is a good example of this. His fashions are really edgy—with references to S&M—yet his apartment is rather traditional in terms of style, although it was beautifully designed and gorgeous.

For others, I think our homes seem to represent fantasy worlds that allow us to blossom—you know, to be who we want to be regardless of whether society might disapprove. I think that many gay people go to great lengths to draw distinction between the mainstream and ourselves, a difference that is often represented visually through our living spaces. Odd color palates, provocative objets d’art, foreign doorknobs... all of these design elements—whether consciously or not—I think are often used to show that we are unique. There are loads of examples of this in my book. These are often my favorite subjects.

Still, other times, I think that individuals create homes that seem to be a projection of who they want to be. So we’ll project elements of the outside world that we want to be a part of our lives into our personal spaces.

And sometimes it’s a mix of all of the above. Andrew Solomon [author of A Stone Boat and The Noonday Demon] was an example of this. His living room fit his public persona—with formal antiques and objects with references to dead French architects and the like. Yet as I progressed up the levels of his townhouse, it was almost like I was peeling back layers of his personality that I wouldn’t have expected. On his second level, he was constructing an Italian mosaic on his ceiling. On his top floor, he had the green room that is in my book—it looks as if it came straight from a cubist paining—it really was a total surprise to me.

Gladstone: Let's talk real estate...any sense of the proportion of owners to renters in your portraits? Any sense of a differing approach to the home between the two groups?

Atwood: Great question! That’s one I’ve never been asked before... All the subjects are New Yorkers and as such I would guess that the majority are renters. I think that the subjects with smaller apartments tend to be renters and those with larger apartments tend to be buyers. Also, probably the ones that appear to have been designed by a professional decorator within the past decade or so are condos or co-ops, I would imagine. In general I would say that owners tend to have more money and that this is reflected in their decorations. I personally think that renters may often have more creative spaces just because they make do with less money, and as a result often combine things that are unexpected—I saw tinfoil used as wallpaper in one subject’s living room, for instance.

Gladstone: What's your home like?

Atwood: What a fun question! When I shot Kings in Their Castles, I lived on West 71st Street in New York… near my gay Uncle who lives on West 67th Street. There I had lots of light… I had the top floor of a brownstone with windows in the front and in the back. I had a small view of the river, for those with necks that could bend easily. Although by the time I left Trump’s 50 story tower had blocked most of that, and the light. It wasn’t a huge apartment, and so I spent a lot of time on my roof. Nobody else would be up there and the landlord certainly prohibited it. I would read on my roof, even when it was cold, in my winter coat.

In LA, I live near Chateaux Marmont in West Hollywood—in a small apartment with views in multiple directions. The Westward view is my favorite because I overlook the roofs of a beautiful Spanish mission building with the hills beyond. It makes me feel like I’m in Florence even thought the architecture is Spanish. I chose my place for that view. I must have ten or fifteen friends who live within three blocks of me, including three or four college friends who live on my street, so I feel at home. I also can walk to everything I need from home.

I’m rambling… you probably want to know about my interior. Lets see. I sort of strive to have everything in my home unique. My home is eclectic for practical reasons. I couldn’t imagine settling on one style. The color theme of my living room is orange and black—Halloween. I’ve got seven chairs with orange on them and several mostly black chairs. I have a chair fetish. I have twelve chairs just in my living room. It gets crowded. I’m sort of partial to classic modern furniture—I’ve got several Italian pieces... Several classic chairs—a Wassily chair, one of Corbusier’s Basculant chairs, a Mies Van Der Rohe chair, several chairs from Kartell. Although my mother was an antique dealer so I have antiques thrown in. I’ve got this huge English secretary in my living room that’s been in my family for generations, which is sort of incongruous and not really suitable to LA. It’s already been cracking despite the orange oil I try to soak on it—and I’m always afraid an earthquake will make it fall on my shoe collection so I bolted it to the wall. I used a home-made bolting system. I hope it works. My shoes tend to be spread across my living room floor because it’s the fastest way for me to access them. I also have a shoe fetish. Lets see... my living room has a giant gong. A rug I bought in Turkey. A lamp that looks like the vertebrae of a large reptile. A picture frame with some grotesque magazine clippings like the heads of women on stands as if they were mannequins. Two small industrial, scientific-looking sculptures I bought in New York. A photo I took of drag queens in front of police officers in London. A bookshelf I found in the trash on the street in New York. I rarely watch TV, but I have this monster HDTV that I needed to hide, so I designed a funny-looking cabinet with weird architectural shelves on top to hide the thing. Most of my friends think the cabinet is ugly. It’s black and orange. On top of it, on display, I put an orange leather wine carrying case that seems to also have an orange British flag stitched on the top. I’ve got a steel watering can from Germany. Not that I have time to water plants, but I thought it was beautiful. I also have a giant box that someone just sent me in the mail that I haven’t opened it yet. It’s huge—the mailman seemed pissed. Maybe it’s a holiday gift? I’ve got a lamp made of sea shells. A steel and wooden lamp from Paris—the wood was originally pale but I painted it black. I have some dead bugs behind glass that I bought when I lived in England. Four or five paintings or sketches I’ve accumulated over the years. A large oil paining that my father’s friend made in the 60’s. It was chopped in half at one point—I have the head and somewhere out there someone has the ass.

My kitchen in LA attempts to have as much brushed steel as possible—we have to stay in fashion, you know! But it really looks pathetic in the end. I’ve got a black Italian shelf on the wall that could come crashing down any day, but it looks more like a sculpture and because it is curvy things fall from it so there’s nothing on it but dust. Maybe a dead fly. I’ve got bins for recyclables—very important. Some antique chromolithographs that I’ve had since I was munchkin. An antique print of the dinning hall where I used to eat at my college in Cambridge, England. I have no dining room table just because in the two and a half years since I’ve lived in LA I haven’t had time to get one yet. It’s pretty sad. I tend to eat standing up just to save time.

I guess we should skip the bathroom... My bedroom has some trendy lamps and picture frames—the type that glossy gay magazines feature in their holiday gift round ups, so that guests know for sure I’m part of the in crowd. Let’s see… 8-10 sunglass cases. I’ve got a Herman Miller Aeron chair. Although I’ve strapped additional lumbar support onto it so it looks like shit. An antique office side piece with a rotating circular drawer. I’ve got another bookshelf that I found in the trash in New York. But it’s really old. An antique. People love to throw things away in New York. I even found a $100 bill on my street there once. But back to my bedroom… I’ve also got a huge bookshelf that I designed and had custom made. Three fire proof safes with negatives. On the wall I have… a photo of me as Pippin in Pippin and the Tinman in the first all white cast ever to perform the Wiz—grade school. I don’t think I even knew what the Civil Rights Movement was back then. A miniature sculpture from a furniture designer that I like. There’s a vent where black, furry spiders live. Ambitious little critters—a few months ago one was crawling up my leg in my bed. I wonder if they are poisonous? I have an old English table. Five suit cases, for some reason. My father brought me one recently full of my childhood photographs. Maybe he was trying to send me a message about all the other crap I have in his garage? I think there’s even a green sculpture that I found on the street in New York still in his garage. I just haven’t found a way to ship it to LA yet. Those are probably the last of the things from the street, by the way. A steel make-up case to impress people when I shoot them, even if we never use the make-up. A fax-copier-printer-scanner from Brother that doesn’t really scan or print and only faxes at full tide if the pollen count is low. An ionic breeze air purifier, even though it’s ugly. My mother lives in Canada and sometimes when I visit there’s nothing to do but watch TV infomercials, you know? Two closets packed with clothes, of course. Plus a terrorism slash earthquake slash Tsunami slash nervous breakdown or economic depression survival kit in the closet. And a fire escape ladder—why not? On the wall, I’ve pinned up the scoring or answer sheets, four of them, from a psychological test that a psychology grad student gave me—it was his homework. I just thought they were beautiful. The test was to see if me and my ‘wife’ were suitable as a couple—the questions were so hetero it was scary. We sort of fudged the answers as I was single at the time and certainly didn’t have a wife.

Did I answer your question?

Gladstone: Indeed! Before we go, can you share what your next project is going to be with Velvet Mafia readers?

Atwood: I’m working on a second book with the same theme—gay people at home. It probably will be more West Coast focused, however, and may also include dykes. I like dykes. And your readers should know that , I’m always looking for referrals to potential subjects to photograph—people with interesting stories or interesting spaces in one way or another. I’m reachable through my website, www.TomAtwood.com.

Jim Gladstone's literary criticism has appeared in many publications including The New York Times Book Review, Lambda Book Report, and Velvet Mafia and his fiction is widely anthologized. He is the author of The Big Book of Misunderstanding and Gladstones' Games to Go, and is currently working on books about paternity, parrots, and popcorn.