"Homosexuality" receives a lot of representation these days. The nightly news covers legal developments in domestic partnership; newspapers in Charlotte recently presented the heated debate over the local production of Tony Kushner's Angels in America (Stout, 1996); lesbian/gay oriented magazines like The Advocate report on a wide range of subjects, tying politics, entertainment, and medicine into the social. Pornography provides yet another representation of homosexuality.
This mass of representation raises a flurry of questions and possible relationships. In this paper, I specifically address two questions that are inherently, if not explicitly directed at what might be called gay liberation politics. First, what exactly is rendered as "homosexual?" This question is aimed along the trajectory set by Michel Foucault (1990), Robert Padgug (in Duberman, et al., 1989) and others: that all sexuality is culturally and temporally situated and re-worked. That is to say, we must keep open the questions of what is represented as "homosexual" and of how the "homosexual" is represented. The second question probes the historical significance of these representations. Given that current renderings of the "homosexual" are re-worked from a collective past, this question explores the paths current representations open for future re-workings.
To approach these questions, I want to look at a specific kind of homosexual representation: images of the male body. The majority of my argument centers on images of the male body produced or consumed by a self-consciously gay culture, but I intend the argument to function as part of a larger analysis of the representations of sexuality. For the remainder of this paper, however, "porn" should be assumed to mean gay male porn, unless stated otherwise.
The point I wish to make about porn begins with an observation: many of the readily available, highly marketed porn images feature hyper-masculinized men, and much of this hyper-masculinization is carried out through ideologically charged symbols of class and gender. Why should images with a presumably solely erotic purpose engage these social hierarchies and meanings? I suggest that this class and gender content of porn is best understood as a form of discourse aimed at dislodging the power of other representations of homosexuality. As a form of fantasy, a discourse of idealized self-representation, porn participates in the expression and education of desire. To the extent that the representations of porn engage and refute other representations of sexuality, porn is also political.
Working primarily with film, Dyer makes the seemingly obvious argument that who makes a cultural product is an important factor to understanding that product. He positions it usefully, however, as a caution against buying wholesale into "Roland Barthes's pronouncement of the death of the author." (185) Dyer compromises between Barthes's recognition of the life of the text/image in the reader's mind, and placing the author as the central figure to the text/image. He "decenters" the author, rather than abolishing authorship to the realm of myth. (188)
In other words, it still matters who specifically made a film, whose performance a film is, though this is neither all-determining nor having any assumable relationship to the person's life or consciousness.
This view of self-representation opens (all) porn to analysis as a field of discourse. By decentering the producers of porn, Dyer does make room for meanings the consumers may bring to their viewing. Yet at the same time, all those involved in the production - actors, producers, directors, editors, camera technicians - have a significant effect on what meanings porn can have. They choose, as it were, what signifiers to show the viewer. This level of control means that in reading porn, we as viewers can question why particular signifiers are present, for these elements were either intentionally included, or slipped in unnoticed because they did not stick out as "not belonging."
Viewers, reading the signifiers provided by the producers, also have a hand in determining the meanings of porn. Just as the producers possess a level of control - in selecting what signifiers to show - viewers have a level of control in selecting the context for viewing those signifiers, and giving them purpose. (Any) porn viewed in the bedroom, or at private parties, has a more positive and arousing meaning from porn shown at a government committee meeting on censorship. When viewed in classrooms, at lectures, or spoken about in articles, porn gains a level of meaning as textual and cultural artifact. Case in point, would you laugh or cry if a city board member were unable to contain him/herself at the censorship committee meeting and had to stiffle an orgasm during the presentation? The idea, though somewhat ludicrous, illustrates the point. In each of these contexts, viewers import their own interpretive devices, and modify those devices to fit the context.
Even with this structure of author/reader, Dyer contends that we have not fully accounted for the production of the image. Specifically, and rightly so I think, Dyer insists that we cannot view lesbian/gay self-representations as culturally closed events, separate from non-lesbian/gay representations. Self-representations of homosexuality "take place within, and [are] a struggle about, both the cultures of the mainstream and lesbian/gay subcultures." (190; this is also the connection between Dyer's and Chauncey's work) Thus, part and parcel of gay porn is the larger debate on representation of homosexuality, including "mainstream" ideas of sexuality. In the terms used above to speak about the "authorship" of producers and viewers of porn, it is still true that the viewers read the signifiers chosen by the producers, but it is also true that the producers chose from an always already limited group of signifiers. That is to say, the producers choose representations of sexuality, but they choose from the options available to them; these options include representations of sexuality available from mainstream cultures, as well as any that might be thought of as "queer" representations.
Thus it is possible to view gay porn as creating a counter-discourse to the "mainstream"/"straight" discourses, by taking terms from them and re-working these terms in a "queer" context. (As we will soon see, this re-working is not always as "counter" as we might want it to be.) Equally important for the projects of gay liberation politics, viewing porn as a field of discourse also reveals the possibility that porn can function as a hegemonic discourse within the viewing population. Dyer opens the issue of the hegemonic qualities of lesbian/gay self-representation, noting the criticism of "lesbian/gay films that are really only about the boys, others that are overwhelmingly white and middle-class." (198) Later on, he seems to turn around and bracket the problem of hegemony within the question of political necessity:
Lesbian/gay culture has always had for the sake of political clarity to include assertions of clear images of lesbian/gay identity, but it has also always carried an awareness of the way that a shared and necessary public identity outstrips the particularity and messiness of actual lesbian/gay lives. (200)
This perspective may be useful when extending political thought outside "queer" culture, when clarity might mean "easy to understand." Within "queer" culture, however, it seems that the "particularity and messiness of actual lesbian/gay lives" should outstrip the need for any monolithic identity. Porn, specifically gay porn, functions as an internal discourse, representing gay men to themselves. As such, porn runs the risk of becoming hegemonic within the viewing community, even as it might counter more mainstream presentations of sexuality.
In an earlier article, "Coming To Terms," Dyer speaks much more directly to the hegemonies of gay porn. At the beginning of the essay, Dyer states succinctly that the "narrative structure of gay porn is analagous to aspects of the social construction of both male sexuality in general, and gay male sexual practice in particular." (289) Indeed the actual narrative Dyer presents is already familiar, as cruising: "the arrival on the scene of the fuck, establishing contact (through greeting and recognition, or through a quickly established eye-contact agreement to fuck), undressing, exploring various parts of the body, coming, parting." (292) This order of events is always apparent, if not explicit, and always followed. Dyer sees this narrative as following the social construction of male sexuality, in that coming always comes at the end of the story, and any story where the man does not come is a failure. That is, porn works with a "goal directed narrative. The desire that drives porn narrative forward is the desire to come, to have an orgasm." (293) Thus the emphasis on the actual vision of the cumshot, the visual representation of successful masculinity in (all) porn. The goal directed narrative of porn both constructs and is constructed by the masculine narrative.
Dyer is careful to note, however, that narrative "is only one element of any full analysis. One of the major elements not discussed here, and that needs work doing on it [sic], is the role of iconography - of dress and setting, and especially performers, the male types that are used, porn stars' images and so on, all drenched in ideological meanings." (297, see footnote 21) Even when speaking of porn produced from personal ("real") experiences, Dyer points out its constructed nature: "But this 'genuineness' is not to be conflated . . . with the notion of an unconstructed sexuality - raw, pure and so on. . . . a look at gay porn, indicates really rather obviously that the sexuality described/represented is socially meaningful. Class, ethnicity and of course concepts of masculinity and gayness/straightness all clearly mark these gay pornographic productions . . ." (291) Dyer leaves these iconographic elements undeveloped, and this is where my analysis picks up.
That said, on with the show.
The two black and white photographs by Jim Wigler (figs 1 & 2) are from a line of postcards suggestively titled "Do You Get It Graphics." Both images were taken in 1988. Here, in two renderings of the same model, the differences in setting and dress create two different meanings, and demonstrates the power of iconography Dyer describes. Both images read as erotic and masculine, yet the ways the model is made erotic and masculine are different in each shot.
Figure one offers the masculinity of the model in four distinct elements of the shot which interact to create the erotic content: the model's body, the pose and shaping of the body, the lighting and structure of the shot, and the "props." His full, almost naked musculature is the most prominent feature of the shot, brought out by the dramatic side lighting against the black background. The mustache and fine body hair also mark the body as male. The twisted pose exposes multiple surfaces of his body and emphasizes the model's build. The framing of the pose also leaves it ambiguous as to whether our model is standing, or kneeling, or about to get on all fours. Thus, our model exposes himself, yet is still able to meet the our gaze firmly. The two props on his body, the tattoo and the jockstrap, interact with the pose and the returned gaze to eroticize a particular area of his body - his ass.
The choice of color for the strap, not the generic athletic white, but black, suggests that what is important about the strap is not its athletic function - which is nonetheless called into play as a masculine trait - but rather its erotic presence. Indeed, the strap blends with the background to frame and accentuate his already exposed rear. Even as the strap and the pose individually emphasize his maleness, they also combine to contain and hide the traditional symbol of masculinity - the penis. Together with the firmly returned gaze, the pose and the strap suggest that the eroticism offered in this image is anal; the model consciously offers himself for penetration, yet does so through extremely masculinized terms.
The tattoo intensifies this meaning with similar irony. Not only is the fact of the tattoo and the scarring of the skin present, but the image of the tattoo itself is of barbed wire, tightly containing the muscularity of the upper arm (much as the strap contains his penetrative masculinity). If the tattoo marks his masculine ability to take pain without flinching, the calm intensity of the returned gaze marks his willingness to be penetrated, and take it like a man. He might even already be on his knees.
The masculine and erotic features of figure two are much different from the anal eroticism of the first representation of our model. The same four elements noted above convey a much more dominant meaning. The full-frontal pose pushes outside the frame of the picture, as if the frame cannot contain his body. The diagonal of his shoulders and the sharp angle of his zipper, captured just before revealing his crotch, imply that the uniform cannot contain his body very well, either. He seems almost ready to spring. This rugged stance complements the muscularity and body hair he maintains between the two images. Also like the first image, the frame crops off his legs. It is entirely possible that he is on his knees here as well, but something about the physicality of this pose tells us he is on his feet, and coming towards us. Again he greets us with an unflinching stare, but his raised eyebrows tell us this is no invitation; we had better pay attention.
The combination of the props and the pose again tell us what is erotic about the image. In this case, the props carry an explicit identity. Not only is our model a "special police" officer, he has a name: Animal. We are now face to face with a man who can back up his essentialized desire with authority. His gaze and the uniform magnify the natural, raw power inherent in his name; his very identity is desire empowered. The black leather gloves add to this dominating power. Thus, the police uniform yokes our model both to the fantasy of domination, and to a highly masculinized and, above all, potent profession, with definite working-class connotations. Whereas the model's gaze in figure one could be read as an invitation to penetrate him, his gaze in figure two is an inescapable command; this officer wants to penetrate us.
The play between these two photographs - variously readable as bondage/domination, masochism/sadism, bottom/top - illustrates the crux of Dyer's observation, that the iconography of setting and dress can radically affect how an image reads. Hopefully, this analysis of two differently propped pictures of the same model, taken in the same year by the same photographer, make this point even more dramatically. This analysis of iconography also revealed multiple cultural meanings in play - masculinity, receptiveness, domination, desire, containment, eroticism, power, profession, the natural, pain, and pleasure among them.
In the context of Dyer's notions of gay male narrative and authorship, these images begin to give us a picture of male sexuality, at least as Wigler sees it. Both images are irrefutably masculine. Both are intensely erotic, but present two different aspects of penetration. In Wigler's terms, both penetrating and being penetrated are masculine; they are not contradictory. His use of the same model even implies that they are complementary. Remember that this understanding of male sexuality is only the amalgam of the signifiers Wigler provides and my thoughts about them. Still, this is a beginning; it is a path into discourse.
How then can iconography be assembled into a discourse of sexuality? To address this question, I want to shift the analysis from the iconography of porn to an historical example of discourses on sexuality. In the next section, I'll explore the meanings and terms manipulated in post-World War I America around the representation of homosexuality.
Continue to Chapter Two: In the Navy, or, "All We Want Is a Few Good Men"
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This page last updated November 11, 1996.