What if portrait photography could blur the lines between fantasy and reality, revealing more by concealing? Gerwyn Davies’ captivating work does just that, challenging the very essence of self-representation through vivid, costumed photographs that are as thought-provoking as they are visually stunning. Set against striking backdrops—from deserts and cityscapes to skate parks and nondescript interiors—Davies’ images merge fashion photography with wildly imaginative, handmade costumes that often toe the line between the whimsical and the bizarre. But here’s where it gets intriguing: his process is rooted in a playful, DIY spirit that harkens back to his early experiments with friends, where they’d cobble together makeshift photo shoots with whatever lamps they could find. “It was Vogue meets B-horror film,” Davies recalls, laughing. “I was hooked on the idea of crafting fantasy through photography, and I’ve been chasing that thrill ever since.”
Davies describes his work as “queer photographic self-representation,” a label that hints at the layers of identity, performance, and concealment embedded in his art. He designs and creates each costume himself, transforming the human form into something sculptural and otherworldly. While his limbs might peek through, his head is always obscured, adding a layer of mystery that forces viewers to question what portraiture truly reveals—or hides. And this is the part most people miss: Davies shoots blind, performing for the camera in a rapid sequence of automatic shots, later selecting just one image to represent the moment. It’s a method that feels both chaotic and deliberate, much like the costumes themselves.
Crafted from sequins, vinyl, faux fur, and other eye-catching materials, Davies’ outfits are anything but ordinary. They’re quirky, humorous, and sometimes absurd, inviting viewers to explore the fluid boundary between fantasy and reality. But is the subject truly present, or are they lost in the spectacle? Davies himself admits, ‘I’m always in the frame, but the concealment adds a layer of complexity—it’s playful, yet slightly unsettling.’ The costumes make the subject hyper-visible, yet the specifics of the figure remain elusive. The face is hidden, the body distorted, leaving the viewer with a paradox: the subject is both there and not there, seen and unseen, hidden in plain sight.
This tension between revelation and concealment is what makes Davies’ work so compelling. It’s not just about the visuals; it’s about the questions they provoke. Does hiding the face free the subject from identity, or does it trap them in ambiguity? And what does it mean to perform for the camera when the performance itself is shrouded in layers of fabric and fantasy? These are the questions Davies leaves us with, inviting us to ponder the nature of self-representation in an age obsessed with visibility.
If you’re as fascinated by this as we are, you can dive deeper into Davies’ world through Exposure: Contemporary Photographers in Australia and New Zealand (available at bookshop.org), or explore more of his work on his website and Instagram. But before you go, we have to ask: What do you think Davies’ obscured portraits reveal about the nature of identity and representation? Is it a liberation or a limitation? Let us know in the comments—we’re eager to hear your take!
