One of the questions we asked each couple was how they relate to being visible, queer role models. They all felt the weight and the newness of that responsibility — but they weren’t uniformly enthusiastic. “I’d prefer not to be visible,” Gay was quick
to say, “but I think that everyone has responsibilities in a functional society, and if this is one of those responsibilities, then so be it.”
At the end of each photoshoot, Billie handed the couple a point and shoot camera and asked them to photograph each other. (Because, as Billie says, they’ll never look at her the way they look at each other.)
Producer/director duo Ben and Daniel Barnz’s whole family unit is queer — them and their two kids. But their queerness isn’t always as visible as they’d expect. “Our names were appearing on call sheets together — both as Barnz — there really wasn’t much of a precedent for same-sex couples having the same last name,” Daniel told us. “So people assumed that we were brothers because there is a big precedent for brother filmmaking duos — Coen brothers and a whole bunch of others. So people would just assume that we were brothers.”
As a teen in the Nineties, Hadreas looked for evidence of queerness everywhere he could. That’s why he and Wyffels are so aware of their own visibility. “I’ve always loved that our relationship has been something that people could look up to,” Wyffels says. “We get a lot of feedback from people being like, ‘You guys give me so much hope that I’ll be able to find something like you have someday.’ ”
Growing up, the only South Asian representation Fawzia saw on TV was Apu on The Simpsons. Now, as filmmakers, she and her wife, Andria, can give audiences what they never had. “I get messages from people all the time that are like, ‘I never saw a queer Muslim person until you,’ and I was like, ‘I didn’t either!’ ” Fawzia says. “Celebrating our love outside of the system that won’t accept us — it took me my whole life to get there….
And yet we are thriving.”
When we first started working on this book, I regularly googled “queer power couples,” Sean and Terry Torrington almost always popped up. The co-founders of Slay TV, a streaming network dedicated to Black, queer entertainment, had been celebrated by Out magazine and NBC and seemed to always exist in the public eye together. But when we reached out in 2021, we got a reply we didn’t expect: “Terry and I have been separated for some time now,” Sean wrote back. But he wasn’t declining our request for an interview. “We’ve maintained our relationship while running our business and still have so much love for each other . . . and are now as close as family,” he wrote. “Is there still space to be a part of this book?” They ended up being our first interview. Sean said that their “journey of uncoupling is just as valuable as being a couple.” And we figured, if this project was about finding maps of queer futures, separating is one of those maps.
For each photoshoot, we asked the couples to choose a location that was part of the world they’d built together. A lot of them chose their homes, but a lot of them didn’t: We photographed in hotels, in studios, at campsites, and in parks. Anywhere that felt like theirs. Cartoonists and writers ND and Molly chose a campsite outside of Los Angeles. Because they work in the same industry, their home is steeped in their work. To get a break, Molly told us, “we have to leave our house.”
Aisha was the first female head chef at Canlis, Seattle’s oldest fine dining institution, and her wife Samantha is the restaurant’s research and development chef. Their presence hasn’t just transformed the menu at Canlis — it’s expanded the types of people who feel like they have a place in their establishment. “The staff has told us that there are so many more people of color in the dining room now,” Samantha told us.
“I’ve had people message me and be like, ‘I’ve never been to Canlis before. And I’ve lived in Seattle my whole life. And I’m Filipino, or I’m queer, and I just made my first reservation,’” Aisha said.
Many of the couples who spoke with us shared the long journey between being in the closet and being a visible couple. Norfleet and Hemingway, who met after church in Los Angeles, were no different. Hemingway was “basically a preacher’s kid,” he says, so coming out to his mom when he was 25 was daunting. “I gave her a hug, and I was like, ‘Mom, I’m gay. I hope you still love me.’ And she pulled me tighter and uttered the words, verbatim: ‘Of course I love you. You’re who God made you to be.’ ”
Mackenzie Scott — who plays music under the name Torres — and fine artist Jenna Gribbon both grew up in conservative homes in the South. “I didn’t know any gay people,” Mackenzie said. “I didn’t even know of any gay people at all, apart from Ellen and Rosie. And Elton John.”
Queer Power Couples: On Love and Possibility can be purchased here.