The Price of Knowing

Thoughts on "Sean, 2016" by Apolo Gomez

On July 28th I made the mistake of logging into my Facebook account. A suggested post hung at the top of my feed: photographer Apolo Gomez was celebrating his feature in the Dutch weekly news magazine, De Groene Amsterdammer. Gomez’s photo entitled “Sean, 2016” stares down from the front cover with the tagline, “How Can a Man Still Be a Man? Overtaken by women, he seeks a new role for himself.”

I became aware of the Men I Know series in the summer of 2017, when Apolo and I were both selected for the SURFACE: Emerging Artists of New Mexico program.

Each photograph depicts a young man–a lover or friend of the artist–in his own bedroom. The models, stripped of their shirts and shoes, look stiff and insecure. Their gazes are confrontational and uncomfortable, their bedrooms manicured yet messy. Polished and vacuumed floors lead up to piles of debris and unkempt beds. The spectrum of vulnerability showcased in the portraits evokes the transformation from boy to man: power tools, weights, and tattoos alongside trinkets, toys, and posters.

But the most evocative thing about Men I Know: I know them too.

Apolo Gomez, “Sean, 2016,” Men I Know Series featured in De Groene Amsterdammer, 2023.

I met Sean around the time his photo was taken. My senior year at the University of New Mexico, I was invited to join a graduate level painting critique seminar. Sean was one of the graduate students.

During a visit to the undergraduate studio, Sean spent thirty minutes standing behind me, silently observing as I worked. At length, he leaned close to me and told me that I was using the wrong kind of brush.

“I think I can handle my own painting, thanks,” I said, dismissing him with a chuckle. Bristling, I told him I had to focus, and ignored him until he left. Still, his audacity was intriguing and a hesitant friendship began.

Late one night, Sean texted me to ask if I would come give him last-minute feedback on his work for his critique tomorrow. I agreed, and at 2am I walked over to the desolate warehouse that housed the graduate studios.

As I approached the ramp, I wondered what I was doing:

I’m not particularly interested in a sexual relationship with Sean. If this is a booty call, I shouldn’t be here. Well, he said he wanted help with his show, and I do have interesting thoughts. Plus, who else is up this late working? I’m just being a good friend. Flirting is just flirting anyway. We’ll see what happens and I’ll just leave if it gets weird.

Inside his studio, he greeted me with a hug as I looked around. The walls were textured, half painted white and half a light gray. The floor was a charcoal concrete, partly covered by a dingy cream carpet: the landing pad for a royal blue drum kit. It was deathly quiet, and an eerie stillness permeated the room.

He showed me his recent work–squares of torn canvas covered in flat, commercial acrylic paint and cleverly mounted with grommets as if to float on the wall. They took on a sculptural quality which, although interesting, did not direct focus to the paint itself, but rather to the frayed canvas. We discussed this, and he seemed encouraged by my interpretation. As we talked, he ushered me to a futon on the far side of the studio. Covered by a fire-engine red knit blanket, the couch was rigid and itchy. Sean seemed relaxed, and slung his arm around the back of the couch, and subsequently me. He leaned forward and my discomfort turned to dread.

I commented on the time and stood to leave. Nearly out the door, I turned back toward him to wave goodbye.

My back and head knocked against the wall as he shoved me against the coarse stucco and smashed his lips into mine. In horror, I registered what was happening, pushed him off with all my strength and sprinted out of the room. I ran through the building, down the ramp, and across the street to the main campus. Shaking with adrenaline, I hid in my car and cried.

The next morning, we assembled as a class at Sean’s studio. With a knot in my stomach, I walked back up that ramp and sank into a second couch at the back of the room, wishing I were invisible. I attempted to take solace in the professor's harsh critique of Sean's work, but she eventually fixed her hawk-eye on me and called out my lack of participation.

Sean texted me after class to commiserate, acting as if he hadn't assaulted me. I told him to fuck off.

A year and a half later, he messaged me on Instagram, and I replied cheerfully, acting as if he hadn't assaulted me.

Now, seeing him shirtless on a cover of a Dutch magazine, Sean seems simultaneously larger than life and pitifully small. My senses rage against each component: the white wall, the crocheted blanket, his tightened lips, the knot in my stomach. 

My disgust turns inward and I ask if it was my fault. Then I recall something my boyfriend says about my need to assign blame. Though it may provide illusory comfort and a nest for our contempt, blame cannot mend the wound. In the wake of experience, we are offered a choice: to know or to hide. 

That is the challenge Apolo gives us. In a foreign magazine, the context is stripped away, and the men are just representations. It's easy to empathize with anonymous people whose sins are unknown. Knowing is the hardest part.