Just a few days after releasing Elska Chicago, I got a message on our Insta from someone who'd just finished reading the issue. He wrote, “I was so ecstatic to read the Chicago edition and see that Noe was in it. He is a barista at the coffee place I go to almost every day, and I've had a crush on him forever! I always thought he'd be too shy to do something like Elska, but I'm not complaining, except that you've now made my crush even worse!”

I love getting messages like these. To hear that my work has touched someone in some personal way is always fulfilling. But this message surprised me. Certainly not because someone would have a crush on Noe — I might had a little crush myself! It's more because I hadn't thought of Noe as shy. After all, how can you call anyone shy when they've done a naked photoshoot? But the more I thought back, the more I recalled just how shy he was…

I first met Noe on an exceptionally cold morning in Lakeview. The original plan was to meet outside his building and take a walk through his neighbourhood, shooting as we explored and got to know each other. But –19°C (–2°F) was a bit beyond what he could handle. He stepped outside the building, caught one smack of the biting wind and turned back around, waving me through behind him. I actually took this as a sign that he wasn't shy, because it's the indoor part of a photoshoot that usually includes the naked stuff.

As soon as we got inside Noe's apartment, something did change. It was something like nervousness, perhaps the realisation that this had become truly real — he was about to pose naked for a magazine. I took out a copy of Elska Akureyri from my backpack and handed it over (I always give a copy of Elska as a little gift to everyone I photograph). He meekly opened it up, started flipping through, and then abruptly set it down when he got to the page where a bear and two twinks were engaged in a three-way kiss. Sensing his move as a sign of embarrassment, I actually apologised. “Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to do anything you're not comfortable with.”

But Noe wasn't uncomfortable. His reply — “I've just never done something like this before” — told me that it was just normal, ordinary nerves.

“Don't worry,” I said, “None of those guys had ever done a photoshoot either before we met. Ninety-nine per cent of the men I meet for Elska are totally new to being in front of a camera.”

Noe walked over to his turntable. “I'm gonna put some music on, maybe that will help.” He put on A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out by Panic! at the Disco and took a seat on a chair that I'd placed between his desk and a floor-to-ceiling window. I started shooting immediately. Before I knew it, Noe had gone down to his underwear.

Then something changed again. After a cheeky moment where he let his willy pop out of the side of his grey briefs, he abruptly stood up, breaking the flow of the shoot. Noe went back to the record player, lifted the needle and moved it to a different song. That song, ‘Time to Dance’, wasn't one I knew, or perhaps only vaguely, but lines like “have some composure,” “this is screaming photo op,” and “boys will be boys” helped me understand why he needed this song in this moment.

Noe returned to his spot, and before I knew it, the undies were off completely. In a lot of the shots, he was laughing; in many others, he was channelling a sexiness that I’m not sure he knew he had. In the story that Noe wrote for Elska Chicago, he explained a bit about how he's trying to seize all the opportunities that life presents. I guess this photoshoot was one of them.

When I first arrived inside Noe's flat, I noticed a poster on a windowsill that read, ‘Fuera ICE / ICE Out'. It was one of many anti-ICE posters I'd seen throughout Chicago. Initially, I actually removed it from the scene so it wouldn't steal focus from Noe, but we decided it would be wrong not to include it for one scene. I assumed I'd just photograph him nude beside the poster, but he had another idea. He popped off to his bedroom and returned wearing a sombrero and a red paliacate bandana — symbolising his Mexican origins and the pride he felt in showing his heritage, especially in the face of a wave of anti-immigrant sentiment washing across the United States.

With this as our final scene, it's no wonder that my lasting impression of Noe wasn't one of shyness. But the reality is that it took him some time to get there — a bit of music that spoke to him and a sign that meant something to him. Noe had been kinda shy, but he ended up being one of the bravest guys I've met.

You can see a lot more of Noe, and read the story he wrote, in Elska Chicago, available now in a collectible print version or in a digital version.

Phase 1: Shock

It happened early on a Thursday afternoon last August, on my actual birthday. I was sitting in the café at the BFI in London waiting for my husband to get tickets from the box office for a screening of the 1985 gay classic My Beautiful Laundrette. As I waited, I opened Instagram and saw this gut-punch of a pop-up:

“We disabled your account.”

I quickly pressed the ‘appeal’ button and went into the cinema. I don't think any of the film sank in — I was in too much of a daze. When it was over, I reopened Insta, and saw the reply already waiting. “We reviewed the content you shared and found that it still doesn't follow our Community Standards.”

Fucking Community Standards! Since I started the Elska Insta account back in 2015, I’ve had countless hand-slaps from Meta over their so-called Community Standards. These were always simple “We removed your photo” messages, to which I’d appeal, and usually get my post put back up. But this time, I had no indication of what specifically caused the permanent ban.

My assumption was that I'd accidentally posted a photo featuring nudity — indeed the most recent issue at the time, Elska Mexico City, had a cover where the subject's right testicle was peeking out of his shorts. I wondered if I'd posted it without remembering to censor that part of the photo. But whichever post had been flagged, it didn't matter. My appeal was unsuccessful and I was out of options. “You cannot request another review of this decision.”

Overnight I'd lost the account I'd been nurturing for over ten years, including all 17,000+ followers.

Phase 2: Anger

I distinctly remember the first time I got a post taken down. It was in the summer of 2016 and it was a photo of two men from Elska Istanbul, Ekin and Emrullah, in an embrace. They weren't naked and there was no ‘sexual content’ — surely the only reason that this infraction could have happened was if someone personally reported it as objectionable and then the human at Meta who responded to the report agreed. It felt like homophobia — and it wouldn't be an isolated incident. In fact, it happened at least a hundred times over the years.

In the spring of 2022, when I posted about the latest infraction — this time a photo of another couple, Jérôme and David from Elska Montréal, who were having an affectionate moment involving rope play — I got loads of messages from other queer accounts and creatives about their own troubles with Meta's Community Standards. Their messages vindicated me, but moral support can only take you so far.

The strange thing about the permanent ban was that the last time I got a post deleted was over nine months before. It was a photo of Jay from Elska Salt Lake City in a teeny tiny thong. Sure, it was provocative, but as per the Community Standards, there was no ban on showing backsides unless they were ‘close-ups of fully-nude buttocks.’ Surely the photo in question can't be considered to include a “close-up” even if one's focus may well go straight to the arse! Anyway, the bigger problem is that loads of other accounts get away with posting photos like this. How many female influencers and celebrities are posting selfies in skimpy clothing with hundreds of thousands of followers to see them? The problem isn’t simply that Instagram has rules. It’s that the rules are inconsistently applied.

Phase 3: Moving On

A week or so after the ban, I read about an artist in the USA who makes sculptures of vaginas. Their Instagram account had also been permanently deleted, but they were actually able to get it back by appealing to their local Congressperson. Since I had been living in the USA until the spring of that year, I decided to contact mine, which had been Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. I had reached the point where getting my Instagram account back involved contacting a member of Congress. I received a glimmer of hope, but after two months of back-and-forth from her team, I was informed that their intervention had been unsuccessful.

So I created a new Instagram account and started from scratch. So far I've only been able to build a small fraction of the original follower count. On the bright side, though, I've only had one post taken down. Of course, it was another baffling ban. It was of a guy from NÆS 02 stepping out of the sea. Sure, there was some visible dick-print on his wet trousers, but that seemed hardly worthy of a ban. I appealed as usual. My appeal was rejected.

I wanted to walk away from Meta altogether, but I knew that would be stupid. So I decided to just post now and again to keep some sort of Insta presence. I certainly wouldn't expend much energy or emotion on it, not when I knew another ban would come inevitably. So for the next year, I tried not to think about the old account. I told myself I'd moved on. I explained to myself that Instagram never mattered anyway — even when a post really caught fire, it never seemed to convert into sales. A “Just three copies left of xx issue” post might mean one sale the next morning — hardly proof that Insta had power. So why get stressed about it?

Phase 4: Devastation

Despite the shock and anger I felt after the ban, I mostly escaped any sort of depression. That is, until a year later. Immediately after releasing Elska Chicago, whose release coincided with the one-year anniversary of the Insta ban, I was devastated to see how disappointing the sales had been. This prompted me to look at Elska's finances properly. There I discovered that Elska sales fell 24% since the loss of the Instagram account. The data had been there, but I failed to acknowledge it. I guess I didn't want to face it.

When Elska Rome came out (September 2025), the first new issue released after the ban, sales were lower than Elska Mexico City, the last issue released before the ban. However, I attributed that to having a fully-clothed cover instead of one with a titillating ball-slip. When the next five issues — Elska Akureyri, Elska Pristina, Elska Ho Chi Minh City, Elska Regina, Elska Krung Thep Maha Nakhon — all had lower and lower sales, I explained this as due to them being less ‘famous’ cities (compared to Mexico City or Rome). But Elska Chicago should have blasted that theory out of the water. Instead it sold less than any of them!

It would be tempting to blame something other than Instagram on this loss of custom. But the only other thing that I changed since the ban was to increase the price by $2, a measure to mitigate the Trump Tariffs. And then there's also the loss of more LGBTQ bookstores (such as Sydney's The Bookshop Darlinghurst and Taipei's GinGin, two shops who had faithfully stocked Elska since 2015) — losing them meant losing the possibility for more people to discover Elska in the wild. While it's likely that these factors have contributed to the problem, the loss of a marketing pool of 17,000+ people seems like the main culprit.

Phase 5: The Silver Lining

Digging into the sales figures was devastating and it made me spiral into thoughts that the business I'd nurtured for over a decade was dying. But there's one shining light that rescues me. It's that despite lower sales, the amount of positive feedback has gone up. By a lot. I get more love letters to Elska than ever before.

Passionate emails or DMs from people who have discovered Elska and adore it, who even say it's changed them, made them feel more positive about themselves, or have felt an increased sense of belonging in their communities — such praise tells me that Elska is thriving, not dying. I suppose it's just a matter of reaching more people so they can discover it. How can I do that? Actually, I'm not sure, but I certainly will not make the mistake of becoming reliant on Instagram again. Abandoning Meta may hurt my business, but my mental health is worth more.

The lesson I'm taking from all this isn't that Instagram doesn't matter. Clearly, it did. It's that I can't allow one platform to determine whether Elska succeeds or fails. The people who love Elska are still out there. I just need to find more ways to reach them.

And if you're one of those people who hasn't discovered Elska yet — or haven't picked up a copy in years — perhaps this is the moment. Elska is available in a print version or in a digital version.

I first learned photography using a film camera handed down from a family friend when I was seventeen. Two years later, I did a term at Central St Martins that included the chance to try multiple bodies and film stock and to build loads of darkroom experience. As much as I adored photography, the experience was disheartening. I found everything too complicated and technical, and I just wasn't good at it. The mathematical part of my brain couldn't cope with shooting manual; the emotional part of my brain couldn't cope with the anxiety of how much money I wasted every time I ruined a shot… So I put my camera in a drawer and moved on.

It was a decade before the photography called me back. I'd taken a job as a flight attendant, which was meant to be a break in my career as a French teacher. As I travelled to cities all over the world, the urge to shoot became too strong to suppress. Luckily by that time, digital cameras were ubiquitous and not looked down upon so I bought a DSLR and found that it wasn't too taxing for my brain.

At first, I shot the places I visited, but soon a desire to do portraits took over. Wherever I went, I sought out locals to be my models. Before I knew it, the flight attendant job was over, but I didn’t go back to teaching; instead I started a photography-led magazine called Elska. It was based on the experienced I'd gained on my layovers. Each issue would be made in a different city and would be filled with photographs of the men I happened to meet there.

Skip to eleven years later. I'd published issues of Elska in fifty-five cities all over the world, all done with my Nikon D610. Then I got the opportunity to collaborate on the 56th issue with a Glasgow-based photographer called Philip Mowbray We chose Pristina as our target city and then I took control of the portraits while he tackled the environment. Just like me, he used a DSLR, but he also shot one roll of film, using an old Chinon he got from his dad and a roll of Harman Phoenix I. These pics were super-grainy and had a red-and-green tone that looked like Christmas, albeit a strange, dark, maudlin sort of Christmas.

I adored his photos so much that I immediately bought a second-hand Pentax MX and a roll of the only film I could find sold in the little Welsh town where I live. That was an Ilford HP5 Plus. Then I searched for someone to shoot, for my guinea pig. That was Nathan J.

I got a train down to London, a four-hour journey, and did my best. There were some mistakes for sure, like over- and under-exposed frames and some out-of-focus ones too, but I loved every shot regardless. Then I published the images in Elska Pristina following Philip's shots. Although Nathan had no connection to Kosovo, or to the Balkans more widely, he was part of my journey, the artistic journey that started with Philip's analogue series.

At the time of writing this post, I've done over a dozen film shoots since Nathan. They will all be shared in future issues of Elska. Indeed, film will become a big part of Elska's aesthetic from now on.

If you'd like to support me, other than by subscribing to my Substack, you might like to buy some of my work from elskamagazine.com or you can also try subscribing to my Patreon. Cheers!

The Trigger: Terrible First Day Sales

I'm not new to the indie publishing world. I launched my Elska Magazine project way back in 2015 and watched it slowly build an audience. On the day of the first issue's release, I sold exactly three copies. The next day, I sold none. The third day, I sold one copy.

In the first month, I earned a total of £594.52. That was less than what I paid to make the issue: £335.99 for my return flights to Lviv + £91 for a five-night apartment rental + £786.26 to print 300 copies of the magazine. (And there were other expenses, like envelopes, packing tape, website registration and hosting fees, transport and food in Lviv…) All in all, the economics said my idea wasn't sustainable as a business.

Fortunately, sales steadily increased as more people discovered my work, eventually making that first issue profitable. Since then, after having released fifty-five issues, not a single one has been loss-making. I found the right mix of fitting a niche, producing a solid product, and attracting good will.

When it came time to release the debut issue of NÆS, I knew that sales would be lower than for an Elska simply because it was a new title. But first day sales were not just lower — they were devastating! To be specific, I sold eighteen copies. Sure, that's better than Elska Lviv did on its first day, but that was with no customer base whatsoever. After checking to be sure that the website wasn't broken and that the launch announcement email and social media posts didn't get stuck, I took a long sombre walk in the park. An hour later when I got back to my studio, I decided to discontinue my new zine project.

The Reason: A Confused Offering?

I never really appreciated how powerful Elska was as a brand until I tried to sell something without that brand. No matter how many people enjoy my work, if I produce something without the Elska name, it just doesn't grab people's attention.

I also never really appreciated how distinctly strong Elska’s USP was. Each issue is made in a different city and presents that city through intimate photography and stories of local men. I described NÆS as a more fluid, creative and experimental publication. But what does that actually mean? I said that NÆS would “follow the whims of artistic inspiration and let themes develop naturally” (instead of the theme always being a city). But why? And what does that actually look like?

With the debut issue of Elska, my pitch was simple: I went to a city in Ukraine, photographed some local men, and shared some stories. With NÆS, my pitch was vague. No wonder it didn't catch fire.

The Origins: Trying to Solve a Problem That Was No Longer a Problem

I thought about why I decided to start a new zine in the first place. Initially, it was a reaction to the Trump Tariffs. The idea was that I'd produce something smaller and lighter than Elska so I wouldn't drown on the increased cost of shipping my publications to the USA, which is where 53% of my customer base is. But then Trump revised his tariffs, making Elska able to survive. So why didn't I abandon the zine and focus on Elska again? I don't really have answer except that when I get an idea stuck in my head, it's hard to let it go.

As I started to gather content for NÆS, I worked in much the same way as for Elska. I travelled to some city, met some guys, took photos of them, and wrote some texts inspired by our time together. However, I did this all with a freer attitude, not concerned with following any template for my writing or photography. Instead of always writing diaries, I sometimes wrote poetry or fiction. Instead of shooting with documentary-like motivation, I experimented with monochrome, with props, with fashion, with analogue film, etc.

The Solution: Focus on Elska

The ambiguity of NÆS as a concept provided much inspiration for me and I had a fantastic time gathering content for it. But when I was faced with the dreadful sales, the penny dropped: You can also be creative and experimental with Elska — it’s your magazine and you can do whatever you want with it! So you should just focus on Elska!

To be totally honest with you, I'm quite embarrassed. To have presented a new project with enthusiasm and admit it didn't work is mortifying. So I'm asking for forgiveness with a kind of bribe… Instead of the usual six issues of Elska per year, I'm going to produce eight in 2026. And all will be included in an annual subscription with no rise in prices.

Anyway, there has been some good to come from the NÆS adventure — mainly embracing more creativity and experimentation — which will be apparent in future Elskas. I've also learned that Elska has been good to me, so I should continue to nurture him the way he deserves.

I first made contact with Guðjón almost a decade ago, shortly after publishing the Reykjavík issue of my Elska Magazine project. He said he'd like to do a photoshoot if I ever came back to his city. I replied, “Sure, I'll let you know.”

If I'd decided to be truthful instead of polite, I would have told him that I never repeat cities for Elska. But to respond with a, “no way, never, forget about it,” would have been rude. Besides, based on the few pics he showed me, he was bloody hot — maybe even hot enough to break my rule about repeating a city!

In 2025, exactly ten years after making Elska Reykjavík, I found myself finally back in Iceland with my camera. This time, however, I was heading up north to feature the country's northern ‘capital’ of Akureyri. However, after flying into the country's only proper international airport, located near Reykjavík, and getting stuck there due to a winter storm, I decided to pass the time by finding a local guy to shoot. I didn't know what I'd do with those pics — my ‘rule’ about never repeating a city was still in my head — but I wanted to do it anyway.

During this unexpected Reykjavík stop, I photographed Haukur, a man I'd photographed exactly a decade ago for the original Elska Reykjavík issue. Afterwards I asked if he knew of someone else who might like to do a shoot while I was in town, and he directed me to a few Insta profiles. One of them belonged to Guðjón. I sent him a message and he agreed to meet me the next day.

Guðjón gave me an address seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It was basically just a lava field between the road to the airport and the sea. The name I saw everywhere was Vatnsleysuströnd, though I never understood if that was the name of a village, a street, a beach or what! When I reached the address, all I saw was a sort of rusty hut, probably one used for hanging fish to dry, one that probably had been there since Viking times! I thought it was a joke, that Guðjón had tricked me… but then from behind a pile of rocks, I saw a sturdy blond boy emerge.

I followed him first into a lava field, trying our best to avoid trampling on delicate moss-covered rocks, in search of a spot that would offer some shelter from the wind. It was brutal that day, and Guðjón's hairstyle was whipping around wildly. We tried to make it work, but eventually decided that it didn't matter. He took on a spirit of abandon, letting his hair be messy and then peeling his clothes off and dancing around in the lava.

Guðjón then led me to the sea. Spotting a log on the shore, which had drifted over from Vinland perhaps, he heaved one into the air for a photo. Then he told me a story about how the Vikings used to choose where to build their settlements by throwing a log into the sea and following it to wherever it landed.

His tale transported me to the ninth century. I had a fantasy of him as a seafarer and me as his spouse, stuck in one of the little huts that were scattered around this lava field, waiting desperately for him to return from one of his voyages. Guðjón kept talking — he was telling me tales from the Sagas — but I wasn't really listening. I was too deep into my fantasy.

Then he led me into one of those huts. It was his grandma’s house. The reason he asked me to meet him here was because his grandmother had moved to Spain. She wanted him to tidy up the house so she could turn it into a holiday rental. He thought the setting would be more interesting than his own home, a modern flat in the suburb of Garðabær.

The fact that I was shooting Guðjón naked in his grandma’s house was comical at first, but then I retreated back to my fantasy… I thought about what nights must be like here, with the wind whipping furiously and rain or hail thwacking against the tiny house. It must have been impossibly cold to live here in Viking times, and I suppose it’s no different now. I imagined that it would all be fine, though, as long as I had Guðjón’s strong arms to wrap around me at night.

When it was all over, I drove away wondering what I could do with these photos. I still felt like I couldn't ever repeat a city for Elska, and these images didn't belong in Elska Akureyri, which deserved to be its own thing. So I decided to publish a special edition stand-alone zine that I named NÆS. And I named the issue ‘Restless Relentlessly'.

Partly this title is meant to recognise that I should never have done this photoshoot, that I should have just relaxed while stuck in Reykjavík, but the desire to

point my camera at some beautiful boy was too strong. Partly the title is about my Viking fantasy, about how painful it would have been to be stuck in that little house while my Guðjón-the-Strong was away at sea. But mostly it's just a line from the Björk song ‘Wanderlust’, which had been playing in the car on my way to meet him.

More photographs of Guðjón (including lots of nudes) and his complete story is part of the special edition zine, NÆS 01 (Restless Relentlessly), which is available in a collectible print version or in a downloadable e-version. You can also get even more photos of Guðjón (and more nudes) in the companion e-zine, NÆS Ekstra 01.

One of the first portrait shoots I ever did, my second in fact, included a nude scene. The subject’s name was Scotty P and I photographed him one morning at his apartment in Palm Springs. My goal was to just follow him around as he got on with his day. This included him sending and responding to some texts (or sexts, rather), doing a bit of journalling as he sat next to his community pool, and also taking a shower and getting dressed. It was essentially a documentary of a rather ordinary gay lad living in the California desert. But when it came time to publish my pics, I held back on showing any of the naked ones.

When I embarked on photography as a career, I was afraid of nudity. Even though I couldn't ignore that the human body has been a valid part of art since antiquity, for my own work, I felt different. Maybe it's because I grew up in a Catholic household, which had its own culture of shame; maybe it's because I grew up in a family that was always telling us kids to close our eyes when watching movies and there was a ‘naughty’ scene. Whatever the cause, I had a genuine fear that people might mistake my work for porn. And this would totally delegitimise my work.

As I began to be exposed to nudity in other contemporary photographers’ work, including that of queer artists like Barry Marré and Lauro Justino, I felt permission to publish my own nudes. But I did so with timidity... For example, in images where the men I photographed got ‘excited’, I either chose not to publish them, or I selected images where they were laughing or making some expression that diminished the sexual energy.

Last autumn I exhibited at the Indiecon independent publishers’ festival in Hamburg. I vividly recall a fellow exhibitor coming up to my table, flipping through a few of my mags and asking, “So why are some of these guys naked?” I didn't really have an answer for her, so I stumbled through an apologetic waffle about seeking truth and embracing imperfection that was followed by a defensive pontification on consent. The truth was that I photograph naked bodies because I like naked bodies. But in the moment, I felt like that would have been the wrong answer. Clearly I felt shame not only about what I was presenting but why I was presenting it…

Then a couple months ago I went to the Photographers’ Gallery London and saw an exhibition by the Ukrainian artist Boris Mikhailov. In this retrospective of his work over the course of several decades, there were many nude images peppered amongst the non-nude photographs. Much of it had no ‘purpose’, it was just there. That is to say, there were nude images within projects about homelessness in 1990s Kharkiv, there were nude photos within projects about the portrayal of Soviet propriety amongst working class holidaymakers in Crimea, and there were nude photos of his wife in fields or forests or at home... There was no ‘reason’ for it.

It was obvious that Boris shot nudes because the human body inspired him, because he simply liked nudes. Seeing his work exhibited in a respected gallery made it seem respectable. And this gave me the courage to let go of my shame and admit that I also shoot nudes because naked bodies inspire me, because I like naked bodies. And doing so doesn't make me unrespectable.

I decided to put together a zine containing much of the early nude portraiture I did but never had the courage to publish. I titled it NÆS 02: He Believes in Beauty, and it includes the full shoot of Scotty P from Palm Springs. I even chose a fully nude image for the cover, a way to face my fears and shout out, “This body is beautiful and it deserves to be seen in its entirety, even on a cover!”

There are some practical reasons why publishing nude images, especially on a cover, is a bad idea. For example, I know that some shops that normally carry my work won't want to stock this zine. Fortunately, I'm in a position now where I can afford to lose a few sales at the expense of art. And who knows? Maybe I'm not the only one who likes nudity!

It was Haukur's suggestion to meet in Seltjarnarnes, a suburb west of Reykjavík set on a little peninsula that juts into the Atlantic Ocean. Specifically we met at Kvika, a tiny hot spring with a not-so-tiny car park beside it. I photographed Haukur by the spring, by an old fish-drying hut, in some tall grass facing the mountain Esja, near the Grótta lighthouse, and finally on the rock wall that formed the western edge of this island country.

I remember Haukur as quite shy. There wasn't much conversation between us, but he had a lovely energy, often unable to stop little laughs and smiles from popping through, no matter how much he was trying to put on a fierce, elegant, modelesque demeanour.

I was also quite shy back then. There was a moment when he took his jacket off towards the end of the shoot — a combination of a cold wind and the very tight green t-shirt he had on underneath was making his nipples poke through the fabric like darts. I remember wanting to ask if he would take his shirt off, but he seemed so embarrassed by his pointy nips that I lost my nerve. I snapped a couple frames and then he put his lopapeysa and jacket back on.

Ten years after publishing Elska Reykjavík, I decided to finally return to Iceland and make another issue in the country. This time I chose Akureyri, the northern ‘capital', as the centrepoint. However, after arriving at the country's international airport near Reykjavík, a winter storm passed through that prevented me from driving on northwards. With nothing to do in Reykjavík for a day, I decided to contact Haukur. I'm not sure why I chose him and not any of the seventeen other men I shot in Reykjavík before — I suppose it was that lovely energy he had. I asked if he wanted to do another shoot. He agreed.

Just like the first time, Haukur told me to meet him by the Kvika hot spring. The idea was that we'd recreate our first shoot, a sort of celebration of our ten-year-anniversary. But that winter storm meant that we shot for less than three minutes before giving up — the cold, the wet, and the winds rendered the outing not only unpleasant but impossible.

But our anniversary shoot wasn't a total disaster, mainly because by now Haukur and I had grown out of our shyness. This time Haukur invited me to his place to shoot more there. We'd be warm, we'd be dry, and Haukur would be finally taking his shirt off for my camera!

I got to know Haukur so much better in his home, developing a relationship that went beyond simply seeing him as a ‘lovely energy'. I wrote about getting to know him — and share those naked photos — in NÆS 01 (Restless Relentlessly), along with photos and stories of two more men I met during my weather delay.

Ten years is such a long time. Seeing Haukur again really made me appreciate how lucky I am to have been able to make a little queer, indie, art zine into a full-time job. I never imagined I'd still be doing this a decade later. So while shooting Haukur for a third time for 2036 sounds mad, I've learned not to rule out such dreams.

If you'd like to see and read Haukur's full story and see all the pics, pick up a copy of NÆS 01 (Restless Relentlessly), which is available in a limited-edition print zine or in a downloadable e-zine. By the way, the name ‘Haukur’ actually means ‘hawk’ in Icelandic, which is precisely what bird is tattooed on his arm. I absolutely couldn't resist putting that hawk — and Haukur's body — on the cover!

The results of my first analogue film shoot will be revealed in the upcoming publication NÆS 04, but I'll give some overall thoughts on how it went. For my first shoot, I bought a 24-exposure roll of Kodak Ultramax 400 from my local camera shop Abbeycolor in Croesoswallt. It was the only colour film they had in stock. Then I took it down to London to shoot a guy called Nathan.

That first roll got completely fucked! Unfortunately, I didn't spool it onto my camera properly and only managed to shoot a fraction of one frame. I really have no clue what even appears in it — pieces of Walthamstow, I guess. And is there a face in the centre? Not sure.

Fortunately, I recognised the mistake before spooling on a second roll. As I was trying to rewind the first roll, I realised that there was no tension whatsoever (the tension I thought I'd felt when taking the photos was just the tension of the film advance lever itself). For the second roll, which I shot on an Ilford HP5 Plus, I made very certain to ensure it was properly secure.

However, there was another problem to deal with aside from my film-spooling woes. The old Pentax MX, which I snapped off ebay for under £99, including two lenses and a 12-pack of batteries, had a light meter that was completely off. To test its accuracy, I decided to meter using my digital camera, a Nikon D610. With the ISO and aperture equalised, the Nikon would give me a reading of 1/1000 while the Pentax would tell me 1/30 or something totally different. Having the Nikon there was a godsend, but there were still occasions when I metered more by instinct, because that's just what felt right.

I shot all thirty-six frames on Nathan in his bedroom, with him in various stages of dress (mostly undressed). I was terrified of how they'd turn out, but I was beyond ecstatic when I got my images back from Gulabi Film Lab. I managed to get thirty-eight shots, with only three of them messed up… but messed up in a charming sort of way.

I absolutely can't wait to release the issue featuring these photos. Sadly, that won't be until April 2025, though (I always work very far in advance of my publication schedule). Most importantly, despite the difficulties, the results were so exciting that I've just today finished shooting my fifth-ever film roll. That will be for an issue of NÆS that probably will be released in June 2026.

However, even more than the quality of images derived from shooting film, it's the process of shooting analogue that I adore most of all. It forces me to work in a way that's so different to the digital photography I've been doing for the past eleven years. It forces me to consider every shot carefully, it encourages me to get closer to my subject, and it adds a thrilling sort of mystery since you never really know how each frame will turn out.

At this moment, I've only seen the results of that first roll with Nathan. However, I recently dropped a few rolls off at Studio Argentique for development and await the results. I'm feeling optimistic, though. That's because I happened to run into the one of the lab techs at a bakery today and he told me that he just finished processing the first roll. He even said something like, “I normally wouldn’t tell people this, but your work is truly very good.” Then he whispered, “It’s not like porn, which is like painful to do… With yours, I was looking forward to what the next image would be.” That's literally some of the most touching encouragement I've had in my career, and it makes me all the more excited to be on this new analogue era.

Símon's text said something like, “I heard you're coming to Akureyri to do photoshoots. I'd like to do one, if you think it would be interesting to include a gay farmer. We can even shoot on my farm if you want.”

I tried to play it cool, telling him that he was welcome to do a shoot with me for Elska Akureyri, but not showing how dangerously excited I really was. I use the word ‘dangerously’ because when I look too forward to shoot a particular person, I get consumed with anxiety that they'll cancel. I'd much rather photograph people who I'm not that bothered about — that way I can never be disappointed!

In the four weeks that followed after scheduling Símon's shoot, there wasn't a day where I didn't fantasise about what we'd do together. To capture him amongst his horses and sheep, with mountains on one side and a fjord on the other, the image was too gorgeous to not become obsessed. And when he suggested being naked for a scene or two, that only added to my anticipation.

Then just two days before our meeting, I got the news that a winter storm had closed the road leading to his farm. I ended up delayed for a night while I waited for the ice to melt, but then the Celsius rose and the rains came, rescuing me from the doom I'd been expecting all along.

When I finally arrived at Símon's place, the relief quickly fell away as his anxiety replaced mine. As we were sitting in his kitchen, making plans for the order of our scenes, he said something about his parents hiding in the neighbouring farmhouse. Then he said something about some lady at a nearby farm freaking out if she found out he got naked for some magazine. Then he had a leaf through the copy of Elska Odesa I'd brought him as a gift and landed on the most graphic of pages, one where Ihor and Valentin are showing each other their erect penises before engaging in a bout of sword-fighting. The scene was meant to be light-hearted, playful and silly rather than sexual, but it freaked poor Símon out.

I told Símon that we'd stick to underwear as our end-goal, and if he decided later to take them off, that would be up to him. And that's exactly how it happened... We did a scene all bundled up on the hillside, then we did one shirtless by the fjord with his horses, then we did one in briefs in the sheep-stable. And then, without prompting, Símon just decided to pull his undies off and jump into a pile of hay. It was magical to see, it was lovely to witness how comfortable he'd become.

But then I sort of got uncomfortable. Or maybe ‘apprehensive’ is a better word. After the scene with the hay, we returned to the house and did a scene in the bedroom. There Símon got naked again and I got guilty. I started thinking of that mysterious woman from the neighbouring farm and wondered exactly what sort of trouble she'd cause. Was it something to do with gossip? I supposed that gossip can be brutal in a rural community. Maybe it could be something to affect Símon's family more than just him.

So I asked if he was sure he wanted to “show everything.” He replied that he was. And then I asked again if he was sure, really sure. He capitulated. He thanked me for my understanding. We finished the shoot, had a cup of coffee and some cakes, and then we said our goodbyes.

On the drive back to Akureyri, I thought about how grateful I was to have had the opportunity to shoot this gay farmer in the beautiful Icelandic landscape and alongside his charming animals. Then I kicked myself for halting the shoot just at the moment when he was ready to bare all. At least I got to film some horses and sheep, but a cock would have been nice too! Oh well, even though I have no pics to prove it, trust me that it was a very nice cock!

Many more photographs of Símon and his complete story is part of Elska Akureyri, which is available in a collectible print version or in a downloadable e-version.