In the backyard of a Hollywood bungalow sits a garage that’s been converted into a studio. Inside, a revised definition of queer art is tested by way of needle and thread. Beside the workstation sits a vintage triple-cassette boombox that plays mixtapes containing everything from Bat for Lashes to Enya to Animal Collective. Thoughtfully laid out along the opposite side of the raised rectangular table is a makeup wipe bearing the remnants of a drag queen’s face – pink, glitter lipstick and shimmering bronzer – next to a single, claw-like rhinestone-studded press-on nail. Both are love tokens once given to Los Angeles artist Aubrey Longley-Cook courtesy of two Atlanta drag queens, Brigitte Bidet and Biqtch Puddin’, both of whom have made this house their transient home over the past month.
Longley-Cook’s love of drag culture has been present throughout his work as early as 2013, when he created a GIF animation of his friend, Atlanta drag queen Lavonia Elberton. Similar to a flip-book, each of the nine frames were carefully embroidered onto deep purple fabric, varying ever-so-slightly, to compose the movement. He is now working on a series of stitched portraits, each featuring a different Atlanta drag queen. The portraits, what he has become known for, will be displayed at the Zuckerman Museum of Art at Kennesaw State University in Georgia, later this year.
From L to R: “Hydrangea Heath” (7” x 6 1/2″, 2018), “Dax Exclamationpoint” (7” x 6 1/2″, 2018), & “Brigitte Bidet” (6 7/8” x 6 1/2”, 2017) – cross stitch. / Courtesy of the Artist
In his most striking artwork, Longley-Cook’s inspiration is clear: reimagining queer subcultures, most notably leather daddies and drag queens, through cross-stitched portraits. “I feel like, as a queer artist, there’s a responsibility to celebrate and document queer culture. Especially at a time where everyone has their iPhone out every time the queens perform, a lot of that digital fodder we see on Snapchat and Instagram just becomes like, digital detritus. There’s something about an artifact: a painting or a tapestry or an embroidery, that’s physical and special.”
Fascinated by representations of masculinity portrayed throughout everything from reaction GIFs to underwear catalogs, Longley-Cook bases his works on actual photographs, which he usually discovers on sites like Tumblr or a drag queen’s Instagram account. Through the embroidery, the images are not appropriated – they are transformed. Images are abstracted into an optical vibration of stitches, mirroring the pixels that make up each image. On his personal Instagram and in gallery shows, he displays both the fronts and backs of his work – the clean, organized stitching that composes the picture, directly contrasted with the chaotic backsides, which are filled with what he calls “unconscious mark-making”.
Aubrey Longley-Cook at his home. / Photos by Tess Awal
A graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, Longley-Cook studied animation while teaching himself to sew. Embroidery was a conscious choice, a way for him to feel closer to his mother, who passed away when he was 15. Soon, he began to see the stitches as tangible pixels on fabric. The images he wanted to create no longer solely existed within the infinite confines of digital space; now they could also live inside embroidery hoops.
After relocating to Los Angeles from Atlanta about a year and a half ago, he began to explore how pop art has been redefined in the modern day. At the beginning of last year, Longley-Cook recreated viral memes with his stitch work, such as Kermit the Frog sipping tea, crying James Van der Beek, and Mariah Carey saying “I don’t know her”.
“I needed to just document popular culture and needed to just take a minute to kind of figure it out,” he says, gazing up at the framed pieces, which hang from his studio wall. “That influence of Hollywood and entertainment and creating someone else’s image – there’s something nice about that.”
This unlikely combination – the intersection of traditional women’s crafts and digital pop culture – seemed to Longley-Cook like a strange yet beautiful sort of kitsch. Exploring how the medium and the content affect one another, he is able to engage artistically, changing the meaning of an image that’s not usually seen in cross-stitched form. Another piece displayed in a corner of his studio is that of a belly-up frog. Its insides are exposed, similar to what one would see on the table of their middle school science lab. Longley-Cook indicates that this was a response to the meme “Pepe the Frog”. In the early ’00s, it originated as an innocent comic on early social media sites like MySpace and 4Chan. But by 2016, the image had been iconized by the alt-right movement, who used it for hateful and racist memes. “The artist who created Pepe, Matt Furie, did a funeral and tried to kill Pepe – but it begs [the question], how do you kill a meme? How do you kill something after it’s been tainted?”
“american junk 3″, 5 1/8″ x 5 7/8”, 2017. / Courtesy of the Artist
In mid- to late-2017, Longley-Cook created two series exploring the appearance of men in popular culture: “commando” and “american junk”. The former contains seven pieces, each featuring a nude caucasian man holding a large gun. The second features various men’s backsides, from waist to upper thigh, all clad in American flag swimwear. “It was really just like trying to [figure out] what it means to be an American,” Longley-Cook said of the thought process behind both. “What it means to be a queer American in the Trump Era. Whether it’s possible to be patriotic in a Trump Administration. To be proud of your country. But not proud of whose leading your country.”
Both “american junk” and “commando” illicit varying responses, says Longley-Cook, ranging from discomfort to sexual attraction. However, he is somewhat wary about the way a particular piece might be construed once it’s displayed on gallery walls or his personal Instagram account (censored to fit their strict nudity guidelines).
“I’ve had conversations with my partner, Christopher, before about art that’s misconstrued. Once you put it out there, what happens if it gets taken over? Like Pepe [the Frog]. When it’s used by people and the intentions of the original creator are gone. And you’re responsible for [it].”
“commando 4″, Front & Back View; 6 1/8″ x 4 3/8”, 2017. / Courtesy of the Artist
The pieces in “commando” are not supposed to read as pro-gun; they’re meant to explore how masculinity is performed in today’s America. These men, made anonymous with the embroidery’s abstraction, feel the subconscious need to photograph their unclothed, chiseled bodies, while armored with the indisputable power of a firearm. This is the ultimate declaration of their machismo. But what does the intention behind it truly mean?
“There’s the idea of that really thin line between homoeroticism and toxic masculinity. It’s such a blurred line. And I don’t feel like the queer community has developed the right language to really talk about it yet. But we’re trying.”