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Ajamu X: Punk, Pleasure, and the Politics of Black Queer Softness
- Sassy
- 7 days ago
- 4 min read
Meet the photographic artist rejecting homogeneity and capturing the sensual joy of gentleness
In our final podcast episode of the year, Bethany is joined by renowned photographic artist Ajamu X. We visit his studio for an intimate conversation about Black Queer bodies, sensual pleasure, and the radical act of gentleness. From his post-punk roots in Northern England to his darkroom practice, Ajamu shares his philosophy on creating softer representations of Black masculinity, and how he takes inspiration from the artist Rotimi Fani-Kayode and a deep love for old-school African-American porn magazines.
Tune in to this refreshiningly honest conversation that dips a toes into foot fetishes, the sensuousness of image processing, and navigating the art world as a Black queer artist. Get a taste of Ajamu's advice to younger artists (it's simple: be kinkier, be sexier, push it further) and enjoy leaning into feeling rather than just seeing - from the darkroom to the dungeon!
There's something about sitting in Ajamu X's studio that feels like stepping into a treasure trove of pleasure, politics, and punk energy - colliding in the most luscious ways. As a renowned photographic artist whose work brings to life Black Queer bodies in a profoundly sensual way, Ajamu has spent decades creating images that challenge how we see, feel, and understand representation. Never afraid to let kink and sexy softness lace his images, Ajamu's upbringing in a small town in the North of England shaped the work he makes today, explaining how his art is "for that young Ajamu who was isolated in that town, looking for those images" of gentle Black Queerness.
I'm creating work for that young Ajamu who was isolated in that town, looking for those images.
The result are perfectly crafted black and white portraits that find the bliss point between love and revolution through an approach of pure, gentle sensuality with a post-punk "fuck you" spirit. Intentionally gentle and deliberately soft, Ajamu explains how the world often expects Black culture to be "vibrant and loud," whereas his work offers something quieter, more internal.
Many of his portraits feature subjects with closed eyes, gesturing toward what he calls "a quieter internal world" and in doing so, he creates a visual language that moves away from the hard-edged images we're conditioned to expect around Black masculinity. He explains how these softer images are "no less political" and it's true to say that most will leave viewers lost in a sea of emotion, unwrapping the body of work infront of them. Ajamu's way of capturing the gentleness of his muses doesn't just come from their body language or facial expressions, it's also in the shapes and empty spaces, the compositional lines and the tonal range of blacks he achieves through platinum printing, an 18th-century process that gives his work its distinctive feel.
The lineage of his inspiration runs deep. Having seen Rotimi Fani-Kayode's work published in Gay Times in 1987, Ajamu describes the moment as "another seismic shift" - the first out Black Queer photographer whose work showed him something different than what he'd seen in pornographic magazines or from white photographers shooting Black men. By 1988, Ajamu was living in the same Brixton housing co-op as Fani-Kayode, sharing enthusiasm for his portfolio and absorbing everything he could - what lighting he used, what film he shot on, the placement of every element. Ajamu describes how one of the greatest memories from that time was Fani-Kayode's "generosity of his time," something Ajamu now tries to give back to younger Queer artists navigating their own paths.
Sensuality isn't just subject matter for Ajamu - it's a philosophy, a way of being. When asked how he lives sensually, his response is beautifully matter-of-fact: "I'm not sure how people cannot live without sensation." He tries to remain in touch with his body, his skin and flesh, as much as possible, believing that disconnection from one's body means disconnection from life itself. And yes, that includes kink (a topic we joyfully discussed in fabulous detail off-camera) and Ajamu's cheeky foot fetish, telling us how "some people's feet need to be worshipped, and they know who they are. That's all I'm going to say" with a sassy smile.
Black queer folk are seen in the context of community, but never as individuals.
When asking Ajamu about a myth he'd love to bust, he shares how his exhausted by the concept that Black Queer folks are homogeneous, "that experiencing racism, homophobia, and transphobia somehow makes us all the same". As he puts it, "Black Queer folks are then seen in the context of community, but never as individuals." The point he makes is clear: "let's acknowledge difference, let's work with difference...Some of those differences can't be ironed out, and that's fine, we can agree to disagree, respectfully". It's clear how tired Ajamu is of the narrative that assumes sameness based on shared identity. Instead, he is more interested in "how we think about each other, how we treat each other, how we build communities."
For younger artists navigating the often extractive, predominantly white art world, Ajamu's advice comes from three decades of experience. He's learned to know who deserves his time, when to call bullshit, and crucially, that "none of those institutions can exist if the artist wasn't around." He puts as "artists are top of the tree, not at the bottom looking up", a concept that's easy to forget. Ajamu instills this knowledge by mentoring emerging artists, generously passing on that gift of time that Fani-Kayode once gave him.
When Ajamu does offer critique, it's often to remind artists to play more, sharing how he'll often find himself saying "oh, not kinky enough, not sexy enough - come on, push it a bit further because you can!" In a world that polices pleasure and sanitizes Queerness, Ajamu X is here reminding us to be more punk, more sassy, more uncensored and create the images that our younger selves so desperately needed to see. Because the worst form of censorship, he tells us, is self-censorship. And honestly? That feels like the most punk thing of all.
Follow Ajamu's work online @ajamustudios or his website ajamu-studios.com
Interview and article by Bethany Burgoyne @bxsassy2
Portraits and filming by Ciaran Christopher @ciaran.christopher
Production and editing by The Sassy Show @_thesassyshow
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