Behind a haze of smoke, dreamlike portraits of queer Muslim life

How do you seize the essence of somebody who needs to stay nameless? This was one of many challenges French Algerian photographer Camille Farrah Lenain confronted as a part of her sequence on queer Muslim life in France. In her cinematic and dreamlike portraits, we see a determine partly obscured in a translucent pink veil, gazing into an ornate mirror. Elsewhere, a tightly-cropped picture captures a transgender man’s mid-section, revealing a vertical scar and hand calmly resting towards patterned pants.

The snapshots are a part of Lenain’s new photobook, “Made of Smokeless Fire,” launched by Loose Joints Publishing. “It’s important for me to understand the people I’m photographing to the fullest,” mentioned Lenain of the six-year undertaking which concerned round 50 LGBTQ+ individuals (recognized by first identify or initials solely) from throughout the nation. The photographs are accompanied by poetic fragments of textual content from a number of sitters on their religion, wishes and reminiscences. While some have reduce off all contact with their households, others have cast fragile paths in direction of reconciliation. The vary of experiences is as different because the individuals.

Because many – although not all – individuals most well-liked to stay unidentifiable, Lenain tapped into the wealthy visible grammar of Islam: henna-covered palms, white pigeons, an Amazigh (or Berber) image of freedom, and the recurring motif of smoke. In one picture, a younger sitter with the Arabic phrase for ‘justice’ painted on her cheek gazes sensuously into the digital camera, whereas flooding the body with wafts of smoke.

The guide title refers to jinn, the supernatural creatures described within the Qur’an as “made of smokeless fire.” “It’s common to believe that queer Muslims are the way they are because they’ve been possessed by jinn, even though these entities are neither good nor bad,” defined Lenain. Much like the best way the phrase ‘queer’ has been reappropriated in recent times, Lenain needs the identical for LGBTQ+ Muslims and the time period. “By reclaiming your own relationship to jinn, you stop giving power to others weaponizing it against you.”

A beloved uncle – and unanswered questions

The seed for the sequence was planted years in the past, after Lenain heard a radio interview with Ludovic-Mohamed Zahed, the Marseille-based homosexual imam who based Europe’s first inclusive mosque – and who later helped her recruit sitters for portraits.

But the one one who actually set the entire endeavour in movement was Lenain’s beloved uncle Farid, a homosexual and HIV-positive man who handed away in 2013. One of her mom’s eight siblings, Farid was the glue that held the Paris-based facet of her Algerian household collectively. “We spent an enormous amount of time together at dinners, celebrating birthdays, Christmas and Eid,” Lenain defined in a video name from the Solarium gallery in Marseille, throughout a launch occasion for the guide. “Even though he was often ill, he was also radiant, laughed loudly, loved his Madonna tapes, always teased us, and was everyone’s favourite brother or uncle.”

After his passing, the household tasked Lenain with archiving his photographs and scanning his visible mementos. She started mourning the conversations she’d by no means have the ability to have. “His homosexuality was not surprising for me,” she writes within the guide. But as she started to query her personal, she yearned to ask him: “did you believe in God? Would you have felt it necessary to come out to your parents? Were you able to feel fully gay and Arab in France?”

It’s unlikely that Farid would have answered sure to that final query. Despite France being residence to one of many largest Muslim populations in Europe, queer Muslims are sometimes rendered invisible, mentioned Lenain, pointing to situations of normalized hate rhetoric against LGBTQ+ people, and rising Islamophobia. Last 12 months noticed a pointy uptick in anti-Muslim acts, according to French officials, up nearly 90% on 2024.

“In France, there’s palpable stigma – it’s basically the rhetoric of the far right – this hatred towards Black, Arab and visibly Muslim people,” mentioned Lenain, who’s now based mostly within the US, between New Orleans and New York. “For people to simply exist in society, on the streets or at work, can be an uphill battle. Add sexual orientation or gender identity to that equation and people often feel forced into silence.”

In current years, Lenain has exhibited these portraits in partnership with grassroots organizations that help LGBTQ+ and Muslim populations. “I always make sure those who’ve shared their time and stories are involved,” she mentioned, including that would entail writing textual content for the guide, talking at an occasion, or presenting their work alongside her personal. She cites two visible activists who impressed her social outreach: Nan Goldin and Zanele Muholi.

Both photographers based collectives that respectively fight the opioid epidemic and champion Black LGBTQ+ visibility in South Africa. “Much like them, my process always starts with the collective,” defined Lenain. “Photography has in the past been guilty of exploiting marginalized groups, but it can also be a powerful tool for healing and empowerment.”

An amazing instance of Lenain’s empathetic method lies in a single arresting portrait of a hand peeking via a thick, purple curtain whereas holding pearl-white prayer beads. At one level through the undertaking, the participant requested Leniain to take away the {photograph}. Even although the individual was not recognizable, she mentioned the picture “felt deeply connected to a moment in their journey toward embracing their queerness – a journey that was still fragile, new, unfolding.”

While Lenain initially grieved the lack of the picture, she consented. “The people I photograph should retain some agency over how the images we make together are used,” she mentioned. “That means leaving room and time for change, conversation, and growth.” Ultimately, the individual opted to incorporate the photograph – one thing Lenain sees as a development towards embracing their full self.

Lenain dedicates the guide to her uncle Farid, to a luminous sitter named Lamine, who handed away through the undertaking’s lifespan, and to all “queered and racialized bodies – bodies in liminality.” Some of the guide’s most shifting photos are intriguingly devoid of human presence. Such as a heat, ethereal photograph of what seems to be a vacant, graffiti-scrawled seaside constructing within the suburban port simply outdoors Marseille, made well-known by post-impressionist painters like Cézanne.

“This is actually not water,” mentioned Lenain, revealing that the wall opening frames a sliver of sunlit floor past. “But I love that people often think it is – a reminder that this work is not only documentary and invites viewers to use their imagination.”

Windows and doorways are recurring motifs within the sequence, and Lenain sees them as representing “the fixed in-betweenness of those queer Muslim experiences: whether or not to remain inside, hidden however secure, or outdoors, free however going through many obstacles and judgment.

“It is also the portal to our ancestors, to Farid, and the space between our world and the divine.”