Sex and Love
Reflections on William Yang’s Portrait of Darrin and Linden
William Yang, Getty Center, Queer Lens: A History of Photography
Dearest readers,
As a photographer, I learned many things through photographic critiques and examining images. There are images that ask us to look. And then there are images that ask us to feel. William Yang’s portrait of Darrin and Linden, printed on gelatin silver print and layered with his handwritten text, is one of those rare photographs that transcends what the eye sees.
At first glance, it’s easy to misread. A couple in bed—skin, proximity, intimacy. The kind of image that, stripped of context, can be mistaken for something erotic or even provocative. But then your eyes land on Yang’s words:
“...definitely nothing pornographic. You see, they were madly in love.”
Our perception of the image changes.
The text reframes the image entirely. It becomes not about sex, but about love made visible. You realize that what you’re seeing is not lust or exhibition, but tenderness. There is trust in the quiet surrender that comes from being truly seen and accepted by another. The photograph stops being an image of bodies and becomes an image of belonging.
As a photojournalist, this piece stopped me in my tracks. It’s the kind of image that reminds you why photography exists at all—to witness, to preserve, to capture the human experience.
We live in a culture that often treats sex as spectacle; something to consume, to perform, to sell. It’s flattened, stripped of intimacy. We rarely speak about the spiritual weight of it, the emotional exchange that happens beneath the skin. But Yang’s photograph reclaims that space. It reminds us that sex, at its core, can be an act of faith. The act of allowing someone to see you at your most exposed, and still be met with love.
This is what made me cry.
Because in this image, sex isn’t about pleasure alone. It’s about vulnerability. It’s about trust and devotion. It’s about two people who, for a fleeting moment, found love in each other.
In a world that still polices queer love—reducing it, censoring it, misunderstanding it—Yang’s work is a quiet act of rebellion. By simply showing love as it is—unashamed, gentle, human. He insists that intimacy between queer bodies is sacred, too.
This photograph doesn’t ask us to look at Darrin and Linden. It asks us to see them. To see love, in all its complexity and tenderness, and to be reminded of what it really means to be close to someone.
Love,
Ajie
