‘The person I’m studying is me’: How self-voyeurism helped an artist find his voice – and accept his sexuality

My coming out experience was not positive at all. I got kicked out.

Afterwards, when I arrived in the UK, I was very lonely. I remember being 21, in my mum’s kitchen when she was at work, wanting comfort, wanting to draw someone, but with no one other than myself, I started posing and studying myself – naked. It was so comforting. 

My confidence in myself and my body are not through life experience, but through art.

If you’re feeling lost, or too lost to know how you feel, hindsight is magical. Look back at yourself. Being so young, I was able to take my time to do that. Especially coming out, finding my sexuality, I felt, looking at myself naked: What am I getting from this? Why do I feel so comfortable? Why do I need this more than anything? That’s how it all started.

Process

My work is a mix of voyeurism and exhibitionism. I express myself through my nude body as it’s the most vulnerable state. The fact no one else is depicted means something.

It’s the same character in different situations, locations, dynamics. Sometimes more than one. All are an exploration of myself, who I am, who I can be, how I want people to perceive me. I build these rooms, have versions of me staring at other versions. It’s like the imagination of participation when people watch porn. It’s prodding at the limits of self-portraiture.

There are pieces where you’ll find me masturbating, putting my fingers in my mouth. You’ll see me playing with boxes. I look back and I’m like, what’s happening to this boy? Why does he need that? Why does he feel more human than I do now? Those are the questions I start from. I’m trying to understand who I am, what I do, how I feel.

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I always say, art is about the artist. When you look at a piece, you’re trying to understand who the artist is. How better to express that than by putting myself physically in the piece? You’re seeing my mind.

Self-love

For me, autoeroticism is about self-sufficiency. Sometimes, I look at myself in the bathroom, and that’s more than porn to me. As you perspire and get close to climax, you’re seeing him do the same. It throws you. It’s gratifying. There’s an independence to it. 

To be honest, I sometimes prefer masturbating to having sex. I go on webcams and masturbate with someone else; if I can’t see myself, I’m not as aroused. I see myself, what they’re seeing, watching myself and the other guy at the same time. The autoeroticism is in the independence and control. It’s a feeling that, if I were marooned on a desert island, I’d still be satisfied.

It’s a way of getting out of two-dimensional thinking – of needing someone else’s validation. It’s getting away from thinking of sex solely as friction. To me, sex-positivity is confidence in your sexual nature, and a lack of judgment of other people. It’s open-mindedness, tolerance.

I’ve got pieces where I’m working out. On the surface, you might think: ‘Oh, it’s a hot guy working out with weights.’ But when I look at them, it reminds me of the sweat running down my armpits, across my neck, feeling myself straining. It’s physicality that inspires the painting. There’s an eroticism there, because I felt so alive.

Form 

A lot of the magic happens beforehand, taking pictures and videos of myself playing with ropes or books, touching myself. Just me, in my studio, studying myself in front of a mirror; working out in front of a mirror.

The final pieces are ink and water. Technically speaking, it’s an ink wash painting. I use ink, wash with water and blend the ink on the paper. Some call it illustration or drawing. It’s not a painting, because it’s not paint. But it’s kind of like watercolor as a medium. People think it’s pencil, as it’s black and white. But I’m using a brush.

Someone once said my work approaches sculpture, as when painting, you’re adding layers, layers over layers, mixing palettes. I paint the surface of the water and blend it, spread it – I’m stretching the medium.

Boundaries

Disrespect comes up a lot. People request that I cum on the back of a painting and send the piece. People send me dick pics on Instagram and are like: ‘Draw this.’

Once, by coincidence, I was visiting the home city of a buyer, but for a different reason. I said I’d try to deliver the piece personally but couldn’t. He demanded to see me. ‘I buy your work; therefore, you must see me.’ When I said I couldn’t, he said: ‘I don’t want that piece anymore’ and blocked me. He’s probably seen so much of me over the years, nude, on his walls, that he thinks: ‘He’s mine.’ I get that all the time. But I’m confident enough in my reasoning for painting what I do that I’m able to minimise or dismiss it.

When I got my first major commission, in the tens of thousands, it felt like an accomplishment, not because of the money, but because I learned a lot about myself accepting such a big commission. I’ve met so many wealthy people with power. As a young person trying to make it in the creative arts, there’s a big lesson to be learned when dealing with wealthy people giving you, quote unquote, “help.”

You must set boundaries. Some people buy my art because they see me as a piece of meat. Yes, my work is nude. Yes, it’s a conversation about the artist, between the viewer and the artist, and I want to engage in that. But there’s almost an ownership people feel, and I’m not giving that away. 

I’ve learned exposing myself doesn’t mean giving ownership of what I’m exposing. I control that.

Meaning

Is my work real or fiction? It’s a blend: real and not real, dream and memory. I’ve lasered off my arse hair, but in the paintings, they’re visceral. Aesthetically, the boys in the paintings are hyper-realistic, but the backgrounds and locations are 2D. Blanking my dick and nipples, making them 2D too, creates control. If everything was hyperreal, it would feel too tangible. Leaving things blank, it’s like a faded memory. My nipples are very sensitive – and my dick, of course! – so blanking those feels like preservation of power.

Another reason I do what I do is because, in moments I’ve felt very, very dark, I’m like, ‘you need to capture yourself right now, so you can remember how you feel. Right now, you’re lost.’ I’ve shared this on social media – moments of me crying, super naked, covering my eyes. I look back, and I’m like, ‘I was so unhealthy.’ Physically, mentally. I think painting somehow kills that.

I wouldn’t have said that in the moment. I wasn’t doing it to heal. Quite the opposite. But looking back, it’s cathartic. Someone once said to me, if painting conjures sadness, why not paint yourself when you’re happy? The answer is, I don’t need to do that. I just process the joy and that’s it.

Building these boys in my studio, I’ve created almost a shelter, a home for them. It’s a brotherly connection. I look at them in their vulnerable states and allow them to feel sexual, to do things with no one judging. I made this.

Progress

I first made progress as an artist in 2019. I did a watercolor competition and won the main prize. That gave me confidence to believe I could do it. Then, in 2020 during COVID, I got my first gallery representation. I realised, through the gallery’s guidance, that this was not only my niche, but what I truly needed.

A flag-in-the-sand moment was my first exhibition in Boston in 2020. My paintings sold! They believed in me! That led to more work and connections. Another was a fantastic exhibition I had in Portland, Oregon. It cemented what was in my heart. They asked me to do an hour’s talk about my work at the opening. Hundreds were there. I realised, it wasn’t just what I thought most people thought, which is: hot guy, naked, masturbating. I’ve always said my work is more than that. There are nuances. Them allowing me the space to speak about it cemented that.

Daring

People ask, have there been moments where I’ve felt I’ve gone too far, where shame has come in – there haven’t been. It’s just me painting. No one else. The work is literally a piece of work. I know it can feel real. And sure, there have been times on Instagram where I’ve posted something, and it’s been banned. That’s a wake-up call. But it’s ‘Is this too much for social media?’ Not: ‘Is it too much for me?’ I’ve developed a thick skin. I understand and trust my intentions. 

What’s allowed me to be successful is being unapologetic. There are pieces that show me masturbating, but me grabbing my dick is just one factor. It’s not my focus. I’ll have the other hand holding the door. That’s storytelling. Even the way I title my pieces is earnest and sincere. 

There are always going to be people misinterpreting the work, seeing it on the surface. But I believe people are now absorbing more than just the nude man.

I’ve personally stepped away from constantly working out in the gym. Do I care if my pecs are big for the painting? No. There are paintings where I have a belly, and I don’t feel shame. At the time, I felt guilty, which is interesting. Now, pieces where I have a belly and the pieces where I have a six-pack feel equally as strong. The paintings are human. They’re self-work.

Future

In the last year, I’ve pushed it further. I’ve realised the beauty of the process. The pictures, videos – they’re as equally the art as the final piece. Even if, commercially speaking, it’s trickier to sell and spread those elements.

I life model and pose naked for photographers. I do performances, where I hug men for hours for people to watch. I did another piece where I was in my underwear in a gallery.

I was invited, with two other men and a woman, to a space with sand and ropes. They said to us: ‘Embrace this space, each other for five hours. Build the world you’re in.’

After years of self-portraiture, modelling and posing, I’m now live, in the flesh, moving in front of people, interacting with audiences, increasingly present in how I explore myself, as opposed to painting and hiding away.

For more information, visit www.felipechavez.co.uk and @_felipechavez

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