Alannah Cyan is a London-based artist with a focus on intimacy, queerness as it exists in life, and connection. They have captured these concepts through their photographic work. In this interview we explore modern day muses, chosen family, influential literature, and their many impactful photo series.
A: You often photograph and work with your close friends. What does it mean to you to
collaborate with people you love and memorialize that connection in your work?
A.C.: At this stage in my practice, working with my friends is absolutely central. Nearly all
my subjects over the past three years have been people I love and trust. Intimacy is
the foundation of my work. My own relationship to intimacy has been complex -
something I’ve had to learn to embrace over time. But through my closest
friendships and the unconditional love I’ve received from them, I’ve come to
understand and appreciate intimacy in a way that deeply informs my practice. While
my images may not always explicitly read as being about friendship, that love is
embedded within them.
For example, Pistol Packer (2022) has largely been discussed in terms of queerness -
both my own and my subject’s - but at its core, it is a tribute to my best friend and
muse, Oliver, who has been one of my greatest supporters. He calls me his cowboy,
so I wanted to create a work that honoured that connection. That said, the queer
reading of the work isn’t separate from its meaning - it’s inherently part of it. Oliver
and I have both come into our queerness alongside each other in adulthood, and
that shared experience is deeply embedded in our friendship. The work exists in
both of these spaces at once: as a reflection of our bond and as an exploration of
queer identity, with the two interpretations naturally intertwined.
There’s also an element of archiving in my practice. I’m 25, and for many young
queer people, friendships are foundational. The idea of a "chosen family" is often
spoken about in queer communities, and my work functions as a way of
documenting this period of my life - not in a purely documentary sense, but as an
expression of how I see my friends in my mind. My images are not just candid
moments; they are the fantasy versions of the people I love, the way they exist in my
imagination.
In my most recent series, Muse, Oliver appears as this elegant, timeless, classically
beautiful figure - because that is how I see him in my soul. To be able to capture my
friends in a way that reflects the way I experience them is incredibly special to me.
It’s something I don’t think I could achieve with someone I don’t share that depth of
history with.
A: Many of your friends have been described as muses. What do you find special about the
relationship between artist and muse, and do you think this is a relationship that needs
revival in modern times?
A.C.: The relationship between artist and muse is profoundly significant. If you consider it
through the lens of John O’Donohue’s Anam Cara, he speaks about how we do not
exist in isolation - our sense of self, our awareness of being alive, is formed through
our relationships. He describes friendship as a space where two souls meet. We
come to know ourselves through these exchanges - through words, through
presence, through being seen by another.
I believe that true art comes from an artist’s inner landscape - a deeply personal,
internal world that only they have access to. O’Donohue describes language as a
bridge between that inner and outer world, a way of bringing the unseen into form.
In many ways, I see art functioning the same way. When I create, I’m externalizing
something deeply internal. But when a muse enters the equation, something
different happens - the work no longer comes solely from my inner landscape, but
from the connection between mine and another’s. The presence of a muse is
evidence of that exchange, of inspiration being sparked through deep relational
understanding.
As for whether the artist/muse relationship needs revival, I don’t think it has ever
disappeared. While the term muse may not be used as often today, the dynamic is
very much alive. So much art - whether visual, literary, or musical - is shaped by
relationships, by the ways we are inspired by those we love (or those who challenge
us). My own practice is undeniably shaped by my friendships, and I see that same
dynamic reflected across contemporary art and culture. The muse may have
evolved, but the essence of that relationship remains deeply embedded in artistic
creation.
A: Do you find yourself pulling more from your local queer community for inspiration, or do
you have favorite queer references that contribute more to your influences?
A.C.: I think my work is inherently queer because I am queer, and I experience the world
through that lens - but I don’t see myself as a voice for the queer community. My
work isn’t made with the intention of representing queerness as a whole; rather, it
emerges from my own inner landscape, shaped by my personal experiences,
relationships, and way of seeing the world.
Because my friendships are such an integral part of my practice, and many of my
closest friends are queer, that naturally informs my work. In that sense, I am pulling
inspiration from my queer community, but not in a way that is consciously framed as
queer documentation or activism. Instead, queerness exists in my images the same
way it exists in my life - subtly, intimately, and uniquely nuanced to my own
experiences.
A: What initially drew you to photography as a medium?
A.C.: I started out in a pretty exploratory way. During my foundation year at Camberwell,
we did a diagnostic course where we tried out different disciplines before
specializing. I ended up picking photography and time-based media, I liked the
flexibility it gave me. At the time, I was actually more drawn to the time-based media
side of things, especially installation and performance. I was working on these pieces
inspired by freak shows, which felt more in line with my interests back then.
When I started my BA, I experimented a lot - animation, sound work, even stained
glass at one point. But I think what really pushed me toward photography was the
COVID lockdown. We lost access to the studio, so I started reconnecting with what
had first excited me back in foundation.
Around that time, I was really into sexploitation films, especially the ones by Russ
Meyer. I had picked up a set of three of his films from Ram Books, this erotic
memorabilia shop on Holloway Road, and I was obsessed with how beautifully made
they were. I wanted to create work that felt like the posters for these imagined
sexploitation films, and I even created an alter ego, Lana Moon, inspired by a ’70s
porn actress called Juicy Lucy.
Then, during lockdown, my influences started shifting. I was still drawn to the erotic,
but I wanted to develop a new visual language for queer erotica. Photography ended
up being the best way to do that. It allowed me to create these images without the
same logistical constraints of filmmaking. I still make films, I just don’t publish them
as much - but that might change. Now, I work digitally because it’s a simple, direct
way of producing work. But I think what keeps me coming back to photography is
that it gives me the ability to create entire worlds within a single frame.
In your piece “Anam Cara”, the subjects interact with the space they are in with motion
that compliments the beautiful landscape around them. When working outside, do you
find it important to let the space guide how you stage the image?
Completely. A big part of Anam Cara was about the protagonist, played by me,
feeling empowered by the natural space around her, so I wanted my body
movements to mirror the fallen tree behind me. The location was somewhere I had
been scouting for a while. I used to live nearby and spent a lot of time walking there
in the spring, feeling inspired by nature. Around that time, I was also reading Anam
Cara, which shaped the concept for the piece. I wanted a real sense of harmony
between the subject and the landscape, so the environment wasn’t just a backdrop
but something actively shaping the composition and movement in the image.
A: The book Anam Cara by John O’Donohue has been noted as having an impact on your
work. Anam Cara translates to ‘soul friend’ and is described as someone who becomes a
part of you. Outside of your work as an artist, how has this book shaped who you are and
how you approach your relationships, life, death and the importance of time apart?
A.C.: That’s a big question. Anam Cara has probably been my biggest influence over the
past couple of years, not just in my work but in how I understand myself. It gave me
a new way of conceptualizing my inner world, which is something I had always felt
but never had the language for. When I read the book, I felt deeply seen, especially
in O’Donohue’s writing about the inner landscape. I’ve always visualized my own
inner world as a lake, something I refer to with my friends as Lana’s Lake.
One of the ideas that stuck with me most is the balance between the inner and outer
world. O’Donohue writes about how neglecting either one has consequences - the
more you focus inward, the more the external world can feel distant, and if you
become too consumed by the external, your inner world suffers.
I think about that a lot in relationships, especially in terms of time apart. No matter
how close you are with someone, it’s important to step back and check in with your
relationship to solitude and yourself. O’Donahue wrote “When you cease to fear
solitude, a new creativity awakens in you. Your forgotten and neglected inner wealth
begins to reveal itself. You come home to yourself and learn to rest within”. Finding
that balance between my internal self and my external relationships is something I’m
always focused on.
A: Your subjects are often captured nude in a way that doesn't come off as polarizing, but as
natural. Has that been an important concept to convey since the start of your work?
A.C.: I feel really grateful for my friends’ willingness to be nude in front of the camera. A
lot of my work involves nudity, whether fully or partially, often with draped fabrics
or satin integrated into the set. That level of vulnerability requires a deep sense of
trust between me and my subjects, and it means a lot to me that they trust me to
portray their bodies in a way that feels seen and beautiful.
Nudity in my work has always come from an aesthetic love and appreciation for the
human form. Early on, I explored it in my art practice in a more erotic sense, but now
it’s more about the strength and beauty of the body being an angel of the inner
landscape. A key part of this process happens before the photograph is even taken,
building trust. I don’t see my images as just capturing someone, but as a
collaboration. If a model feels objectified or uneasy, that tension will always come
through in the final image so establishing comfort is essential for my work.
For example, in Fairy (2022), I had only met the model once before, through mutual
friends. Before shooting, we spent time together just talking and having coffee in my
kitchen, getting to know each other. That trust had to be in place before we moved
into the studio. That approach has remained a fundamental part of my practice.
A: What is your studio practice like?
A.C.: Honestly, it changes every day. Having a studio is still relatively new to me, but
usually, it involves a lot of printing, looking through magazines, studying other
photographers’ work, and sketching out ideas to integrate into my own practice.
Lately, though, I’ve actually pushed photography to the side because I’ve started
painting. Right now, my studio practice is more about rediscovering painting in my
life and enjoying the freedom it gives me. I’ve been focusing on getting into a flow
state and seeing where that takes me.
A: In many of your pieces the bodies can be seen to have a sheen to them that, to my eye, is
signature to your work. Do you collaborate with someone to lay out designs for body and
face makeup, or is this something you do in your practice and discuss with the subjects?
A.C.: For the most part, it’s something I do myself, but there have been a couple of times
when I’ve had help. In Pistol Packer, Oliver, who studied Hair, Make-up and
Prosthetics and is now a wig maker, helped with the makeup. The mustache he
wears in that series was one he made himself. He also helped with Fairy (2022) doing
all the make-up, hair, and prosthetic head-piece, and he’s been a great sounding
board for ideas around hair and makeup in my work.
The sheen you see in a lot of my images is something I intentionally bring into my
practice, though the process isn’t always the most comfortable for the model. I
usually make sure there’s a shower nearby so they can wash it off afterward, and I’m
really grateful to them for going through that for me. I try to minimize editing in
post, but for The Darkness Absolves Everything, the Struggle for Identity and
Impression Falls Away (2024), I shot in my studio, where there wasn’t space to clean
off any oils. In that case, I created the effect digitally instead.
A: As an artist, what is your relationship with self compassion?
A.C.: Self-compassion is a huge part of my work, especially as I explore my relationship to
intimacy through my friendships and the different ways love exists in my life. Getting
to that point has required developing a strong practice of self-compassion outside of
my work as well, which I know a lot of people struggle with, especially at this age.
In terms of being an artist, self-compassion is crucial because you have to detach the
value of your work from external reactions. Some pieces will get more praise, others
less, and some will go completely unnoticed - that’s just part of making art. Many
artists go through periods where they can’t create, sometimes for years, and I’ve
experienced that myself since finishing my degree. Learning to approach those
moments with self-compassion instead of fear is essential. It helps you move
through creative blocks without letting them define you or stop you from making
work altogether. More than anything, I think having a compassionate understanding
of why you want to create in the first place is what sustains you as an artist.
A: The series, “The Darkness Absolves Everything, The Struggle for Identity and Impression
Falls Away” asks questions of the self and reveals truths about each individual. What did
you learn from the process of creating that series?
A.C.: Ha! I learned that a lot of my friends sleep naked. This series involved much less
posing than my previous work. I asked some of my closest friends to come into the
set wearing whatever they typically sleep in and to lie down in the position they
naturally fall asleep in. The idea was to explore the subtle ways we still express
identity in private moments, even when no one is watching. What stood out to me
was how many people curled up into the fetal position and slept naked.
A: Something distinct about your work are the beautifully crafted, often ethereal sets. Is set
design something that excites you as much as shooting?
A.C.: 100%. I love building sets. If anything, the biggest limitations are physics, and maybe
my lack of carpentry skills...but I’m always trying to push my ideas further. When
people see the final photograph in a gallery, that’s just one part of the work. The
entire process is just as important, from designing and building the set to developing
the relationship with the model to drawing from my influences. I’m never working
just toward the final image; I’m working through the process, and in a way, that is
the piece.
A: I was enamored when introduced to your “Pistol Packer” series. How
did that work come about?
A.C.: Oliver, the model, is one of my best friends. We’ve known each other for about ten
years and have grown into adulthood and queerness together. He’s always been a
great supporter of my work and someone I use as a sounding board for ideas, so I
knew I wanted to collaborate with him as a model.
At the time, I was focused on creating more queer erotic photography, and Pistol
Packer came out of that. Oliver would often call me his cowboy, partly because I’ve
always had an affection for the cowboy aesthetic, which is something a lot of
lesbians connect with. There’s a butch campness to it that allows for a playful yet
deeply personal expression of gender and lesbian identity. The series was a mix of all
of that - our friendship, our shared queerness, my love for that aesthetic, and his
nickname for me.
A: Is there anything you would like to add?
A.C.: Ultimately, my work is about connection, whether it’s the deep bonds I share with
my friends, or the ways intimacy, and queerness are woven into the images I create.
As I begin sharing my painting, I’m excited to see how my process shifts when
collaboration is no longer at the core.
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