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To encounter Jess T. Dugan’s photographs is to be drawn into a space of radical tenderness—one that resists spectacle in favor of presence, where vulnerability becomes a form of strength, and intimacy a kind of truth-telling. Their exhibition at Gallerie d’Italia, Look at me like you love me, takes its title from a line of text that echoes throughout the entire body of work: a quiet plea, a declaration, and an invitation all at once. Dugan’s portraits are not only acts of seeing, but also of being seen—fully, honestly, and with care.
In this conversation, we delve into the emotional architecture of their practice, where photography becomes a vessel for love, memory, chosen family, and identity. Dugan reflects on what it means to bear witness—especially as a queer and non-binary artist in a time of rising hostility—and how the personal and political entwine in gestures of tenderness and trust. What emerges is a vision of art as both sanctuary and resistance, and of portraiture as a form of quiet revolution—one that asks us, simply and profoundly, to look with love.
AG: This body of work is titled Look at me like you love me—a sentence that feels both intimate and vulnerable. Can you tell us about the origin of this title and how it sets the emotional register for the entire project?
JTD: Absolutely. The title comes from one of the narrative texts in the book, which reads, “Look at me like you love me, I say.” I chose it as the title because it can be interpreted in multiple ways: it can be understood as a request from me to the viewer, from the subject to the viewer, and from the viewer to the subject. More broadly, it encompasses the primary idea behind my work, which is that we all want to be seen, affirmed, and loved for who we are.
AG: Your work often revolves around the act of seeing and being seen. How do you understand this dynamic—especially in photography—where the camera can be both a tool of intimacy and of distance?
JTD: The idea of seeing and being seen is a significant part of my work. There is immense power in letting yourself be fully seen by another person—it’s a heightened form of intimacy. Through photography, I am able to make space for others to be seen as they are, which can be particularly important for queer and trans people, as we are not often represented in the mainstream. My photographs are also very personal and speak to the way I see myself and others.
AG: In an era saturated with images, what does it mean for you to create portraits that invite slowness, presence, and reciprocity?
JTD: With my work, I aim to slow down, both while photographing and in the exhibition space. When I’m making a portrait, I work slowly and collaboratively, creating a framework in which a real emotional exchange can take place between me and the subject. In the exhibition space, I invite viewers to spend time, take a long look, and reflect on their own identities and lives through the act of engaging in moments of intimacy with others.
AG: The exhibition unfolds as a meditation on identity, desire, love, solitude, and chosen family. How do you approach these themes without reducing them to categories or clichés?
JTD: My work is informed by my own life and experiences, including my identity as a queer and nonbinary person, but also as a parent, child, friend, lover, partner… The themes you mentioned are some of my core interests as both a person and an artist. My photographs are not about any one thing, or any one group of people, but instead engage with larger existential questions about what it means to be alive and in relationship with others. I’m often asking, “what makes life meaningful?” Because I’m coming at my work from this deeper place, I believe it’s harder to reduce it to categories or cliches.
AG: How has your understanding of love—as a political, aesthetic, or personal force—evolved through your work?
JTD: Truly, love is everything. My work is infused with love—and a quest for love—of the self and others. So many of us have experienced rejection or a lack of love, both on a familial and societal level. There is immense power in learning to love and be loved for exactly who we are, particularly when that goes against societal expectations. I’ve recently read several books by Yung Pueblo. His theory is that learning to love ourselves and be truly present is the path to broader peace and social justice. So often, this kind of internal work is viewed as a solitary journey, but I truly believe that learning to love yourself has a positive ripple effect into the world. Love, in all of its manifestations, is deeply embedded into my work and my practice as an artist.
AG: Your portraits carry a quiet intensity. How do you cultivate trust with your subjects, and what is your approach to ethical image-making?
JTD: Trust, consent, and collaboration are absolutely essential to my work. The people I work with are not only willing to be photographed, but they are also actively interested in collaborating with me. I attempt to make portraits that transcend the specifics of the moment to be resonant on a universal emotional and psychological level; that is only possible with mutual trust and active collaboration. I have a strong personal ethic around making portraits, developed over many years of working with subjects who are part of underrepresented or marginalized communities. My relationships with my subjects are often long term, and I sometimes photograph the same people for many years. The passage of time deepens the trust between us, which leads to increasingly intimate portraits. I am also intentional about where and how I exhibit my work, to the extent that I am able. Of course, on some level, once it’s out into the world, it’s out of my hands. I do my absolute best to portray everyone I photograph with dignity and love and to assure that approach continues into the exhibition and publication space.
AG: Do you see portraiture as a form of resistance—especially when it comes to representing trans and queer bodies with care and dignity?
JTD: I do. In addition to the artistic side, my work also has an activist and educational mission. I think representation is very important—seeing yourself represented in the world around you can be life-affirming, particularly for people from underrepresented communities, including queer and trans people. Images can function as possibility models. For example, I’ve had many young queer people tell me they never thought they could have a family until they saw pictures of me with my family. Sometimes you need to see something to imagine it as a possibility for yourself. In this current moment of heightened hatred and divisiveness, I also think love, kindness, joy, and connection are forms of resistance. I’m seeking these things in my life as well as in my work.
AG: The exhibition includes Letter to My Daughter and Letter to My Father, deeply personal video works. What made you choose the form of a letter, and how does writing extend your photographic practice?
JTD: I began working with video and writing because I felt I had come up against the limits of what was possible with still photographs in terms of storytelling and narrative. My photographs have often featured me and my family, and many of them are very personal, but I felt compelled to tell more of my story, which became possible through language. Writing has become an increasingly large part of my work, and it often exists alongside my photographs. For me, speaking your truths openly and honestly is a powerful, transformative act.
AG: Though your work is deeply autobiographical, it speaks to a much larger community. How do you balance personal narrative and collective memory in your practice?
JTD: You are correct—my work comes from a very personal place but it is also made within, and about, a broader community. I immediately think of the Diane Arbus quote, “the more specific you are, the more general it’ll be.” By making work from a personal place, with both my immediate family and my broader community, it is infused with a kind of universality.
I’ve been making photographs for about twenty years now, and I also think of my work as a kind of archive for queer communities (or, the specific queer communities I have been part of). Though it wasn’t necessarily my intention from the outset, my work has chronicled queer and trans people and communities over time and has become an archive of those particular histories. For example, I made a series of twenty large-format polaroids of queer female and trans couples, titled Coupled, from 2006-2008, shortly after the legalization of gay marriage in Massachusetts. The series was acquired by the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and a large part of it was exhibited in 2022. When I made the work, I believed we were on a path towards greater equality and social justice. I was very optimistic. It was disheartening to realize that it was still necessary and relevant—and possibly more so—fifteen years later.
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AG: Do you consider intimacy—and the space you create for it in your work—as a political gesture in itself?
JTD: I’m not sure if I’d explicitly call it a political gesture, as I think the human need for intimacy with others is primal and instinctual. However, I do think the act of choosing intimacy when it goes against the status quo—and in some places comes with significant risk—is a political gesture. Choosing to live fully and authentically is simultaneously a deeply personal endeavor and a political act.
AG: Your work offers a radically tender vision of love, identity, and chosen family—at a time when political forces in the U.S. and elsewhere seem increasingly intent on policing bodies, gender, and traditional notions of family. How do you see your work positioned in this broader cultural and political landscape? Do you feel that making visible alternative forms of intimacy and family—outside traditional frameworks—is more urgent than ever today?
JTD: This current social and political moment is particularly challenging and frightening, and in many ways I’m still coming to understand this seemingly rapid change in the United States. However, the forces that are currently being amplified have always been present, so the struggle is not new. Although I find it depressing, it does feel like my work, and work depicting queer and trans people and families, is more essential now than it has been in recent years. It is a particularly challenging time for trans people, as there is so much hatred and fear coming from the administration (as well as anti-trans legislation throughout the country).
I have always believed that when you really come to know someone and understand their story, it becomes impossible to hate them or discriminate against them. Homophobia and transphobia come out of fear and a lack of understanding. Through my work, I try to create a framework in which people can come to understand others—including those they might be afraid of or unfamiliar with—on a deeper, more personal level. While I realize that art alone cannot change our culture, visual representation plays a vital role in educating, encouraging dialogue, and affecting social change.
AG: The emotional texture of your portraits brings to mind the work of photographers like Catherine Opie or Collier Schorr, but also writers like Ocean Vuong or Audre Lorde. How do you relate to that lineage—do you see yourself as part of a tradition or intentionally breaking from it?
JTD: I love all the references you mention, both for visual art and writing. Yes, I absolutely see myself as part of a lineage, and I have deep respect for the artists and writers who came before me and influenced my journey. Catherine Opie was an important early influence for me—I discovered her work as a teenager as I was coming into my own identity as a queer and nonbinary person. At the time, there were not a lot of representations of queer people in mainstream media. I saw myself represented in her work, which affirmed that others like me existed and I was part of a much broader community. My work about my family follows in her footsteps, as well.
In terms of visual art, I look at as much as I can, absorbing everything and allowing it to bounce around in my subconscious before coming out in my work. I am very influenced by painting, particularly Renaissance and Baroque portrait painting, as well as art history, more broadly. Early in my career, I worked in art museums, and being up close with original works of art, including photographs, drawings, prints, sculptures, and paintings, was significant to my development as an artist. I work extensively with museums, having placed my work in more than 60 collections to date, and I am passionate about the museum space as a site of education and transformation.
I also love that you reference Ocean Vuong and Audre Lord—I loved Ocean’s book On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous and am currently reading The Emperor of Gladness. The way he thinks and writes feels very resonant with my own practice—not that the work is the same, of course, but it is informed by some of the same lines of inquiry and ways of approaching the world. For many years now, I’ve been reading a lot of memoirs. I have always been interested in the truths of real lives and am struck by how we seek an understanding of ourselves through the stories and experiences of others. More broadly speaking, I think of my work as a kind of visual memoir, a long term record of my understanding of my own life.
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AG: Your work resonates with ideas from queer theory, feminism, and affect studies—even if not overtly. Do you see your practice in dialogue with thinkers like bell hooks, Judith Butler, or Maggie Nelson, for example?
JTD: Yes, of course. Judith Butler’s theories around the performativity of gender certainly affected my thinking about both lived experiences and the visual representations of those experiences. I am formally trained within photography—I have a BFA and an MFA. As part of that training, I’ve read a significant amount of theory about art, photography, gender, queerness, and feminism. That knowledge is part of me, so I’m sure it affects my work, but it’s not important to know that background when engaging with my photographs or drawings. Some layers of reference are clearly visible, particularly to the history of painting, if a viewer is versed in art history. Some artists engage very directly with theory, but I actually work to do the opposite—I want my work to be accessible on a human level, to all kinds of viewers, whether you know the theory and history or not.
AG: Is there a text—literary, theoretical, or otherwise—that you return to in moments of doubt or transition, something that anchors your creative and political vision?
JTD: That’s an interesting question. I don’t have a singular text I return to, but I do regularly turn to writing. Recent favorites have been Yung Pueblo’s books, as I mentioned, and I’ve also been reading books about the creative process including Rick Rubin’s “The Creative Act: A Way of Being” and Julia Cameron’s “The Right to Write.”
Music is also a big influence—two of my favorite artists are Lori McKenna and Brandi Carlile, who, not surprisingly, are masterful, emotional storytellers.
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AG: If there’s one gaze you hope people carry with them after seeing this show—one way of “looking” at others or themselves—what would it be?
JTD: I hope people feel seen and loved for exactly who they are and that my work inspires them to live fully and authentically. I also hope my work encourages presence and gratitude and functions as a reminder not to take anything for granted—life, time, relationships, love. We never know what is yet to come.
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Look at me like you love me
Gallerie d’Italia
Piazza della Scala, 6, Milano
May 17 - October 19
