Bound together: Leather, sex, archives, and contemporary art

1Introduction: bound together

Soon, the written history rejoins—has to rejoin—the insistent, tireless, repetitive beat of a cognitive form that has no end. The written history is a story that can be told only by the implicit understanding that things are not over, that the story isn’t finished, can never be finished, for some new item of information may alter the account that has been given. In this way, history breaks the most ordinary and accepted narrative rule, and in this way also, the written history is not just about time, doesn’t just describe time, or take time as its setting; rather, it embeds time in its narrative structure.

Carolyn Steedman¹

The purpose of history, guided by genealogy, is not to discover the roots of our identity, but to commit itself to its dissipation […] to make visible all those discontinuities that cross us.

Michel Foucault²

This book considers historic gay and lesbian leather communities by way of two interrelated lines of enquiry; addressing the archives where leather histories and their attendant visual and material objects currently reside, while also examining the projects of contemporary artists who bring leather histories to the fore, making an implicit argument for their potential queer political force in the present.

Leather sexualities and cultures are, at their core, profoundly visual, having developed and transformed an astonishing set of visual signifiers. From the leather (and denim) garments that a leatherperson might wear—vest, pants, harness, cap, gauntlets, boots—to the darkened, yet nevertheless image-heavy, architectural spaces of the leather bar, nearly everything in the embodied performance practices of power exchange so central to leathersex’s sexual expression are designed to visually declare their perverse, affinitive capacities. Historically, leather communities fostered and supported a number of artists, many of whom built artistic careers exclusively making work for other leatherfolks’ eyes, libraries, and dungeons. For example, Dom Orejudos, a prolific leather artist working out of Chicago under the Europeanized pseudonym Etienne, completed illustrations for leather publications (magazines, novels, catalogs, and newsletters), murals and logographics for leather bars, as well as original drawings and art prints derived from the former. Outside of leather communities his work is not recognized as artistically significant. It is a wonder and a shame that more scholastic attention has not been paid to the prolific visual productions of leather artists like Orejudos. I can only speculate that this is partially or fully the product of a sex-negative culture wherein images, photographs, and films representing sadomasochism and queer sex have been subject to intense and egregious litigation and censorship.³ Such juridicial overreach (which is by no means limited to the United States, even though this study is) has broadly chilling effects, which can still be felt today from the newsstand to the academy.

This book seeks to change that in some small way by taking cues from contemporary artists who have quarried the archives, art, and visual and material cultures of historic gay and lesbian leather communities. They have been on the frontlines of research, and in my mind are greatly, if not wholly, responsible for the incipient recuperation of historic leather aesthetics we are witnessing today. It is through the work of artists like Dean Sameshima, Monica Majoli, Nayland Blake, Patrick Staff, A. K. Burns and A. L. Steiner, and the artist collective Die Kränken, that leather archives and certain strands of contemporary queer artistic practice are bound up with one another, and that each gives the other meanings that enrich and deepen their respective significance to their own times, communities, and, even, to culture at large.

My line of thought is really an extrapolation of Raymond Williams’s observation that each generation constitutes and is constituted by its own structure of feeling forged in relation to a selective tradition of cultural touchstones.⁴ Such affinitive relationships—Williams imagines them as lines—are never simply arbitrary, but inform the emergence and resultant interpretations of contemporary culture. About this process he writes,

In the analysis of contemporary culture, the existing state of the selective tradition is of vital importance, for it is often true that some change in this tradition—establishing new lines with the past, breaking or re-drawing existing lines—is a radical kind of contemporary change. We tend to underestimate the extent to which the cultural tradition is not only a selection but also an interpretation.⁵

I make this argument at a moment when gay and lesbian leather aesthetics are being absorbed, often uncritically, into contemporary visual and popular culture. In 2015, for example, the pop singer Taylor Swift was photographed sporting a gray leather harness while out shopping with fellow celebrity singer Selena Gomez in Los Angeles. Such tabloid gossip is, on the surface, unremarkable in its quotidianess—a famous person went shopping with another famous person. Yet the coverage of the event didn’t neglect to point out that the harness that Swift wore was produced by the American clothing brand Free People (the irony should escape no one), signaling that someone (or a group of someones) in some room decided that a leather harness would be an ideal fashion accessory for a young, bohemian fashion consumer. Leatherwear has, in other words, already been successfully commodified within a non-leather consumer market that trades, in large part, on the social and cultural capital of young people.⁶ One tabloid covering Swift’s fashion choice was predictably alarmist in its headline: ‘I’m Ready to Get Extreme! Taylor Swift Explains Her Bizarre Harness Accessory as Fans Question Her Fashion Choice.’⁷ The authors of the story cycle between astonished and consultative tones, noting that if emulators wish to follow in the fashion footsteps of Swift, that they do so only with some caution, as the ‘trend’ of wearing harnesses ‘can easily swerve into dominatrix territory.’⁸ Implicitly positioning leatherwear as signifying sex work, which the authors believe should be avoided, is, I would argue, a common and uncritical elision (not to mention moral valuation) regarding leather aesthetics and sex work. As in many other instances where the sexually explicit comes into contact with the machinations of capitalism, the coverage of Swift’s harness toggles between titillation and revulsion. Still, the harness is not without its charms—the author continues: ‘While these leather harness [sic] serve no real function, they do manage to toughen up what would be a rather boring look.’⁹

This example of leatherwear appearing on the radar of pop-celebrity culture is not singular, and it points to the wide semiotic chasm separating the supposedly non-functional ‘fashion choice,’ and the garment that signals an overt and deep affinity with a particular culture (here leather communities). Indeed, the column misappropriates the garment as being intrinsic to sex work (the dominatrix), rather than leather communities and their visual and material cultures. Implicit in this bit of tabloid gossip is the fact that the authors’ anxious frettings wouldn’t be necessary if they didn’t believe, on some level, that this gap was not yet wide enough.

Roy Martinez’s Sup Foo? #3 (2018) (figure 1.1) serves as a correlative and, in some ways, corrective to the glib mainstream flirtation with the visual and material cultures of gay and lesbian leather communities—of which fashion is only one component. Martinez, who also sometimes exhibits and sells clothing under the pseudonym Lambe Culo (literally ‘lick-ass’ in Spanish), offered the work for $150 on their website, where it was positioned promiscuously between the discourses of fashion and fine art in its description as a ‘numbered and signed’ shoulder harness. The pricepoint is equally evocative in its ambiguity, as the item is not much more than what a leather shoulder harness would otherwise cost in a leather shop, and not much less than an artist’s multiple at a museum bookstore or gallery. Importantly, Sup Foo? #3 is not made of leather, but cloth belting and plaque buckles riveted together. Martinez’s two buckles are incised with the letters L and C (for Lambe Culo, no doubt) in the modernized Blackletter typeface colloquially known as ‘Old English.’ Akin to Swift’s Free People folly, Martinez specifies on their website that the garment is ‘not recommended for play,’ perhaps due in large part to the structural fragility of the plaque buckles (unlike their more common, tongued counterparts in leatherwear). Whatever the reason, Martinez nonetheless collapses the current appeal of contemporary leather aesthetics to a middle-class, white fashion consumer and the hallmarks of cholo fashion, a subcultural and politicized mode of dress that delineates, among other things, a refusal to look and act like the ideal participant in white neoliberal capitalism.¹⁰ The work, via its title, greets its viewer with culturally specific terms of endearment, and likewise proposes a cholo revision of the ur-material of kink: leather. At the same time it complicates what the artist identifies as the ‘cis[-gender] het[erosexual] cholo subculture’ as one in need of revision and a more inclusive reclamation for queer and gender non-binary people.¹¹ Picking up on Gayle Rubin’s insight that ‘fetishism raises all sorts of issues concerning shifts in the manufacture of objects, the historical and social specificities of control and skin and social etiquette, or ambiguously experienced body invasions and minutely graduated hierarchies,’ Martinez refashions sadomasochism’s reliance on leather as a primary material signifier of sexual power exchange.¹² Identity and its politics of contingency are central to any reasonable interpretation of this sculpture, which is cleverly photographed by Martinez in a state of suspension between strength and precarity, hanging from a rugged chain, which in turn is delicately pinned to the wall with a clear thumbtack. Sup Foo? #3 conjures a kinky brown body—perhaps the artist’s own, but also perhaps a more phantasmic one—and perversely plays with branding, adjustment, accommodation, and a history of racialized dress. In fashioning a particularized item of kinky dress and reimagining it within the parameters of latinx and gender non-binary cultural production, Martinez evokes ‘tha multifaceted histories within a material / collective memory,’ while also leveling a profound critique on a subculture that the artist identifies as too white and too narrowly masculine.¹³

1.1 Roy Martinez, Sup Foo? #3 , 2018.

I join artists like Martinez in insisting upon the depth and complications of the particular histories they access as a key component of claiming a politics of identity variously considerate of and irresponsible to a sense of a collective past—an acknowledgment that the ‘then’ of queerness is of enduring and foundational importance as one of the suppliers of metamorphic potentiality to queer life. Elizabeth Freeman suggests such archeological digging might even be intrinsic to the constitution of leather sexualities, as ‘S/M relentlessly physicalizes the encounter with history and thereby contributes to a reparative criticism that takes up the materials of a traumatic past and remixes them in the interests of new possibilities for being and knowing.’¹⁴ With epistemic and ontological projects deeply concerned with representing and imagining a kinky past, the artists discussed in this book access archives, or, sometimes, assemble them in the absence of publicly accessible archives while in pursuit of such queer possibility. Therefore, to fully think through their work demands a concomitant consideration of the joys and vicissitudes of archival work itself.

My methodology regarding the access and use of archives in this study has two interrelated components: by examining material and visual culture made by members of gay and lesbian leather communities, I trace their contextual meanings at the time of their making, as well as their continued ability to produce community-specific histories in archival repositories that may or may not be solely dedicated to leather communities. I also identify instances where the themes, materialities, and/or histories of like objects have become part of the work and politics of contemporary queer artists. This twofold methodology is represented in the structure of this book, as some of the following chapters combine readings of particular archives and the objects they contain with readings of contemporary artistic projects that are either tangentially or directly related to them and their histories.

I seek nothing less than to challenge, and potentially unseat, the orthodoxies of writing, structuring, and historicizing communities and artists that have heretofore been ignored, erased, destroyed, and decimated by the vagaries of discipline, illness, and a sex-negative society that stubbornly refuses to understand their contexts. My work does not sit alone in this task. The hard-won work of authors and cultural producers such as Gayle Rubin, Tony DeBlase, Pat Califia, Viola Johnson, Guy Baldwin, Larry Townsend, and Jack Fritscher has provided a foundation for thinking about leather cultures and communities, and I hope my work in turn opens out possibilities for other scholars and artists.

I have opted not to provide a comprehensive or encyclopedic history of gay and lesbian leatherfolks in the U.S.—in the vein of George Cauncey’s Gay New York or Lillian Faderman and Stuart Timmons’s Gay L.A., each of which is remarkable for its thorough chronological accounting of geographically sited LGBTQ histories.¹⁵ Instead, I stress something else, namely the state and scope of the archives of leather history, and the myriad ways in which that history has been accessed, understood, and remade by contemporary artists largely living and making work in the U.S. Tracking the sexual and racial politics of contemporary art alongside the visual cultures of historical leather communities is meant to illuminate the interconnected work of scholars, artists, and leatherfolks—bringing them into rare dialog. I have tried to structure this text to speak to each of these constituencies, knowing that some readers will claim membership in one or perhaps all of these groups.

On ‘leather’ and ‘fucking’

There are many ways to linguistically name the sex discussed in this book. I have chosen ‘leather’ as the term under which I organize the heterogeneous and multitudinous sexual practices discussed herein, ones that sometimes incorporate sadomasochism, power play, bondage, fisting, discipline, humiliation, flagging, flogging, fucking, and much more. To wit, leather also encompasses kissing, hugging, flirting, talking, and other practices that are often seen as sexually normative. Within contemporary BDSM communities these seemingly benign activities are positioned as ‘vanilla,’ but I would argue that these less-sensationalistic corporeal performances of the flesh become part-and-parcel of leathersexualities when coupled with practices usually associated with leather, or embodied by a self-identified leatherperson. A kiss means something different when it comes before, during, or after a consensual flogging. And as with all sex, it matters who is doing what with whom, and what they make it mean together.

I consistently use leather, instead of another term, for its broad applicability and elasticity; as Rubin has aptly noted, many fetishes are housed under the umbrella of ‘leather.’¹⁶ The term enjoyed wide dissemination during the period of leather’s expansion and popularization, roughly 1964–84. It is to this period, non-coincidentally, that many of the artists discussed in this book turn when mining the ephemera and embodied practices of leather. There are many examples of ‘leather’ as the preferred term of this community. Drummer magazine, for example, one of the most remarkable repositories of information regarding leather communities in the late 1970s and 1980s, proclaimed its allegiance to ‘leather’ as a preferred term: from its earliest incarnation as an affinity organization called the ‘Leather Fraternity,’ to its masthead—‘The one publication dedicated to the leather lifestyle for guys.’ Another example would be the International Mr. Leather (IML) contest, which got its start in the late 1970s, and indexes leather as its preferred terminology via its title—sending-up the popular beauty contests of the era (such as the Miss America competition, or the earlier Groovy Guy contests put on by The Advocate), while simultaneously cohering fairly segmented and city-specific leather cultures. Both of these institutions of leather culture centered artists and their work as integral and necessary components of sexual lifeways. Drummer, for instance, published the artwork and illustrations of almost every leather artist working during its nearly 25-year-long run, marking it as an indispensable source for any visual historian of gay and lesbian leather communities. I would argue that IML’s success could be attributed in large part to Etienne, who created the visual identity for the contest, populated the stage with giant, painted, cut-outs of leathermen, filled its programs and brochures with playful black-and-white illustrations, and not least of all served for over a decade as the contest’s ‘head judge.’

‘Leather’ is also a preferred archival term, and it is the most common descriptor used by institutions dedicated to displaying and preserving these histories. The Leather Archives & Museum in Chicago is the most obvious example (and is explored in greater detail in Chapter 4), and the same with the Carter/Johnson Leather Library (which is the subject of Chapter 6).

But leather was not the only term used in the 1970s; sadomasochism and its many initialisms (S&M, SM, S/M) were prevalent, too. These terms have their roots in a classificatory system that sought to pathologize sexual acts of dominance and submission—bringing them into a discourse that named and classified sexual normalcy and its constitutive aberrations. As many historians of sexual communities and cultures have rehearsed before, the terms sadism and masochism were the brainchild of Austro-German sexologist Richard von Krafft-Ebing, who first used them in his 1886 aggregation of casestudies, Psychopathia Sexualis.¹⁷ In grouping together what he perceived to be similar pathologies, Krafft-Ebing created new taxonomic categories based on a sequence of eclectic case studies. Krafft-Ebing named two related, but (in his eyes) distinct desires—the desire to cause ‘pain’ through ‘force,’ and the desire to be willfully subjected to pain. In designing these paraphilias (the term for psychopathologies tied to sexual expression and sexuality), he name-checked the authors he felt most exemplified such desires in their literary works—the Marquis de Sade (1740–1814) and Leopold von Sacher-Masoch (1836–95), respectively. But Krafft-Ebing’s formulations became, and in a more limited extent remain, orthodoxy within contemporary mental health diagnostic practice; the current DSM-5 contains entries for ‘sexual sadism disorder’ and ‘sexual masochism disorder’ as paraphilias.¹⁸ It was only twenty years after Krafft-Ebing published Psychopathia Sexualis that Sigmund Freud wrote of sadism and masochism as related, continuous desires. ¹⁹ Eventually, his insight was clarified and popularized in the linguistic portmanteau ‘sadomasochism.’

If I push against using sadomasochism because of its psychopathological roots, others within leather communities of the 1970s and 1980s believed that it should be used precisely because the term indicates something about leather’s outlaw, and thus radical, status. Such voices are worth paying heed to. One particularly compelling counterargument is furnished in a book review of Geoff Mains’s seminal leather text Urban Aboriginals. Published in DungeonMaster, the reviewer—most likely Tony DeBlase, who edited the periodical from his home in Chicago—excoriates the author’s choice to use ‘leather’ over ‘S&M,’ stating that such a decision ‘softens what he’s writing about. I’m into leather could be easily viewed as a statement of a harmless quirk (Woody Allen got a joke out of that very quote in Annie Hall); I’m into S&M is a statement of radical politics.’²⁰

That particular review was published in 1984, and now the terminology in the leather landscape is vastly different. I would refer any reader interested in more contemporary terminologies to the ‘Note on Terminology’ that opens Margot Weiss’s performative materialist ethnography, Techniques of Pleasure: BDSM and the Circuits of Sexuality.²¹ The thoroughness with which she traces the lineages of a variety of contested terms helped to further clarify the one I privilege in this study. In her book Weiss uses BDSM as her preferred term, as her study is focused on more contemporary, pansexual kink communities clustered around Silicon Valley. She notes that BDSM’s etymology is of ‘relatively recent (and, many suggest, Internet) coinage.’²²

I also prefer ‘leather’ because it names one of the primary materials in the erotic arsenal of sexual practices that falls under its purview. Many leatherfolks have described leather as a ‘second skin’ and contemporary theorists have made much of this—especially in relationship to corporeal performances and embodiments of racialized bodies.²³ As a material used for garments, toys, equipment, and accessories, leather is still the clearest, but certainly not the only, material signifier of sadomasochistic practice (denim—particularly the wheat-colored denim used by early bike clubs—rubber, latex, and many other materials have had historic importance within leather communities). I also follow the lead of some of the most prominent writers within leather communities, such as Geoff Mains and Larry Townsend, and use portmanteaus such as ‘leathersex’ and ‘leatherwoman,’ connecting leather directly to what it describes or modifies. In this way I hope to tie together material and corporeal practices with identities via an already performative linguistics.²⁴

It may be useful here to briefly set up some of the language I use to describe leathersex, language that is largely taken directly from of the archival material I work with. I do not always affect a researcher’s ‘objectivity’ and cloak my discussions of sex in polite euphemism, or clinical, academic language. I use the word ‘fuck’ to generically cover a variety of embodied erotic practices, and this word comes with as much cultural baggage as does more seemingly benign phrasing. So let me be clear as to its meaning herein. To some, fucking may imply only penetrative sex—an interpretation I refuse for its limitations. To others, it may come to monolithically mean uncaring, unsympathetic, or anonymous sex—another association that in my estimation is too limited, and I reject it along with the moralizing tone that often accompanies this kind of usage. Fucking encompasses these things and more. I use ‘fuck’ as an umbrella term (not unlike ‘leather’), inclusive of many kinds of affective sexual relationships. In this way I hope to extend Lauren Berlant’s helpful framing of sex as ‘not a thing of truth but a scene where one discovers potentiality in the abandon that’s on the other side of abandonment.’²⁵ Within the imaginative possibilities of leathersex, fucking takes on a truly dynamic range: from a consensual agreement to sit in a chair while your lover(s) are in another room; or a devoted attention to the activity of shining a boot; to the piercing and suturing of flesh. Although I liberally use ‘fuck/ing’ throughout this book, I am also careful with such positionings of graphic language, for as Linda Williams points out in her overview of the field of pornography studies, there is a difference between sexualized terms and the comfortability or criticality they evince.²⁶ Therefore I theorize leather and fucking in terms of their most generous meanings and associations so that they might continue to be generative for leatherfolks, artists, and historians alike.

Positioning a wide variety of erotic activities under the linguistic sign of ‘fucking’ has its downsides, too. Once, while presenting some of the material contained in this book, a leatherman approached me after my lecture, and scolded me: ‘You know,’ he said, ‘we make love too.’ His point is not left unconsidered, especially in light of enriched theoretical reconsiderations of love—the writings of bell hooks and Sara Ahmed come to mind—and I hope that this book finds him, and that I’ve done justice to a myriad of sex practices as he (and others) experience them within leather communities.²⁷ It is in this book’s conclusion that I will circle back to love, as a potential and productive site for surrogacy, encasement, and the reformulation of sexuality.

Finally, I concentrate on ‘gay’ and ‘lesbian’ leatherfolks, which is to say those people who most often had contacts with same or similar-gendered people. This may seem odd given that leathersexuality, in a profound way, questions the very foundations of affilliative and coalitional categories such as gay and lesbian. As Patrick (then Pat) Califia so clearly put it, ‘Most of my partners are women, but gender is not my boundary […] If I had a choice between being shipwrecked on a desert island with a vanilla lesbian and a hot male masochist, I’d pick the boy.’²⁸ Some gay and lesbian leatherfolks fucked people of the opposite gender, while choosing to align themselves within the field of gay and/or lesbian identitarian categories that would seem on the surface to preclude such erotic affiliations. In writing a history of gay and lesbian leatherfolks I do so under the assumption of such fungible definitions of identity and their dynamic relationship to fucking—including processes of self-naming and affiliation.

In short, leather, for the purposes of this book, is proposed as a diverse sexual ecology that privileges fucking and improvisatory play, genital and non-genital pleasure, rules and their effacement—all under the rubric of a seemingly static visual iconography, which in actuality is always in the process of being amended, shored, repurposed, and obliterated. It is a live system of relationality, varied in its address. Powerful symbology—in the material form of leather and the visual forms of representation developed by artists, magazine editors, filmmakers, and others—aids a great deal in imagining the uses of the sensorium of the body, including, but not limited to, broader discourses of pain and haptic touch.²⁹ Notice that my working definition above says nothing of what is usually identified as leathersexuality’s most prominent feature, the presentation of strictly dyadic relationships (top/bottom, sadist/masochist). While common ingredients in leathersexuality’s presentation and enactment, these relationships are not ossified identities, but temporary agreements that invest erotic significance in an agreement’s terms and potential limits. Even the most rigid top or bottom would admit that within the relationality of fucking, dyadic positions are altered, transformed, and even flipped.

What Michel Foucault terms the ‘strategic relationships’ of leather have been read in a multitude of ways.³⁰ Leo Bersani, for instance, usefully describes leathersex as an ‘X-ray of power’s body,’ while Geoff Mains places ‘shared ritual and apotheosis’ at the center of his definition.³¹ I’ll have much more to say about these ideas in the chapters that follow, but for now I want to suggest that we invest in both authors’ notions as only a slice of a complicated terrain mapping out each person’s relationship to fucking, power, and visual representation. This can be the foundation for addressing leather’s ‘interconnected social archipelago’ with openness.³² In response to Bersani, who famously surmised that sex’s big secret is that ‘most people don’t like it,’ I suggest a shift in the rubric of what counts as sex so as to supply a more expansive ground from which ‘possibilit[ies] for creative life’ (as per Foucault) might be built.³³ Then the question wouldn’t be whether people like sex or not, but how it might address what Berlant identifies as the ‘ongoing question of how living might be structured.’³⁴ It is this living that most interests and excites me.

Archives, not ‘The Archive’

Many have offered insights into the nature of archives. Archives are situated most basically as a ‘non-random collection of things,’³⁵ which are ‘grouped […] composed […] maintained,’³⁶ and which articulate ‘memory’s potential space,’ a place where scholars can revel in the ‘deep satisfaction of finding things.’³⁷ They are variously a ‘centre of interpretation,’³⁸ or potentially a ‘communication medium,’ in and of themselves.³⁹ For some, archives engender a kind of disciplinary melancholy in that purgatorial present ‘between the not-yet-known and the what-has-once-been.’⁴⁰ Others see them as fragmented sites that provide ‘keys that unlock the door of historical background,’ and yet we are often called upon to be wary (or at least aware) of their ‘seductive’ qualities and their ‘daunting and distracting amount of information.’⁴¹ Despite this, or, depending on whom you consult, precisely because of it, they are ‘an everyday tool’ of a radical politics that is ‘inherent, practiced, and natural.’⁴² An archive’s work, broadly conceived, is to manage the ‘morass of memory,’⁴³ where ‘the remnants of someone’s life’ are ‘numbered, filed, boxed and preserved for future generations.’⁴⁴ But maybe, in the end, they are just ‘gigantic machines,’ which are more or less organized, more or less agential, and we should therefore be more or less suspicious of them.⁴⁵

An archive is both a ‘temple and a cemetery.’⁴⁶

In other words, archives are many things to many people—and the figuration of ‘the archive’ is by now overgeneralized to the point of requiring consistent clarification—a process Carolyn Steedman calls ‘archivization.’⁴⁷ The preceding collage of statements, culled from a variety of disciplines, is meant to destabilize any singular claim that I, or any other, might wish to make about archives—while also pointing to some of the tropic language attached to writings focused on archives and archival work. How to make sense of it all? ‘Theory is the price we pay,’ historian Kathy E. Ferguson muses, ‘to bring order to the archive, to make the archive speak.’⁴⁸ Indeed, theory supplies one answer for what many authors grapple with (and I am no exception), which is the unruliness of even the most strictly ordered archive. Part of this is our own fault: in accessing archives we enliven them with meaning, bringing their contents into the present—often in ways their creators and caretakers didn’t intend. The historian Joan Wallach Scott worried about precisely this when she quipped, ‘I’d rather be dead than misread.’⁴⁹ Archives consistently dramatize this prospect, and this is what my discussion of the appearance of the color yellow across the Leather Archives & Museum’s collections (Chapter 4) is meant to reveal.

The implications of all this should be clear, that archives present a set of problems for any methodology that would seek to enact a standardized procedure for accessing, describing, and interpreting them. After years of research, the only thing I can say with any great certainty is that each archive I have encountered during the course of my research for this book is utterly unique, and demands to be taken on its own terms, with a set of methodological tools that can meet and convey its particular abilities to invigorate body and mind. Therefore, throughout this book I generally eschew the metonymic linguistic figuration of ‘the archive,’ even though many of the authors I have cited above use exactly this phrase. I find it difficult to use because it compresses that which only expands, singularizing that which I’ve always found to be multiple. By concertedly discussing particular leather archives and putting them in concert with contemporary artistic projects invested in accessing, reconstructing, repurposing, and exhibiting leather archives, I endeavor to impart some of the strangeness and satisfactions that accompany the temporal shifts at the foundation of archival work.

This book is caught between two disciplinary forms of thinking about archives. On the one hand, art historians have long used archives as sites for producing original scholastic contributions within their field(s). Roland Barthes describes the figure of the author in the popular imaginary as someone who nourishes a text, and in art history, at least operationally, archives are conceived of in similar terms—as nourishing scholarship.⁵⁰ Ernst van Alphen lays this out more schematically: ‘what fieldwork is to anthropology, the archive is to art history.’⁵¹ The importance of the archive is undeniable, even when it is unremarked upon within the body of an art historical text. Archives are, in this view, things