I want to be loud without being exposed

As a queer artist, I often feel torn between wanting to be seen and not wanting to be reduced. Especially when I make sound.

Sound feels closer to the body than image ever does. A scream, a sigh, a stutter — they don’t just carry emotion, they carry vulnerability. And yet, when I put these into my work, I always wonder: Am I sharing, or am I being watched?

There’s a risk in sonic intimacy. Unlike text or visuals, sound enters you. You don’t read it — it moves through you, before you even consent. That power both excites and unsettles me.

I want to create work that’s raw, that touches, that confronts. But I don’t want it to turn into a spectacle of trauma. Not another story about the queer body breaking down.

So I’ve been asking myself:
How do I make sound that’s personal without becoming fragile?
How do I be loud without being exposed?

Maybe the answer is in abstraction — not hiding, but distorting. Maybe it’s about creating affect, not confessions.

The truth is: I don’t want to be decoded. I want to be felt.