Book Review: “marvel” by marvel harris
By Jess T. Dugan | September 16, 2021
Published by MACK in August 2021
Embossed hardcover / 24.6 x 37 cm / 140 pages
One of the most remarkable things about photography is its ability to be used as a tool to understand oneself, a tool of discovery and healing and self-expression, creating imagery that is initially transformative for the maker and, later, deeply meaningful to others. Marvel Harris’s new book, Marvel, poignantly embodies this idea, inviting us to witness his deeply personal journey of coming into himself as an autistic, non-binary, transgender person and artist. Over a five-year period, he made highly personal self-portraits, documenting both his gender transition and his struggles with mental health. Utilizing the camera as a tool for self-expression allowed him to make sense of emotions and experiences that, because of his autism, he otherwise struggled to understand. Of this project, he writes:
At first the focus of my project was my gender transition, but along the way I found out that it’s about an ongoing search for myself: being a human with feelings, who is continuously developing.
Many of the photographs depict Marvel alone, but others include his family, friends, and loved ones, placing an individual journey within the larger familial and communal context in which it takes place. Some of the images are intensely painful, such as the photographs depicting self-injury. Earlier in the book, we see recent wounds, held together by stitches, and watch as they shift to faded scars over time. Others show Marvel crying, screaming, or wrapped around himself in agony. However, other images are playful, loving, showing him smiling at the beach, happily seeing his chest for the first time post-surgery, or being embraced by his parents, friends, and lovers. We see signs of his physical transition: a vial of testosterone, gender-affirming surgeries, his chest surgery scars, and his changing physical body. And, we also see signs of the related social and communal shifts: trying on a new suit, swimming shirtless in a lake, learning to understand a changing body and gender presentation within a social and public context.
The book is sequenced chronologically; it begins with images of Marvel either before or very early in his physical transition. His expressions are pained, searching. Of the first five images in the book, two show him crying, and a few pages later, we are introduced to his self-injury. There is a psychological weight to these early images, a grappling with internal hurt and struggle. As we move through the pages of the book, we watch his physical transition take place, but almost more importantly, we see this weight begin to lift. The Marvel in the earlier images feels lost, not at home in their body, but by the end, there is a tangible solidity and presence, a deep comfort. This comfort feels most powerful in his eyes, in the self-possessed, confident way he is able to confront the camera, and the viewer, in the later images.
While many of the photographs are formal in nature, made in a studio-like setting, I am drawn to the looseness of the series as a whole; some images feel more candid or documentary, while others feel carefully staged and composed. Some images are blurry, capturing movement, or are out of focus. Some are made from far away; others show us intimate details of Marvel’s body from close range. The balance of playfulness with seriousness, of joy alongside pain, is part of what makes this book so compelling.
Another strength is its refusal to fall into a singular narrative. This book is about a gender transition, yes, but it refuses to depict that journey as separate from the rest of human experience in all of its multifaceted complexity. Through his photographs, Marvel is engaging with existential questions around what it means to know yourself, to feel at home in your body, to be part of a family and community, and to love and be loved.
Towards the end of the book, Marvel has included personal texts about many of the images that more explicitly address his experiences with both gender and mental health. These texts feel raw, personal, like we are reading his journal. This expansion, through language, invites us in on an even deeper level, allowing us to bear witness to aspects of his journey that couldn’t be communicated through photographs alone.
Throughout this body of work, there is a deep sense of urgency; it is clear that Marvel needed to make these photographs, and do this writing, to come to understand himself more fully. It is an immense gift that he has invited us in, chosen to share his most vulnerable and intimate experiences with a wider audience. Marvel has claimed his place among a long lineage of artists who have understood that sharing their own truths—especially when difficult or vulnerable—has immense power for healing, connection with others, and, ultimately, liberation.
Marvel is available from MACK.
