"Skin. And Under. Evolving Young Machos. Or Not."
By Igor Mattio
SKIN, and Under moves through territories — geographic, cultural, bodily — in search of masculinity as it actually lives: unperformed, unannounced, rooted in specific soil and light and habit.
The project photographs men in the places that shaped them. Not against backdrops, not extracted from context, but inside it — in the landscape, the architecture, the climate of their own belonging. The sessions are staged, but what is sought is natural: the posture a man carries without thinking, the ease or tension in his skin, the way he holds space when no performance is required.
252 pages. 191 photographs. Five writers each invited to choose an image and write their own fiction from it — not to illustrate, but to generate something independent. The image as prompt, not document.
Nudity here is neither performative nor provocative, but instinctive — a quiet fact of skin. Silver gelatin prints, made by hand in the darkroom, slow the image down, insisting on materiality: the body is not a concept but a physical fact.
Published by Artfineline, 2025. $98 + shipping.
Excerpt from the Book
Medellin, March 2024
As I step into the arrivals hall, the hum of Spanish conversations surrounds me, pulling me back to childhood travels. Snippets about missed flights and reunions carry both familiarity and unease—an emotion I’ve known since I was young.
This isn’t just another trip. Colombia has lived in my imagination for decades. Sweat trickles down my back as my friend’s question echoes: “What the hell did you take on this project for?” The boldness of my endeavor hits me. I’ve navigated Afghan markets and Soviet checkpoints, yet this feels different.
The young men I’ve come to photograph—familiar and foreign, raw and layered. Can I capture their truth? Language is just a beginning; the real challenge is unspoken—dreams, contradictions, complexities. My camera speaks universally, but will it be fluent enough?
David’s warm smile snaps me out of my thoughts. “Igor!” he calls, pulling me into an embrace that smells of cologne and something distinctly Colombian. David was my anchor during the January trip—an indispensable guide and a trusted companion through unfamiliar terrain. His presence here steadies me once again. He introduces Richar, Juan Sebastian from Bucaramanga, and Jhojan from Cali. Their youth strikes me—they’re not just subjects; they carry stories, waiting to be heard.
The drive is punctuated by reggaeton, the green landscape unfolding to its rhythm. Juan’s music choice feels like my teenage years, yet this isn’t my world—it’s theirs. The finca looms, grand and old, as tension builds. Months of planning, ethical debates, and doubt culminate in this moment. The owner checks legal age; we show documents and proceed.
Under a night sky heavy with jasmine, we sit around an iron table, lanterns casting shadows on our faces. Cicadas hum, beer bottles cool my hands. Stories unravel—cam model shifts, manipulative bosses, bitter laughs. Richar speaks of 8-hour shifts; Juan of deceptive studios. Their youthful faces clash with harsh realities.