Agil Abdullayev is an interdisciplinary artist from Azerbaijan who expresses themselves through film, paintings, and performance. In their work, Agil explores the not-well-documented queer history of the South Caucasus and how socio-political domination has shaped it in Azerbaijan and other South Caucasian countries. In a semi-autobiographical approach, building utopian worlds of escapism and shifting identities that grant survival in states of oppression, Agil creates queer spaces of possibility and empowerment. At the moment, some of their works can be seen at the exhibition The Secret Life of Plants and Trees at Kunstpavillon Innsbruck in the frame of the Künstlerhaus Büchsenhausen Fellowship Program for Art and Theory 2023–24.

‘Cruising’ refers to the pursuit of sexual encounters by gay men in public or discreet private spaces. As part of their latest project ‘0 Feet Away’, Agil has been researching queer cruising culture in Azerbaijan and some neighboring countries in the Caucasus region and Central Asia for more than four years.

Particularly since 2017, the political crackdown on LGBTQ+ people in Azerbaijan has been a significant human rights issue. It involves arbitrary detentions, harassment, and torture. Although being gay is technically not illegal, individuals who are harassed and discriminated against because of their sexual orientation are not protected by any law. Often justified by the authorities as a campaign against prostitution, the crackdown specifically targets gay men and transgender individuals and connects to similar crackdowns in Chechnya and Georgia.

Especially in the South Caucasus, meeting points for cruising are usually only known to members of the community due to prevailing anti-gay crackdowns. Interactions take place in parks, dimly lit streets, and toilets. Agil has visited countless of these spaces, recording interviews, conversations, and visuals to show how they operate and how they contribute to queer communities and LGBTQ+ liberation in South Caucasus and Central Asia.

As part of their Büchsenhausen fellowship, Agil produced a three-channel video titled ‚Radicals Between Trees and Dicks‘ (currently on view at Kunstpavillon as part of the exhibition ‚The Secret Life of Plants and Trees) which is based on this extensive body of work. With the film, Agil aims to highlight an aspect of queer life that remains largely undocumented, especially in queer communities embedded in restrictive cultural contexts.

Agil’s work is an ode to the importance of safe spaces, community building, and the little triumphs in the lives of the people they met during their research. komplex was honored to meet them in their studio at Büchsenhausen for a long conversation about queer identity across cultures, how they became an artist, and the importance of community for us all.

komplex: Could you tell me a little bit about how you started making art in Azerbaijan?

Agil Abdullayev: I was born in Baku, Azerbaijan, coming from a very working-class family I never really thought about becoming an artist or doing anything related to culture or visuals. then I got into computer engineering when I finished school because my parents thought that would give me financial stability in the future. My parents never went to university, their background did not allow them that, so they kind of pushed me into this course. I did start my bachelor’s degree in computer engineering in Baku, but then after a year, I realized that it wasn’t for me, because I was feeling very anxious every time I went to university. I had a very difficult time at the school, because of my sexual and gender identity. I had been thinking that going to university would make everything better, but it didn’t, it was almost the same, just in a different building with different faces. The environment in which I had to live with bullies and people who physically harassed and abused me every day didn’t change. That was when I was thinking – what else could I do in my life?

I started learning music and DJing. I was very much into that and I was trying out various ways of how to produce music. I did that and I worked a little bit in fashion as well, where I was working as a visual merchandiser. I think in between that I got caught in the art because I started drawing and painting more and more. I started off buying canvases and very rubbish paints and doing something with them. And I found it was very therapeutic for me. I was still going to university and I was still living in a not-nice neighborhood. It was not a good place to express myself and I had a lot of societal constraints that were keeping me away from my true self. When I was painting in my parent’s living room, I felt like I was doing something good with my life. I could communicate and tell stories that I could not tell in other places, like in my family at my school, or the neighborhood. In between that and now lies a massive period. I started exhibiting, I went to lots of exhibition openings and met people, communicated, and made a social circle for myself. After a while, I realized I wanted to do art professionally, I don’t just wanna do it as a hobby.  I dropped out of university, stopped making art, went to fashion, did marketing for a very long time, and saved a massive amount of money. I realized that one thing I’m good at is being multifunctional. I had four or five jobs at the same time and all of them were part-time, freelance-based, or consultation-based. I was doing visual merchandising, art advisory, and then creative consultation. I was also very good with social media marketing. Doing all of these jobs, I saved money and went to the UK to start a bachelor’s degree. After that, I would say, my professional art career started.

Did you pay for your whole degree from your savings?

Yes. 

That’s crazy. You saved a lot.

I managed to pay for lots of my stuff for the first two years because I did a foundation and then started my bachelor’s. From the second year onwards, I started working in the UK. And I also got lots of very small funding that helped me pay my tuition fees.

I had a great time in Nottingham and met lots of amazing people who I met there I am still in touch with, one of my tutors, Rachel Bradley, she’s an amazing artist and professor and has been my mentor since then and still helps me every single day.

I watched your film ‚Pink City II (As Soft Boys Go Deeper)‚* in which you said that ‚equality makes you feel real‘. You come from a country where not everyone is equal. When do you feel the most ‚real‘? And do you ever feel ‚real‘ when you’re back home?

This quote resonates deeply with me because sometimes living in Azerbaijan feels like a social experiment in survival. It’s not living; it’s enduring. Often, I feel like a small character in a video game, devoid of real feelings or equality, constantly submitting to those in power—whether it’s the government or anyone who abuses authority. I only feel like a real person when I’m with my friends, where I am heard and valued. In my bubble, I experience equality, feeling like a human being with a body, feelings, and desires.

My gender and sexual identity add another layer of complexity. I am deeply traumatized by my environment, where every street, person, and even clothing triggers painful memories. For instance, someone wearing Adidas sweatpants and classic shoes in Azerbaijan reminds me of a neighborhood bully who assaulted me during my childhood. This specific geolocation gives this person a traumatic significance. In contrast, seeing the same outfit in Austria or Georgia carries no such weight; it’s just clothing. In Azerbaijan, however, it represents a character that inflicted severe trauma on me and destroyed my childhood.

* ‚Pink City II (As Soft Boys Go Deeper)‚, 2021, is a film in which Agil explored life as an imaginary space designed to offer an escape in a discriminative and violent reality.

It’s really impressive that you’re still able to separate these things so clearly. I guess a lot of people struggle with that. They’ve been traumatised and wherever they go, the trauma comes back. 

Yeah, I’ve been in therapy for a very long time and I go back and forth a lot. Two years ago, I got beaten up in the city, my nose got broken, my ribs were broken. It was a very homophobic attack towards me and my friend. trauma is just a shifting shape; it doesn’t matter how old you are and what you are doing. When the attack happened, I went back to therapy again. I had been in therapy for several years before, thinking I would be fine, but then, when something happens in the present that triggers lots of other traumas in my head, it makes what happened in the past even bigger.

When you make art, do you feel like doing therapy helps you work through all the traumatizing experiences you had?

My practice is very much exploring escapism, because of the reality I am in. I don’t necessarily have a place in my country where I can be happy. There was one very funny joke about Gone Girl. There was a joke by Emma Poehler saying that “ ‚Gone Girl‘ was a good film, but I don’t go to the cinema to see what I am going through. I am going to the cinema to escape what I’m going through.‘ And for me, it’s very similar.  For me, making art is trying to find what I’m escaping from, and how I’m making through. Anything I am making; I usually take the point of departure in my childhood. Then, I add another layer of something that happened recently to me, or to the people I know. And then I try to end it with a way of how we can live with all of this, with all of these conditions, and how we can create a situation that’s more comfortable for us. In a way, I am trying to create a space of hyper-possibilities. 

It’s a very optimistic, fact that you try to offer a solution. What are you working on right now and how did this idea start? I read that you’ve been researching for four years.

Almost five.

Okay, wow. Can you tell me more about it?

I’m focusing on cruising culture in South Caucasian countries, I mean Azerbaijan and Georgia, because I cannot travel to the third Caucasian country which is Armenia. I started with Georgia. For me, in May 2019, coming to the drama bar in Bassiani in Tbilisi, and then seeing the dark rooms there – that’s how I first experienced queer people who look like me embracing their sexualities in Caucasia. I had this whole feeling of seeing people who acted like me, who physically and visually looked like me. And seeing all of these people there, it just kind of flipped a switch in my body. I was thinking: ‚Wow, this is happening! There are also very free queer people in Caucasia, in Georgia, who are not afraid of hiding anything, who don’t feel like anything can stop them from embracing their queerness.’ In that moment it felt like a state of freedom: this is what people can do and can create this safe space, that’s for them, that’s only queer and I am part of it right now. It felt good and it was interesting. 

In the summer of 2019, I explored cruising spaces in Georgia and Azerbaijan, spurred by personal curiosity and artistic research. This journey began in Tbilisi and continued in Baku, where many things started making sense to me. In 2017, there was a massive crackdown on LGBTQ+ individuals in Azerbaijan and Georgia, following a similar crackdown in Chechnya. This climate of fear and caution made meeting for sex on Grindr a lengthy, verification-heavy process, not just for sexual pleasure but also for the affirmation of identity.

I questioned why cruising, a riskier option than Grindr, remained popular. I realized it was a means of escaping reality, offering a temporary space where one could be part of the LGBTQ+ community without societal scrutiny. Cruising provided a unique, nonverbal communication method. Unlike hidden queer events, cruising in public spaces allowed individuals to claim these areas as their own, asserting their identity. One interviewee described cruising in Azerbaijan as transforming a public park into a personal space of acceptance. This activity was about more than sex; it was about feeling normal and doing something for oneself, free from the constraints of technology and societal norms.

How did you start your project on cruising?

Cruising as a queer liberation, and queer body language became very important to me and I started researching more and more about it. How many other spaces are there like this and who comes there? What do they do and why do they do it while there are safer ways of having sex? 

And how did you research? Did you just talk to people? Or can you find things online as well? How hidden is it?

If you’re part of the community, finding information about cruising is easier through honest conversations, as online resources are scarce. Queer studies in South Caucasus and Central Asia are poorly documented and underfunded. It was simple because I was already connected with the right people in my community. Friends advised me to seek out older individuals who knew the history. In Azerbaijan, a 72-year-old trans woman shared her extensive knowledge about cruising spaces and queer life, even during the USSR. I also interviewed a key figure in Georgia’s queer studies who was politically active for queer rights: Paata Sabelashvili. Their generosity in sharing their experiences was invaluable to my research.

What is the difference between cruising in Europe and in South Caucasia?

In the Caucasus, ‚Hornet‘ is more helpful than Grindr or Tinder because it blends social networking with queer dating, allowing users to post questions and receive responses from queer people. This was useful for me, as my queer identity was shaped in the UK, where I learned about Western queer culture. Discovering ‚Hornet‘ in the Caucasus made finding information easier.

I also researched by visiting queer-friendly spaces, uncovering hidden spots. In Caucasian countries, cruising is brief, while in Europe, it’s more explorative. Dark rooms in Caucasian clubs are hidden, unlike in Europe, where they are marked and cater to fetish culture.

Do you think that is because they are more free and safe to express themselves?

Yes! Only when living in a country in which you are protected by law, you can be free to do what you want.

I’m really curious…  When you are researching cruising spaces, do you go in and participate in cruising? 

Yeah. In the beginning, for the first three months, I was participating, but I wasn’t collecting stories, I was just exploring the space for myself. I didn’t even know that this would be a part of my work. Then COVID started, everything kind of changed and shifted and I started becoming more distanced. For example, in one of the parks in Tbilisi, I had the reputation of a voyeur. Because I wasn’t doing anything, I simply wanted to see a lot and understand the communication. It’s quite fascinating to watch one person from very far away and see how they’re communicating with others. What do they want? What is their body language? How do they walk? Where do they stop? Where do they look? What are their intentions? I was trying to learn about the second part of my research, about the body language of cruising. At some point, two guys in one night told me ‘Oh, yeah, we know, you don’t do anything, you just watch‘. I would have loved to say ‚No, I would like to participate‘. 

And so now you have this collection of stories: What are you going to turn them into?

I have many stories from my research. Initially, I considered turning them into a book, but as an artist, I wanted a more creative approach. The first long film based on this research „Radicals in between trees and dicks“ currently showing at Kunstpavillon in Innsbruck, is based on seven stories of self and queer discovery. I collaborated with five dancers from Innsbruck, Salzburg, and Vienna to bring these stories to life.

One story is about a man who accidentally found a cruising park and met his boyfriend there. They didn’t see each other for three months but eventually reconnected and have been together for six years.

Another story is about a man who relocated to Almaty after the Russian invasion of Ukraine. He had always had homoerotic feelings but embraced his queerness fully in a gay sauna in Almaty. Another story is coming from an Azerbaijani guy, whose friend was stabbed in the cruising park.

What are some similarities between Europe and Caucasia when it comes to cruising?

One commonality is fatphobia. Before COVID, I weighed less, and people signaled interest with looks. Now, they physically touch my stomach. Despite differences in nonverbal cruising language between Europe and the Caucasus, this behavior remains similar.

How was it for you to suddenly have to switch languages?

In the beginning, it was very difficult. I didn’t like it. However, it became easier to work as fewer people looked at me or wanted to have sex with me, reducing distractions. I tried to see it positively but felt discriminated against. Previously, I felt desired and confident in those spaces but later felt less wanted. Last fall in Almaty, I realized I was favored by queer people there and felt comfortable. In the Caucasus, masculinity is important. During research, I experimented with shaving my beard, clothes, walking style, etc.

It must feel very difficult, but it’s also maybe good that you experienced it because it can become part of your work?

Definitely. I always include subtitles in my videos. This is crucial for me because, due to my hearing issues and ADHD, I struggle to focus on visuals without them. Subtitles guide me through the film, enhancing my understanding and enjoyment. This need has greatly influenced my approach to making videos, ensuring they are as accessible as possible. Additionally, even as I work on my fitness and lose some weight, I remain committed to showcasing all types of bodies in my films. All bodies are beautiful, and I want to celebrate that diversity.

I was gonna ask you if you have a favorite author, just because I thought the writing in some of your films, like ‚Pink City II‘, was inspirational. 

It’s gonna sound very cliche, but my favorite one is James Baldwin. I feel like he’s the favorite writer of every queer person. But James Baldwin means a lot to queer people. Also, right now, I’m reading Ten Planets by Yuri Herrera, it’s really good. And I also read a lot of books related to my research, for example about developing performances, because Scott Burton worked a lot with relations in blending private and public spaces and body in public and private spaces, and how it is being communicated visualized, and displayed. All of the dancers in my film were queer people, but all these references help me a lot in getting stories to visualize from an artistic queer approach. 

I think we touched upon this question earlier: You work a lot with alter egos and escapism, I guess ideas of specific identities for specific spaces you’re in. Are you going to work with this idea of different identities that change in this current project as well?

It’s more about escapism, it’s more about cruising as a queer liberation rather than talking about alter egos. I feel like I want to put alter egos a little bit on pause in my practice. Right now, I’m exploring other methods of escapism.

You do research on the internet, but you also have a background in computer studies and I feel like the internet is very present in your past work. How does it influence your work? And what is your favorite meme?

 I do love memes; I feel like they’re one of the best ways to represent our reality more sarcastically and less dramatically. Sometimes they can be dark, but it’s good, I think it’s very healing. One meme that’s been with me for at least the last three years is one with Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City. There is one scene where Mr. Big is saying that he is not coming to the wedding and her phone drops from her ear. Her face is very angry and sad and the meme says ‚me realizing that joining the gym is not enough, you also have to go‘. That’s me.

There is one singer in Azerbaijan, who always talks about people proposing to her, but in a manner that is unclear if it happened. And there is one meme in which she is saying ‚I got 10 proposals again last month‘. And the meme says ‚This is the level of my delulu‘. Sometimes, I do feel like I’m speaking with my imaginative friends, or my alter egos, sometimes I see what I want to see, it is the best cure for me at the most vulnerable moments. I feel like I do have this perfect ‚delulu‘ part of my world. 

It’s quite interesting to see people online, for example, the singer and how she represents herself in the media. Do you think that the media controls how we present ourselves? Or do you think it helps us create a self-representation that is more in line with what we want to be or what we would like to be?

It’s very much blurring and blending in between. For me, it’s two different personas: a public and a private one. Despite making art about cruising, sex culture, and orgies, I’m very private personally. It’s about manipulating our public image and deciding how much we reveal. The film *May December* illustrates how a small story can alter a person’s life and identity.

When making my recent film, I focused on the power of invisibility. Many subjects had never been public, so I used AI voice cloning and collaborated with sound expert Farhad Farzali to protect their identities. I am the media here, countering the fear of exposure. These people live secretive lives, and I aim to turn their invisibility into empowerment, not victimization. 

A common misconception is that queer people in oppressed countries are always shown as victims. While there’s truth in this, it shouldn’t be the only narrative. My film celebrates invisibility, queerness, and sexual freedom, focusing on sex positivity rather than sorrow.

I also wrote down a quote, in which you said that you try to be very objective in your art and I thought that was very interesting because art allows us to explore very individual perspectives. I don’t know if it relates to this project, but why do you want to be objective?

Art is inherently subjective and political, reflecting individual or collective perspectives from specific angles. In my work, I aim to represent queer Azerbaijani people and also engage with other nations and cultures, striving for objectivity and depth. For instance, discussing cruising in Tbilisi requires acknowledging the influence of the white noise movement and Saakashvili’s role in advancing queer freedom. The significance of Bassani’s dark rooms cannot be divorced from this context, nor can gay parties in Baku be understood without considering anti-gay crackdowns.

My goal is to reveal these complex layers and integrate them into the narrative. Queer individuals exhibit great courage in their participation in cruising, yet it’s essential to recognize the various contributing factors and subcultures that support them. By doing so, I hope to offer a more nuanced and comprehensive portrayal that transcends mere victimization, instead celebrating the resilience and diversity within queer communities.

Picking up on darkrooms: before we sat down to do the interview, you said you had some thoughts about safe spaces in the club context. What do you think about them?

A safe space should be inclusive, prioritizing marginalized communities without being overly aggressive. Removing a racist, homophobic person from a queer event is necessary, but handling accusations in cruising areas and dark rooms requires dialogue, not an immediate ejection. Engaging both parties in conversation helps explain and resolve issues.

Creating fear around awareness doesn’t foster safety. Collective or audience awareness is more effective. If I see a problem in a dark room, I engage and address it, ensuring the community feels safe without resorting to drastic measures for personal gain. This approach considers everyone’s well-being, fostering a truly safe environment. Does that make sense?

Absolutely. Do you already know what you want to focus on after your current project?

I have some ideas. I’m considering a project related to my research on cruising, aiming to start in August or September. Though I haven’t pinpointed the exact aspect, my five-year exploration of this topic compels me to continue. Cruising remains vibrant and intriguing, prompting me to delve deeper into understanding its persistent relevance.

International human rights organizations, including Human Rights Watch, have urged the Azerbaijani government to halt the persecution of LGBTQ+ people and to comply with international human rights standards. Despite these calls, the Azerbaijani government continues to justify its actions under the guise of public health and order.

| Maya Auer

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Agil Abdullayev 

is an interdisciplinary artist from Azerbaijan, manifesting their practice through film, paintings, and performance. The semi-biographical practice of Agil examines the not-well-documented queer history of South Caucasus and how socio-political domination has shaped it in Azerbaijan and other South Caucasian countries. Their films read the queer body as an archive that addresses queer anxieties; often referring to escapism and queer utopia, they aim to create a space for possibilities where representations of queer narratives can be disrupted, re-articulated, and reinvented.

Agil holds a BA of Fine Arts from Nottingham Trent University and took part in the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture. They have been awarded by the Prince Claus Foundation and SudKultur Fund and have exhibited at the Liverpool Biennial, The Wrong Biennial, South London Gallery, Photographers’ Gallery, Tate Modern, Asian Art Museum, Peabody Essex Museum, Goethe Institut in Baku and Tbilisi, and MoMA Tbilisi.

https://agilabdullayev.info/