Brazilian artist Yann Hatchuel has a knack for making people stop mid-scroll. What looks at first like a feed filled with sharp photography and unapologetic thirst suddenly reveals itself as something larger: a living archive of queer culture stitched together through styling, digital design and a mischievous sense of humor.
Hatchuel, who gained attention with his single IGUAL, the Rio Pride theme song that featured a cascade of celebrity cameos from Britney Spears to Demi Lovato, has shifted his creative energy toward preserving queer history one post at a time. His page doesn’t read like a portfolio; it reads like a museum that refuses to whisper.
Reimagining a Disappearing Canon
Hatchuel’s feed revisits cornerstones of LGBTQ+ culture, including Pink Narcissus, Querelle, Tom of Finland, and the erotic subcultures that shaped identity for generations. Some posts revive covers from out-of-print queer magazines. Others examine kink, pup culture and the aesthetics that were once pushed into the margins.
He says the motivation is simple: too much queer history lives in shadows or scattered fragments online. “I kept noticing how many defining queer films, artists, and moments weren’t showing up anywhere online, especially not in ways that felt fun, sexy, and accessible,” he says. “If a single post sends someone googling Pink Narcissus or Tom of Finland, that makes it worth it.”
Sexiness as a Teaching Tool
Hatchuel knows his feed is equal parts archival and erotic, and he embraces the tension. “That balance is completely intentional, and honestly, it’s vital,” he says. “For so many of us, our formative years were defined by repression. Reclaiming sexiness now isn’t frivolous; it’s a radical act of recovery.”
He frames desire as a portal to the past, less academic, more embodied. “Our ancestors didn’t just suffer; they lived, they lusted, and they found joy in one another,” he says. “Sexiness makes the past visceral. It tells us that our desire has a lineage.”
Fighting Erasure With Visibility
For Hatchuel, the urgency behind this project is tied to how fragile queer documentation can be. “Queer history is notoriously fragile; it is often erased, burned, or simply left out of the textbooks,” he says. “When I reference works like Pink Narcissus, Querelle, or the art of Tom of Finland, I am pulling from a canon that was created in the shadows.”
He sees Instagram, a platform often dominated by fleeting trends, as an unlikely but powerful home for cultural preservation. Younger fans frequently message him saying they’re discovering these works for the first time. “When a young person sees the dreamlike excess of Pink Narcissus or the hyper-masculine joy of a Tom of Finland drawing, they realize they have ancestors,” he says. “It shows the next generation that we have always existed.”
Bringing History Back to the Streets
Hatchuel believes “accessibility” shouldn’t mean “sanitized.” He’s not interested in watering down queer culture to fit a mainstream brand. “For too long, our history has been gated behind paywalls or softened for mainstream consumption,” he says. “We lose the sweat and chaotic beauty that defined those moments.”
He argues that queer stories belong in the places they were born, nightlife, community spaces, and now, social media feeds. “When we only tell the safe versions, we alienate the kids who don’t fit in today,” he says.
Restoring the Radical
His work often highlights kink and fetish communities, not as spectacle but as heritage. Hatchuel doesn’t mince words about why those elements were erased. “The mainstream narrative of LGBTQ+ rights relied on respectability politics,” he says. “Kink disrupts that. It refuses to adhere to heteronormative standards.”
He’s quick to remind people that leather communities helped hold up the AIDS crisis response when government systems failed. “Erasing kink is a disservice to our survival,” he says. “It’s about negotiation, trust, and freedom from shame.”
A Living, Breathing Time Capsule
Hatchuel’s Instagram is part celebration, part protest, and part digital time machine. He doesn’t claim to be a historian, yet his feed offers something academics often can’t: immediacy. It’s culture preserved with sweat, humor and desire intact.
“If we don’t curate our own history, someone else will erase it,” he says.
And in the hands of Yann Hatchuel, queer history isn’t just remembered, it glows, flexes, and refuses to behave.
