For Magdalena Lukasiak, “Family Portrait” is far more than a photographic project—it’s a deeply personal exploration of pain, confrontation, and ultimately, liberation.
Behind the glitter, lashes, and defiant laughter, there is blood. Not literal, but the kind that courses through every queer body that has survived judgment, abandonment, and invisibility. For the past three years, I’ve been documenting Iceland’s queer performance scene—drag queens and kings, burlesque artists, pole dancers, sex workers, and those who live and perform between, beyond, and across the borders of gender and identity. As a documentary photographer, I didn’t set out to tell a single story—I set out to listen.
It began as an act of survival—mine. I arrived in Iceland in 2017, fleeing a country that never wanted me. Poland spat on me, insulted me, let my mother invite a predator into our home rather than accept that I was a lesbian. I tried to disappear into the crowd for years, to pretend. But queerness doesn’t go away. It waits.
I arrived in Iceland in 2017, fleeing a country that never wanted me. […] I tried to disappear into the crowd for years, to pretend. But queerness doesn’t go away. It waits.
In the winter of 2023, I joined the organizing team of Reykjavik Pride. That moment changed something. I was asked to photograph drag performances—a world I had never entered, not even as an observer. My first show was in August 2023. Morning Starr walked on stage in a rainbow bodysuit and fishnets and said things I had buried in my chest for decades. I laughed. I cried. And I came back. Again and again. With a camera, with curiosity, and eventually—with love.
What started as my own quiet way of healing turned into something much greater: a collective testimony. The stories I encountered were messy, radiant, often painful, and full of defiance. I had no idea how many people in Iceland had come here, like me, seeking safety, chosen family, and a place to begin again.
Chosen Family
Alexander, came out as nonbinary at fifteen. Supported by classmates but not initially by parents, it took a year of explanations and tears before love won out. “Now they fully support me,” they said. “I finally feel like me.”
Carl, escaped abuse in Bahrain to find joy in Reykjavík’s queer scene. “In Bahrain, being gay was dangerous. Here, I feel celebrated for who I am.”
Alejandro, born in Venezuela and raised between Syrian and Latin cultures, fled trauma and repression to find healing in Iceland. “Now I’m safe. I’m still healing. But I finally have a chosen family.”
Ari Logn shared: “Realizing my queerness early saved me. It saved me from predatory men, from drinking culture, from the streets. There were always gay sofas and spare rooms available to me.”
Andrew Sim, comedian in drag, who runs the RVK Fringe Festival, reflected on this. “Queer identity wasn’t unusual in my family. But growing up in rural Scotland, I was viciously bullied. Reykjavík helped me begin to question and heal.”
Bodies, Borders, and Power
Ava Gold, a Canadian-born artist and show girl, reclaimed her body through pole dance and glassblowing. “All bodies are beautiful bodies. I honor mine as the vessel that carries my spirit.”
Mia, a stripper, found herself exiled from feminist spaces because of her work. But she didn’t retreat—she organized. “Through Red Umbrella, we fight for laws that protect sex workers not punish us. My voice is mine. No one’s taking it.”
Yndi, a drag king and dancer, embodies resistance. “Tits out. Ass out. For the girls, the gays, the theys. But most of all—for me. Because they can’t have me anymore.”
Sindri offered another layer. “Sometimes survival means erasing parts of myself. But I refuse to let anyone take away my right to speak openly about queerness, kink, or desire.”
Sally, who found healing through pole dancing and OnlyFans, shared: “Performing became my escape, my liberation. I exist in both worlds—Laura and Sally—and each of them helps me survive.”
Drag as Protest, Drag as Prayer
Morning Starr, who began doing drag in the smoky cantinas of northern Mexico, sees drag as survival. “Drag isn’t just entertainment. It’s a statement. A history. A fight.”
Gloria Hole, crowned Drag Queen of Iceland in 2014, says it best: “The last idiot hasn’t been born yet. The fight will be endless, but I’m ready for it.”
Jenny Purr’s drag was born from rage and recovery. “My drag persona is my armor, my weapon. She carries the strength I wished I had.”
Lady Voldemort, a molecular biologist from Mexico City, turned to drag in a time of collapse. “It saved me from the abyss. Now I use it to build networks of care.”
Kora, a trans woman from Uganda, put it simply: “Drag gave me a voice when I had none. When I’m in drag, I feel powerful—confident beyond words.”
Joy as Resistance
Chardonnay Bublée discovered freedom in fluidity. “Drag blurred the lines between who I am and who I let myself be. It gave me confidence. Visibility is power. And we’re not done.”
Margrét Erla Maack, a burlesque icon, captures it simply. “Burlesque is joy. Naked bodies parodying gender? That’s always going to be political.”
Roberta Michelle Hall added: “Burlesque gave me a sense of safety and belonging I’d never felt before. It’s a place where I truly feel at home.”
What started as my own quiet way of healing turned into something much greater: a collective testimony. The stories I encountered were messy, radiant, often painful, and full of defiance.
Twinkalicious shared: “If I could talk to my younger self, I’d tell him to stay resilient. This world is harsh, but we deserve to be here, to be seen, to succeed.”
A Hole in the Heart, Filled
For years, I had a hole in my heart. One that came from trying to survive in silence. Photographing these performers, listening to them backstage, witnessing their vulnerability and strength—it changed me. I remember entering a dressing room for the first time, terrified of violating someone’s space. When Gógó Starr turned around in what may have been a nude bodysuit or her own skin, I panicked and ran. But I came back. Because I wasn’t there to take—I was there to witness. To listen. To understand.
This project became a lifeline. These artists became my family. They taught me how to live out loud, how to turn pain into performance, how to glitter with blood still drying on your skin.
Even if your biological family turns away, there’s another one out here, waiting. One that won’t shame you, silence you, or ask you to shrink.
The Exhibition
Family Portrait: Stories Behind Glitter and Blood will be exhibited at Núllið Gallery in Reykjavík as part of the RVK Fringe Festival 2025, from June 3 to June 7, open daily from 12:00 to 17:30.
The photographs—and voices—on display are more than art. They are a home for those still searching. Every single story featured here will be part of the exhibition, presented with honesty, dignity, and care.
Even if your biological family turns away, there’s another one out here, waiting. One that won’t shame you, silence you, or ask you to shrink. One that welcomes you with open arms, glitter, and love.