Josh Aronson (born 1994 in Toronto) is a Miami-based artist. His photos have been published in places like The New York Times, The Paris Review, Financial Times, Frieze, Italian Vogue, Teen Vogue, Dazed, i-D, and The Guardian. Josh grew up in Florida, and much of his photography is made there: cinematic scenes of young people hanging out, playing, and showing care for one another in forests, swamps, and other outdoor settings. He’s also the creator of Photo Book Speed Date, a public program where people meet up to share and talk about photography books in a fun, fast-round format.

We asked him some questions about his series, Florida Boys, which depicts coming-of-age experiences in nature in the backwoods of the state.

In your excellent article for Vogue, you wrote: “Making photographs is, for me, a way to
reclaim a sense of belonging. Photography allows me to imagine belonging somewhere
and to make that fantasy a bit more real through the act of visualizing it.” Can you
expand on this?
“I was born in Canada but raised in Florida. It’s home, but my family has no roots here, so I’ve
always felt like an insider-outsider. Photography lets me belong to a place I’ve been told I don’t.

“Growing up, I never saw myself in the images of Americana or coming-of-age stories I
encountered. Through photography, I’ve been able to expand that language. To place myself
and people like me inside it. I cast young men as surrogates for myself and bring them into rural and natural locations around the state. Many are first-generation Americans or children of immigrants who, like me, never had those quintessential outdoorsy coming-of-age experiences. Together, we make-believe. We play pretend as young men on the fringe, at ease in nature and in harmony with one another. In the act of pretending, we actually start to feel that sense of belonging. Fake it ‘til you make it.”

I feel that many people don’t feel safe deep in nature, especially if they grow up in big
cities. They are scared of animals or insects, or just being secluded and removed from
other people. Was this a hurdle you (or your subjects) had to get past?
“You’d think it would be, especially in Florida. But no. For me, nature has always been a haven. Despite the mosquitoes and the reptiles, there’s a calm that overrides my discomfort. Nature activates my imagination; it brings me back to a time before urbanization. That experience feels foundational and worth sharing.

“Before each trip, I make sure everyone knows what we’re getting into. The people who join me are usually excited to be outdoors. Still, your point is real: not everyone feels welcome in natural spaces. America’s idea of “wilderness” was built on the displacement of Indigenous people, of Black and Brown communities. The conservation movement has roots in eugenics, and that legacy lingers. I hope this work helps expand who feels they belong in nature.”

I think about freedom when I look at this series, and I think about your process. How did
this project feel emotionally for you (and your subjects/collaborators)?
“It was deeply emotional. Exhilarating, really. Some days felt like making the best pictures of my life. Other days, it was quieter, more reflective. The work became my love letter to Florida, to my own coming-of-age, and to the people I collaborate with.

“There’s also something healing about it. Photography is my excuse to gather people, to show them places they’ve never seen, and to create memories together. That’s the point of all this. To use photography as a tool for connection, for joy, for belonging.”

You chose to work with “Florida Boys” for this series. Why “young, queer Black and
Brown men from Miami”?
“Most of the people I photograph are young men from the greater Miami area. Some queer.
Some straight. Many first-generation. When casting, I look for people who remind me of myself, or who feel emblematic of Florida’s cultural DNA: creative, curious, resilient. I’m not
photographing local youth I happen upon in rural towns; I’m staging scenes with people I bring from the city into these landscapes.

“That act of staging matters. By recreating boyhood and coming-of-age scenes in
quintessentially Americana settings, I can open up those narratives and make them more
tender, strange, inclusive, and real to my experience.”

You wrote: “For a long time, I thought nature was neutral, that anyone could belong
there. I understand now that it never was. The American landscape is built on a hierarchy
of who could rest, roam, or feel safe within it.” Can you expand on this?
“I used to think nature was universal…that anyone could find peace there. But the American
landscape, as we know it, was built on systems of exclusion. The early conservation movement displaced Indigenous people and centered whiteness as the default steward of the land. That history still shapes who feels safe outdoors. My hope is that these photographs expand our collective image of who belongs in the landscape, and who gets to rest there.

Tell me about location scouting for this series? Did you research or explore, or a bit of
both?
My process is heavily research-based. I spend hours scrolling through hashtags like
#VisitFlorida and #FloridaWild, digging through old travel guides, and studying archives. I rarely explored the rest of the state growing up, so this project became my excuse to see it. I’d plot multi-day routes, scout alone, make test compositions, and collect ephemera. Maps, postcards, brochures. Some of that research and found material ended up in my Florida Boys exhibition at Baker–Hall, alongside my photographs.

What are some of the things you encountered in nature? I’m getting alligator vibes from a
few of the shots.
“No alligators, surprisingly! But plenty of Florida magic: owls, turtles, cypress trees rising out of lakes, beaches made of rock formations that look almost lunar. State parks only reachable by boat. Diners. Trump flags. Confederate flags. Gas stations. Stars. Friendship. Core memories.

You didn’t develop the film for three years after you shot this work. This seems almost
fitting with the subject matter, but it’s obviously not the norm. Why did you wait so long?
I think of my practice as having two distinct modes: the maker and the editor. I don’t like to mix them. While I’m in the maker’s mode, I don’t want to analyze or judge what I’ve made. By
keeping the film undeveloped, I could stay curious. Stay hungry to keep staging images. It
helped me sustain the project for five years without overthinking it. When I finally developed the film, it felt like rediscovering a diary I’d forgotten I was writing.”

What did you think when you developed the film?
“Honestly…thank God my camera still worked. But really, it was relief and recognition. The
pictures felt like proof that what I imagined had actually happened.”

Since you’ve released the work, what has the response been?
“It’s been incredibly moving. People see themselves in it, and in ways I didn’t anticipate. I’ve
loved hearing from Floridians who grew up here in the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s saying the work
resonates with them.

“I’m also grateful for the way conversations around the lineage have unfolded. This work
wouldn’t exist without Justine Kurland’s Girl Pictures, which inspired me to challenge myself with group portraiture. Her influence, and Ryan McGinley’s, runs deep in how I think about the photograph as a space for freedom and collaboration.

“Exhibiting Florida Boys pushed me, too. I experimented with scale, installation, and new materials. Made large outdoor works, an assemblage wall, and grids. Each exhibition teaches me something new. And through all the dialogue around the project, what’s felt most rewarding is that people recognize my background in film: the way the pictures straddle the cinematic and the real. I’ve been calling them ‘film stills’ in my artist walkthroughs, and I like that term a lot.”

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