Believe it or not, the University of Cambridge is one of the queerest universities in the UK. In 2022, a Varsity survey found that less than half of the student body identified as heterosexual, while The Tab has repeatedly hailed Cambridge as the country’s “gayest uni”. Despite its lamentable lack of gay clubs, the city remains a queer haven for some students from small-town backgrounds – even if gay culture is less pronounced than in cities like Brighton or London, say.

But for The Gentleman, a student-led queer fashion magazine, Cambridge’s queer scene wasn’t the primary catalyst. “It wasn’t that the culture here inspired documentation,” explains Leah, the founder of the zine. “Honestly, it would be even more important to document queerness if it was less mainstream or visible,” they say. “For us, a big aim of the zine is to combat queer loneliness, to remind people who don’t feel like they have a lot of queer connections in this environment that the community is there.”

“The name was a play on masculinity, a play on redefining what you’d think of as a ‘gentleman’”

The Gentleman, who focus on exploring gender expression in fashion, released their first issue last Easter. “The name was a play on masculinity, a play on redefining what you’d think of as a ‘gentleman’,” Leah tells me. “Traditionally, it has connotations of a straight, cis man, but then we show you pretty much everything you wouldn’t think of: a lot of AFAB [assigned female at birth] people, and very much not that English, smartly-dressed aesthetic.”

Their snappy title isn’t The Gentleman’s only attempt to redefine. One of their first shoots documented queer relationships in all forms, encompassing situationships, friendships, and found family in their spreads. “A lot of the time, queer people are defined by straight people, who often think of the sexuality side of queerness first. This is a very narrow-minded conception: queer community isn’t only who you’re sleeping with or who you’re dating.”

Reminiscing on the queer love shoot, Leah remembers that “a lot of the people that we interviewed have had experiences where the line between platonic and romantic has been a bit confusing, or the love has gone through different stages. It’s a common experience,” they continue, “and we wanted to show that none of those relationships are more important than each other. Queerness is a hugely diverse experience, rather than just one thing.”

“Fashion isn’t just what clothes you have; it’s how you hold yourself, how you wear what you have, and where your clothes have come from”

Even though they’re a fashion magazine, Leah wants The Gentleman to push back against the tendency to view clothing items as mere products. “I didn’t want it to be ‘fashion’ in the sense of, ‘Go buy this thing and then you’ll look like this person and that’s cool! ’. Fashion isn’t just what clothes you have; it’s how you hold yourself, how you wear what you have, and where your clothes have come from.”

So instead of taking a consumerist approach, The Gentleman pays homage to the communal aspects of fashion. “So many of my clothes I’ve been given or I’ve made with other people. Can I show you an example?” On my computer screen, I see Leah rifling through their room. “I’m going to trans pride this weekend, and I’ve been sewing these shorts for fucking ages,” they tell me, holding a pair of black denim Dickies up to the screen. Dotted across them are hand-stitched black and white patches – one on the back pocket reads DO NOT FEAR THE GENDERQUEER around the outline of a pouting snail. I ask where they got such unique designs from. “That’s the thing! I’ve got them from friends and really cool queer artists I look up to. I’ve sat in group settings stitching and chatting to people about what I’m doing. It’s more than just an item of clothing. There’s community built into creating clothes.”

“Queer loneliness is such a prevalent issue, so these moments of connection are hugely important”

Leah explains that queer fashion is especially connecting because of the long history of flagging in gay communities. Their last issue explored carabiners as a queer staple; their next will focalise tattoos as queer signifiers. “Even now, I can often identify other queer people when I’m out just through their clothing or self-presentation. Queer loneliness is such a prevalent issue, so these moments of connection are hugely important.”

When asked for their favourite memory from the zine, Leah can’t choose. “Ughhh,” they laugh, “like, the whole fucking thing?” After some deliberation, they return to the queer love interviews. “We had a chapel booked for each group, and I’d never met any of them before. Getting to meet strangers, and then instead of small talk, you’re listening to them tell you about how deeply they can love another person for like two, three hours – it was such a wonderful experience. It’s funny when you don’t know someone,” they reflect. “Of course they’re full of love for other people, but you don’t know them so you don’t really think about it? But I did these interviews and went, wow, you’re not really that scary.”

As an interviewer myself, I felt that Leah summed up the joy of these interactions pretty brilliantly. I look at the stranger on my computer screen after our introductory conversation about the beauty of queer expression. “This is one of my favourite interviews I’ve done,” I tell Leah. Any project that allows you to skip the small talk is a good one, if you ask me.