[Now With Photos!]
Who are you? No, I don't mean your character. Who are you?
I wonder this question every time I go to a con. I try to find a quiet spot and people watch. And my eyes are always drawn to the cosplayers: the young, the old, the exper...
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"I am an individual."
So many people say it, especially cosplayers. They view themselves as a subculture, a group of misfits who have been pushed aside by society. However, even isolated subcultures create group norms and rules. It is part of being accepted by others. It is normal to want to be normal. Yes, we are individuals, but most of us cannot be individuals without the affirmation of a group of like-minded peers.
But what would it mean to truly, wholly realize individuality? Could you live your life completely and perfectly free of society's norms and labels? I would find this task daunting, even frightening, perhaps lonely.
I think Azymth is closer to attaining this type of lifestyle than anyone else I have ever encountered. He never had to tell me he was an individual because he lives it, without remorse. He lets people pick out their labels for him, and isn't worried when they struggle to find the right one. When they struggle with calling him either "man" or "woman," for example, he just shrugs and goes on living the way deems best fits him, for him. (And he shrugs with the flippancy of one of his favorite cosplaying inspirations, Squall Leonhart from Final Fantasy VIII.)
Even his name is a rejection of norms: He doesn't go by the name on his birth certificate and, instead, chose a name that he feels best reflects who he is: Azmyth. The name is close to azmith, which is a method of displaying directions on a compass. Azmyth is his own compass, after all, ensuring alignment and direction with only himself as the reference point.
I spent a beautiful fall afternoon with Azymth, photographing him in his favorite costume and listening to his stories.
The Journey, The Destination
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Just finding Azmyth is part of the adventure. Before our interview, he tries to give me directions that lead directly to his home, but he finally gives up and tells me to meet him about 30 minutes away, in the town of Piedmont, the closest noticeable mark on the map. The drive is long and boring, but it reminds me of where I grew up: mile after mile of snaking, slim highways, barbed wire, and cows, staring blankly, wondering where I am going. I desperately have to pee by the time I reach Piedmont. Most of the downtown businesses appeal to the locals with signs like, "Show deer tag, get free coffee!" There is a small tourist stop, a Space Station store: Piedmont's one claim to fame is a string of UFO sightings in the 1970s. I, however, am the only outsider here. As I wait in a gas station, the agreed upon rendezvous point, my car and I are examined with equal scrutiny. It's mostly older white men in camouflage jackets.
