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In the 1940s and 鈥�50s, the image of an all-American hero was a young, gunslinging John Wayne or the real-life World War II hero-turned-movie star, Audie Murphy.

Patriotic Americans were young, male, athletic and straight. But where did this image of rugged American masculinity come from? Hollywood surely didn鈥檛 invent it out of whole cloth.

According to the historian Kevin P. Murphy, in his 2008 book 鈥淧olitical Manhood,鈥� it was President Theodore Roosevelt, more than any politician before him, who equated physical strength and virility with patriotism, while perpetuating the idea that gay men were not only physically and morally weak but fundamentally un-American and a threat to society. By the mid-20th century, homophobia had become so firmly entrenched in mainstream American culture that few people even noticed or questioned it.

That鈥檚 why a show like 鈥淏ob Mizer: Model Guild Catalog Boards, 1945-1955鈥� at Daniel Cooney Fine Art is such a revelation. These photographs, made by a gay man for other gay men at a time when same-sex relations were still illegal in most of the U.S., challenged prevailing stereotypes of gay men as inherently effeminate and unpatriotic.

Mizer opened his Los Angeles photography studio, Athletic Model Guild, in December 1945, just three months after the end of World War II. Many of his early models were combat veterans, whom he styled with easy-to-read symbols of patriotism and American masculinity 鈥� cowboy boots, sailor hats, American flags, blue jeans, motorcycles. Some wore their actual military uniforms during their photo shoots. They also posed shirtless, and sometimes fully nude, showing off their well-toned bodies. Not only were they real American heroes, but they looked the part, too.

By 1951, Mizer was publishing Physique Pictorial, a quarterly fitness magazine that celebrated the beauty of the male form. Mizer and most of his subscribers were gay, but some of Mizer鈥檚 readers, including fitness guru Jack LaLanne, were straight men for whom the magazine was merely aspirational.

As LaLanne explains in 鈥淏eefcake,鈥� a 1999 docudrama about Mizer, Physique Pictorial printed the bodybuilders鈥� measurements alongside their photos, so he would compare his own biceps and neck muscles to theirs. Some of Mizer鈥檚 models were straight, too, including a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, who posed for him in 1975.

The catalog boards on view at Daniel Cooney feature images that were considered too risqu茅 to be published in Physique Pictorial during the 1940s and 鈥�50s. Each poster board contains a grid of photos of a single model, or sometimes several, in various states of undress, along with Mizer鈥檚 handwritten notes. Mizer would shrink these grids of images onto postcards and distribute them through underground channels.

Clients selected the images and sizes of the photographs they wanted, and Mizer mailed them the prints. He had to be careful, though, since distributing images of male nudity could land a person in prison back then. Mizer was arrested twice and investigated multiple times.

By today鈥檚 standards, his work is tame, even corny 鈥� the 鈥渄ad jokes鈥� of erotic photography, no more offensive than the pin-up calendars of 鈥渉unky firemen鈥� that suburban moms have been buying since the 1980s. The models鈥� campy, Village People-esque personas 鈥� cowboys, bikers and so on 鈥� are more likely to elicit light chuckles than shock. But things were different in the 1940s and 鈥�50s. Same-sex relations remained illegal in all U.S. states until 1952 and would not be fully decriminalized nationwide until 2003 with the landmark Supreme Court ruling of Lawrence v. Texas.

The 1940s and 鈥�50s, of course, were also a time of widespread racial segregation. Even in California, interracial marriage remained illegal until 1948, housing discrimination was legally practiced until 1968, and de facto segregation was seen everywhere. Yet Mizer photographed numerous Black men in those years, portraying them as handsome, dignified and proud.

In one series, he shoots the Black bodybuilder Robert Deckard from below, using tricks of perspective to make him appear nearly 30 feet tall. Deckard smiles playfully and flexes his large muscles as he towers over the suburban homes behind him. In one image, his glistening body nearly blocks out the sun. He resembles John Henry, that mythic Black railway worker 鈥� sometimes called 鈥渢he Black Paul Bunyan鈥� 鈥� who is usually depicted as a shirtless, jeans-wearing man of superhuman size and strength.

Mizer loved to play with myths and legends, from Greek gods to cowboys to 鈥� in this case 鈥� John Henry. Even when these exercises in mythologization feel campy, the idealization succeeds. In other words, even if Deckard and Mizer were goofing around together during the shoots, Deckard still looks like a superhero. He鈥檚 still, quite literally, larger than life. In fact, it鈥檚 hard to think of a more positive representation of confident Black masculinity prior to the emergence onto the cultural scene of the heavyweight boxer and activist Muhammad Ali. Deckard doesn鈥檛 just tower physically over the white suburbs, he seems to rise above the racism and homophobia they represent.

In the midst of unimaginable repression, Mizer created his own little utopia 鈥� a studio with a big swimming pool and rent-free housing for new models, where any man, regardless of race or sexuality, could live, work and play. Authorities tried to shut Mizer down many times, but he kept going. He survived Sen. Joseph McCarthy鈥檚 persecution of homosexuals, known as the Lavender Scare, and witnessed the emergence of the Gay Liberation movement and Gay Pride. Throughout it all, he stayed true to himself.

As Pride Month wanes and we look ahead to the Fourth of July, now is the perfect time to see this historic exhibition, which celebrates both queerness and patriotism. Mizer photographed Black and queer war heroes who loved their country even when their country did not love them back. He maintained his own vision of a free society, and created a space where others could live freely, even when the world around them was punitive and intolerant. Now, in 2026, as WWII recedes from our collective memory and certain historical revisionists want us to forget that gay soldiers even existed then, this exhibition proves that they did. They lived, they fought, they loved. And because of them, we鈥檙e freer now than we otherwise would be.

I imagine that posing for these photographs 鈥� and using their real names, which they all did 鈥� took a tremendous amount of courage. War was socially acceptable. Being vulnerable and tender and loving toward other men was not.

In conjunction with the exhibition, No Name Cinema will screen 鈥淏eefcake,鈥� Thom Fitzgerald鈥檚 docudrama about Mizer, on July 10 at 2013 Pi帽on St. in Santa Fe.

Logan Royce Beitmen is an arts writer for the sa国际传媒官网网页入口. He covers visual art, music, fashion, theater and more. Reach him at lbeitmen@abqjournal.com or on Instagram at .