Palm Springs, CA
On a warm October night in Palm Springs, the gallery space at Jaco Moretti Arts pulsed with memory. Black-and-white snapshots, color prints, portraits of friends and lovers, crowds in motion — the visual record of nearly five decades of gay life. Standing in front of them was the man behind the lens, Mike Balaban, often described as an “accidental gay historian.”
Balaban’s exhibition, The Accidental Historian: A Life in Pictures, tells a story that is at once personal and collective. What began as private memory — photographs taken to mark moments in his own life — has become a cultural archive, a reminder of lives lived, joy claimed, grief endured, and resilience sustained.
From the Cattle Ranch to the Closet
Balaban grew up on a cattle ranch in the American South, in what he recalls as the only Jewish ranch of its kind. His early years bore the tension of identity and concealment. In a Baptist community, even in a progressive household, he could never signal that he loved his best friend, never telegraph the truth of himself. Like so many gay men of his generation, he was forced to play straight — excelling in sports, projecting the image of the all-American boy, while privately carrying an inner life that could not yet be shared.
When he came out in his early twenties, his world widened. His camera traveled with him — through Fire Island summers, global journeys, intimate gatherings — capturing faces and places that defined gay life across decades. “I’ve always taken photos of people in my life,” he says. “It was important for me to be able to remember my life visually. I never expected others to be interested in my photos; I collected them for myself for more than 40 years.”
Snapshots of a Movement
Among the most striking images in Palm Springs was a photograph from the 1993 March on Washington for Lesbian, Gay, and Bi Equal Rights. A sea of faces stretched across the National Mall, thousands gathered to say to America: we matter. During the opening night, one visitor lingered over the photograph and, after scanning the crowd, found himself there — frozen in time, one face in the multitude.
It made me wonder how many others might one day recognize themselves in these images. I was there too, somewhere in that crowd, standing with friends. To see Balaban’s photograph now is to feel again that rush of belonging, of finding your place in the world, in your community, in the arms of people who see you. That is the gift of his archive: it does not just recall the past; it rekindles the feeling of presence.
Grief, Survival, and Memory
Balaban’s lens also documents what is not always spoken aloud. The photographs chart not just joy and liberation, but also the grief of the AIDS crisis. For those of us who lived through it, the images reopen memories: friends laughing in one frame, absent in the next; networks of men and women erased by disease and a culture that often looked away.
Younger LGBTQ+ people, who did not live through that era, may not grasp the full weight of that grief. But Balaban’s images act as a bridge, carrying forward the reality of those years. His archive reminds us that joy and loss cannot be separated, and that remembrance is itself an act of survival.
A Life Lived Openly
Balaban did not come to visibility easily. Even after coming out to family and friends in the late 1970s, he remained closeted in his professional life on Wall Street until 1999. “I grew up in the US when it wasn’t possible to be open about my alternative sexual orientation. Since then, I’ve strived to be my true self wherever I go,” he reflects.
Now, with more than 50 000 engaged followers across his platforms, he uses his visibility to encourage others. “My mission is to live an openly gay life, serve as an example to others, and use my visibility and platforms to encourage others to do the same. Together, we will build a stronger and more unified LGBTQ+ community.”
His mission extends beyond his own photographs. He has served on the boards of GLSEN, Echoing Green, Athlete Ally, NewFest, and the Stonewall National Museum & Archives. His archival work continues digitally through @Bammer47, the storytelling platform BAMMER.co, and his podcast “Bammer and Me,” where he records voices that might otherwise go unheard. These are not side projects; they are extensions of his role as accidental historian — creating spaces where memory becomes communal, not just personal.
The Wider Lens
Standing in that gallery, I realized these photographs are not only about the past; they are warnings about the present.
There is another threat on the horizon besides white Christian nationalism: the tech industry itself. By scraping our lives off the internet, reducing them into fragments stripped of meaning, empathy, and understanding, it risks a new kind of cultural genocide. Without humanity, there is no intelligence. AI is not intelligence — it is a tool, and if not used in the service of all, it becomes a weapon. Already, it is being steered by those who seek control, and it is being used against us. Remember: it was humans who created AI. It is only a tool — nothing more.
We have seen this pattern before. Every minority that dared to shape its own future has been targeted. From the moment Columbus and the Catholic Church landed on Indigenous shores, devastation and genocide began. Africans torn from their lands and brought here in chains were sacrificed to profit long before capitalism had a name. Every wave of immigrants, every marginalized group, has faced the same machine: inclusion only if useful, erasure if not.
And now, the latest target is trans children and trans adults. Let us be absolutely clear: this is not political theater. It is a campaign to harm, to maim, and to kill — carried out under the false banner of Christ, whose only command was to serve others.
We in the LGBTQ+ community cannot distance ourselves from this. We too have, at times, turned away from our own children — through ignorance or neglect. Campaigns like “You Are Not Alone” or “It Gets Better” ring as hollow as “thoughts and prayers” after a mass shooting. Thoughts and prayers do not protect children. Protection does. Service does. Responsibility does.
These are our kids. We must claim them, defend them, and serve them. If we do not, we are complicit in their erasure.
Yet this moment is not simply a rebuke; it is an invitation. We have been here before, and we know how to respond. We are smart, creative, intelligent, motivated — and we know how to collaborate on a true mission.
Let’s take this moment not as shame, but as a challenge. Let’s imagine a future that is different, not only for minorities but for everyone. A future we make real through creativity, collaboration, and courage. Because the truth is this: their mission, built on exclusion and fear, will die. It will become irrelevant. What will survive is the future we build together — a future grounded in service, imagination, and belonging. That is our opportunity. That is our work.
Why Mike’s Work Matters Now
That is why Mike Balaban’s photographs matter. They remind us that joy, grief, and belonging are not abstractions — they are lived and shared. They show us that we have never been alone, and we never will be, unless we abandon one another.
Art has this power. Once it enters the public eye, it takes on its own life. As artists, reluctant or otherwise, we create not knowing where our work will land or how it will change those who see it. Balaban’s photographs land squarely in our history, forcing us to remember the best of our lives and the worst, reminding us that preservation itself is resistance.
Closing
Meeting Mike Balaban in that gallery, standing beside my husband of twenty-seven years, I felt the echo of our shared journeys. Mike may be the accidental historian, but in truth he has become something larger: a witness who invites us to possibility. His work insists that we remember, that we belong, and that we protect one another.
As for me, I left reminded that I too have a part to play. That is the responsibility of anyone who creates — to share, to risk vulnerability, to serve. Because in the end, the power of art is not just to look back, but to call us forward.
About the author. Marty Treinen is an artrepreneur, arts educator, writer, and co-author of Universal Creative Intelligence: How the Arts and Sciences Propel Human Experience. His career bridges the arts across the full spectrum of creative practice, cultural experience, and education—all grounded in the belief that the creative process is essential to human evolution. Treinen’s work underscores how creativity shapes not only how we tell stories but also how we live them.
Artwork / Photography by Marty Treinen © www.marty-treinen-art.com