The Brooklyn Rail

In 2021, queer historian and longtime Brooklynite Marc Zinaman began documenting New York City’s historic and little-known LGBTQ+ spaces under the affirming Instagram handle @Queer_Happened_Here. “I already started to feel a deep sense of urgency years ago when several LGBTQ+ elders I had hoped to interview passed away before I could record their stories,” he explains over email. “I realized I need to move quickly and capture as much history as possible.” His new book, Queer Happened Here: 100 Years of NYC’s Landmark LGBTQ+ Places (Prestel, 2025), expands upon his digital preservation by offering a tangible and lovingly-catalogued queer record. The book—which includes a foreword from drag queen and activist Peppermint, the first out trans woman to originate a lead role on Broadway—is a sweeping pictorial history of Manhattan spanning the years 1920–2020. Through archival photographs of club crowds and early drag pioneers and printed ephemera like flyers, ads, and spreads from long-folded queer magazines such as the drag-focused Female Mimics and the pornographic Mandate, Zinaman remembers places of queer protest and leisure, and the realities of public and private queer life in times of celebration and backlash. Some of these places still stand, but others have been erased by time, discrimination, and gentrification. Queer Happened Here makes a heartfelt yet scholarly case for all of these spaces to be commemorated—and therefore protected—with unofficial landmark status. “Documenting this history isn’t just about the past,” Zinaman explains, “it’s a reminder that we’ve survived before, and we’ll continue to do so.”

Here he opens up (over email) about the rewards and challenges of preserving queer history in a digital age and amidst regressive political targeting of the LGBTQ+ community.

Naomi Elias (Rail): This book is inspired by the social media account you’ve been running since 2021, @Queer_Happened_Here. What prompted you to turn your digital archive into a book? Are the goals and audiences of the two projects the same? Is there an end goal/date in mind for the Instagram page?

Marc Zinaman: I think it’s crucial to share queer history in as many formats as possible, so as to be able to reach and engage with diverse audiences. A book allows me to connect with readers who aren’t on social media or who are exhausted by and are stepping away from digital spaces—something we’re seeing more of lately with people leaving Instagram, Facebook, and X—perhaps temporarily, or perhaps for good. Books also offer a more permanent and historically reliable way to preserve our history. As a voracious reader myself, I’ve learned so much from many incredible NYC-centric LGBTQ+ history books, and hopefully I can contribute to that lineage in a small way.

The Instagram page format, on the other hand, gives me a different kind of flexibility and fluidity. I can cover all five boroughs there, for example, as well as a broader timespan beyond 1920–2020. I can interact with users who provide edits or updates or personal memories. Over there, I’ve also constantly evolved and expanded the parameters and definitions around what queer spaces have been and can be. For example, I only recently covered an LGBTQ+ gym/fitness space for the first time, which opened up an entirely new category I hadn’t previously considered. Somehow, my spreadsheet of places I still want to feature keeps growing rather than shrinking. So for now, I don’t have an end date in mind—there’s still so much left to cover and uncover.

Rail: In her foreword Peppermint writes that this book and others in the same vein offer a chance to “redeem” queer stories that have been lost or papered over. I found that word choice really interesting. Do you feel like the drive for your archival work is redemption?

Zinaman: I wouldn’t say redemption is the sole driving force behind my archival work, but it’s a powerful idea when it comes to reclaiming queer histories that have been erased or ignored. For me, it’s more about visibility, and perhaps restoration: bringing these stories back into the light and asserting their place in history. So much of queer history has been dismissed as unimportant, criminalized, or misrepresented, and archives help correct those distortions. I see this work as an act of resistance and care and as a way of saying: “We’ve always been here, and we’ve shaped this city and its culture.”

But there is something redemptive in uncovering stories that were nearly lost. It can feel like pulling voices from the past and giving them the recognition they were denied. And in doing so, we’re also offering something to the present: a roadmap, a lineage, and a sense of belonging for queer people today and in the future.

Rail: Some of these venues are incredibly well-known—Stonewall, Studio 54, the Roxy, Copacabana, Paradise Garage—but others are dives and haunts and short-lived ventures like No Parking, which was only operational from 2006–14. What were your criteria for inclusion of a place? What is the queer space with the shortest life span in this book and why was it included?

Zinaman: There were many factors that shaped the inclusion of spaces—some were born out of my own obsession or interest, others were beloved spots repeatedly mentioned by LGBTQ+ elders I interviewed, and some, like Stonewall and Studio 54, simply couldn’t be left out, even though they’ve been covered ad infinitum. Just as important were the many challenges that led to exclusions. Since this is a visual, coffee-table-style book, a space needed to have documented imagery, which was often a major limitation. Historically, many queer spaces were intentionally not photographed for safety and privacy, making it difficult to include them. For instance, I initially struggled to find photos of 12 WEST, but after hearing from so many people about its impact—and recognizing how under-documented it was—I made sure to include it. On the other hand, there was an important early hangout for trans women of color that I couldn’t include due to a lack of available images, which was difficult.

I think one of the shortest-lived spaces in the book is Club Casanova, which physically didn’t last that long but which I felt had a lasting impact in helping reinvigorate the contemporary, wonderful drag king landscape that we have today. There’s also an element of relationality between spaces over time in the book—how a venue like Club Casanova connects back to early male impersonation spaces like the Howdy Club and forward to today’s drag king showcases at places like Club Cumming.

Of course, no book can capture every space, and I’m absolutely not saying that these were the best or most important or most influential. In fact, I think the juxtaposition of the more famous, ubiquitous spots with the odd or short-lived ones paints a more perfect portrait of the personality of NYC—the raggedy bodega next to the glossy high-end boutique, so to speak.

Rail: You pull from a variety of sources for this book and one unlikely one is the New York State Department of Corrections. You chose to include a DOC publicity still taken during the Lavender Scare era at the Women’s House of Detention at 10 Greenwich Avenue. What is the significance of that image? Why did that facility feel important to spotlight as a queer space?

Zinaman: The Women’s House of Detention was an undeniably queer space, as the wonderful historian Hugh Ryan meticulously documented in his book of the same name. It was designed as a site of oppression—which it certainly was—where queer and gender-nonconforming people, particularly lesbians, butch women, and transmasculine people, were incarcerated for “crimes” often tied to their gender expression, sexuality, or survival. And yet, it also became a place of community and connection where queer networks formed despite the carceral system’s attempts to erase them. It felt important to include this facility in the book because it highlights the deep ties between oppression and LGBTQ+ history while also challenging the idea that pivotal queer spaces have only been places of joy or chosen gathering.

Some queer spaces—like the House of D—were sites of forced confinement, but even within those we can see that queer people found ways to support and recognize one another. It wasn’t just a prison; it was also a place where resistance took shape, where messages of solidarity were shouted through barred windows and where the brutal realities of incarceration were laid bare. Recognizing it as a queer space is about reckoning with that history and ensuring it isn’t erased.

The image from the New York State Department of Corrections is significant because it offers a rare glimpse inside the prison during the Lavender Scare, a time when LGBTQ+ people were systematically targeted, surveilled, and criminalized. But it’s also very clearly a staged publicity still—a form of PR for the prison that presents a sanitized version of reality. It’s a really nuanced photo that can stir up a lot of complex feelings, because it’s glamorizing prison in a way. When you juxtapose that with firsthand testimonies of the horrific conditions inside, it underscores just how deeply flawed and insidious the prison industrial complex has been.

Rail: That photo unintentionally documents queer history. But others in the book, like a picture of a bartender at Julius’ refusing to serve members of the Mattachine Society—taken by a reporter who had been tipped off to a “Sip-In” protest organized to boycott liquor laws preventing gay customers from being served—is an instance of queer people intentionally documenting their own history. As a historian do you find intent to be an interesting layer to analyzing archival material? Do you find a particular kind of photograph—staged, candid, official, amateur—more telling or useful?

Zinaman: Intent is definitely a fascinating layer when it comes to analyzing archival material, especially in queer history, where so much documentation was either unintentional, covert, or actively suppressed. The difference between a photo taken to surveil or criminalize versus one meant to affirm or advocate can speak volumes about who had control over narratives at a given moment.

Take the Julius’ Sip-In photo—it’s one of the most iconic images of NYC queer history because it was deliberately created as part of an activist strategy. The Mattachine Society at the time understood the power of visibility, so they tipped off the press, staged the protest, and ensured there was photographic evidence. It’s an early and important example of queer people controlling their narrative. That’s in stark contrast to the Women’s House of Detention image, which was also staged but for institutional purposes. Over time, however, that photo too reveals an unintended queer history, offering insight into the criminalization of LGBTQ+ people.

In a picture taken at the Palladium nightclub in 1985, a large-scale mural by Keith Haring overlooks the dance floor. Another photograph taken there in 1986 showcases the vibrant colors of a room designed by Kenny Scharf. There’s also the picture of a voguing performance taken at a Keith Haring party for Act Up at the Sound Factory in 1989. Can you provide any background for those images? They seem emblematic of the symbiotic relationship queer spaces and artists in New York shared and the way queer spaces have historically been havens for marginalized communities and also incubators for art (fine art, music, fashion, design).

Zinaman: There are so many incredible images that capture the deep, symbiotic relationship between queer spaces and artistic innovation in New York, especially in the 1980s and ’90s. Nightclubs like the Palladium and the Sound Factory weren’t just places to dance; they were cultural laboratories where artists, musicians, designers, and performers pushed creative boundaries. Meanwhile, other venues like Club 57 and Danceteria just blurred the lines between nightclubs and art galleries entirely.

Rail: You’ve designated Central Park, a New York landmark, as a queer space. Can you explain that decision? It’s one of the few that it feels safe to say will not be demolished, which feels significant, too: potentially an important reason to make sure its queer history isn’t forgotten.

Zinaman: I wanted to showcase a diversity of queer spaces, and Central Park, like the Christopher Street Piers, is a reminder that not all significant LGBTQ+ gathering places need to be surrounded by four walls and a roof. In fact, historically, many queer people only felt comfortable finding one another in public outdoor spaces, especially during times when private and semi-private queer venues were scarce or heavily policed.

Central Park’s permanence and longevity is also noteworthy—unlike bars or clubs, it can’t really be erased by real estate development or policy changes. It’s seen a whole lot of LGBTQ+ history over the years and has been a backdrop for queer socializing, cruising, activism, and community-building for generations. And its role continues to evolve today, as it’s become a popular destination for same-sex engagements and weddings—probably an unfathomable use case to queers when the park first opened.

Rail: How has the sense of urgency or import for your work changed in the face of renewed conservative anti-LGBTQ+ backlash? Has your approach changed? Has your access to archives been limited or threatened in any way?

Zinaman: I think I already started to feel a deep sense of urgency years ago when several LGBTQ+ elders I had hoped to interview passed away before I could record their stories. I realized I need to move quickly and capture as much history as possible. Thankfully, I’m far from the only one doing this, and there are other great sites like the NYC LGBT Historic Sites Project and the ADDRESSES PROJECT doing incredible work.

So far, I fortunately haven’t faced direct consequences from the current wave of anti-LGBTQ+ backlash. But, it has made me rethink the importance of backing up all my content in multiple locations—just in case platforms like Instagram decide to start erasing or censoring LGBTQ+ history.

Earlier attacks on queer existence were terrifying, like the Lavender Scare and other periods of backlash, but the book shows that queer spaces and lives persisted, and that the community came back stronger. Documenting this history isn’t just about the past—it’s a reminder that we’ve survived before, and we’ll continue to do so.

While I don’t have the power to reverse real estate developments, I do believe that Queer Happened Here can help preserve the memory of neighborhoods that were once thriving queer hubs—whether it’s the Upper West and East Sides (which each now have just one gay bar), Harlem’s rich LGBTQ+ past, or the days when queer nightlife ruled the Meatpacking District. On Instagram, I also make sure to document and highlight current and emerging queer-owned spaces, helping bring attention to businesses that need community support. It’s really important to include these newer spaces in our ongoing history to ensure that they, too, won’t be forgotten one day.