It’s difficult to describe a time before mobile phones, before camera phones, before Instagram. The status of the photograph has irreconcilably changed the world. Before the internet, before social media, photographs were not as accessible as they are today. Their role was to illustrate words, to represent things difficult to describe. They accompanied stories rather than leading them.

Now, pictures replace words. They emote aspirations, describe feelings, define identities. They don’t just accompany stories—they are the story. The photo is king.

It’s hard to imagine now, in an era where virtual reality has been (un)experienced, but there was a time when photography was not part of everyday life. In the 1970s, Athena sat alongside Woolworths, where youth would gather, seeking ways to bring images and music into their lives. Poster art was an affordable way of self-expression, a way to define oneself—whether through pop stars, Van Gogh, Monet, or an image that simply felt right for a bedroom wall.

This was the cultural landscape when Paul Rodriguez arrived at Athena. The company was tired, outdated—stuck in an era of uninspired reproductions. But Paul had a vision. He understood something that hadn’t yet been articulated: photography had the power to be more than just an illustration or a record—it could be emotional, aspirational, personal. An image could speak on someone’s behalf, express desires they couldn’t yet put into words. He wanted to bring that vision to Athena, to transform the way people engaged with photographic images in their everyday lives.

THE COST OF AN ICON

Paul and I kept working together. But behind the success, behind the creative euphoria, were our darker companions.

Paul introduced me to his boyfriend, a makeup artist. He wanted to bring him into our projects. But then one day, he was gone. An AIDS-related illness. Paul wouldn’t talk about it. When I asked if he’d been tested, he only said, “I’ll do that if I spend more than half my day worrying about it.”

I had my own demons. The sudden influx of money, the validation I had never known, sent me spiraling further into addiction. I was the last person who could have supported Paul, even if I had known how.

We had one last shoot together. An underwater session in the Caribbean, swimming with dolphins. The images were stunning. The posters didn’t sell. Paul never left his hotel room. His bottles of medication sat untouched. In the evenings, we talked, but I refused to see what was happening. Denial was easier.

Five weeks later, I got the call. Paul was gone.

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