In Club We Trust: Interview with Shadows Gather

Shadows Gather captures the soul of the underground. By using Fuji Neo Classic Mini & Disposable 35mm Camera, Shadow witnesses the raw humanity of scenes that mainstream society often dismisses or others. In her new exhibition at Meow Wolf Denver’s Galleri Gallery, In Club We Trust: Portraits of the Underground, she pays homage to the club as a sanctuary space. It explores the holiness of community, self-expression, and authentic joy. Shadow and I sat down to discuss further about her relationship to nightlife, the club, and how they’ve become the backdrops to her artistic practice. 

The exhibition will be on view at Meow Wolf Denver through April 23, 2025. The exhibition is included with General Admission tickets.

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What was your first club experience that transformed your relationship to it?

I always wanted to go to a rave. When I finally did, I didn’t drink, didn’t do drugs–I just walked around and watched everything. It was sweaty as hell. People helping their friends navigate an altered state, girls crying in the bathroom over boys, someone losing their mind over a glow stick. It was messy, loud, and kind of overwhelming, but it felt real…and then the next day, it was like it never happened. We all go back to work like it never even happened. That’s what stuck with me.

How could something be so intense one night and completely gone the next? I wanted to hold onto that somehow.

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In Club We Trust signifies this sort of sanctuary/holy space. What is The Club - or the Underground - to you?

I grew up in a church. Went every week, sat through the sermons, sang the songs, listened to people talk about God and family and belonging. But I never felt it. It was all words, all expectation, nothing real.

Then I moved to the city and started sneaking into clubs. That’s where I found it–my real church. The music, the bodies moving together, the lights cutting through the dark like stained glass. I found my God on the dance floor. I had communion with my friends in the form of flavored vodkas and soda. I felt something bigger than myself, something raw and alive, something that made me feel like I belonged.

Everyone has their own idea of church, their own idea of God, and that’s fine. I found mine, and it’s in the clubs.

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What do you want visitors to feel when they witness the gallery? Especially if they’re not too familiar with the scene at all.

I want them to feel it, not just look at it. The heat, the movement, the pulse of a night that’s so alive it feels like it might collapse in on itself. I want them to see the beauty in the sweat, the smeared eyeliner, the unfiltered joy. Even if they’ve never stepped foot in a club, I want them to understand why people go back, night after night. Why it matters.

But this exhibit wasn’t just about me as a photographer—it was a reflection of the community that I’m a part of. The scene that included me, supported me, and gave me something to document is what made the work powerful in the first place. That night was produced by Noveli, who has been cultivating Koven for seven years—a queer occult gathering where drag, performance art, and ritual intersect to create space for transformation. It’s a place where outsiders can get on stage and exorcise their realities, where queerness is sacred and performance is catharsis. The people I photographed are artists, healers, and visionaries, and I’m honored to capture their magic.

There’s also the audio aspect that’s really integral to the experience. Brandon Vargas, Meow Wolf Denver’s artist liaison, came out with me and my friends on this wild journey across different clubs, recording the sounds of the night. We ended up at this leather daddy bar on Undies Night. You can hear the compliments, the gossip, and the whole process of me taking photos—it’s part of the piece, and it’s something I’m really proud of. You can’t get the full picture of that energy just through the photos in the exhibit, you’ve got to be there, hear it for yourself. It’s that raw, unfiltered vibe that really ties the whole thing together.

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As a queer person and lover of the club, I always find it interesting when people refer to it as The Underground because to me, it is so normal, that I forget this is taboo, maybe even alarming for people. What do you have to say to people who view this work as “other”?

If this feels other to you, that’s on you. I’m not here to shock anyone, I’m here to show my friends and how cool they are. The outfits, the makeup, the wild energy–it’s not a costume. It’s not some freak show. It’s just people being themselves, having fun, creating something bigger than life.

I want people to see these photos and actually see the humanity behind it all. Not just the glitter or the leather or the chaos, but the real people underneath. The love, the confidence, the community. I want people to walk away knowing that self-expression doesn’t have to be a special occasion–you don’t have to wait for permission or Halloween to be who you are.

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As queer and trans people continue to be publicly demonized and dehumanized, how is your art a way to capture the very real and human aspects of queer nightlife? 

People love to reduce us to headlines, arguments, or something to be debated instead of actual human beings, but you can’t look at these photos and deny that we’re real. You see the sweat, the joy, the messiness, the way we take care of each other. It’s not some abstract idea. It’s just people living their lives, having fun, surviving.

This exhibit was shot in a queer club, but I go to all kinds of scenes: punk shows, metal gigs, goth nights, underground raves. Every group thinks they’re the outsiders, the last real subculture, the only ones who don’t fit in. But after being in all these spaces, I’ve realized they’re not as different as they think. The punks, the goths, the metalheads, the queers, they all want the same thing: a place to be themselves, to go all out, to not have to explain shit to anyone. My photos don’t just show queer nightlife–they show what it means to carve out space for yourself when the world doesn’t want to make room.