The Queer Legends Behind the Boho Boys Spirit

At Boho Boys, we don’t just make clothes. We continue a legacy of queerness that came long before us. A legacy shaped by artists who made space when the world wouldn’t. Who turned their lives into art, into protest, into celebration. Who made being seen feel like survival—and made it look good. Their work still moves us. Still shapes how we see ourselves. Still reminds us why we make what we make.

This isn’t about looking back. It’s about carrying the spirit forward.

1940s–1950s: Phil Sparrow

Tattoo Artist. 
Erotic Writer.
Queer Archivist.

Before “out and proud” was even a concept, Phil Sparrow was living a full, messy, creative queer life.

A former English professor who became a tattoo artist, Phil worked in the shadows—but never small. He inked hula boys, mermen, and tender, coded symbols onto bodies that wanted to feel seen. While his friend Sailor Jerry, stuck to anchors and eagles, Phil told different stories—ones about longing, freedom, and queerness hiding in plain sight.

He mentored Ed Hardy, worked with Alfred Kinsey, and wrote raw, unapologetic gay fiction under the name Phil Andros. His “stud file”? Part sex journal, part living history.

Phil gave us queer codes—and identity, in a time when no one knew what that looked like.

At Boho Boys, we feel that legacy. The way he mixed intimacy and toughness. The way he made queer desire feel strong, natural, worth recording. That’s in our bones.

1960s–1970s: Mel Roberts

The Eye That Made Queer Look Effortless

Mel Roberts didn’t make big statements. He made quiet ones that landed just as hard.

His photos of shirtless boys in sunlit bedrooms, backyards, and tucked-away beaches were calm, golden, and full of feeling. These weren’t staged beefcake shots. They were real. Boys half-laughing, eyes soft, bodies relaxed. The kind of fleeting joyfulness you want to capture in a bottle.

Mel showed us that queerness doesn’t have to be hidden or hardened. He captured something quieter—sunlight, laughter, friends just being themselves. Intimacy without fear. Joy without explanation.

That’s something we think about every time we shoot. We’re not looking for perfect poses. We’re looking for something honest. A breath. A look. A second where everything feels right.

Mel gave us that blueprint. And we’re still following it.

1960s–1980s: Andy Warhol

The Commercial Art King Who Made Queer Cool

Andy Warhol took everything weird and queer and turned it into the hottest thing in the room.

He started in advertising and turned branding into art—and queerness into culture. At The Factory, he surrounded himself with drag queens, punks, and outsiders. He didn’t just paint them. He gave them a platform. A look. A spotlight.

He understood something huge: the way you present yourself to the world is art. Identity is a choice. And when you commit to it fully? It’s magnetic.

We learned from Andy that boldness is power. That playing with persona isn’t faking it—it’s owning it. Our style has layers. Our looks have story. Because he showed us it’s okay to be too much—and too visible.

1980s–1990: Keith Haring

Lines That Moved. Messages That Hit Home.

When the world was falling apart, Keith Haring made something beautiful out of the chaos. His bright, dancing figures showed up in subways, clinics, alleyways, schools—anywhere people could see them. His art was fast, joyful, political, and full of feeling. In the middle of a deadly epidemic, he painted life.

Keith’s work didn’t hide anything. He painted sex. He painted grief. He painted the truth. He believed that joy could be protest, and that love could be loud.

That’s how we see it too. We make clothes you can move in, touch in, kiss in, dance in. We believe joy matters—especially when things are hard.

Keith taught us that joy isn’t naive. It’s brave.

What They Gave Us. What We Carry Forward.

Phil gave us codes and identity—a way to find each other. He built camaraderie, community, and a map for how to exist.

Mel showed us that queerness doesn’t have to be hidden or hardened. He captured something quieter—sunlight, laughter, friends just being themselves. Intimacy without fear. Joy without explanation.

Andy made queerness cool. Desirable. Marketable. He turned visibility into power, and art into identity.

Keith gave us a voice when silence was deadly. He turned protest into joy, and made love feel urgent, public, and real.

They helped build a language for what it means to be queer and alive. We use that language every day—in what we make, how we shoot, and who we make it for.

We don’t just admire them. We’re here because of them.

So when you slip into an outfit that feels good, that makes you feel like you— know you’re not just wearing a look. You’re carrying a story.

And it looks damn good on you.