Suspended Boyhood

Captured by Louisa Wilkie, this fleeting stage unfolds in movement, in gesture, in the quiet sway of fabric and light. Boyhood reveals itself not as preparation, but as a moment fully alive.

Speaking from London, Zikale sits casually on his couch, eating yogurt as our conversation begins. There is an ease in the way he speaks, a calm that contrasts with the restless energy captured throughout the series. When we begin talking about boyhood, he does not describe it as something that disappears with age. Instead, it lingers quietly within us.

“I think I still have elements of boyhood,” he says. “A lot of men do. It doesn’t completely disappear. The transition to manhood comes from responsibilities, but it can happen at any time. It’s not really an age-defined thing. It’s a mindset.” That mindset becomes visible in the photographs themselves. Moving through Richmond Park, Zikale shifts naturally between playfulness and composure.

In one moment, he leaps over a wooden fence in a crisp white shirt and floral trousers, energy untamed, fabric catching the wind. In the next, he stands still, grounded in a full suit, gloves, and sunglasses. The posture is different, the gesture more deliberate, yet something youthful still lingers beneath the surface, as if boyhood has not disappeared but simply learned to exist alongside adulthood.

The fabrics move with him, folding and catching light in ways that feel entirely his own. Each gesture hints at the collision between freedom and form, instinct and expectation. Nothing feels staged. He simply moves through both states naturally. As our conversation continues, the idea of creative freedom begins to surface. Zikale describes it as the ability to block out external noise and reconnect with a more instinctive confidence. “As a creative, you have to block out a lot of noise,” he explains. “You have to have that delusional self-confidence where you want the world to be watching, but act like the world is not watching. Like the confidence of a four-year-old running around at his grandma’s house.”

Our conversation drifts toward music and pop culture, and I mention Harry Styles and the way his work has shifted across genres while still feeling unmistakably his own. Zikale nods at the comparison. For him, authenticity sits at the core of creativity. “The only thing that separates us from everyone else is our personalities and our different, unique ideas,” he says. “You have to tell a story authentically, and the only way to do that is by being yourself.” That instinct to remain authentic began early in his life. Growing up as a first-generation immigrant, surrounded by people all trying to find their place, Zikale remembers learning what it meant to hold onto his own identity.

“I went to a fairly rough school,” he recalls. “There were a lot of people finding their way and their place. Even when people saw me as the annoying kid, I still held on to being myself. Not for any reason other than that’s all I knew.” In many ways, that same instinct continues to guide him now. Clothing becomes an extension of identity, allowing him to explore different facets of himself while remaining grounded in who he is. “I see clothing as an extension of my character,” he says. “I dress for who I want to be that day. I can step into something serious, but there will always be an element of me in it. I’m a lover boy, a hopeless romantic, a bit of a joker. It’s not one absolute thing. It’s a spectrum.”

That spectrum appears most clearly in the movement captured throughout the series. A jump over a fence, a turn of the shoulder, the shifting of fabric in the wind. These small gestures feel instinctive rather than rehearsed, revealing something quieter and more honest. “It’s not what a person says,” Zikale reflects. “It’s what a person does. The small things, body language, the way someone moves. Those micro gestures say a lot more than rehearsed conversations.”

As the day in Richmond Park begins to fade, the atmosphere softens. The light grows warmer, brushing gold across his coat and the umbrella he carries. In that quiet moment, the energy slows. Boyhood no longer feels like a stage left behind. Instead, it is suspended, carried forward rather than abandoned. For Zikale, that sense of boyhood is something he hopes never disappears. He speaks about the importance of holding onto belief, even when others doubt it. In his words, the things we dream of already exist somewhere in the world; someone else has done them before. When people laugh at those ambitions, he suggests, it often says more about their own fears than about the dream itself.

“I want to keep that childlike wonder,” he says. “The freedom to do what I want. When we get stability in life, we sometimes lose the spark and the risk-taking. I want to keep feeling like I can do everything.”Richmond Park stretches behind him, vast and still. Freedom lingers in gesture, instinct, and the quiet confidence of someone learning how to carry it forward.