Griffin Museum of Photography

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A Yellow Rose Project Interview with Toni Pepe

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Toni Pepe’s Mothercraft is an ongoing body of work that reexamines 20th-century press photographs of motherhood in U.S. media, revealing movement, both socially and politically, as records of the shifting identity of motherhood and women’s liberation, and durationally as physical images that were held, touched and eventually abandoned. This work is currently on display with the traveling exhibition A Yellow Rose Project at the Griffin Museum of Photography at its Winchester galleries from October 2nd through November 30th. We had the opportunity to chat with Toni, and her responses are as follows.

Portrait of Toni Pepe, Courtesy of the Artist

Toni Pepe constructs prints and three-dimensional assemblages from discarded newspaper images, family snapshots, and obsolete photographic equipment to explore how photography shapes our perception of time, space, and self. Her practice considers the layers of information a print can impart to the viewer beyond the image. Whether it is the presence of text, subtle stains, or crop marks, each element offers a glimpse into the photograph’s journey and its significance as an object in the world. Photographic prints are more than static images; they suspend our likenesses and histories beneath surfaces that are continually transformed by the effects of time and physical contact.

Pepe currently serves as the Chair of Photography and Assistant Professor of Art at Boston University. She has exhibited her work nationally and internationally, including at Blue Sky Gallery, the Center for Photography at Woodstock and The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (MFA). Pepe’s work is in the permanent collections at the MFA; the Boston Athenaeum, Fidelity, the Danforth Art Museum; Candela Books + Gallery; The Magenta Foundation; and many private collections. She received a MacDowell Fellowship in 2024 and completed a residency at Frans Masereel Centrum in 2023.

Follow Toni Pepe on Instagram: @toni.pepe

Allison Huang: When selecting these press photographs, were you seeking specific records of women’s liberation and voting rights? What drew you to each, and is there one that resonated with you the most?

Toni Pepe: I was drawn to photographs that carried both a strong visual charge and a caption that unsettled it—complicated, reframed, revealed something unexpected. My only search word was “vote.” From there, I let the results lead me. What held me was the friction: how an image said one thing, while the text pushed it elsewhere, made the ground shift beneath it.

The richness, for me, isn’t in any single photograph but in the gathering. The way repetition works, the way certain words or images return with slight variation, layering into a longer story about the 19th Amendment and women’s liberation. It’s that build-up—those echoes, those slippages—that give the history its weight.

©Toni Pepe, At Present, From A Yellow Rose Project, All Images Courtesy of the Artist

AH: In Mrs. Nixon, you pin newspaper clippings and backlight them to emphasize the text. Why did you prioritize the text? Was it to reveal the language of the period, expose media bias toward women, or encourage individuals to see history in a new light?

TP: I’m drawn to the text for a few reasons. From a contemporary perspective, it reveals how women’s stories have been framed—what language was acceptable, what was emphasized, what was left unsaid. That language shifts over time, but the structures beneath it often persist. My aim isn’t to look back with judgment; it’s to show how progress isn’t linear or guaranteed. The text exposes the frame through which these stories were filtered and received. A press photograph is often imagined as neutral, free from bias—but once you read the caption, you realize the image is anything but.

©Toni Pepe, Mrs. Nixon, From A Yellow Rose Project, On Display at the Griffin Museum of Photography

AH: Has your understanding of the 19th Amendment, along with its intersections with art, activism, and even motherhood, changed through the process of creating Mothercraft? If so, in what ways has that shift influenced how you approach both your creative practice and your role as an artist and mother?

TP: Mothercraft grew out of my work for A Yellow Rose Project. What began as searching, as following a word—“vote”—turned into the impulse to build an archive. Not one that tells a singular story, but one that exposes the many ways women were pictured, described, and circulated through the twentieth century.

I began to think differently about the photograph—not just as an image, but as an object that holds time in multiple registers: the moment of exposure, the editorial hand, the caption, the years it spent forgotten. The prints I found weren’t preserved in institutional archives; they were drifting on eBay, abandoned, almost lost. That sense of fragility became part of the work.

History, for me, is accumulation, the layering and repetition of what we keep and what slips away. Mothercraft is my attempt to gather those fragments and preserve the traces that might otherwise dissolve into time.

©Toni Pepe, I’d Rather Be, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: Mrs. Nixon was an entry point for A Yellow Rose Project at Boston University in 2021. Now that it’s showing at the Griffin Museum, does its return to Boston feel like a kind of homecoming, or has the work taken on new dimensions since its original debut?

TP: It does feel like a homecoming, though more in the sense of circling back and finding the work changed. Mrs. Nixon was an entry point, the door that led me deeper into archives, and the path soon opened into the Women and Gender Issues Collection at the Boston Public Library. For the past year I’ve been immersed in that material—press photographs that hold a complex, often contradictory record of women in the public eye. From crime victims and survivors to beauty queens and “exceptional” women in their fields, the images reveal two sides of the same coin, the violent and the celebratory constructed in parallel, often reinforcing one another.

When the piece first showed at BU, it was in the early days of Covid. I was one of the few artists who actually got to stand in front of it. That strangeness—of a show almost without an audience—has stayed with me. So I’m grateful for the Griffin’s return to the work, for the chance to see it again in a space where it can reach a wider audience.


©Toni Pepe, On Tip Toe, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: Following up on the previous question, how does sharing this work locally enhance your role not just as an artist, but as an educator committed to critical dialogue around gender, politics, and representation?

TP: Showing the work locally means it doesn’t just live in galleries—it enters classrooms, conversations, the rhythms of daily life. It allows my practice and my teaching to overlap, for students to see how research, politics, and lived experience can be held inside an artwork.

The archive is never neutral. Press photographs, clippings, fragments—they show us how women’s stories have been framed, erased, repeated. Sharing this work with students turns the archive into a site of dialogue, a place to ask harder questions about gender, power, representation, then and now.

In that way the local feels essential. The work doesn’t just preserve history, it cultivates a habit of attention—a way of looking I hope my students carry with them.


©Toni Pepe, Vote Here, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: Finally, Mothercraft explores how photography shapes our understanding of the past. How do you envision it evolving in conversation with archives, activism, and collective memory, especially as new historical narratives and social movements emerge?

TP: I think of Mothercraft less as a closed project than as a living archive, one that keeps changing as new narratives and movements come into view. Photography has always been a way of fixing time, but also of unsettling it—what we choose to preserve, what gets forgotten, what returns in altered form.

As I work with these images, I’m reminded that collective memory isn’t static. It bends, shifts, opens to revision. The archive, too, is porous—shaped by what it holds and what it leaves out. Activism often begins in those gaps, in the insistence that certain lives, certain struggles, be seen.

So I imagine the work evolving alongside those demands. Not as a definitive account, but as a site of dialogue—between past and present, between loss and possibility. A reminder that history is never finished; it’s something we keep remaking together.

Interview by Allison Huang, Curation and Exhibitions Admin Intern

Allison Huang is the Curation and Exhibitions Admin Intern from White Plains, New York. She recently graduated from Boston University with a B.A. in History of Art and Architecture and Biology, along with a minor in Visual Arts. With a passion for storytelling and audience engagement, she is dedicated to collaborating with artists to expand their creative potential while fostering more inclusive and dynamic artistic spaces. Her research interests include the work of lesser-known artists, the representation of marginalized communities in art, and issues of repatriation. In her creative practice, she works primarily with analog photography and oil painting.

Griffin Museum of Photography – Winchester, Massachusetts

A Yellow Rose Project Interview with Meg Griffiths

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The Griffin Museum of Photography is honored to present A Yellow Rose Project, a photographic collaboration of responses, reflections, and reactions to the 19th Amendment from over one hundred women across the United States. This traveling exhibition is on view at the Griffin’s Winchester galleries from October 2nd through November 30th, 2025. We had an opportunity to chat with co-curator and artist Meg Griffiths, and her responses are as follows.

Portrait of Meg Griffiths. Courtesy of the Artist

Meg Griffiths (b. 1980) in Indiana and raised in Texas. She received Bachelor of Arts degrees from the University of Texas in Cultural Anthropology and English Literature and earned her Master of Fine Arts in Photography from Savannah College of Art and Design. She currently lives in Denton, Texas where she is an Assistant Professor of Photography in the Department of Visual Art at Texas Woman’s University.

Meg’s photographic research currently deals with domestic, economic, historical and cultural relationships across the Southern United States and Cuba. Her work has travelled nationally as well as internationally, and is placed in collections such as Center for Creative Photography, Capitol One Collection, and the Museum of Fine Arts Houston, and Center for Fine Art Photography.

Her book projects, both monographs as well as collaborative projects have been acquired by various institutions around the country such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Duke University Libraries, Museum of Modern Art, University of Virginia, University of Iowa, Clemson, Maryland Institute College of Art, Ringling College of Art, and Washington and Lee University, to name a few.

She was honored as one of PDN 30’s : New and Emerging Photographers in 2012, named one of eight Emerging Photographers at Blue Spiral Gallery in 2015, Atlanta Celebrates Photography’s Ones to Watch in 2016, was awarded the Julia Margaret Cameron for Best Fine Art Series in 2017 and awarded the 2nd Place Prize at PhotoNola in 2019.

She is represented by Photographs Do Not Bend in Dallas, TX and Candela Books + Gallery in Richmond, VA.

Follow Meg Griffiths on Instagram: @megsheagriffiths
Follow A Yellow Rose Project on Instagram: @ayellowroseproject

Allison Huang: What initially inspired both you and your co-curator, Frances Jakubek, to co-found A Yellow Rose Project? 

Meg Griffiths: Honestly, for my part, I was inspired by the mission of Texas Woman’s University, the nation’s largest public university primarily for women. It is a place where you are surrounded by women working and collaborating together. Where the goal is to support and empower each person to use their voices through their chosen fields. It is an incredibly special university. I always knew I wanted to do something larger than myself and collaborate with women to make photographic work. However, it was not until I met Frances that I knew who I wanted to generate and launch this project with. We knew the centennial of the 19th Amendment was coming up and we thought this would be the perfect charge for women to make work in response, reflection and reaction to. 

©Meg Griffiths, Stone message, 1920, From A Yellow Rose Project, All Images Courtesy of the Artist

AH: How has your understanding of the 19th Amendment and the intersection of art and activism changed throughout the process of curating the work of all these women photographers for this
exhibition?

MG: Art and more specifically photography is such a powerful way to engage people. To create an opportunity for viewers to encounter what is happening in the world. It also has a lasting way of connecting us to key moments in history. It is the photograph that we use to reflect, respond and react to culture and politics. Many of those images stick with us. I believe the work in this project will too. We thoughtfully considered all the images submitted for the project, all of which were accepted and are housed on our website, and we chose images for the exhibition and for the book that showed the full scope of those thoughts by women in the U.S. concerning this moment in time 

What I learned from looking through all the submissions, was just how varied the responses to this call could be. These artists went to places my mind would never have gone. This is exactly what we wanted. We chose to work with women of all ages, stages in their careers, as well as cultural backgrounds. We wanted a kaleidoscope of viewpoints. Each artist also chose to express those ideas through various modes of research, genres and material choices. As Lisa Volpe writes in the introduction of our book, “each stands as a yellow rose.” Each of the submissions is unique. It has been a complete delight to revisit the work every time there is a show. Each show sequenced and presented differently to create a new conversation. There are many layers of meaning here and those keep changing over time. 

©Meg Griffiths, Subtle fusion of time, From A Yellow Rose Project, On Display at the Griffin Museum of Photography

AH: In your still life images, you discuss how your work draws upon the written accounts of
suffragists from the 1920s and your own personal history. Is there a specific still life that resonates with you the most?

MG: In doing research to make work for this project I came across one story that struck me, and as such, was the inspiration for the photograph I constructed entitled, Ethel Byrne, 185 hours, 1917. It references an experience had by a political prisoner during the movement. Ethel Byrne was a suffragist, Irish-American, nurse, sister to Margaret Sanger and one of the three Mother’s of what is known as Planned Parenthood. She was arrested in 1917 for distributing pamphlets on birth control and sentenced to jail for 30 days at Blackwell Island workhouse in New York City. Advocating for the legalization of birth control Byrne went on a hunger strike for 185 days. Authorities quickly put a stop to it and Ethel Byrne became the first woman force fed in the United States. Raw eggs were commonly used as food to push protein into the body, usually through a tube down the throat or the nose. If you go online and search you will find a few photos and illustrations of women being held down by several people, many women, while a man pushes food down her throat. By no means was this one of the worst things to happen to a woman fighting for reproductive rights in history, but it was upsetting to say the least. Often women were given flowers and pins when they were released, a show of care and respect for the time earned in prison for the cause. The story resonated with me as my ancestors came from Ireland in the early 1900’s. Many pioneers of the suffrage movement were immigrants too. I also felt drawn to make work around this topic as so many women, including myself, have benefitted from the support and care that Planned Parenthood has given women through the years. This photo was generated as an homage to this remarkable woman and to all the immigrant women in history who bore great sacrifice for the greater whole. 

©Meg Griffiths, Just, 2020, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: Previously, A Yellow Rose Project was exhibited at Texas Woman’s University in November
2020 and again with all 105 images in August of 2025. What did it mean to you to show this work in Texas — both as your home institution and a place where the yellow rose carries additional cultural significance?

MG: There are a number of reasons that it has and still means a lot to show the work in Texas. For one, it is my home state, I grew up here, came of age to vote here, and now live, raise a child and teach here. Like I mentioned before, Texas Woman’s is a unique school, not only predominantly for women, however the student body is incredibly diverse. Having the work here for this student body, alumni, faculty and staff to engage with this work nowhas meant so much to me and to them. Beyond this, it is a state where I feel literally all the policies and laws that have been made affect every aspect of my life as well as the lives of those around me. For this reason, I actively vote and stay involved. I have always said that creating and touring this project is activism for me. It is a way to remind us all that rights, once hard fought, are not to be taken for granted. It is through the act of standing up and showing up, in that long tradition of women before us, that we must participate and have the tough conversations, and make the choice to voice our truths, either through the photograph or the ballot box.

We are aware of the similarity in the name between The Yellow Rose of Texas, the song as well as the woman given the name for her role in the Battle at San Jacinto between General Santa Anna and Sam Houston. We have been asked if there is any overlap in why we chose to name this project A Yellow Rose Project with The Yellow Rose of Texas, however there is no connection for us. The name we placed upon the project is solely derived from the yellow rose as one of the suffrage symbols across all states and the roses women and men wore at the Tennessee State House back in August 20, 1920. The yellow rose being the pro-suffrage symbol and the red rose the anti-suffrage one. 

©Meg Griffiths, Ethel Byrne, 185 hours, 1917, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: Following up on the next question, how does the project magnify, challenge, or illuminate specific issues to this region?

MG: There are only a handful of artists in the project that are from Texas, and of those, many are not making work about the issues we are facing here specifically. However we here in Texas have experienced major injustices and inequalities. There are policies that have been created to hinder voting, women’s issues, lgbtqia+ rights and gender affirming care, educational freedoms as well as immigration rights. There are a number of artists in this project as a whole speaking to these issues being faced, to some degree, in all states across the U.S.. I do believe that those images magnify these particular human rights struggles. 

©Meg Griffiths, Bell Jar and Bluebird, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: What parallels do you see between the suffragists’ fight for voting rights and the challenges women and marginalized communities are still confronting in 2025?

MG: There are many parallels. The suffrage movement and today’s issues include the ongoing fight against voter suppression as well as the failure to recognize the rights of women of color, which is still persistent today. We had discriminatory laws such as poll taxes, literacy tests, and grandfather clauses to keep them from voting. We have modern day versions of this. A weakened Voting Rights Act of 1965, redistricting, ending mail in ballots, and laws such as the SAVE Act which recently passed the House. Beyond this though, this discrimination affects the ability to participate in making choices on how to protect other freedoms, such as reproductive rights, economic justice, pay equity, protection against violence, child education, and safety for lgbtqia+ communities, families and children. Not to mention the weaponization of the military against its own people and in particular marginalized communities. 

AH: What do you hope audiences, especially younger generations, take away from this show, and how do you see the role of art in remembering our shared history and inspiring activism today?

MG: My hope is that it engages and incites young people. Yes, we have come so far. Let’s not forget that it was not that long ago a woman could not own a house, a credit card, or get a loan. However, that pendulum of progress, for however far it has swung forward, is moving quickly in the opposite direction. So I hope it educates, creates conversation, community, and hopefully action. I want young audiences to find their own place in history as it is being written right now!

Interview by Allison Huang, Curation and Exhibitions Admin Intern

Allison Huang is the Curation and Exhibitions Admin Intern from White Plains, New York. She recently graduated from Boston University with a B.A. in History of Art and Architecture and Biology, along with a minor in Visual Arts. With a passion for storytelling and audience engagement, she is dedicated to collaborating with artists to expand their creative potential while fostering more inclusive and dynamic artistic spaces. Her research interests include the work of lesser-known artists, the representation of marginalized communities in art, and issues of repatriation. In her creative practice, she works primarily with analog photography and oil painting.

Griffin Museum of Photography – Winchester, Massachusetts

A Yellow Rose Project Interview with Frances Jakubek

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The Griffin Museum of Photography is honored to present A Yellow Rose Project, a photographic collaboration of responses, reflections, and reactions to the 19th Amendment from over one hundred women across the United States. This traveling exhibition is on view at the Griffin’s Winchester galleries from October 2nd through November 30th, 2025. We had an opportunity to chat with co-curator and artist Frances Jakubek, and her responses are as follows.

Portrait of Frances Jakubek. Courtesy of the Artist

Frances Jakubek is a photographer, curator and advocate for photography. She is the Director of Bruce Silverstein Gallery in New York City and past Associate Curator of the Griffin Museum of Photography in Winchester, Massachusetts. Recent curatorial appointments include I Surrender, Dear at Umbrella Arts Gallery, New York; Drawing the Line at Bruce Silverstein Gallery, New York; Grief on NY Photo Curator, and The RefridgeCurator in Boston, Massachusetts. Her personal work focuses on self-portraiture and how the body is perceived within different contexts. Her photographs have been exhibited at The Southern Contemporary Art Gallery in Charleston, SC; Filter Space; Chicago, IL; Camera Commons in Dover, NH; and The Hess Gallery at Pine Manor College, MA. She has been a guest writer for various publications and for artist monographs including Serrah Russell’s tears, tears. Jakubek has been a panelist for the Massachusetts Cultural Council’s Photography fellowships, speaker for The Photo Brigade and juror for exhibitions throughout the US including United Photo Industry’s ‘The Fence’ and PDN’s ‘The Curator Awards’.

Follow Frances Jakubek on Instagram: @franciepants
Follow A Yellow Rose Project on Instagram: @ayellowroseproject

Allison Huang: What inspired you and your co-curator, Meg Griffiths, to conceptualize and co-curate A Yellow Rose Project, and how has that vision evolved since then?

Frances Jakubek: The centennial felt like a moment of pure celebration…one hundred years of women’s right to vote. But as we learned more, we couldn’t ignore the inequality and erasure that still shape that history. Inspired by books like Odette England’s Keeper of the Hearth and Women of Vision, we invited a community of artists to join us in creating a collective voice through photography. Our aim was not only to honor the past, but to insist, right now, that women’s voices must be recorded and remembered, with hopes that is will be accessed in another 100 years.

©Frances Jakubek, Alabama Voter Registration Form, From A Yellow Rose Project, All Images Courtesy of the Artist

AH: A Yellow Rose Project brings together over 100 female and nonbinary photographers. What challenges and rewards came with curating such a large and diverse body of work?

FJ: It has been an incredible gift to have over 100 artists commit their time and work to this project. From the beginning, we promised to create awareness for the work at no cost to participants, recognizing the frequent imbalances in labor and compensation that women in this field often face. The greatest reward has been the expansion of our community, connecting artists to one another, to us, and to audiences, even when many of us have yet to meet in person. Of course, with 100 contributors come logistical challenges, contracts, managing image files, and communications, but the camaraderie and support shared among this group make it all worthwhile.

©Frances Jakubek, Georgia Voter Registration Form, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: Do you think the symbolism of the yellow rose still resonates with contemporary audiences? Has its meaning evolved as new rights movements emerge?

FJ: The yellow rose remains a powerful symbol of justice and democracy. Yellow has long carried dual meanings like tenderness and femininity, as well as caution and hazard. In suffrage, it marked women who stood at the edge of safety to have their voices heard. Today, that history persists, reminding us that in a political climate not built in our best interests, we must continue to stand up for ourselves.

©Frances Jakubek, Nevada Voter Registration Form, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: In your contribution to A Yellow Rose Project, what inspired your use of image distortion to reflect the confusion and frustration caused by voter suppression?

FJ: These images are meant to mirror the barriers that continue to restrict voter registration. The distortion of the forms symbolizes the confusion and frustration created by suppression tactics, both past and present. Referencing the impossible literacy tests and timed exams of the past to today’s obstacles, such as redistricting, documentation hurdles, and rejected mail-in ballots, the obfuscation is intentional, reflecting how these measures are designed to discourage participation and silence voices.

©Frances Jakubek, New Jersey Voter Registration Form, From A Yellow Rose Project, On Display at the Griffin Museum of Photography

AH: Five years after the 19th Amendment centennial, what does it mean to you to see A Yellow Rose Project still touring in 2025, and what does that say about the current state of women’s rights?

FJ: Each time we speak about this project, we confront the reality that the very right we set out to celebrate is now under active threat. When the work first launched in 2020, at the height of the pandemic, only a few exhibitions were possible, and many people were unable to experience them in person. In some ways, the book’s arrival five years later feels like perfect timing. We’ve been able to gather essays that situate the project in a moment when rights once assumed to be secure are being eroded. Presenting it now, in 2025, allows the work to be seen not only as a commemoration of suffrage but also as part of an urgent historical continuum of women standing up for their voices and futures.

©Frances Jakubek, Texas Voter Registration Form, From A Yellow Rose Project

AH: If this show were restaged in another 100 years, what do you hope future curators and audiences will see in it?

FJ: I hope they see the importance of community and the power of a collective voice. Creating images that are both personal and political is no small feat and sharing them publicly is an act of courage. At a time when so much history, especially the voices of women and people of color, is being erased, I want this exhibition to stand as proof that humanity shone through some of our country’s darkest moments. In a world often driven by greed and indifference, may future audiences recognize that artmaking itself is a form of protest, resilience, and healing.

Interview by Allison Huang, Curation and Exhibitions Admin Intern

Allison Huang is the Curation and Exhibitions Admin Intern from White Plains, New York. She recently graduated from Boston University with a B.A. in History of Art and Architecture and Biology, along with a minor in Visual Arts. With a passion for storytelling and audience engagement, she is dedicated to collaborating with artists to expand their creative potential while fostering more inclusive and dynamic artistic spaces. Her research interests include the work of lesser-known artists, the representation of marginalized communities in art, and issues of repatriation. In her creative practice, she works primarily with analog photography and oil painting.

Griffin Museum of Photography – Winchester, Massachusetts

Tracy Barbutes: At Home with Fire in the Sierra Nevada

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We had the opportunity to talk to documentary photographer, Tracy Barbutes, about her recent participation in our annual public outdoor exhibition, Vision(ary). Her ongoing project, At Home with Fire in the Sierra Nevada, began with the 2013 Rim Fire events near her hom, envolving into a contemplative reflection of artist’s connection to place: “Wildfire changed the trajectory of my career and it altered my nervous system,” remarks Barbutes. “My vision has evolved from the reverence I hold for this natural phenomenon.”

Tracy Barbutes is an independent photographer who has lived in Northern California on Sierra Miwok lands near Yosemite National Park for more than two decades. Her current work often features wildfire, women’s issues, rural life and Yosemite National Park. Tracy’s work has been featured in National Geographic Magazine, The Washington Post, High Country News and The Wall Street Journal, to name a few. Her image, “Transformation” is included in the Women Photograph book, “What We See: Women & Nonbinary Perspective Through the Lens.” She has exhibited throughout Europe, Asia and the U.S.

Follow Tracy Barbutes on Instagram: @tracybarbutes

Website: www.tracybarbutes.com

© Tracy Barbutes
What inspired you to start documenting the wildfire crisis in the Sierra Nevada region, particularly after the Rim Fire in 2013?

The Rim Fire was, more-or-less, the advent of the mega-fire era we find ourselves experiencing. I cannot leave my home without seeing a burn scar from any number of fires that have burned since 2013. This changing landscape exists throughout the Sierra Nevada and Western U.S. (and globally, obviously). As a photojournalist and documentarian, it is my duty to tell the story of the changing climate and its impacts.

© Tracy Barbutes
Can you share more about your journey as a photographer and how you began focusing on themes such as wildfire, women’s issues, and rural life?

As a photojournalist working for daily newspapers, I regularly covered everything from sports, breaking news, gang violence, community events, structure fires, politics, etc. The 2013 Rim Fire ignited not long after I left a staff position to become a full time independent photographer. An international event happened, literally, in my backyard, and that 402-square-mile fire changed the trajectory of my career. I began to document wildfire, which led to documenting forest management/mismanagement, prescribed burning, community education efforts, noticing that women are a minority in firefighting, as well as a host of issues that impact rural communities. The more people I meet, the more questions I ask, the more I find to document.

Your project, At Home with Fire in the Sierra Nevada, spans over 10 years. How has your approach to documenting wildfires evolved during this time?

My imagery initially focused on helping residents understand the dynamics of wildfire, hoping it would help them to make good preparation decisions for themselves and their families. My strictly photojournalistic approach has since evolved to include contemplative, poetic, conceptual work in hopes the imagery will educate a broader audience about how climate change, and specifically, fire,  affects all of us, and especially those who live in the Wildland Urban Interface (WUI). 

© Tracy Barbutes

Could you describe a memorable experience or moment while photographing wildfires that deeply impacted you or your work?

Obviously, the Rim Fire had the most profound effect personally and professionally. It was the first time I covered a large wildfire, it was the first fire I watched from my inside my home, and it was the first time I evacuated. I spent many days in active fire zones with Public Information Officers (PIOs) and firefighters learning how to safely be in and around fire, while learning about fire behavior. It was eight years later, during the 2021 Caldor Fire, that I was ready to see an entirely different aspect of wildfire. The Caldor Fire had already churned through the south side of this section of the river canyon corridor, and it was continuing to burn moderately up and down the hillsides. However, the fire was raging upward on the backside of the canyon, creating a pulsating orange light show that illuminated the entire sky. I pulled safely off the road to experience trees torching on the ridgeline easily 1,000 feet above the road, the fire spotting up and over the ridge, the fire’s glow and smoke pulsed and it roared. It shook me awake to the fact that fire is a living, breathing, powerful entity capable of destruction, cleansing, beauty, rebirth.

© Tracy Barbutes

Is there/are there particular images in the series you’d like to expand on or tell us more about?

Transformation. I spent the day exploring the Sequoia National Forest (Western Mono/Monache and Tübatulabal lands) in areas along the Great Western Divide Highway and in and around the Trail of 100 Giants at the end of September 2021. I felt compelled to find and document Giant Sequoias that had survived multiple lightning-caused wildfires: the KNP Complex Fire burning to the north in Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks and this one, the Windy Fire, burning in Sequoia National Forest. I needed to bear witness to survival after having already documented so much devastation this fire season. I should have carried a chainsaw and was fortunate that I could work my way around burning logs and downed trees choking the roadways. I walked through powdery gray soil while breathing putrid, suffocating smoke and avoiding fire-weakened and damaged trees that crashed around me. I did a double-take at this burning remnant, as ironically, it felt like the most ‘alive’ thing I had experienced thus far on the day’s journey. In an instant, this downed tree, smoldering from the inside, became symbolic of a grieving, weeping planet, a Western landscape ravaged from drought and an inflamed nation fractured from deceptive narratives.  

©Tracy Barbutes
© Tracy Barbutes

In what ways has living in such a wildfire-prone area shaped your personal and artistic outlook?

I rarely sleep through a night during fire season. Year after year of intense fires and more days of intensely unhealthy air quality, I find myself searching for poetic beauty in the changing landscape. I need to find positives to balance with the destruction.

© Tracy Barbutes

Can you tell us more about the juxtaposition in Diptych – Spring Storm, September Suffocation at Tenaya Lake (2015, 2020)?

Tenaya Lake is located along Tioga Pass Road, Yosemite’s mountain pass (the highest elevation highway mountain pass in California). The pass, which is just up the road from my home, closes in the fall as inclement weather encroaches and reopens anytime between May and July, depending on snow and road conditions. Opening day is my favorite day of the year, by far. The lake, the pass, and all that is made possible by having access equals absolute joy and a multitude of options. Spring Storm was taken on the pass’s opening day 2015, which led to a full day of hiking and fishing in pure mountain air, where the AQI was ~10. September Suffocation was taken on my birthday while multiple mega fires raged throughout the state, forcing the closure of most public lands in this region, and the AQI was well over 300, equal to emergency advisories. This meant no hiking, no fishing, no paddling, no exploring new mountain lakes or meadows, and warnings to remain indoors. These images represent the dichotomy of joy, renewal, beauty, exploration and possibility with devastation, loss and grief that comes with living in the heart of wildfire country.

© Tracy Barbutes

Finally, what advice would you give to aspiring photographers who are interested in documenting environmental issues or landscapes undergoing significant change?

Please – listen to people who live in the communities you are documenting. Make time to understand the issues. Please fight the urge to create stereotypical imagery. If you’re covering fire or other weather events, please have all necessary PPE and have some training before you put yourself in the elements.

Jaina Cipriano: Empty Mirror

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We had the opportuntity to talk to experiential designer and filmmaker, Jaina Cipriano on her recent partipation in our annual public outdoor exhibition, Vision(ary): Portraits of Cultures, Communities and Environments. Her project, Empty Mirror, features a series of dreamy and playful self-portraits exploring tumultuous yet liberating episodes of coming-of-age, healing and identity regeneration.

An interview with the artist follows.

Follow Jaina on Instagram: @jainastudio

© Jaina Cipriano, You Get to Make the Choice

Jaina Cipriano is an experiential designer and filmmaker exploring the emotional toll of religious and romantic entrapment. Her worlds communicate with our neglected inner child and are informed by explosive colors, elements of elevated play, and the push/pull of light and dark.

She is a self-taught artist with a deep love for creative problem-solving. Jaina writes and directs award-winning short films that wrestle with the complicated path of healing. In 2020, she released You Don’t Have to Take Orders from the Moon, a surrealist horror film wrestling with the gravity of deep codependency. Her second short, Trauma Bond, is a dreamy coming-of-age thriller that explores what happens when we attempt to heal deep wounds with quick fixes.

In 2024, Jaina became the executive director of the Arlington International Film Festival. Her passion for changing lives through storytelling has found a home in the legacy the founders have created. Jaina is excited to foster community and creativity in New England in the coming years.

Jaina’s photographic work forgoes digital manipulation; everything is created for the camera. She takes an immersive approach to working with models, approaching a shoot like a documentary photographer as her subjects are let loose in a strangely designed space. Working with Jaina is often described as cathartic and playful. Her photographic work has been shown internationally.

She is the founder of Finding Bright Studios, a design company in Lowell specializing in set design for music videos and immersive spaces. She has collaborated with GRRL HAUS, Boston Art Review, and was a Boston Fellow for the Mass Art Creative Business Incubator and a finalist in EforAll Merrimack Valley.

© Jaina Cipriano, 30th Birthday
Jaina, congratulations on being part of Vision(ary). Given the central theme of the exhibition, how do you think self-portraiture can address issues beyond the self in a way that it involves community and environments?

Absolutely. I forget my images are me.

I believe that our internal narratives shape the future we believe we deserve and that those narratives come, in part, from the media and art we consume.
Empathy is at the core of my practice and I think that by telling new stories that focus on marginalized voices we afford everyone the freedom and power that comes with seeing their own truth reflected back. 

We change our narratives so we can change the world.

© Jaina Cipriano, You Tried to Bury Me
We are curious to know, where does the title of the project come from?

It’s about Becoming Yourself. Coming of age in the confines of the structures I did left little room for movement. I was always thirsty to know who I was. Growing up has been a journey of finding myself and filling the empty mirror in front of me. My reflection was built up over time. These works are an exploration of my childhood narratives through my grown-up lens. From sayings my father had (“I’m going to put you in a box so you won’t grow up.”) to bible stories that kept me up at night to fairy tales of salvation. How have they shaped my view of myself, the world and what I believe to be possible for my future?

© Jaina Cipriano
How long do you usually work on an image? What is the longest it has taken you to make a photograph?

Usually only a few days. That is intentional, I don’t want to overthink or talk myself out of any creative decisions. I try to work by listening to my gut. Sometimes a set takes weeks to build. In that time I am not thinking about the photograph. The photograph can’t emerge until I can inhabit the space. The photograph itself never takes more than a few hours. 

© Jaina Cipriano, Checking In
You share in your project statement how your experience coming from a background in a fundamentalist Christian cult made you feel separated from the world. How does photography help you navigate or reconcile this separation?

My childhood was mostly consuming media (books and movies) and daydreaming in the backyard. They were my best windows into the world. 

As I got older, the camera gave me a reason to be somewhere. With a camera in my hand I made new friends and was invited to document their days. I discovered myself and the world through the viewfinder.

Those two things came together to create my practice. Now I build my own stories and make sense of them through my lens.

Creating these worlds through photography allows me to change my internal narrative. When life feels painful or strange, I can use photography as a form of psychomagic, creating safe spaces where I can open up, be present, and trust the process. It’s a way for me to connect with who I am without the heavy influence of my past. I am illuminating new areas of myself to eliminate the darkness of my fear. 

© Jaina Cipriano, The Devil Was Here
Your childhood experience of playing pretend contrasts with your current practice of constructing and photographing your own spaces. How has this empowerment shaped the themes you explore in Empty Mirror?

It allows me to play, which helps me reconcile my past hurts and move through them into my wonderful present. Sometimes I connect to my childhood self and she just wants to make messes and dress up — and we do just that. There is empowerment in being able to say “yes” to my inner child.

Your interactive, participatory installations bring a different idea of the concept of community and environment. What motivated you to begin working in this fashion?

In 2017 I started Immersion — decadent, themed parties in my small Cambridge apartment. Some of the nights had rooms chest deep with balloons, dozens of cakes to step on or  strange, blacklight reactive spaces. I invited women who were interested in exploring behind or in front of the camera and we we’re all set loose in this 360 set I built and lit. Something happened in those spaces – discovery, connection, it felt like magic. It felt more real, to me, than real life.

As we get older we lose our opportunities to play. I always want to make space for myself (and others) to play. Play can help us heal our emotional wounds.

© Jaina Cipriano, Blurred Lines
© Jaina Cipriano
Finally, what thrills you the most about the theatricality of fabricated spaces?

The possibility. It is truly endless.

I am also able to communicate thoughts and feelings that I cannot in the “real” world.

In a way, all photographs are memories. But playing in fabricated spaces gives me the ability to re-create my own memories in a way that feels authentic to me. Even if they don’t look the way they used to, they hold more emotional truths than my childhood snapshots do.

They reveal emotional landscapes that are deeply personal yet universally relatable. By creating these worlds, I can connect with my own emotions and experiences on a profound level, while also providing a mirror for others to see themselves and feel less alone in their intensity.

© Jaina Cipriano, Childhood Is Over, Pack It Up

Lidia Rusell | Desert Landscapes

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We had the opportunity to accompany Lidia Rusell on a virtual journey on series, Desert Landscapes (2019 – 2022), currently on view in our annual public outdoor exhibition Vision(ary). Her project presents expansive vistas of iconic American scenery — from the Mojave Desert to the Grand Canyon. An interview with the artist follows.

© Lidia Rusell. All images courtesy the artist.

Lidia Rusell specializes in fine art, landscape, contemplative, and storytelling photography. Lidia combines her background as a journalist and publicity professional with her photography to tell stories about landscapes, places, moments, and reality behind forms. Her art explores the relationships between landscape, nature, human life, and spirit. Her photographs were featured in educational and art magazines, and were shown in group exhibits. Born in Poland, she currently lives in the US.

Follow Lidia on Instagram: @lidiarussellphotography

Desert Landscapes (2019 – 2022)

This project emerged from days of travelling through remote western desert landscapes of Arizona and California, so unfamiliar to my European eye. The visual language of American deserts is unexpectedly rich. I felt enchanted and humbled by the colors, textures, forms, layers of time, silence, sense of space, sense of unearthliness, the elements. Indigenous Peoples call these lands sacred and encourage their inhabitants to understand themselves through understanding the place they find themselves in, and in consequence, to become good guardians or stewards of the lands they belong to by virtue of birth or residence. If we understand ourselves in this way, we will grasp something essential about our relation to our communities, land we live on, and the planet. I am hoping these images reflect a sense of the awe experienced while driving and hiking through America’s deserts. These journeys took place shortly before the beginning (The Grand Canyon) and the end of the pandemic (The Mojave Desert), and they both prepared me for, helped to go through, mirrored, and enabled to better understand the meaning of that unprecedented time.

© Lidia Rusell
Lidia, congratulations on being part of Vision(ary). If we were on a photo trip to the desert together, where would you take us?

It may be too hot for Death Valley at this time, but I’d still take us to the Mojave Desert – some areas are not well known or widely photographed. For the most part it’s very much deserted – you can drive for miles and see just a train at the horizon or single vehicle. So it’s a super comfortable place for outsiders and empaths. Mojave’s vast open vistas, rocky hills, and remote roads have a pull that’s hard to resist. 

    The Mojave Desert sounds great. What are your photo essentials and what music, if any, should we play?

    When it comes to travelling and photography, our presence and attention count the most. We need eyes wide open, sunglasses, a good pair of lightweight hiking boots, an offline or printed map, plenty of water, and plenty of stamina – we may drive forever on bad roads, face strong winds and blistering sun. Wind is music that the desert itself is playing.

      Many Europeans also associate the Mojave with a quirky German cult movie from the 80s called the Bagdad Café and its’ hit song (lyrics start… “A desert road from Vegas to nowhere”) which captures something from the spirit… we accidentally found this small café in the middle of nowhere… buried in a desert dust it looked a bit too quirky for me, so I didn’t care to go inside. 

      I won’t play the very atmospheric Hania Rani’s music – though it would be great to introduce this talented young Polish piano player, vocalist, and composer (she’s a good photographer as well). Her nostalgic progressive mix of minimal tracks and neo-classical sounds would probably go well with desert sands and night skies. When we travel (it’s my heart that takes us places but it’s he who drives, just one aspect of his overall awesomeness), we sometimes listen to R.E.M. as we have this one old CD in the vehicle, but more often, we simply allow the sound of the place to reach us, so perhaps that’s what we could do now? 

      © Lidia Rusell
      Thank you for the recommendations! What is the first thing we do when we get to our destination?

      We take a deep breath and acknowledge our inner state. We take the environment fully in and make sure we understand where we stand – what we should pay attention to on this land, who lived there, and where these inhabitants or their descendants are today. We thank them (and the desert gods!) for allowing us to come that far. And we notice the weather… 

        What initially drew you to landscape photography and desert landscapes in particular?

        I always thrived in nature, and grew up with a landscape that was New England-like: forests, lakes, and close to the sea. As a teenager I discovered the mountains, and used to hike with my high school girlfriends. We would hitchhike the entire country, from the far northwest of Poland, to the lower south, and oftentimes we’d cross the border to the less crowded Tatra High Mountains in Slovakia, which are part of the Carpathian mountain chain. Both Slovak and Polish sides are protected as national parks. Later I would hike there on my own with a 35mm analog camera. The Tatra Mountains would make me feel strong, brave, and unusually alert – it was almost as if I sensed a higher consciousness there, and I loved those silent conversations with rough landscapes (at 8000 feet, my fear of heights would take me back from the trail before I reached the summit).

        Mountains possess a spirit, and so America’s deserts. When we immerse ourselves in this terrain and allow ourselves to be receptive, we tap into that well of desert wisdom. This connection is reminiscent of vision quests that have played important role in the spiritual practices of many cultures, including Christianity, Judaism, and Indigenous traditions. From a spiritual perspective, the desert is for growth and transformation. It calls for courage, strips away the layers of cultural falsehoods and illusions we cling to, leaving us with a raw, unfiltered view of reality. It provides us with great clarity and respect for the elements and forces that are bigger than us. Yet my journey into landscape photography began amidst the mountains, where a landscape felt grand and alive, and I wanted to freeze our encounter in time. My focus extended beyond physicality, I wished to depict the underlying mystery, the essence. At times, it felt akin to photographing a ghost – the unseen energies that pulse through our world. 

        © Lidia Rusell
        You took these photographs shortly before the beginning and the end of the pandemic. How have desert landscapes throughout this period shaped your understanding of solitude and the human connection to nature?

        Contrary to popular belief, silence in the desert is rarely an absolute void. Instead, it’s often punctuated by a variety of sounds: the whisper of the wind, the rustling of leaves brushing against one another, the songs of birds, thunderclaps, the patter of rain, and the reverberations of sound bouncing off the rocks. Yet, amidst this auditory richness, there is an overarching silence, akin to being nestled in a spacious vacuum bubble. It allows us to connect with both our surroundings and our internal responses so that we can better see and understand. The mental chatter diminishes, uncovering a spaciousness within us that daily distractions often hide. The desert, while captivating, offers little for the mind to focus on, creating a uniquely meditative atmosphere. When we become quieter, more empty, more desert-like, we can both loose ourselves and find the self that underlines our experiences. 

        The desert reveals that we are each solitary beings, unique universes in ourselves. We shape our own realities through the stories we tell. In this exploration, we can also see that everything else is a unique world, and together, we can create shared realities based on our collective experiences and the narratives we build together. We must learn to change how we view our relationship with the Earth. The pandemic helped many recognize our dependence on nature. We saw how the natural world thrived without us and offered us comfort during tough times. It’s essential that we take action to help the planet heal while there’s still time. 

        The desert journeys allowed me to recognize the power of the land. In these vast, seemingly barren places, I saw the endless possibilities of the human heart. As we move past the isolation of the pandemic, it’s important to nurture our visions for a new reality – one we started to glimpse during quiet, introspective times. Together and inspired, we can bring this new reality to life. 

        © Lidia Rusell
        You’ve written in your blog you “lean towards more wild and rugged places” yet have been excited about visiting both “remote locations and the more iconic tourist destinations.” How does your photographic approach change depending on its isolation and location?

        When navigating crowded locations, photographers often find themselves faced with two choices. The first is to photograph the moment and make a documentary statement (depicting scenes like tourists taking selfies at the precipice of cliffs or climbing nature monuments that hold sacred significance for Indigenous peoples, much like cathedrals do for Europeans). These images convey a juxtaposition of nature and human intrusion. Some photographers opt for a more selective approach and create idealized images devoid of human presence, carefully cleaning up the frame to remove any trace of tourists or fellow photographers. My preference leans toward arriving at these iconic sites when the hustle and bustle has waned, and fatigue has driven most away. We often choose “bad weather” day or venture to places that appear overlooked, nestled in the shadows of more popular attractions. I find value in spaces that afford a simpler interaction with the environment. In an isolated place, I allow intuition to be the guide (while having some idea about terrain based on former research). Sometimes there’s a need to decide about gear, length of hike, light, but usually all is spontaneous, and often feel that landscape recognizes the respect we give and offers to guide us… 

          Okay, feels as if I bored our photo group, and we could all benefit from a good cup of coffee. That’s what tourist destinations are for – they house delightful cafés and stores that offer an opportunity to appreciate the craftsmanship of local artisans. As a former ceramic artist, I often bring back from a trip a unique piece of pottery, and love to learn more about it. 

          When we venture into more ‘civilized’ areas, the visual narratives that unfold differ from those from untouched landscapes, but the cultures that thrive in the desert are picturesque and distinctive, even with a global coat of paint and disastrous impact on environment. 

          © Lidia Rusell
          © Lidia Rusell
          Some of your photographs feature Joshua trees, making us think about the environmental challenges threatening them. How can photography raise awareness about the interconnectedness of ecosystems and human happiness?

          David Ulrich, a photographer who weaves the threads between art, nature, and consciousness, shared insights gained from research on the impact of climate change photography. If I recall correctly, the findings revealed that images that portray the disasters and evoke feelings of despair are often less effective in raising awareness than those that depict the beauty and fragility of our threatened environments. This revelation is profound. When we engage authentically with the landscapes around us, their beauty fosters a sense of gratitude and reverence. This emotional connection allows us to acknowledge the “invisible thread” that binds us all to the Earth.

          Standing before a Joshua tree, or any element of nature that resonates deeply within us, we find ourselves in a contemplative space where we can perceive the sacredness of the land – like the Navajo people, who view the land as a powerful form of consciousness. The idea that, with every step we take upon the Earth, we are engaging with something far greater than ourselves is not just a romantic notion; it is a truth found across cultures and present in the literary traditions of the West. True happiness and fulfillment cannot exist in isolation, particularly when we are surrounded by landscapes that are suffering and exploited. The sight of dying Joshua trees – a species whose decline signifies the loss of countless other forms of life – serves as a reminder of our shared destiny. We are woven into this tapestry, feeling the land’s pain not just through despair but through the beauty it offers. 

          It is striking that while photographers are among the minority that articulates the state of our natural world, the majority of society remains unaware or indifferent. The beauty depicted in photographs is not just a visual treat; it is an act of reciprocity, an exchange between the planet and inhabitants. It invites us to pause, reflect, and perhaps take action in safeguarding our environments. Through this lens, we begin to understand that our happiness is intertwined with the health of our planet, and each image becomes a reminder of what we may lose.

          © Lidia Rusell
          What other photographers inspire you?

          I like that the word “inspiration” is derived from the Latin “inspirare,” meaning “to breathe into.” There’s something timeless about the pure, fresh air of Ansel Adams’ and Minor White’s photographs. I have great respect for the dedication and work of Sebastião Salgado, Ragnar Axelsson, and Robert Misrach. I find myself drawn to images that evoke particular inner states in the viewer, much like the landscapes from David Ulrich. I get lost in the beauty of landscapes photographed by William Neil, Jimmy Chin, Roman Loranc, and Xuan-Hui Ng. The frames of André Kertész and Édouard Boubat never cease to inspire me; their curious, tender perspectives and thoughtful compositions remind me that there is always something captivating to see. I am fascinated by Abelardo Morell‘s pinhole projects, especially “Tent Camera,” for their unique processes and artistic vision. Additionally, I admire the intricate work of Wendy Bagnall, Sandra Bartocha, and Ingrid Weyland, which highlights their sensitivity and craftsmanship.

          Gab Mejia is an exceptional young storyteller, photographer, environmentalist, and his response to my question during the National Geographic webinar about his favorite spot in the United States motivated me to explore the Mojave Desert. My list of inspirations is already quite extensive, but I’m also fortunate to have friends and acquaintance photographers who inspire me every day. Last but not least, my husband is a photographer – though his work is mostly confined to family albums and his phone – and he has the ability to inspire and even physically guide me a foot or two when I’m trying to frame.

          © Lidia Rusell
          We are getting ready to go back as we reminisce about your favorite places to photograph. What are they?

          If you glimpse through my portfolio, I hope you’ll detect a pursuit of presence and a hint of mystery. I’m drawn to remote locations that were once considered “off the beaten path”: frigid islands, rugged hills and mountains, volcanic regions, deserts, badlands, and glaciers. If I could frequently visit such landscapes (and survive there!), it would truly be a dream come true. At the same time, I share a connection with the Atlantic Ocean, which feels like a more expansive version of my childhood companion, the Baltic Sea. Lately, you might find me among the East Coast’s sand dunes, absorbing their tales of the past, the shifting sands, and the uncertain future, while gaining insight into the resilience we will all need as we navigate through our collective transformation.

          What is the last thing we do when we leave?

          We express our gratitude. And make sure we are well-informed about how to return safely (details on the route, weather conditions, and time)… we don’t want to drive through mountain passes in fog or get stranded in the desert after dark, though such an adventure might offer great photographic opportunities. We appreciate the land for welcoming us and revealing its mysteries. One of those mysteries could be the realization that we are never truly alone in the desert?

          © Lidia Rusell

          Nicolas Marticorena: Aridness

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          We had the opportunity to talk to Nicolás Marticorena about his series, Aridez (Aridity), currently on view in our annual public outdoor exhibition Vision(ary). The work explores the concept of ecological and ’emotional’ aridness through the photographer’s solo journeys across his homecountry Chile, Mexico and Marruecos. An interview with the artist follows.

          © Nicolás Marticorena, Oaxaca, Mexico, 2022. All images courtesy the artist.

          Nicolás Marticorena (Santiago de Chile, 1983). He studied journalism and photography at Andres Bello University and has a PhD in Sociology from the University of Barcelona, Spain. As a journalist and sociologist, his approach to analog photography began during college with an initial interest in documentary photography. Over the years, he has been exploring other styles and developing a personal photographic look, which he conducts as a process of internal search and expression that allows him to connect with the contemplation of the environment, people, and the intimate. Since 2021, he has deepened his photography knowledge and capabilities through workshops with renowned photographers Luis Poirot and Fernanda Larraín, with whom he has been learning laboratory techniques for more than two years. In 2023, he was part of Pasajero, a group exhibition of analog photography at Centro Cultural Las Condes. 

          Follow Nicolás Marticorena on Instagram: @nicolas_marticorena

          ©Nicolás Marticorena, Tifnit 2, Marruecos, 2023.
          Nicolás, let’s imagine we are on a photo trip around Chile, Marruecos, and Mexico — the places where your series Aridity takes place. Where would you take us first and why?

          Without a doubt, Chile. It is the place I know best, it is my environment, and it is where my interest in connecting with aridity originates. I believe that as photographers, our perspective is always more enriching when we capture what we inhabit the most—be it a specific space, a theme, an emotion, or a particular interest. From there, we can create and understand the paths and evolution of our photographic projects. And Chile, especially the province of Petorca, is the space that has allowed me not only to develop a more personal perspective on a very sensitive socio-environmental issue but also to embark on a journey of self-discovery, where I have sought to connect the photographic process with my emotions through the images I have taken over the years of landscapes, people, and communities.

          I would take you on the route I usually follow through the province’s roads, with no other goal than to travel at a leisurely pace until I have the chance to find those places and situations that spark an intimate interest in photographing and getting to know those who live in these towns struggling to obtain water, learning about their lives, their memories, their surroundings, and their relationship with the mountains and nature.

          ©Nicolás Marticorena, Cabildo, Provincia de Petorca, 2022.
          In all the places we are going to, why is water — or better said, the lack of thereof — so important to you and to the narrative thread of your project?

          Through the images, I delve into the thread of aridity as an environment that allows me to connect with resilience. It relates to the ways in which nature, the landscape, and those who live with that environment adapt, as well as to those who travel or have traveled through an emotionally difficult path. In my view, aridity somehow drives us to seek the extension of life and transforms into a context that makes us reflect on what we were, what we are, and what we want to be. This deeply intrigued me, especially considering that the climate emergency we are experiencing is expanding the presence of aridity in our world in every sense.

          When I started this project in Petorca, an area suffering from the effects of climate change through an unprecedented megadrought, I began making recurrent trips to the area as an observer. I gradually familiarized myself with the context, the environment, and spent long days traveling alone, exploring mining routes, and conversing with people I met along the way. This dynamic allowed me to perceive the resilience of the environment, but also to feel my own resilience in relation to the situation and my personal experience. I realized the ambivalent effect of aridity on me and also began to notice that other trips I was making or wanted to make to other places—such as Mexico and Morocco—had commonalities with Petorca.

          ©Nicolás Marticorena, Tifnit 1, Marruecos, 2023.
          Travel to photograph or photograph to travel? What are the implications of each?

          Perhaps it’s a mix of both; I think there is a reciprocal relationship. Traveling is one of the most exciting activities we can engage in, and personally, it is one of the most cherished times for me to immerse myself in a subject and dedicate myself exclusively to photography, without distractions. It’s my chance to be amazed. Conversely, I believe that photography often leads us to discover, delve into, and develop an interest in new destinations. Since I was young, I’ve been fortunate to travel, but when I started integrating photography into that exploration, I benefited from a combination that expanded my experiences and travel horizons far beyond, whether near or thousands of kilometers away. Today, photography defines my travels and profoundly influences the destinations I choose; those that support my creative process and self-discovery.

          ©Nicolás Marticorena, Alicahue, Provincia de Petorca, 2020.

          What is on your mind when you hold your camera when you are photographing a person versus a landscape?

          It’s difficult for me to describe or generalize. There are times when I find myself encountering a person as part of a particular situation, inhabiting an eye-catching space, or reflecting an expression that draws my attention. At those moments, I feel the impulse to photograph, encountering a certain surprise that motivates me to capture the instant and offer my own interpretation of reality. Or there are times when circumstances lead me to a meeting through conversation and interaction, allowing me to get to know a person a bit better and discover them. That’s when the opportunity to create a portrait arises.

          When I photograph a landscape, I also feel an unconscious impulse; something compels me to pick up the camera and record. I’m drawn to composition, light, and textures, but underlying it all is something irrational. The photographer Graciela Iturbide says that when we photograph, we interpret a very subjective reality that somehow conveys our previous experiences and emotions. I feel a strong connection with what she mentions. I believe that when I’m alone, with my camera in hand, and I come across a landscape, situation, or person to photograph, I’m unconsciously capturing a moment that reflects a part of who I am and who I have been.

          ©Nicolás Marticorena, RutaE411, Provincia de Petorca, 2019.
          What are your photo essentials you take when you go on such photo trips?

            I try to travel as light as possible. I carry a medium-sized backpack in which I keep a light meter, a remote shutter release, some rolls of film, a 35mm camera, and of course, my Rolleiflex, which has been very useful on these trips. It’s a camera that, in a way, seems to generate trust and curiosity in people when I photograph them. It has opened some doors for me.

            ©Nicolás Marticorena, Chalaco, Provincia de Petorca, 2023.
            If you could add one more country to your project, where would you travel next?

              I would love to have the opportunity to explore Iran in depth. It’s a country that seems enigmatic to me, culturally rich, and with landscapes that are deeply moving. I’ve gotten to know it a bit more through its artists, its cinema, and significant photography books like Gilles Peress’s Telex Iran: In the Name of Revolution. It’s a country experiencing aridity and, unfortunately, is also severely affected by water scarcity. I hope that when the military and political tensions ease, I’ll have the fortune to explore it.

              I also want to explore the northern part of Chile more deeply, with its desert and highlands. This September, I will travel to the town of Putre to start a journey by land to Calama, where I hope to continue expanding my Aridity project.

              ©Nicolás Marticorena, Mirleft 2, Marruecos, 2023.

              Eugeniya Tsoy: The Journey to the Edge of Eternity

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              We had the opportunity to talk to Evgeniya Tsoy about her series, The Journey to the Edge of Eternity, currently on view in our 2024 Vision(ary) exhibition. The work explores the region of Kamchatka Peninsula in the Russian Far East. An interview with the artist follows.

              Follow Evgeniya on Instagram: @tsoy_photo_

              All images © Evgeniya Tsoy. Courtesy the artist.

              Evgeniya Tsoy (Евгения Цой) is an art photographer who lives in Russia in the city of Kazan. She was born in 1983. She graduated from the Institute of Chemical Technology in 2007 and worked as an engineer. Since 2012, she has been engaged in photography, and since 2022, she had been studying art photography and contemporary art. She has participated in more than 10 Russian an foreign exhibitions.

              The Journey to the Edge of Eternity

              Kamchatka is a place of incredible beauty and energy. Here, time seems to have stopped and frozen between thousand-year-old volcanoes and the ocean, wrapped in fogs that plunge you into oblivion. It is a checkpoint on the edge of eternity—an interworld in which it is easy to get confused and, in the dissipated fog, to see this world in a new way.

              Reality is nothing more than the perception of this world by our consciousness. In my series, I seek the gap between how we are used to seeing the reality around us and what else it could be. By reassembling individual elements of the overall picture of reality into a new plot, I create a different metaphysical space or object. This approach allows me and the viewer to detach from the usual visual clichés and try to see something from a new angle.

              Evgeniya, your series The Journey to the Edge of Eternity explores the mystical aspects of The Kamchatka Peninsula in Far Eastern Russia. What drew you initially to this place?

              Kamchatka with its unique and pristine nature has long attracted me. This remote peninsula at the edge of Russia has always seemed to me a special place. The first thing that struck me when I first visited Kamchatka was its grandiose and unspoiled landscape. Volcanoes, hot springs, vast snow-covered expanses – all this creates a feeling that you have ended up on another planet. Time seems to stand still here, and human presence is almost imperceptible. But in addition to this, Kamchatka also has a deep cultural and historical subtext. For me, Kamchatka is not just a picturesque landscape, but a place where ancient cosmogonic ideas and modernity intertwine, where man tries to find his place in this powerful natural world. The process of creating this series for me is a kind of spiritual journey, a meditation on the relationship between man and nature.

              The title is so poetic. What is the inspiration behind it?

              The parking sign in the middle of the volcanoes became the key in choosing the title. There, the fog suddenly descended and a state of timelessness appeared, as if you found yourself in the eternity of the thousand-year-old valleys and volcanoes. This sign looked very strange, inorganic, but at the same time very metaphorically stopped you right there, in that place.

              Human constructions amidst deserted landscapes are a recurrent motif in your project. It really sets up quite an intriguing, almost dystopian/sci-fiesque tone for the series. What do you look for when choosing things and places to photograph in the context of this work?

              I am interested in places where human presence is felt, but humanity itself is absent. This creates a sense of abandonment, of a disrupted balance. I like this contrast between the artificial and the natural, between civilization and the pristine environment, which really gives an dystopian undertone. This is an intentional artistic device that I use to prompt the viewer to reflect on the place of man in this world, on the balance between technology/progress and nature. In the series there is one work with a person, it is necessary for the person to enter this space, as a wanderer and a participant in the events.

              You mention creating a “different metaphysical space” in your work. Could you elaborate on how you achieve this in your photography?

              When I talk about creating a “metaphysical space”, I mean that I am trying to go beyond the usual documentation of the landscape and form a sense of an alternative reality in the viewer. This space is familiar to us, but at the same time alien to our everyday life. And this is primarily a choice of locations, I am looking for places where human presence is combined with a pristine, almost alien environment. In many shots from the series, there is also fog, which helps to create this otherness of the space.

              Can you describe a memorable experience or moment while developing this work that significantly shaped the course of the project?

              At the very beginning of the trip, I found myself on the shore of the Pacific Ocean during a thick fog, there was a sense of timelessness, as if it had stopped here. Playground, campsites, objects on the beach and other traces of human presence – all of a sudden it all looked completely different. And the Pacific Ocean at the same time calmed with its monotonous sound of waves and stirred with its power and might. That state and feeling from that place became the leitmotif of the whole trip and left an imprint on the frames taken there.

              Kamchatka is known for it seismic activity and volcanic eruptions, how do you adapt your photographic techniques or practice to such unpredictable environment?

              During my trip, there were no eruptions or any strong seismic activity. I try to find a balance between a documentary approach and a more contemplative, artistic vision. It is important for me not just to record events, but to convey the sense of primordial power and beauty of these places.

              Is there something about his place you think people should know or that you’d like to seize the opportunity to share?

              Yes, I would like to show the peculiarity of this region. Volcanoes cannot leave anyone indifferent. And nature itself is also very diverse here, it’s like a laboratory for creating our planet. Immutable beauty, through which you seem to touch eternity. In the interweaving of different elements in this place, an extraordinary energy is felt. The power and might of the ocean, the grandeur of the volcanoes, the centuries-old beauty, in the midst of which we are even less than a grain of volcanic sand. And also the rich cultural heritage of the indigenous peoples of Kamchatka – Itelmens, Koryaks, Evens and other ethnic groups. Their ancient traditions, beliefs and shamanic practices, closely connected with nature, are of great interest and value. I would like to find myself there again and pay more attention to this.

              Griffin State of Mind: Catching Up with Anne Eder

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              We had the wonderful opportunity to talk to multidisciplinary artist and educator Anne Eder on this special Q&A for our Griffin State of Mind interview series. Eder has been an integral part of our education programming, generously offering her expertise on alternative photographic processes. We are thrilled to have her back for two unique workshops on lumen prints and cyanotype this summer both in person and online at the museum.

              Keep reading to stay up to date with the artist’s latest ventures and insights.

              Portrait of Anne Eder. Courtesy the artist.

              Anne, thank you for this interview. Before we start, how have you been spending your summer?

              Anne Eder: Well, it’s been a very busy summer. I have had public installations of sculptural work, a show at Vermont Center of Photography, and a panel presentation and workshop for the Experimental Photo Festival in Barcelona. I’ve taught nearly every day for a number of institutions. Not much down time. What time I get I spend with my fabulous chihuahua, The Brain, woods walking, doing research, and trying to find time for my own arts practice. 

              What is something you have been really excited to teach in your workshops lately?

              Anne Eder: SO many things haha! I have my core classes in sustainable photography and plant-based printing that I will always love but I also teach a number of classes that are more about investigating new ways of making connections between media and disciplines. I love the crosslinking that happens when you see things as not separate, but part of the bigger picture.

              All images © Anne Eder.

              Ephemerality is an important component in your art — something that stands in contrast to society’s mainstream production mindset. How has that manifested in your work lately?

              Anne Eder: A good deal of the work I make is designed to go back to the earth. My sculptural work is organic, and after functioning as public art, it is allowed to decompose on site. When that isn’t possible I take it to my “Boneyard”, and there I can document the entropic phase photographically. It does make it harder for me as an artist in what is essentially a capitalistic art marketplace, but I need to walk my talk when it comes to a sustainable practice. Not all of my work is ephemeral—I do print platinum/palladium which is considered very permanent and stable, but realistically that’s only as stable as the paper it is printed on, how it’s stored, if it has been free of accidents like fire or flood. I think there are lots of ways to make art viewing even more visceral by embracing its ephemeral nature and durational constraints.

              In an interview with Craig Stover at the ArtShow, you mentioned you’ve always sort of felt “out of the Zeitgeist.” Has that feeling changed? And what is the Zeitgeist today?

              Anne Eder: I would say that the current Zeitgeist is about the political, and we do need work that addresses inequality, gender identity, climate change, and so many other concerns. However, it shouldn’t be all that is available. Art is so much more than that, so much bigger. It operates on a deeper level, fires the imagination, is appreciated in ways that are wordless, nonliteral, larger than our own bodies. There is also a place for wonder, inspiration, and contemplation. I don’t stay interested in work that tells me what to think, preferring that which invites me to ask questions and spend time deciphering layers of meaning. I also need tactility, and my work reflects that.

              © Anne Eder. (Detail)

              Given your interest in the natural world in shaping our core mythologies, from what myth-busting sessions would today’s society really benefit from? What about the art-world?

              Anne Eder: I’m not entirely sure what you are asking here. Do you mean do we have myths that should be challenged? Of course, but I am more inclined to think of folklore, myth, and fairy tales as being positives in our lives, though admittedly there are those that show their age and consciously or unconsciously contribute to the codification of outdated social mores. In the art world — I challenge the myth of the archival, that is to say, to notion that art should last forever. Art will never be truly archival, and we are ephemeral beings, so it seems an unrealistic goal. I view art as experiential and time based, and also resist the commodification of the arts for many reasons.

              Last but not least, what should the role of photography education be today?

              Anne Eder: That’s a huge can of worms and there are a lot of angles to consider. I think that beyond the technical skills one expects from education that there needs to be an ethical education and exploration, especially in photography, which as a medium tends to have endemic ethical issues. These range among other things, from power dynamics and rights of the photographer and subject to the environmental impact of what we do. I also feel that education in general needs to be more empowering. Rather than trying to attain perfection, I prefer to allow for experimentation and encourage my students to make mistakes. The only way to discover anything new is to form a hypothesis and try to prove it. Inevitably, they will not all work, but that is what leads to invention. I think that as an educator I try to convey the spirit of discovery that dominated its inception as a medium, that excitement. 

              © Anne Eder

              Daniel Court: Watersong

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              We had the opportunity to ask Daniel Court a few questions about photography and his project, Watersong, currently on view at our annual outdoor exhibition, Vision(ary): Portraits of Cultures, Communities and Environments.

              An interview with the artist follows.

              All images © Daniel Court. Courtesy the artist.

              Daniel James Court is a British photographer based in Washington DC, USA. He received his BFA in Visual Communication from Bath Spa in 2012 and his MFA in Photography from Aalto University of Arts in 2021. His series ‘Neither Here Nor There’, documenting the closure of the Calais ‘Jungle’ refugee camp in Northern France, was exhibited at the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford in 2019 and was featured in Storytelling Exhibitions: Identity, Truth and Wonder, a book by Philip Hughes (Bloomsbury UK). His graduate series ‘The Place of No Crows’ received a ‘Finalist’ award from Blurring the Lines 2021 and was featured in their annual publication. He had his first solo show at Hippolyte Korjaamo, Helsinki, in June 2021. His photographs have been exhibited in Finland, Greece, Lithuania, Turkey, and the UK.

              Website: www.danieljamescourt.com
              Instagram: @danieljamescourt

              Daniel, let’s imagine we traveled all the way to Finland to accompany you on a shooting day for your project Watersong. (Thanks for inviting us!). What drew you initially to document the culture of wild swimming?

              I grew up in London, where swimming basically meant going to an indoor swimming pool. I moved to Helsinki in 2016 and experienced a completely new kind of swimming culture. Finland has a large archipelagic coastline and nearly 200,000 lakes, so you are almost always close to a body of water. Swimming in nature is, therefore, a huge part of the culture, whether its combined with the sauna as a more social activity, or a solitary morning swim before work.

              Initially, I overlooked swimming as a subject, even though I often photographed my partner and friends during sauna and swimming sessions. Over time, as swimming became a more significant part of my daily life, it became a kind of respite from the overstimulation of technology, work and the urban environment. When I started to think about swimming in this way, and why it was so meaningful for me, I began to consider that there was an interesting project here.

              What are your photo essentials to capture a day of swimming?

              Camera, towel and bathing suit (optional).

              We are met by a lake upon arriving (or is it a coastline?). What’s the first thing we do to immerse ourselves in the environment and prepare for a day of shooting?

              In and around Helsinki, it’s most likely the sea; if we’re more inland, then it’s a river or a lake. Whenever I’m swimming with friends, I’ll almost always make some portraits but since last summer, I have started to actively seek regular swimmers to photograph. When I work this way, meeting people for the first time, we usually just talk and swim together first, before I begin taking any photos. I try to keep photo shoots somehow as natural as possible.

              What pose should we do, if any, if you wanted to take a portrait of us?

              I’ve never been great at posing, I usually try to just observe people while I am with them until there’s a moment or an action that feels like it could be a photograph. Of course, I might move the subject to better compliment the lighting or scenery.

              The wind echoes. The conversation deepens. You begin to tell us: How has your exploration of Watersong impacted your understanding of the human-nature relationship in combating the “extinction of experience,” as you mention in your artist statement?

              The ‘extinction of experience’ posits that technology and urbanization have led to a disconnection from natural environments. And as people have less direct contact with nature in their daily lives they tend to have less concern about environmental destruction. So it’s important that nature remains tangible and accessible, for both personal and environmental well-being.

              Spending time in nature is a big part of the Finnish identity and culture; therefore, I think it’s no coincidence that the natural waters in Finland are said to be some of the cleanest in the world. There’s generally a deep respect for nature and a strong discourse around the idea that nature should be accessible to all (every man’s right). This relationship is very a positive one and it’s something I wanted to explore in this project.

              We take a moment to absorb the water sounds around us. Would you recommend photography as a way of reconnecting with nature?

              In the past I have struggled with anxiety and depression and both photography and being in nature have helped in a really profound way. But during times when I really wanted or needed to be in nature, it was the intention of going to take a photo that got me on my feet and out the door, so I think photography can be a great catalyst for engaging with nature.

              Lastly, could you share some memorable moments or locations that have left a lasting impression on you during the creation of Watersong?

              My partner’s family are originally from Eastern Finland, very close to the Russian border. Behind her grandparents’ old house, a short walk through the forest they have a sauna by a small lake. The lake is surrounded by extremely dense undergrowth that comes right up to the water’s edge, so the lake is almost completely inaccessible apart from a small clearing by the sauna. It’s one of my favorite places to swim in the evenings, especially when the sun is setting, it’s quiet, the water is cold and the light is amazing. I recently made a few photographs here which I am excited to show in the near future.

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