Italian artist whose idiosyncratic sculptures and installations were part of the ‘arte povera’ movement of the late 1960s and 70s
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‘My Photographs Are a Celebration of the Making of Things’
Christopher Payne’s fascination with factories goes back decades. As an architecture student at the University of Pennsylvania in the 1990s, Payne had the good fortune to find a summer job with an agency inside the National Park Service called the Historic American Buildings Survey. “They sent teams of architecture students, historians, and photographers to document all kinds of projects,” he says. “We documented grain elevators in Buffalo, cast iron bridges in Ohio, a power plant in Alabama, national parks in Utah. That experience instilled a deep appreciation for industrial architecture.” After graduation, he worked for several years as an architect in New York City before transitioning full time to photography. His previous books include New York’s Forgotten Substations: The Power Behind the Subway; Asylum: Inside the Closed World of State Mental Hospitals; North Brother Island: The Last Unknown Place in New York City; and Making Steinway: An American Workplace. Last month, Payne gave the School of Visual Art’s Ralph Caplan Memorial Lecture, and shortly afterward I reached out to him to talk about his most recent book, Made in America (Abrams), his long love affair with factories, and the photographic process.
MCP: Martin C. Pedersen
CP: Christopher Payne
MCP:
What drove your interest in factories?
CP:
It was inspired by my experience photographing abandoned state mental hospitals for my book Asylum. The hospitals all functioned as self-sufficient communities, producing everything they needed on site, like food, water, power, and even clothing and shoes. For the book I tried to recreate a typical state hospital in its heyday, reconstructing a whole from parts gathered here and there: a bowling alley from New York, a theater from Connecticut, a shoe shop from Massachusetts, a slaughterhouse from North Carolina, etc. After Asylum was published in 2009, I stumbled on an old yarn mill in Maine that reminded me of the hospital workshops. While those places had long been abandoned, this mill was fully functional, a scene from the past coexisting miraculously with the present. From conversations with employees I learned of other mills around New England, remnants of a once-dominant industry that had moved south long ago, and then overseas, in search of cheap labor. I started photographing these old textile mills, and this project eventually broadened into Made in America.
MCP:
Were you documenting their demise?
CP:
Some places were barely holding on and had a definite forlorn look to them, while others were doing just fine, having survived by catering to a niche market that values the “genuine article” produced on vintage equipment. By contrast, the modern textile mills weren’t as photogenic.
Wool carders. S & D Spinning Mill, Millbury, Massachusetts.
A tipping machine adds metal ferrules and erasers to pencils. General Pencil Company, Jersey City, New Jersey.
Each cigar is individually wrapped in cellophane so that it can stay properly humidified and protected. J. C. Newman Cigar Company, Tampa, Florida.
MCP:
The layers of time weren’t there.
CP:
Yes, exactly. But sometimes these layers of time make for a very cluttered environment and challenging photographic conditions, which is why so many of my pictures now are dramatically lit, with the background fading into darkness. That said, of all my industrial work, the pictures that resonate most with people were made in these older factories and are of traditional, familiar subjects like pianos and pencils.
MCP:
Let’s talk about the process of actually taking the pictures. Do you scout these places first and take preliminary shots on a cell phone and then come back with a bigger camera? How does it work?
CP:
Ideally, I will scout with my cell phone, let the snapshots marinate for a few weeks or even months, and return later with my big camera. This is what I did at Steinway, General Pencil, and the New York Times Printing Plant—all long term personal projects that were close to home. But with editorial assignments I don’t usually have the luxury of time, and the entire creative process must be compressed into a few days. No matter how much research I do beforehand, there are always surprises: a production line might be down, or a particularly beautiful color might have already run the previous week, etc. I always feel a sense of urgency because nothing stays the same for very long on a factory floor. Big assembly lines can’t be stopped, and sometimes I watch things go by and realize I’m just not going to get it.
MCP:
When you walk onto a factory floor, what are you looking for?
CP:
When I walk into a factory for the first time—whether it’s new, old, large or small—I start searching for moments that are unique to that place. I’ve realized over the years that I don’t need to document every aspect of how something is made; I just need to focus on what’s essential—and beautiful. This could be an interesting part of the production process, a purposefully designed machine, or an employee immersed in their work.
A 787 Dreamliner in final assembly. Boeing South Carolina, North Charleston, South Carolina.
A steelworker trims the end of a steel plate that will be used to form the hull of a submarine. General Dynamics Electric Boat, Quonset Point, Rhode Island.
Piano rims in rim conditioning room. Steinway & Sons, Astoria, New York.
MCP:
Some modern factories look almost clinical, and microchip factories, known as “fabs,” look like giant operating rooms.
CP:
That’s an apt comparison, especially since chip fabs are in fact much cleaner than operating rooms and filled with some of the most sophisticated machines on the planet. The giant lithography machines that etch circuit patterns onto the chips cost up to $180 million each and blast molten drops of tin with a laser 50,000 times a second. It’s a hidden process that I’ve always wanted to photograph, but not even the fab employees are allowed to open the machine!
MCP:
Do you have a list of possible photos in your head or on paper that you go in with? Or is it looser than that?
CP:
I do as much research as I can, but if it’s a little-known subject, or one with proprietary concerns that is rarely photographed, I have to go in blind and trust my instincts. I was recently commissioned to photograph some robots for Scientific American, and I knew I would need to do something different than what had been done before. Luckily the story was already written, so I knew what message the pictures needed to convey to support the narrative, and that helped guide the creative process.
Freshly painted modernized locomotive. Wabtec Corporation, Fort Worth, Texas.
Inspection of low pressure steam turbine rotor, GE Gas Power, Schenectady, New York.
Stainless-steel dryer drum inspection. Whirlpool Corporation, Marion, Ohio.
MCP:
The factory shots are quite beautiful. But they’re not “ruin porn” because they’re still in use. What are you saying with these pictures, beyond their formal beauty? They’re beautiful as pictures, but so is a perfume ad. There’s a deeper meaning here. What’s that meaning?
CP:
Beyond their formal beauty, my photographs are a celebration of the making of things, of the transformation of raw materials into useful objects, and the human skill and mechanical precision brought to bear on these materials that give them form and purpose. We all know what a pencil, piano, or an airplane looks like, but what happens when we peel back the facade and go deep into the choreography of production? I like the challenge of taking everyday, overlooked objects and elevating them to works of art by revealing them in a way that’s never been done before. I’m also thinking about how each picture relates back to the larger story I’m trying to tell about the importance of manufacturing in America, craftsmanship, and manual labor.
MCP:
What about the people in the photos?
CP:
Whenever possible I try to include people for scale and context, and sometimes a good portrait can stand in for a factory that is not very interesting or photogenic. Most of all, the people in my pictures are a celebration of teamwork and community. There are workers with soiled, stained hands, and others suited head to toe in clean protective gear—young and old, skilled and unskilled, recent immigrants and American-born men and women, side by side. These are the people who make the stuff that fuels our economy, and in this time of social polarization and increasing automation, they offer a glimmer of hope.
MCP:
A printing plant is one of the few factories that I’ve been in. I will say, the workers were really proud of what they did. They took great pride in printing our magazine.
CP:
I loved watching the pressmen and women at the New York Times Printing Plant climb around the giant presses, carefully feeding the web of paper by hand through the print rollers, and the environmental portraits I made there are some of my favorite pictures. It is my aim to honor the workers and their skills, and thanks to the often repetitive nature of assembly line and factory work, I will watch and wait patiently for the peak moment of elegance. As Kathy Ryan said in the foreword to my book, “There is no excuse for not getting it right.”
At Corning’s Sullivan Park laboratory, engineers pour molten glass onto a stainless-steel tabletop to cool, so that it can be cut into pieces for tests. Corning, New York.
Catalent specializes in the development and manufacture of vaccines and advanced therapies for pharmaceutical and biotech companies. At their Bloomington, Indiana, facility, analytical probes and instruments monitor production of a biologic product using living cells inside a 2,500-liter biomanufacturing vessel. Catalent, Bloomington, Indiana.
A technician installs cables on the sPHENIX detector at the RHIC at Brookhaven National Laboratory. sPHENIX will capture the subatomic debris of particle collisions so scientists can learn about the building blocks of matter as they existed in the very early universe.
MCP:
It’s hard work.
CP:
To be clear, there’s nothing romantic about manual labor; it is repetitive, often dull, low-paying, and physically demanding. But the majority of people I met take pride in what they do. Finding young people who can sew or want to learn a vocational trade, however, is another story and as big a challenge to a resurgence in American manufacturing as foreign competition. There has been much said about how immigrants have “stolen” manufacturing jobs, but it is clear from what I’ve seen that many of these factories would no longer be in business if it weren’t for the newly arrived labor pool to fill the void.
MCP:
And yet, regardless of how tough and repetitive some of the jobs are, these jobs held communities together. When they left or were downsized, the places were less for it.
CP:
When a factory closes, the surrounding community dies, as do the small industries that fed the factory. It’s a domino effect, because the skills needed to make those things are lost too, shipped overseas with the machinery. We’ve traded good jobs for low prices and are now dependent on foreign countries for essential goods. It’s a precarious position to be in, quite the opposite of what I saw at the state hospitals, which were all self-sufficient and seemed to serve as a better model for a more sustainable way of life.
In the last few years, the industrial landscape in America has been re-energized by pandemic supply-chain shortages, competition with China, national security issues, energy concerns, and federal legislation. The seismic shift to electric vehicles has been a windfall for car companies, which are scrambling to build new mega campuses and entirely new circular manufacturing ecosystems that combine production with battery recycling. For sure, consumer goods like apparel and electronics aren’t coming back anytime soon, but essential technologies like computer chips, perhaps the most complex products on earth, have become a priority of national security. We haven’t seen this kind of investment in the future in decades, and some of the newer factories I visited had the buzz of tech startups.
MCP:
Obviously, the next wave has to be green manufacturing. You’ve photographed electric car plants. Talk about that experience.
CP:
I visited both Rivian and Tesla, and the size of these factories was mind-boggling. The interiors seemed to stretch for as far as the eye could see, and a golf cart was needed to get around. Almost everything I saw at Tesla was proprietary, probably because that was back in 2017, while Rivian was much more relaxed and had the cool vibe of the “the new kid on the block.” In places so vast, the photographic possibilities are endless, but in reality, these new car plants look very much like the old ones; they’ve just swapped out internal combustion engines for electric motors and batteries.
MCP:
What are you working on these days? Do you have a new project?
CP:
It has been many years since I photographed the small yarn mill in Maine that started me on this journey, but every time I step onto a factory floor I feel the same sense of excitement and possibility. There was only so much I could include in Made in America, so I’m already thinking about volume two. In the coming years, factories will continue to open and close as the manufacturing landscape changes and evolves. Without a doubt though, the ultra-modern places I’ve photographed for this book will themselves become outdated and replaced one day. It is one long continuum, hopefully, towards a brighter future.
Featured image: Assembly of a heavy industrial electric motor. Ward Leonard, Thomaston, Connecticut. All photographs courtesy of Christopher Payne.
Photographer Florian Hetz Wants to Abolish Artist Statements
I have a tattoo on my arm that says “Property of Florian Hetz,” and I’m not joking. Hetz and I had both been artists-in-residence at the Tom of Finland Foundation in Los Angeles, and though our residencies didn’t overlap, Hetz came to one of my band’s concerts in L.A. and we got to shoot the shit and become homies. I ended up in one of his photo shoots in a hotel downtown, and I remember sitting at the end of his shutter feeling like a form of hallmark. I knew his work, but like, who was he? As far as personal mythology goes, he suffered a form of brain trauma in the past—don’t fret, he’s safe now—though at the time it would randomly cause lapses in his short-term memory. So he began photo-documentary as a form of visual timeline to keep the blur between past and recent present manageable.
He does boast more traditional work that lends itself to portraiture, or what I like to call “ho pics.” Speaking of ho’s, there are a lot of them on the internet these days. And as we watch beautiful, fit, muscular bodies blend into one note, there is something that deeply enamors me about Hetz’s work. They’re his “anonymous” photos, the ones that lack a face conveying or emoting. With portraiture, that’s what we rely on to understand how to “feel” about a subject, but oftentimes his photos don’t attach a face or even an entire body. In close up, you understand them more: a tip of a clenched elbow turned sides, or an Adam’s apple being gripped tight from behind with a hand, or beads of sweat accumulating on the small of someone’s back. Objectification, simply stated, is the depersonalization of a subject. Hetz’s work is an elevated form of objectification, based in an abstractionist lens. More often than not, the effect is poetic. An elbow wrapped in another looks for foreign until I realize what I’m looking at.
Lately, Hetz is wrapped in a community internet battle around his images and whether or not they constitute obscenity. But, true to form, he’s now selling the images to pay the court fees, like a true Renaissance man with the IQ of a goddamn criminal. I always have to change my panties after interviewing him.
———
BRONTEZ PRUNELL: The term “German Fetish Photographer” sounds so cracker and serious and honestly doesn’t describe what a fucking teddy bear you are. Do you describe your work, or even yourself?
FLORIAN HETZ: Fetishes are a funny thing: I have zero attachment to them, nor do they really have space in my work. But I see how people can write their fetishes into my photos. For me personally, the origin stories of an individual fetish are interesting. I want to know how someone found out that banana peels turn them on. But for my work, it’s not important. Sexuality happens sometimes in my photography, but it’s by far not the most important part. I always had a very relaxed view on sexuality and all of its facets and I treat it the same way I treat other things: with lots of curiosity. My photography is pretty clear and therefore I don’t want a buzz word bingo text to describe them. My work is not “researching and dissecting the fragmented intimacy of non-binary queer safe spaces in times of toxic masculinity and trauma in the global south…” It’s time to give the viewer a bit of credit and trust that they can come to their own conclusions. Let’s abolish artist statements. I like myself the most when I’m in places where I don’t know anyone. Everything has so much potential then, myself included.
PURNELL: You were the bar manager at Berghain in Berlin for 11 years, right? What effect do you think that had on your art, if any?
HETZ: The effect was probably the opposite of what most would expect. Constantly dealing with individuals on the verge of every possible breakdown made me want the opposite in my life and in my work. In the last 15 years, Berlin has turned into this kind of weird sex and drug resort. We created a nightlife industry, a Disneyland for grownups that lives from international parties and sex tourists. Nightlife in Berlin comes with a pre-packaged aesthetic: the black transparent polyester clothes, the pseudo-coolness and blasé facial expression, darkroom pale skin with the mandatory tattoos, after-hours in dirty apartments in Neukölln, captured in unfocused snap shots made by analog cameras. None of that happens in my photography. The club and Berlin dont play a role in my work. But working there did give me access to people who were interested in sitting for my photos.
PURNELL: I feel like your work sets out to answer and also problematize questions about sex, desire, bodies, how we are reading these things. Do you have any set agenda, or is it kind of improvisation?
HETZ: My work deals with what I see, but probably in a more non-documentary way. I never wanted to be a photographer, but my encephalitis caused a big memory loss. After I left the hospital, I started to take photos in order not to forget stuff. I took them for me and only for me. And they worked like crotch. But they were snap shots. When I started to properly take photos, I went into a shoot overly prepared, sketchbook and all. I had a clear idea what I wanted to shoot, the end result was already in my head. And that way I learned how to use a camera and to understand lighting. But that also restricted me after a while. There was not much space for anything else. So when I started to go to L.A. I switched up a few things from my routine. And one of them was that I went into shoots without any preparation. This way I learned to enjoy errors and concentrate on what was in front of me. Photography for me is about seeing, and noticing things that others might not pay attention to.
PURNELL: Besides the money, do you take any pleasure in doing commercial work?
HETZ: If I get a carte blanche, I enjoy it immensely. But if not, I’m the wrong person for the job. I admire artists who can cater to a client’s needs. When I do commercial work, I don’t let anyone on set who is not in front of the camera. I understand that this can make clients and art directors nervous. But in the end I need to feel comfortable and I won’t if there’s someone constantly trying to inject themselves into my work. That probably makes me complicated in the eyes of many, but I can live well with that.
PURNELL: Are you classically trained as a photographer? Can you process photos in a dark room by yourself?
HETZ: I learned in school how to develop and process black and white film, but I didn’t take photos then. I only started to enjoy taking photos when digital cameras became more accessible. I really like developing and color correcting a raw file. The whole post-prod aspect is fascinating. It’s like a meditation to sit alone in front of the computer and develop a file. I probably would have also enjoyed just the same working in a darkroom. And if I would have learned how to develop color film, I might have started to take photos earlier. But I find the idea scary, to rely on others to do things like that for me. From the moment of taking the photo until printing it, I don’t let anyone else handle my photos. Do I have control issues? Duh!
PURNELL: Did you go to Art School?
HETZ: I didn’t. After I finished school I was busy running Germany’s first professional piercing studio. Then designing costumes for opera and ballet got in the way. Eventually I studied arts management, got a brain injury, worked in nightlife and then somehow started to take photos. But from 12 years on I collected photos and art books and magazines, mostly stolen. And like many faggy kids, I watched every old Hollywood movie there was and read day and night.
PURNELL: You split a lot of your time between your native Germany and Los Angeles. Do you ever dream about being a full time Angelino?
HETZ: Every single time I arrive at LAX, they put me in that little interrogation room for a couple of hours and I have to explain to them that I really like being in L.A. as a visitor for a couple of months but that I enjoy living in Europe. Los Angeles is a wonderful place for me to escape the winters here. I don’t drive, but I have a bike in L.A. and that’s how I explore the city, on my bike with a camera in my backpack. Every time I come back to Los Angeles, I am blown away by the quality of the light. It’s so understandable that the film industry settled there. L.A. without sunshine is a different story, though. I’ve been there from February to April in 2023 and it basically continuously rained. And all of a sudden, a lot of things didn’t make sense anymore. The photos from that time are pretty dark. Right now I’m working on a book about my time in L.A. from 2017 to 2023. It’s interesting to see how my view on the city has changed over the years.
PURNELL: Should I get my “Property of Florian Hetz” tattoo covered? I think people are getting the wrong idea.
HETZ: Hell no!
PURNELL: How is your censorship case going? If you feel like talking about it…
HETZ: Nothing has been decided yet, but the bottom line is, there’s a politician in a part of Germany who’s going on a personal crusade about internet pornography. He is either using A.I. or poor interns to go through twitter accounts to find posts that include sexuality and then he makes an offense report to the police. They have to hand it over to a judge and, if things go wrong, you’ll get convicted for making pornography available to minors. So it’s not about, “What is pornography?” but about making it available, which raises a lot of other questions. Like, does he understand how the internet works? If things go south, l’ll have to pay €3000 to €4000. Right now, I’m thinking about creating a limited edition box with fine art prints of the four photos that they objected to, to raise funds.
PURNELL: Beyond sex and desire, what are the biggest questions you are trying to answer with your photo work or your life in general?
HETZ: I am not trying to answer questions for others with my photos, neither should this be my job. My photos are highly subjective commentaries of things I notice and surround me. They reflect who I am in this moment, and where I live, and they are the result of how I look at things, literally and figuratively. Do they answer questions for me? No. But they are the end of a long process that started 20 years ago already. Somehow, they serve as my personal vanitas.
Shiftcam Workflow Sling finally gives smartphone photographers their own bag
You might chuckle or even roll your eyes at the so-called social media “influencers,” but it’s actually a lucrative (not to mention addictive) industry. That’s not even considering the new breed of photographers that rely only on their smartphones, plus some specialized lenses, to jump immediately into the middle of an action and not miss a beat by having to take out a bulky DSLR. But despite the popularity of smartphone photography, this market also feels a little underserved judging by the lack of basic accessories like something as simple yet as important as a camera bag. Now the wait is finally over and mobile shutterbugs can now enjoy the freedom and versatility that a dedicated smartphone camera bag offers thanks to Shiftcam’s new Workflow Sling, the first hyperfocused camera bag designed just for smartphone photography.
Designer: Shiftcam
The reason why some people prefer to capture photos and record videos using a smartphone is the near-instant action and versatility. You almost always have your smartphone with you, whether in your hand or in your pocket, and you can immediately edit and share those photos on social media. In fact, you can livestream directly from your phone, something that’s not easily done with a digital camera. But as your smartphone photography skills get better, you start to need and use more advanced accessories that you can’t easily fit in your pocket. That’s what a camera bag is for, and the Workflow Sling brings that same convenience to smartphones at long last.
It’s more than just a regular sling bag, mind you, because every corner and every feature was designed for people who use their smartphones as cameras. There’s a dedicated “Action Pocket” in the central compartment that makes sure your smartphone is in your hand in a split second. There are also dedicated pockets to keep your smartphone lenses safe and within reach, like the ones you might be purchasing from Shiftcam itself. There’s also plenty of room for all sorts of smartphone photography tools, from a tripod to a drone to even a water bottle to keep you hydrated during your adventures.
The Workflow Sling, however, does more than just hold your phone and its accessories. There’s an innovative MagSafe clip that lets you attach your phone to the strap and on your chest for a dramatic first-person view or in front of the bag, turning it into a makeshift stand. These features clearly mark this accessory as a product that was designed from the ground up to cater to smartphone shutterbugs, delivering the functionality and features that finally put them on the same playing field as the pros with their bulkier, heavier, and more expensive equipment.
WePresent | Nigerian photographer Obidi Nzeribe’s vivid dreamscapes
Nzeribe has always had a vivid understanding of what beauty means to him, be it the quiet and rainy demeanor of summers in Owerri or capturing the simplicity of Black existence as he has “only ever known beauty from a Black perspective.” His style may not be documentary-focused, but it reflects the lighthearted realities of his experience as a Black man. As with many young creatives of African descent, Nzeribe’s work challenges stereotypes of what our existence in this world looks like.
“I feel like as Black creatives, we get pigeon-holed into this idea of creating dark work rooted in struggle. Our experiences have not always been dark and heavy. We’ve had light, we’ve had joy, and we need to celebrate that. We need art that isn’t centered around pain. We need art that is centered around just being.”
Ray allen game 1998 hi-res stock photography and images – Alamy
This Happened—January 9: Birth Of Photography
Anya Kostenko’s photographs are our erotic dream
For the eighth episode of IN STUDIO, we headed to the Romolo area to meet documentary photographer Glauco Canalis. Impressed by his work and story, we decided to meet him and discover what led him to pursue this type of photographic research. Of Sicilian origin, Glauco Canalis was educated between Milan and England, studying first in Plymouth before moving to London. Here began his career as a photographer, primarily in the music world and occasionally in fashion and advertising. However, his personal projects are something else entirely. His approach is documentary. He’s interested in places and the people who inhabit them, delving deep into the nature of certain traditions, investigating Mediterranean architecture, and social contexts. Often, the places and communities he chooses are “on the margins,” and the resulting stories are raw and painful. «For this reason, as I immerse myself deeply in the projects, sometimes I need to find moments to step back because inevitably they weigh on me as well,» he explains. But let’s start the interview to understand how a nomad like him has finally found his place.
The studio
We are located in Romolo, a neighborhood south of Milan. Glauco Canalis’s home-studio is located in a basement with large windows that filter a gentle, diffuse light. The somewhat British underground soul is perceptible even though everything is carefully organized. The space is very large, an open space divided into zones, on one side the living area and on the other the working area. On the latter side we notice the presence of boxes and many binders on the shelves, a large desk with a computer and a small table on which Glauco is reorganizing all his cameras. We are curious about how he lives in this space and how he organizes his work. Let’s start with the questions.
Let’s start from the beginning. How did it all come about?
I found my path when I started working as a music photographer. After seven years as a freelancer, I returned to Italy, mainly due to COVID and Brexit, and started working for the Controluce agency, which represents me now. In Italy, for the time being, I work less with music, focusing more on fashion and my personal projects.
What are your personal projects about?
There’s a significant overarching theme characterizing my research—the identity of the Mediterranean. Under this large umbrella, there are projects like the one I did in Sicily, which deals with the political landscape. After the American invasion, there was a separatist movement aiming to make Sicily the forty-ninth American State. Being Sicilian myself, I became intrigued and investigated this story, particularly by photographing at the sites of American military bases. In recent years, the themes I’m most engaged with revolve around adolescence. I’m interested in depicting youth situations in suburban neighborhoods, narrating unique stories, such as areas affected by poor governance.
What are you working on now?
Currently, I’m working on a project exploring the Neapolitan tradition linked to the cult of Saint Anthony the Abbot and the “Cippo.” This project, tentatively titled “The darker the night, the brighter the stars,” essentially documents the Neapolitan tradition of burning Christmas trees found—or rather, stolen—around town. All of this occurs on the day of Saint Anthony the Abbot, which falls on January 17. This tradition turns into a kind of gang warfare. For four years now, I’ve been working on this project, following a group of youths from a neighborhood in Naples. This project has earned me awards and exhibitions in Portugal, Puglia, and next year, I’ll present it in Paris.
From what you tell us, your work doesn’t seem to be easy. How do you choose the places where you operate? Do you spend a lot of time in the field?
Research is often impulsive. I rely a lot on intuition—I find myself in a place and start shooting, then the research begins. Often, it’s the place that finds me and inspires me. From there, I delve into the context and seek answers. As I study, I uncover the place’s history, and almost always, I discover an element that connects to me. There’s always something autobiographical and personal in the things that interest me—I sense them, and I dive right in.
So you never choose a place beforehand?
When it comes to my personal projects, it’s actually never been the case. For instance, this project I’m currently working on – “The darker the night, the brighter the stars” – originated from my stay in Naples. It was 2018, and I was working on Liberato’s music video. I noticed children hiding Christmas trees, curious, I asked, and they told me this absurd story. The following year, I spent New Year’s Eve in Naples, and that story came back to me. I began asking more questions and doing research. That’s when I decided to narrate this story. Reading about a place before visiting it happens very rarely; usually, if I do it, it’s because it’s already tied to something I’m working on.
Let’s talk about your studio. You’re relatively new here; how do you feel about this new studio? How were your previous studios?
When I lived in London, I had a fairly large room where I used to shoot, but it was never as big as the space I have now. In general, my studio always coincides with my home, mainly because, as a photographer, I don’t need a proper studio like an artist might. Once I have a space for my computer and a backdrop for shooting, I have everything I need. This is my first space this large and solely dedicated to work. I immediately felt at home here.
Are you attached to this place, or would you leave tomorrow?
I feel comfortable in this house. If I had to stay in Milan, I wouldn’t want to be in a different house. I really like the light here; maybe the only thing missing is a garden. I’m the opposite of someone rooted; this is my attempt to have a fixed point because I have a very nomadic approach to life.
Do you enjoy hosting people and communal living? Do you often feel alienated in this space as both a home and studio?
I’ve been here for a year, and I’m thrilled to have found this space. I enjoy cooking a lot, so when I’m in the mood, I often have dinners and lunches. With this large table, it’s natural to invite many people. The most alienating aspect of this space is that it’s a basement, so I can’t see what’s happening outside. Also, my modus operandi often involves being at the computer for weeks for post-production or writing, so the possibility of feeling isolated is there. However, fortunately, my work varies enough. I’m either here at the computer or away for weeks. There’s a sort of polarity. But I like knowing I have this place as a base; it makes me feel calm to know I have a place with my things where I’ll return.
What do you like most about this space?
This place reflects a lot of who I am. Certainly, its spaciousness gives me room to think. The ability to have a space I can shape keeps my mind active.
Last customary question, what’s an object that must be in your studio?
It’s sad to say, but it’s the computer. It’s the tool I use the most here in the studio for post-production, research, and communication. One thing I always feel the need to have physically with me are my photography books and negatives. I need to know they’re with me. I get a bit anxious when I don’t have them, and I have a great fear that something might happen to them. My dream is to have a wall for archiving and cataloging everything; otherwise, when I can afford it, I’ll put them in a vault.
Ph Credits Andrés Juan Suarez
Boom or bust – Our picks to replace Philly’s controversial public carvings
Famous Philadelphians who might be deserving of a city sculpture
