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What excites you most about photography, and who or what is inspiring you right now?

So much about photography is amazing; the way you can immortalise a moment and pause time, the way you can reveal something new to yourself and others - something that they may have not noticed otherwise. Being able to do that with people, and showing them something that they never saw in themselves.

Inspiration has been low recently. Lockdown has made it really difficult for me to focus on anything, but I’ve noticed while stuck at home all this time how much the weather affects my mood and inspires my work. I feel super British saying that, but it’s so obvious when I scroll through my Instagram feed; when everything is colourful and pink is when the weather has been good. When it’s black and white and dark is when the weather is shite. A bit like being able to track big life changes through your old music playlists.

I’ve been generally stepping back from looking at photography during the past few months - way too much time on Instagram I think - and looking at other forms of art. One new thing I have been trying during lockdown is printmaking, specifically lino printing. It’s been incredibly fun and refreshing to try something that lets me use my hands, something I’ve really missed since becoming a photographer. I’ve also been enjoying curatorial feeds - WOMENSART, Stephen Ellcock, Folklore Thursday.

Your ongoing collaborations with Tim Andrews have developed over a long period of time, and most recently has led to photographing him remotely during lockdown. Can you tell us a bit more about first working with him four years ago up until now, and how your relationship has developed?

It’s been a really interesting collaborative relationship and Tim has become something of a muse for me; a somewhat subversive artist/muse pairing. Each collaboration has been incredibly important; I always learn something new about my work, my practice, where I want to go with both - or where I don’t want to go.

I first came across Tim when he did a talk during my second year of university about his project ‘Over the Hill’ in which he was the sitter and he invited numerous artists to photograph him. In the end I think there were over 400 photographers. Not long after this, he asked to work together. It wasn’t until 2016 that we managed to actually get a date in. By that time, I’d already graduated, had been working in marketing at a fine art print lab for a couple of years and had just left to go travelling and get back into photography, since I had not really made any new work during that time. 

When I photographed Tim for the first time, it was during a time of personal change. That shoot was a significant catalyst for where I am now and the way I work. At the time, I’d thought that fashion photography was where I was heading, but after one test shoot, I realised how much I disliked it. When I photographed Tim, I realised it was people that I was interested in.

We’ve met up and collaborated mostly every year since. Our most recent collaboration was via webcam. Though I enjoyed it, I found it challenging; you lose so much of the social aspect, the subtle movements you can observe when someone is physically sitting for you. The resulting photographs were unexpectedly moving though. This time I learnt the lesson of not discarding something before trying it. I saw all these trendy webcam shoots happening and I was so hesitant to have a go. I didn’t think I could really make anything of it. A surprise then that these webcam portraits of Tim are some of my favourites. The low quality, which I was worried about and tried to improve later, in fact added so much character with the noise, grain and blurriness. 

Knowing that he stopped working as a lawyer after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s, tenderness, frustration and self-reflection all feel present in your images of Tim. What was the dynamic like between you when photographing him? Did you share the creative input between the two of you, such as in the Renaissance-esque picture of Tim in the church crypt for instance?

For sure, when I photograph Tim it’s always a collaboration between us. The dynamic is always very casual though, natural reactions to the space we use and each other, constantly bouncing ideas and suggestions and we usually throw some ideas around beforehand so we have something to aim for.

During our first shoot I was still very new to photographing people and I was nervous, so I was happy for Tim to take the lead on some things. Now, I actively try to do this whenever I’m photographing people - for me, portraits work better when it’s a relationship between photographer and sitter, when you feed off each other and bounce ideas around. Especially when the sitter is not creative, sometimes they see something I don’t or would never usually try.

I remember reading recently about your project Eight Limbs (which looks at a Muay Thai gym in Thailand), that at first the work didn’t feel quite right. That was until you accidentally converted an image into black and white. The series feels very succinct and there is a quietness to your subtle observations, which I imagine is in contrast to the energy and heat of that environment. How long do you ‘sit on’ a project before it feels ready?

This is a really good question, and something I’ve been struggling with a great deal. I don’t know if this is influenced from the culture of school/university deadlines, but when working on projects I feel so anxious about getting it all done and dusted as soon as possible and it stresses me out if I leave it too long - but I’ve realised now that I’m very slow when it comes to project work, and I’ll sit on a project for quite a while. Eight Limbs took me just over a year to work on and publish - it was photographed in late 2018 and released in December 2019. I have a project that I photographed the month before Eight Limbs and I still haven’t released that. I have a huge project that I am super excited about, that I photographed March to May last year, and I haven’t even begun to work on it yet because I’m trying to get this other one out first.

It’s driving me up the wall, but I’m starting to accept and realise that it’s not really important that I haven’t got it all done and published and out there before this fake one year deadline I seem to have given myself. Personal work takes time, and sometimes it takes a long time. There’s a worry that the work will be irrelevant the longer I leave it, but someone recently mentioned to me that if the work is important to me then it will always be relevant, and I really needed to hear that.

So it seems that even though the projects I do aren’t “long-term” themselves, I do need to sit on them for a while and just let things brew before I feel ready. I think the important thing here to note though is that there’s no “should”. Do what feels right and good for you.

It seems as though you have been creatively active during the pandemic, and your lockdown diary has many beautiful observations found in your locale. There’s a slight feeling of uncertainty and an anxious edge to the work, which resonates with how many have felt during this time. How have you been affected by the current situation, and has being creative helped?

Well, I’m glad it seems that way! I feel the complete opposite, that these past few months have flown by and I’ve done absolutely nothing and I am in fact a slug disguised as a human. 

A lot of what I talked about in the last point about being anxious and stressed is partly because of the current situation; I know so much better than to pressure myself to just “do” constantly, but it’s difficult to get out of the mindset. Lockdown has been challenging because I feel like I’ve had so much time to accomplish stuff - I think the first week I put down on my to-do list to finish the multiple previously mentioned projects before May (ha!) - and it really feels like I haven’t, even though I know I have.

Aside from one shoot a couple weeks back, I haven’t had any photography work this whole time and I’m also having to turn jobs down because I can’t justify the risk. Having this little diary, documenting the space around my house which is pure creativity for the sake of enjoyment, has been essential while I’ve not been able to do any of my usual work.

You have just released a zine available for preorder with Another Place Press. Could you share a bit more about A Love Letter To Croydon and your motivations for the project? 

If you know London, you’ve probably heard of Croydon and its terrible reputation. Ask almost anyone and they’ll tell you that Croydon is a pit; an ugly, concrete mess with deluded aspirations of wanting to be its own city, “not to mention the crime”. Some of this is earned, though no more deservedly than most other London boroughs, yet Croydon is the most reviled of them all.

I’m born and bred in Croydon, I grew up here and I still live here. I’ve seen and experienced this place in all its many personalities, good, bad and ugly. The thing about Croydon, however, is that it’s also full of incredible beauty: in its abundant green and natural spaces which many don’t know about, its melting pot of people, culture and characters, and in the easily missable everyday moments.

Over the years, I’ve made many photographs of this place I call my hometown - commuting to work, heading home after a night out, just wandering around... and I built up something of an archive that shows an unseen side to Croydon; a beautiful, delicate, poetic side. 

The wonderful Another Place Press has published a selection of my photographs from the last five years or so as a zine. If you fancy a copy, check it out here.

A love letter to an area of London probably means you like living there! Do you think other creatives who do not live in the capital are at a disadvantage? 

So I actually wrote about this a few weeks ago in #NotesOnFreelancing (my newsletter all about freelancing as a creative/photographer). While I have made this love letter, I did it because I’m protective of my hometown and really it’s quite petty of me - my way of providing an alternative view of the place.

In reality, I’ve been ready to move away and move out of the city completely for a while. In fact, if one or two things were different, I’d have probably moved already. Having been here forever, aside from a few years away at university, I’m pretty tired of it. London’s great in so many aspects, but the downsides have become too much for me and there are many of them. You can probably see from my work that I simply enjoy being outdoors, and I love the idea of living somewhere remote, wild and quiet.

However, I’m so lucky to have had this privilege that many others won’t have. The issue is that the creative industry has always been so London-centric and there hasn’t been any genuine attempt to change that. Until now, when we’ve all had to switch to a more remote way of working and socialising. It’s been interesting to see how things have had to adapt, and I think there are questions about how this kind of accessibility was always possible. It’s my hope that things won’t go back to normal after this, and this accessibility will stay and become the new norm.

So, it is a challenge when you don’t live in this London bubble, but I don’t by any means think it’s impossible and there are those who make it work for them. For me, my surroundings are so important and they have always been a huge influence in my decisions: where I went to university, where I go travelling or for fun, where I choose to work… and now that the cons are outweighing the pros, I know my time in London is coming to an end.

As well as working as a photographer, both on personal projects and commissioned work, you have experience managing campaigns for the likes of British Journal of Photography and theprintspace. Which side of the creative process do you prefer to work, behind the overall campaign or behind the camera?

I definitely love to be behind the camera, and it’s what made me realise that I was ready to go freelance when I did - I realised when working on those campaigns that I was more excited about being behind the camera and would imagine myself as the photographer and the work I would do.

Now that I’ve had some time away from it, though, and because of the current situation meaning I can’t go out and freelance as I was before - perhaps for the rest of the year if not further - I’ve been considering doing this again in a freelance capacity. It’s never a bad idea to create multiple income streams in any case!

What is next for you? 

I haven’t got a bloody clue. I have a couple of personal projects to work on and publish, and a few solid thoughts in the ideas bank that I’ve started to work on. A locally based project that I can do safely during the pandemic, which is ideal, and another one that’s quite different from what I’ve done so far based on a wonderful book I read during lockdown.

Other than that, I’m not sure at all. I’m going with the flow and trying to adapt as I go - and it looks like I may have to adapt a lot. While I was really loving freelancing as a photographer and things were getting so exciting for me just before lockdown, things have changed and I may have to consider new avenues of work.

For now, I’m trying not to drive myself up the wall and bingeing Gossip Girl when things get a bit too intense 🙂

See more of Ameena's work here - https://www.ameenarojee.co.uk/

Interview with Josh Adam Jones, 2020.

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Words by Michael Sargeant - Originally published in Issue 5 - The Neighbourhood 2014

The American West is a fabled land, deeply rooted within American mythology. It is the birthplace of the American dream, an ideal built upon promise, freedom and prosperity. As a non-American, it has long fascinated me, since scraping the surface of its rich history in school and subsequent consumption of its many representations in 20th century popular culture; from depictions of the Wild West to the writing of Kerouac. Such is the richness of its mythology, I too have felt the whispers of the dream, and its powerful westward pull.

In Grays the Mountain Sends, Bryan Schutmaat reveals the reality of an AmericanWest that is not aligned with the narratives of old. Schutmaat began the project during late 2010, when Schutmaat was living in the small city of Bozeman, Montana, located in the American North West. During this period, the photographer became absorbed in literature about the region, with the writing of Richard Ford, William Kittredge, Raymond Carver and poet Richard Hugo igniting a long-held intrigue in the West’s history and mythology.  It was in the tough, often bleak realism of Richard Hugo’s work that really struck a chord with the photographer. 

“The principal supporting business now is rage. Hatred of various grays the mountain sends, hatred of the mille, The Silver Bell repeal, the best liked girls who leave each year for Butte. One good restaurant and bars can't wipe the boredom out. The 1908 boom, eight going silver mines, a dance floor built on springs - all memory resolves itself in gaze, in panoramic green you know the cattle eat or two stacks high above the town, town dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse for fifty years that won’t fall finally down.” - Richard Hugo

Scutmaat - continuing in Hugo’s poetic approach - began exploring the small mountain towns and mining communities located in the American West, capturing the atmosphere, landscapes and lives of the working people residing within. What we bear witness to is a stark contrast to the engrained mythology of this land, hope, freedom, prosperity and promise are no longer the reality in the contemporary landscape of today. With sensitivity and grace, we are guided through these small, often desolate towns. In each progression through Schutmaat’s imagery, the weight of time is palpable; a closed mine shaft, old rusting huts, broken down vehicles left to be reclaimed by the land. This sense of weight of time is present too, in the quite extraordinary portraits of men who work in these towns. Appearing old before their time, worn down by the hardscrabble life they have led, each of these faces hint toward the continual narrative present in GTMS; a narrative that weaves together man and landscape, highlighting the intrinsic relationship between them and how, in many ways, the stories of these men run in parallel to the towns and indeed the nation they belong to. Perhaps one of the most poignant examples of this is below, in which a bleak tired cemetery is overlooked by an illuminated mountain range in the distance. This is the resting ground of the forefathers who have shaped these lands - perhaps having lived and worked their entire lives here - as the next generation struggle on in the same stoic fashion.

Schutmaat’s portraits of the younger men of these towns evoke a more romantic notion; one which is infused with an ancestral hope of reinvention. Hope of escape, of freedom. Hope to dream. A hope that was perhaps felt by their ancestors as they ventured west to a land full of promise and opportunity. We can only wonder what will become of these boys - will they get out of this town or will they end up like the “old timers who are worn down by the mountains around them”?

“Say no to yourself. The Old man, twenty when the jail was built, still laughs although his lips collapse. Someday soon, he says, I’ll go to sleep and not wake up. You tell him no. You’re talking to yourself. The car that brought you here still runs. The money you buy lunch with, no matter where it's mined, is silver and the girl who serves your food is slender and her red hair lights the wall”.

-Richard Hugo “Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg” in Making Certain It Goes On

Grays the Mountain Sends, much like the works of Hugo that inspired it, explores a contemporary American West and is unwavering in its frank realism. Though it might be perceived as bleak depiction, this narrative is laced with a romantic poise, produced with cohesion and sensitivity. It is not a cynical, or politically motivated work. It is poetry, quietly tipping its cap to the ‘ordinary man’. It does not pity these men. Instead it admires the dignity of these individuals who endure and challenge this vast, beautiful but uncompromising land presence in our modern age. Grays the Mountain Sends positions the contemporary reality alongside the rich mythology of the West, sensitivity posing questions; how long will people continue to endure? Has the hope of rejuvenation diminished, just as the mines did year before? What does the West promise now?

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Natural swimming lakes and ponds are a lure for us all in the warm summer months, it's a unique experience which helps connect us to one another and nature. Synchronised Swimmers by Eva Watkins is a portrait led body of work which documents the relationships of swimmers who train in Henleaze Lake in Bristol. Originally set up to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the lake, the swimmers train, bond and perform in the lakes natural waters. With the leafless tree's and visibly chilly looking environment, it would be easy for these photographs to come across as cold. However, the frames are filled with warmths from the passion of the swimmers and clear deep and unique bonds to celebrate the landscape which they have grown to love. From touching hands in freezing water to posing on the banks of the lake, Watkins has created a series we can all relate to, community and companionship.

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On the outskirts of London, small towns and villages are undergoing big changes. With the cost of living spiralling above your average salary and rented properties having their price hiked up, new housing developments are being built around the edges of London, known now as 'commuter towns'. One such town is Sittinbourne, hometown of photographer Simon Martin and the focus point for his ongoing project Bearing Fruit.

“The project started with a deeply personal response to the plans, I felt a lot of my childhood and identity was being taken away. As I’ve grown older I’ve realised that I have those memories and that is fine, I don’t need a walk in time capsule to have them.”

With development going ahead in Sittingbourne, Martin explores not only the change of the physical landscape, but the changes in the people who live there too. Change is something we are all going through in the UK, from Brexit to life in lockdown. But change isn’t always for the best, even if it is inevitable. The development of Sittingbourne has split its community, a tension that can be found within Martin’s portraits. 

“Opinions vary depending on who you speak to, a lot of the wealthier parts of town are frustrated and don’t want their lives changed by busier roads and large housing estates; others just want a Primark and a new bingo hall.” 

Although the expansion of towns and small cities can be a positive thing for jobs and attracting new visitors, the loss of identity is something that has been seen across the UK. Small independent businesses can’t compete with the big chains when they set up shop close to new residential builds for new residents convenience. Bearing Fruit brings this to the forefront, there's an emptiness to scenes depicted and a level of anxious anticipation on the faces of local residents. The photographs have this quiet patience about them, a sleepy town with industrial roots, waiting for this change to be sprung upon them. There is a strong sense of community and how spaces are used by local residents, a sense of hanging on to identity comes across. This sense of hanging on is felt by Martin himself;

“The project started with a deeply personal response to the plans, I felt a lot of my childhood and identity was being taken away. As I’ve grown older I’ve realised that I have those memories and that is fine, I don’t need a walk in time capsule to have them.”

With the memory of what a town once was and being documented as it begins to change, Bearing Fruit holds a unique place as a transitional moment in the town's history. A place where the community carve out the traditions and future of the town, clinging on to the past whilst looking into the future.

You can find more of Simon's work here: https://www.simon-martin.org/

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First published in 2013 in Darwin Magazine volume three. Words by Kate Mercer.

Rivers have long featured in the make up of communities, drawing people to their shores. Thought to imbue healing powers, their waters have been revered since the earliest times, often represent vitality and life. Popular even today through leisure and tourism, sentiments of improving health and rejuvenation through visits of the country continue to make the British Countryside appealing.

It is this embodiment of the countryside that frames Sian Davey’s body of work, The River, documenting her own small community drawn to its water in search of relief from the heat of the sun. With subjects seemingly acting out romanticised rituals of childhood and summer holidays, Davey’s vantage point is both independent of, yet familiar to those whom she is photographing.

You’ll notice that most of the subjects in this body of work are wearing everyday clothes perhaps rolled up to the knee or with a soggy hemline. Save the formal portraits that permeate the series, all those photographed here are apparently done so without being overly invasive in their activities. Davey’s independence as a photographer, drawn to the groups around the water allows her to observe with gritty criticalness that strips the romanticism out of these picturesque scenes. Far removed from the hustle and bustle of our 21st century cities and offices, this river appears as an oasis free from the trappings of social pressures imposed by our everyday lives. Viewing Davey’s work in the context they are removed from whoever imposes the cultural eye they escape. 

Personally, Davey’s work transports me back to my own age of innocence of growing up in rural Oxfordshire; gathering berries from head grows as a little girl to make ‘potions’; trudging through trees softly wafting of wild garlic; punting on the Cherwell; being 17; skipping classes to drink beer and swim in the river Henley with boys. All of these instances where the point at which an individual may relax and escape themselves with those who matter most to them, also appear to be when they are at their most vulnerable at the most literal point away from where they ought to be. Childish innocence. 

Perhaps that is what both pleasures and troubles me the most about Davey’s images. A community collectively defines how it wants to be seen or represented to the world around them, and indeed, who and what are included (or excluded) from them. In that sense, it frames their members' private lives like snapshots. It does not hint or elaborate on the lurking darker controversy voyeuristically seen by those outside of that intimate circle. Thus Davey’s photos flirt coquettishly with the sunshine and romance of an ideal summer's day, whilst bearing silent witness to social currents lurking underneath.

In The River Davey records right of passage for mothers, fathers, siblings and friends.They are united through the playing of games, the intimacy of their touch and the likeness in their clothing. However, each person remains subject to scrutiny, amplified by the presence of a camera. Two women for example, conversing. Hovering between action and inaction on the banks of the river. They look not at eachother but towards something happening out of frame. Children in the water maybe? Boisterous games getting out of hand? Their arrest by Daveyis significant; these women are separate from the group, yet are presented united in front of Davey’s audience. Snatching snippets of conversation, they are bonded at the very least through friendship, and at the most complex level motherhood, brought together through their communities use of the river. Yet these women exude a nervous tension and a sense of confinement. Sheltered under the boughs of a leafy oak tree, they are secluded in the shade from the implied scruitner of their community further up the riverbank. Privacy in public spaces implies secrecy, their confidence in each other at odds with the veneer of light heartedness associated with summer days.

In Davey’s The River, we also see members of the community on the periphery, for example younger children on the edge of the riverbank desperate to join in with older siblings games. What is apparent in Davey’s depiction is the awkwardness of their involvement. Perhaps the older group consists of teenagers peacocking in the water, showing off to impress the object of their affections. The riverbank for these youngsters can be seen as metaphorical of their acceptance and inclusion in the community. Perhaps it is also metaphorical of their acceptance and inclusion of their role in the community. Perhaps it is also metaphorical of their abilities to know the wider world around them.

Explored through a numerable array of devices, the reproduction of activity and portrayal is as marked in The River as the feeling of rehearsal, particularly when focused upon younger members of this small community. We see this in the juxtaposition of two portraits,; particularly; one of a woman in a polka dot swimsuit and that of a young girl under the boughs of a tree. We cannot help but scrutinise the woman's physicality by the framing of her body, in the same way that we cannot help but scrutinise the young girl in a bikini. This woman wearing a polka dot swimsuit in the style of a 1940s pin up girl defines a body image that the young girl is aware of, albeit not necessarily subject to. Wearing a mistmatehce bikini set this girl's modesty is imposed upon her, the covering up of her body an expectation of development and implied fertility though it is not physically apparent. Both individuals are seuxlaised without being sexual through the regulation of their appearance. What distinguishes one from the other however is the subject's regard of the camera and the passing of time. There is an air of curiosity in the young woman's photograph as she is half turned away from, but gazing relaxedly at the camera. The woman with her trim appearance, greying hair and drawn expression in contrast shows the reluctance even resistance to engage Davey’s gaze. (In conversation, Davey recalls this woman's unease at being photographed.) The Protective gesturing of her hands in front of her torso demonstrates an awareness of her situation; a resolve to be photographed mixed with self-consciousness of being scrutinized by others. 

Also in Davey’s body of work, two particular little boys at play, one wearing a facemask to see underwater, another brandishing fishing net. Snorkeling. Paddling. Hunting through the shallows catching unsuspecting creatures not fast enough to get away. What they are in fact doing is playing a most primal game, exercising their desire to catch but not their instinct to kill.

These are the two points that The River keeps coming back to: swathed in strong shadows, light and dark, twilight and failing light, the riverbank in this community skirts the edge of innocence and knowledge. Davey’s subjects appear at their most relaxed, at their genuine and unguarded albeit uncomfortable at their scrutiny. Reproducing nostalgic scenes from previous summers since long passed, I expect members of this community will be visitors here for years to come, with future generations rehearsing their behaviour before longer still. I cannot help but wonder though what else will be taken downstream with the waters from this small community. From tears to laughter, to playmates and heartbreaks, the only true measure of their passing shall be time, on this occasion at least, captured on camera and immortalised on film. 

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Since making The Invisible Circus, which is a project that I first became familiar with whilst you were still at University, you have developed a consistent style and a way of working. What is it in particular you are looking for when starting a new project?

I think that I find myself particularly drawn to communities that I’m unfamiliar with. The Invisible Circus was in response to a specific brief we had to work on for my course but I think that it set the precedent for future work. I became fascinated with people that lived a life that may be deemed a little off the beaten path. Since then, I suppose it has materialised into a fascination for groups of people that all take a similar interest in something, whatever that thing may be. 

Your commission, Through The Eyes with Ace & Tate resulted in a body of work called Landguard. How did this particular opportunity arise?

The opportunity arose very beautifully, it all really felt quite serendipitous. I had made the big (and daunting) decision to move back home for the summer after living in Bristol for five years but the decision was panning out better than I could have predicted. After everything had felt wrong for so long, things were starting to slot together with such ease. I started to spend a lot of time at Landguard that summer, and thought about the kind of project I would like to make. When Ace & Tate contacted me with their brief, the project I had been obsessing over fitted so very perfectly. 

Perhaps not known to the general viewer, but I recognise some familiar faces within Landguard alongside pictures of strangers. How do you find the process of photographing people you do not know compared with those you are close friends with? Do you have a preference for either type of picture making?

I was very excited by the idea of combining these intimate photographs of close friends with strangers. I imagine the viewer can probably tell who the close friends are but I really tried to approach both friends and strangers similarly and intimately. I find the process of photographing strangers absolutely terrifying. It took a lot of visits to Landguard with my camera before I approached someone. But that feeling you get after approaching a stranger and taking a brilliant photo of them? Well, nothing really beats that. And rather beautifully, some of the subjects that started off as strangers turned into friends through photographing them. I guess both types of picture making have their advantages and charm but ultimately I get a lot more out of the rush of photographing a stranger. 

What have you been most excited about since graduating from University?

I think I felt most excited about having free reign to develop my style more and to challenge myself without the safety blanket of University deadlines. Maybe it’s strange to call University deadlines a safety blanket but I know that it helped me to stay disciplined over those three years. Without that blanket, I had to really push myself to finish personal projects of my own accord. 

Speaking of University, what was your experience like? 

In hindsight I don’t think that I made the most out of the resources available to me and this thought still plagues me! I was fortunate enough to have tutors that encouraged me to experiment with medium format as film has become such a prominent part of my work and has massively shaped my style. Frustratingly I think that it took me a long time to figure out what my style exactly was and consequently I floundered for the most part of the first two years. 

Your work has so much depth and richness to it, particularly within the portraiture and across various projects, yet they all feel so tender and intimate too. How do you put people at ease and make those in front of your lens feel comfortable?

Tender and intimate are my two favourite things! I think that there’s always an advantage with the Mamiya RZ as you hold it at your waist so it feels a little less intrusive. I always try to engage in conversation just before I take the photograph to normalise the situation and make it feel like less of an intimidating process. I mean, I’ve always felt that my portraiture has quite a ‘quiet and calm’ feeling to it which would make sense as I’m quite a ‘quiet and calm’ person. I like to hope that I’m easy to be around and that’s reflected in my work. Even though a portrait is a photograph of another person it’s also a reflection of yourself and I certainly like to try and be as tender as possible in all parts of life. 

What has been the most challenging thing you have faced in your career so far? 

Perhaps lack of confidence and consistency has hindered me in some ways. I think as a photographer you really have to sell yourself, if you want your work to be seen then you have to make it be seen and be your own cheerleader. I think I have struggled to consistently self-promote if I am going through a period where I’m lacking confidence in myself. 

What are you working on at the moment, photography related or other? 

There’s some plans brewing! But I’m taking it slow. My partner and I are working on a collaborative project that will be a lot more conceptual than my previous work. It’s going to be a lot of fun, very odd and hopefully challenge me as a photographer. I have always wanted to dip my toe in set design but it’s always felt so far removed from my social documentary work. Having someone to work on ideas with has made it all feel a lot more possible. 

In your project Tribodar, you spent some time living and working with a community in Portugal. There is a mixture of various domestic and rural settings, with posed and candid portraiture scattered throughout. Living a lifestyle alternative to societal norms seems really apparent in this work, and the overall tone seems to celebrate this way of life. Is this way of life something that appeals to you, and perhaps one of the motivations for making the work? 

The series Tribodar was borne out of my University project The Invisible Circus. Most of the circus performers that I photographed tried to live as self-sufficiently as they could and I began to fall in love with this way of life. It was at an age where I was starting to figure out what kind of person I wanted to be and what kind of life I wanted to live. I wanted my next project to be a way of further educating myself about alternative lifestyles which inspired my trip to Portugal. I spent some time researching eco-communities in Portugal and came across Tribodar. The initial idea was to solely focus on the people I met in the eco-community but after spending some time in the nearby town Nisa, I became fascinated with the contrast between the locals and the people I met at Tribodar. 

The series (Tribodar) feels quietly observational and optimistic, with careful studies of light considered throughout. What is your process in terms of directing people within your pictures? Does this process change depending on the project?

When I was in Portugal, the sunlight was very harsh in the daytime so I would often wait until the golden hour to photograph people. At Tribodar, perhaps I’d be having a moment with someone and the light would fall so perfectly that I would run and get my camera and ask them to stay still. Whereas in Nisa, I had my friend ask the locals in Portuguese whether I could take their portrait. I found that by having that language barrier with the locals there was a kind of awkward stiffness in their body language which I loved in contrast with the more intimate portraits. 

Your style seems to spill over into editorial, fashion and music commissions. Is this something you would like to do more of in the future?

I found that my photography was the perfect gateway into Bristol’s music scene. If there was a band whose gig I’d particularly enjoyed, I’d contact them later on Instagram to ask if I could take some photographs for them. So for me, the music commissions are rather selfishly a way of getting to meet musicians that I love. I would really love to do more editorial and fashion commissions in the future as it would be a great opportunity to challenge myself and incorporate that ‘tender intimacy’ from my social-documentary work. 

The pandemic has affected people in many different ways. How are things looking for you with ‘lockdown’ slowly easing?

For me, I found that the ‘lockdown’ really creatively stunted me. The summer has always been a period for me where I create a lot of my work and so this is the first time I haven’t felt particularly inspired but I’m really trying to go with the flow and accept this creative lull. I can’t say how long this lull will last for but I am allowing it.

What is the next chapter for you, both in terms of your stage in life and your creative output?

I guess I’m just trying to find a little more balance. Right now, life isn’t always creative and that’s ok. I’ve started a counselling course which I feel very passionate about. I’ve been accepted for an artist residency in Florida next year but that feels very uncertain right now, but I know that I feel my most inspired in an entirely new place that I’m unfamiliar with. 

Interview with Josh Adam Jones, June 2020.

See more of Ruth's work here - https://ruthbaldry.format.com/

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