CRITICAL PHOTOJOURNALISM

Darcy Padilla is an associate professor of art at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and a member photographer of Agence VU' in Paris. Her work primarily focuses on narrative photography, exploring themes of struggle and the trans-generational effects of socio-economic issues. Padilla's acclaimed monograph, Family Love, published by Éditions de La Martinière (France), documents a family over 21 years, presenting an intimate portrayal of poverty, AIDS, and social issues. Her work has been exhibited internationally, with solo exhibitions at Cortona On The Move (Italy), DOCfield Festival (Spain), Festival Nicéphore (France), and Visa pour l’Image (France). Her photography has also been featured in prominent publications such as Granta, Le Monde, Stern, and The New Yorker. Her photographs are held in the collections of the Soros Foundation and the Banco Sabadell Art Collection. Padilla's honors include a Guggenheim Fellowship (1995), an Open Society Institute Individual Fellowship, an Alicia Patterson Foundation Fellowship, a Getty Images Grant, the Canon Female Photojournalist Award, the Françoise Demulder Photography Grant, the World Report Master Award, three World Press Photo Awards (including the inaugural Long-Term Projects award in 2015), and the 30th W. Eugene Smith Grant in Humanistic Photography.

The interview has been lightly edited for clarity and length.

JW: Darcy, you're an expert in documentary photography, in every sense of the genre. When you're talking to your students about your work and about long form visual storytelling, what are some of the things that you feel are important for them to be aware of, to know and/or to think about? And maybe you could talk a bit about your process around your incredible body of work and book, Family Love. What takeaways do you have that you could share?

DP: At first, I never thought that the project about Julie would turn into 21 years of photographing her and her family. It’s interesting to think about my work in the context of “long-term." When you begin a project, you're seeking answers to questions. For me, those questions were about society and poverty. As a young photographer, I knew that finding those answers would require more than just one or two visits.

At that point in my career, I had been working on the AIDS Hotel story at the Ambassador Hotel for a full year when I met Julie in the lobby. She was 19 and living there. Since asking permission is important for me, I explained who I was and what I hoped to achieve with the project. Julie immediately said, "Yes." I remember her standing there barefoot, her pants unzipped, holding her eight-day-old baby in her arms. She spoke about her life—being abused by her stepfather, running away at 14, and being HIV positive. She said her baby, Rachel, had given her a reason to live. I was blown away by the consciousness of her statement. At that moment, I hoped for the opportunity to get to know her better. 

About a year later, I would see her a lot more. Before that, she was part of the "Urban Poverty" project I was working on, which included the Ambassador Hotel. We started talking about what would happen if she passed away, partly because so many people around her were dying—her friends from AIDS, and she was worried her children might not remember her. One day, while sitting on the hallway floor at the West Hotel, we talked about the idea of me being her "biographer." She used to introduce me to people as "my personal photographer," which made us both giggle.

Access is something I think about a lot. Especially in long-term projects, it’s important to realize that people can say yes or no at different times, and you have to be ready for both and accept it. When I learned that Julie was sent home to hospice and told to prepare for the end of her life, I thought she might not want me to photograph her. I decided that, whether or not I took photographs, I would still make those visits to be with her. 

But I wasn’t prepared for what she said when I walked into the room. “Darcy, you’ve been in my life the longest, and I want you to know that you can do whatever you want.” It was a powerful moment for me. I knew it was important to be there and to photograph Julie. The responsibility of making the best possible photographs—I wasn’t sure I could do it, and I'm not sure I did. But I tried.

During this time, I was teaching a class at the San Francisco Art Institute. I remember telling my students not to take anyone's life for granted. Every time someone agrees to be photographed by you, it’s a grave responsibility to make your best work. You need to bring everything you know to that moment and be the best photographer you can be.

JW: To be present—it's beautiful and nerve-wracking all at the same time…And so the project continues, am I right? You're still going back?

DP: It’s so fascinating that you’d ask this because, at the time I was working on the book, Rachel, Julie’s first-born child, sent me an email to thank me for sharing Julie’s story. Rachel was removed at age 5 and adopted, and she didn’t see Julie again until she found the story on my website. Elyssa, the youngest, was also adopted at 5. I’m still photographing both Elyssa and Rachel, who now has her own children. It's a very different story from Julie's. 

JW: You are one of those people who sees stories everywhere.

DP: My path in photography started at San Francisco State University, where I hold a Bachelor of Arts in journalism and developed interests in art, ethnic studies, literature, and sociology. 

One of my first projects was documenting a family I saw on my way to work after school—a mother and her two daughters panhandling at the cable car turnaround near Union Square. I had seen adults panhandling before but never a family, and I wanted to understand why. During this time, I also worked on a project about "Women in Prison" for a women’s studies course taught by Angela Davis. I photographed an alternative prison program where women lived in a house in San Francisco and were allowed to keep their children with them.

JW: Do you have colleagues who you work with for access?

DP: I do. There are people who are my liaisons; they believe in the work I'm trying to do and help me. 

JW: I love that you call them “liaisons.” We write more about this in the book—local reporting collaborators or partners—just not, “Fixers.” I mean why would you call someone who maybe just saved your life two days earlier your, “Fixer?” Aren’t they more like colleagues? And maybe in some cases your friend? 

DP: For my first long-term story, I spent two years visiting an isolation ward at a minimum-maximum security prison in Vacaville, California, photographing and interviewing inmates with HIV/AIDS. There was a wonderful person I photographed who saw me struggling to get signed release forms because everyone wanted to be photographed. He took my forms and said, “Why don't you let me handle the paperwork? I'll work with you.” He also introduced me to people he thought I should know. I would never have met some of the people without his gentle introductions and validation. It’s always helpful if someone from the community you’re working with can do that for you. For the Ambassador Hotel project, it was a team—a social worker, a nurse, and a doctor. Their introductions were important because they could validate both me and my work.

JW: As you know, with access comes huge responsibility, and you clearly have proven that you're responsible with that kind of open access over and over again.

DP: The first time I photographed a dead body, I was with Dr. Black. At the Ambassador, we walked past a room that smelled awful. The doctor and I went in, and it was one of the residents, Malcolm. I had a Nikon F3, and the shutter was so loud it made me cringe with every frame. I was trying to be careful. Golden sunlight streamed through the window as the doctor knelt next to Malcolm, touching him gently before covering him. When we left the room, we were quiet. In the elevator, I told her, “I could never do what you do as a doctor.” She looked at me and said, “That had nothing to do with being a doctor. Did you take any pictures?” I remember feeling humbled at that moment. It taught me that you’re a human being first, and your profession comes second. I realized that the moment was bigger than my camera or me. And I had photographed Malcolm before and knew him. 

JW: You always seem to be working on a lot of different projects. Other than Julie’s family, what do you have going on?

DP: I have projects at different stages of development. Some I am still photographing, while others I am bringing forward to be seen. For example, I’m planning to return to a long-term study on the Oglala Lakota of the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. This project explores the intersections of addiction, poverty, feminism, and sovereignty. And recently, I completed a project for an exhibition at Visa pour l’Image. California Dreamin' documents the rise in poverty and homelessness across California from the Great Recession in 2008 to 2022. I’ve been working on projects related to homelessness and poverty since college. Before 2008, my work was mostly in film, so I’ll be incorporating those earlier works into this larger project in time.

JW: It’s just heartbreaking. You have been tracking poverty and homelessness for almost 35 years and it's not getting better; it's actually getting worse. That’s incredibly frightening. Thank you for documenting these situations—for recording them. It's so important.