Just as the dark exists in its relation to light, so ultimately, it seems to me that it is the light that is leading our way.

Introduction

Light needs darkness to be understood, just as darkness needs light. They are two aspects of a property that is fundamental to visual perception. In a photograph, it is the interplay of light and shade that gives the flat image its impression of form and texture. The stronger the chiaroscuro the more that form and texture is suggested. When light become a glimmer and dark a penumbral grey, form and texture soften rendering a more enigmatic scene. A twilight that is neither quite day nor night. A twilight that is quite literally ‘two lights’.

For the Finnish artist Nelli Palomäki, the interplay of light and dark is familiar from the annual cycle of summers when the sun never truly sets and winters when it barely rises. As autumn comes, the world is wrapped in twilight, the time of two lights. It is a time of year that has lent its soft enigmatic tones to her portraiture, suggesting a kind of insightful ambivalence. Her subjects are children and young people – more recently her own family. Siblings whose individuality, like those of light and dark, is intimately entangled with their mutuality. There is a delicate, otherworldly quality to her portraits, and a seriousness that resists sentimentality. Her young subjects regard us with an unsettling maturity or pose expressively suggesting in their physical connection the complex interplay of emotions that one sibling may feel for another.

Twilight is a state in which we can never quite be sure of what we see. Its shapes and shadows can render the world elusive, a place as much interpreted as perceived. It is this enigmatic world of gently modulated greys that Nelli Palomäki evokes, inviting us not just to look, but to reflect and to imagine. A place where individuality and interdependence mingle as soft as smoke.

Alasdair Foster

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Interview

What was it first drew you to photography?

There was no child with a camera and budding vision. Perhaps much of it has been accidental. I was quite a challenge as a teen. Growing up in a small working-class town during a severe economic depression, my choice of the arts was a personal rebellion. We didn’t have any contemporary art in our town, let alone contemporary photography. So, I had no idea what was waiting for me. But I remember making the decision to become a photographer while in high school after attending a few darkroom classes at the local community college. At the time, once the decision was made, I didn’t question it… though, years later, I have had my doubts.

Has your attitude to photography changed over the years?

Yes, constantly. Of course, it took me many years to understand the breadth and diversity of the field. At the time I was studying, photography was going through a critical period. There was a lot of pressure to focus on digital, while I’ve always been more into analogue processes. It took quite some time to find what worked for me. But, from the start, I was drawn to portraiture.

Looking back, I miss the time when we weren’t suffocating under this deluge of images. These days, I find it harder to get excited about photography and I have had my doubts about the profession of being an artist. Like everyone, for me the past years have been shocking: the environmental crisis, the horrible news of war, the continuous sense of threat… they have affected the way we conceive of the future nowadays. I’ve been reflecting on my role as an artist who travels a lot, and the unsustainability of it all. These are big questions…

[Left] © Nelli Palomäki ‘Janne holding Sampo’ 2018 from the series ‘Shared’
[Right] © Nelli Palomäki ‘Inkeri and Annikki’ 2016 from the series ‘Shared’

How did the series ‘Shared’ begin?

I had been photographing children and young adults for a long time. Most of them had one or more siblings. While working with these young people, I often ended up following the dynamic between the family members. I’ve always been fascinated by our relationship one with another. When you add another person into the picture, it always becomes a question of their relationship.

What is it about sibling relationships you seek to bring out in this work?

I’m a little sister myself. These questions of sibling sharing, trust, loyalty, and comparison had been on my mind throughout my adult life. But it was only after our second child was born that I started to explore siblinghood through portraiture. It is a complicated relationship – something we cannot choose. There can be confusing emotions, like envy, shame, anger… Much of it comes down to the question of sharing. Sharing attention, care, responsibilities, space, material and so on. Here in our home, sibling rivalry is part of our everyday life. Our children fight constantly. But it is also a relationship filled with pride and cohesion. These portraits show the obvious similarities between the family members, but also, hopefully, reveal their differences.

‘Shared’ is also about the physical connection between the siblings. Holding and touching each other come easily for them. Although I am close with my big sister, we never shared this physical contact. In fact, being this close with anyone (except my own children) seems absurd to me. In this way, the work has also been a way to try to understand my own inability to let people get too close.

[Left] © Nelli Palomäki ‘Contact VII (Dora and Vera)’ 2019 from the series ‘Shared’
[Right] © Nelli Palomäki ‘Contact V (Sampo and Janne)’ 2019 from the series ‘Shared’

Why do you choose to shoot in black-and-white?

There were a few big names that I fell in love with from the very beginning, like August Sander, Diane Arbus, Richard Avedon… This must have affected my early decision to choose black-and-white. It was also a practical choice at the time because it was a medium I could test and process myself with less expense and less hassle. However, the longer I continued, the more it became essential to stick with grey tones only. It’s all about simplifying. I want to strip away all the unnecessary elements. I’m focused on what’s essential: my connection with the sitter, their pose, the composition… all of that.

Many of the young people you photograph are strangers. How do you get to know them before you begin to photograph?

In fact, I didn’t find it that necessary to get to know them in advance. It’s good to have the uncomfortable as part of the process. And many times, I get to know people over time, often making several portraits after the very first one. It’s time that allows the growth (both mine and the sitters’), building trust between us.

[Left] © Nelli Palomäki ‘August and Zane’ 2018 from the series ‘Shared’
[Right] © Nelli Palomäki ‘2nd of August (Ylva, dead bird)’ 2021 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’

What is it that a posed portrait can communicate that a more candid moment might not?

It tells us something about the relation between the photographer and the sitter. When being photographed (and being aware of it), we’re constantly looking for our mirror-face, our presentable features. But without the mirror we’re totally lost. Unable to judge how we look; we must trust the person making the portrait. Consequently, a posed portrait is also an image of the photographer.

It’s different for children. They are less aware of their own reflection and not yet so critical of their appearance. They come across as more natural, more sincere.

What is it you are looking for in the final image?

My work is driven by a certain obsession, yet I am also rather chaotic. There’s a constant battle between this chaos and control. While shooting, I’m waiting for that moment when the sitter turns into an image. These are sudden brief moments of connection, apparent trust… and then everything shifts out of kilter again.

[Left] © Nelli Palomäki ‘Annikki and Inkeri’ 2017 from the series ‘Shared’
[Right] © Nelli Palomäki ‘Isabella and Josefin’ 2017 from the series ‘Shared’

These images are quite enigmatic: equivocal in how one might read the psychology and intent of the subjects. How do the children themselves interpret the final image?

I’ve noticed that children may not react to their portrait immediately. But they might find it significant (or have a strong opinion about it) years later. I don’t think we’re able to analyse our own image in our early years. Certainly, children notice their serious expression and the stillness of a portrait, the intensity maybe. They might see themselves as a stranger in a way. But they don’t go sentimental over their image, and they are definitely not self-critical. As we get older and start to perceive flaws in ourselves, we begin to identify those unwanted features in our pictures. As adults, we are much more self-critical and protective about our own mage, sometimes hysterically so.

Recently I was talking with my son about his portrait ‘7th of November (a son)’ [below right]. This image was made two years ago. Looking at the image now, he clearly recognises his own maturity, finding his younger self different to what he is now. But he soon turns to talk about my intentions behind the image, and the tension between us evident in the picture. Instead of asking What? he asks Why?

[Left] © Nelli Palomäki ‘6th of November (the reversed picture)’ 2022 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’
[Right] © Nelli Palomäki ‘7th of November (a son)’ 2021 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’

Tell me about ‘Speed of Dark’.

In a way, the Covid-19 pandemic opened the door to begin something new. I had developed a somewhat toxic relationship with my artistic work. So much was happening very close to me, yet I felt a disconnect between my photography and my daily life. It was important for me to identify myself as a mother first and foremost. ‘Speed of Dark’ is an attempt to keep my artistic practice as close as possible to my personal life, home, and family environment. And, in the process, to fall in love with photography again.

I started to look at image-making as akin to small-scale farming. It’s all connected to the light, the cycle of the seasons… growth and death, the endless repetition of it all. It felt crucial to handle the whole process locally and reshape these experiences into images, into a kind of archive. I drew a circle around the house and garden, keeping the project within this area. It remains ongoing.

My grandfather used to keep a diary on growing potatoes. These diaries reminded me of my darkroom notebooks. The goal was the same – to avoid unnecessary mistakes and to master something of significance. I noticed instead of making photographs to be seen by others, I had started a personal exploration to resolve my struggle with the whole process of photography and of being an artist.

[Left] © Nelli Palomäki ‘15th of October (Ylva, apple)’ 2020 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’
[Right] © Nelli Palomäki ‘28th of October (Susi, facing away)’ 2021 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’

How did your ideas develop as you turned your gaze inwards to your own family, your own garden?

It felt easier to try new things, to allow myself to make mistakes. I also began to see more meaning in little details I’d normally have disregarded. Photography became part of my domestic routine. There was a sense of continuity that I had never felt before. The process became much more meaningful than the final image.

This brought fresh challenges: how to keep the work interesting with a limited number of subjects in a restricted area. What was worth photographing and why? I was using a large format camera, so the process was extremely slow. I found myself repeating the same slow processes over and over again so that image-making became like any other daily task: gardening, laundry, cleaning the house.

What was the purpose of this daily task?

In a way, ‘Speed of Dark’ is an album I want to give to my children, and perhaps for their children too. I love old family albums. There’s a strange intimacy that is hard to build intentionally. Their principal purpose is simple: to preserve memories. But what is considered meaningful enough to be photographed? And how, for example, does one photograph love?

Only a few images exist from my parents’ childhood; I cannot remember any from my grandparents’. And today, paradoxically, printed photographs are once again missing from many homes. It’s heartbreaking. My generation learned to measure the way we were loved by the number of photographs taken of us and kept as treasured objects.

How do you go about presenting such personal work publicly?

Certainly, there’s a challenge to shape such work into something universal. But there are ways. For example, studying the photographs by Emmet Gowin, I feel he allows me access to this incredibly intimate warm space. I feel welcomed. Or in Paddy Summerfield’s work ‘Mother and Father’, there’s so much caring and love between the subjects themselves, and between the photographer and his parents. It’s family.

‘Speed of Dark’ also deals with the development of our garden. Both my grandparents and my parents knew how to cultivate their land. Today, gardening has simply become a leisure activity. Through photography, I wanted to discover my own way of utilising the land beneficially: to plant and to harvest.

[Left] © Nelli Palomäki ‘28th of June (Ylva, climbing a tree)’ 2020 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’
[Right] © Nelli Palomäki ‘7th of November (hollow)’ 2021 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’

What is the significance of darkness in this work?

Living in Finland, darkness is concrete. It has a huge impact on our rhythm of life. The dwindling autumn light, the cold, and the grey certainly affect our mental health. Our long winter is a struggle for many. Then again, during midsummer there’s light throughout the day. Seasons here change with aggressive speed.

This darkness sneaks into my images. At some point I start to follow the absence of light, instead of the light itself. During the grey autumn day all is flat, yet there’s beauty in this bleak landscape. This annual cycle of light and dark directs my creative flow – there’s a season for planting, for growing, for harvesting, and for making new plans.

The title, ‘Speed of Dark’, refers to this sudden wave of darkness that engulfs us both physically and emotionally. It’s as if the darkness has its own momentum. I find it comforting. Just as the dark exists in its relation to light, so ultimately, it seems to me that it is the light that is leading our way.

[Left] © Nelli Palomäki ‘15th of November (Susi, last light)’ 2020 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’
[Right] © Nelli Palomäki ‘Date missing (the failed picture)’ 2020 from the series ‘Speed of Dark’

In this work your subjects are no longer strangers, but intimates. How did your way of working evolve from that employed for ‘Shared’?

Naturally, everything changes when your subjects are your own family members. We disagree often and the children aren’t so keen on being involved anymore – using a large format camera can feel like a tedious process. Nonetheless, it becomes something we share – it brings us together.

Although it is still me who decides when and where I make a photograph, the whole thing has become more spontaneous. The everyday leaps into my images, my working process is not so controlled. The aims often remain elusive and there’s not the same pressure to succeed. I’ve started to see the whole project as a kind of archive where the whole transcends the individual images. It’s very much about the physical work itself, the repetition and reflection. Rethinking photography.

What has photography taught you?

I’ve learned the importance of shared intimate moments. Not only with those we love, but with strangers too. These moments are irreplaceable. I’ve also learned quite a bit about patience, trust and, on occasion, compromise – especially when making portraits.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that not everything needs to be photographed. Or not everything should be photographed. The world is real and most of the time just being present is enough. Ultimately, photography has taught me to see, and feel humbled by the images the world has given to me.

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Nelli Palomäki’s work is held in a number of prestigious public and private collections including the Finnish Museum of Photography and Helsinki Art Museum, Finland; the Moderna Museet and the Hasselblad Foundation, Sweden; the National Museum of Photography, Denmark; Fotomuseum Den Haag, the Netherlands; and the Musée de l’Elysée, Switzerland. Her monograph ‘Breathing the Same Air’ was published by Hatje Cantz in 2013 and her forthcoming monograph ‘Shared’ will be published in early 2024. She lives and works in Karkkila, Finland.

Photo: Juhana Moisander

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This interview is a Talking Pictures original.

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