Blooming Melancholia / Lindsay Elizabeth Warner

Interview with a film photographer.

Between dappled Miami curtains and the spectral hush of dusk, Lindsay Elizabeth Warner constructs a visual diary steeped in nostalgia, impermanence and the eroticism of light withheld. Oscillating between Hollywood’s 1930s phantom glamour and the primordial quiet of a Scottish bog, her work inhabits the liminal dimension of chiaroscuro. What emerges is a constellation of flowers, lovers, interiors and fragments that form a visual poem that chants of longing, striving to preserve what is fleeting.

When you approach a new roll of film, what is the first intention or feeling that guides you before pressing the shutter?

With portraiture, I have an outline in my mind, a rough sketch of what I want to convey with image. My still life photography is mostly by chance while wandering and exploring.

Is there any memory linked to photography that accompanies you while practising it?

There is a vague yet persistent memory of watching light dapple through partially open curtains as a child in Miami, the breeze outside welcoming you, shielding your eyes, that feeling never left me. It lingers behind the lens like a ghost guiding the hand.

Do you find that the camera allows you to access people in a different way compared to conversation or writing? What changes in the dynamic when a lens mediates the encounter?

To me something quieter, less tangible than words speak behind the lens. To be known is to be seen.

How important is ritual in your practice? Do you have habits or small preparations that help you enter the right frame of mind before you begin shooting?

My frame of mind isn’t as important to me as my subjects frame of mind – I am not the point, they are. That being said I make sure I do a great deal of self-care the night before and morning of any shoot.

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Some photographers speak of the camera as an extension of the hand, others as an extension of the eye. How do you relate to your own equipment? Is it more instinctive for you or more technical?

For me, the camera is an extension of the mind, which is the architect of all visual art.

Do you have a favourite camera or type of film that has travelled with you for years? If so, what makes it irreplaceable?

My SX-70 Polaroid has stayed with me for many decades now. I work with a few rotating mediums during all shoots with a variety of backups for each camera model. Things can malfunction with film cameras so it’s important to me to be able to ensure the moment is captured as it happens.

How has moving between cities or environments shaped your eye? Does place alter your sensibility as a photographer?

I believe seeing the world is just as important as being part of it. So in that sense every time I come to a new country or a new landscape it changes me a little, and thusly my art.

How do you feel about colour in photography? Do you have a precise palette to which you tend to refer the most or seem to be drawn to?

Color, to me, is a feeling before it is a fact, it’s stained with memory and emotion like a dream you try to write down just after waking. I like to plan around an idea of color and then work within color theory to fine tune that concept of hue.

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Many photographers say that light is their true subject, yet your work seems to be immersed in a melancholic shadow. What is your relationship with light and darkness, and what does it reveal in your images that perhaps people do not notice at first sight?

Moonlight, cutting through the darkness of even the blackest night, is simply reflected light from the sun. I think about that a lot.

Flowers, interiors, portraits, fragments of daily life. If you look at your subjects as a constellation, what story do you think they tell about you?

They form a poem of my inner life: one about impermanence, love, the language of nature, sound of the shutter. I have a deep longing to preserve what is fleeting in life, which is everything.

When you photograph people you love, do you feel you are trying to preserve them, understand them, or celebrate them? Or is it something different altogether?

When I photograph the people I love I am letting them speak for themselves through these small photographic moments.

When you look at a series of shots, what guides your selection process? Do you rely more on intuition, on emotional response, or on compositional criteria?

I like to view the photo sets as a whole, then select those which stand out most to me based on a sort of golden ratio composition, balance of light and shadow, overall tone.

What is the role of silence during your creative process? Do you prefer to photograph in quiet settings or in environments filled with sound?

I rarely have any sort of music playing during a shoot, unless it’s requested. There are many nuances to be found in near-silence.

Do you ever return to older photographs of yours to reinterpret them over time? If so, what have you discovered about the way your vision has evolved?

Because my work is a visual diary it is always changing and evolving, so while I do not necessarily go back, I can appreciate and reminisce on where I was before.

How do you navigate the tension between privacy and exposure when your work is rooted in intimate moments yet is sometimes published on your personal Instagram? How do you treat this digital space as an exhibition venue? Does the virtual presence of the viewer influence how you frame vulnerability?

I think often of Clair-obscur, the balance of light and shadow, between what is for posterity and what is private, for myself.

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When you travel, what do you look for first? Is it a type of light, a scent, a mood, or a specific kind of human presence?

I really wish all physical art came with a scent library, as scent memory is the strongest of all senses and plays such an integral role every single day. When I look at certain photos I personally know it was taken as dusk had just hit, the air was cold and wood burning fires were perfuming the city, or how a certain tree smelled in the summer warmth.

To what extent is memory a tool in your practice? Do you tend to photograph moments as they unfold or do you attempt to recreate memories that have already lived inside you?

I photograph what’s unfolding, but always through the lens of what has already haunted me. Nostalgia is a large factor within my work, the lyricism of image is a compass.

What do you hope people feel when they encounter your photographs for the first time?

I hope they feel they stumbled into a quiet moment they may recognize but can’t quite name.

If you were to imagine a future project without any practical limitations, what would it look like and where would it take place?

It would either take place here, in Los Angeles when Hollywood was in its prime in the 1930s, or in a Scottish bog. Both would include my twin sister and my husband, who are my most cherished loved ones in any reality.