I’ve always been drawn to images taken in or under water, and to stories related to water. When I was growing up, my favorite book was The Water Babies by Charles Kingsley. The idea of submersion and drowning has always fascinated me. Drowning is such a strange word because it’s often used in a very pragmatic, negative sense, referring to literal drowning or death. But we also use it metaphorically, to convey a depth of feeling—like ‘drowning in ideas,’ ‘drowning in emotions,’ or even ‘drowning in money.’ There’s a complexity to this idea that I think is reflected in the image. It almost looks choreographed, and it reminds me of some of my favorite photographic series, such as Larry Sultan’s Swimmers, which I study frequently—those underwater shots taken in public pools.

I find a seat on the terrace of a small café in the garden and take my notebook and pencil out of my bag. The photograph The American in Italy is on my mind. While many have described the image as a symbol of sexual harassment, the woman depicted told a journalist that it represented female empowerment. She owns the situation, she claimed. Still, for many, the photo serves as a stark example of how risky it can be for a woman out in the world.

Many younger students today take photography for granted. They think that what they see is simply what they get. They don’t realize that, even in the 19th century, photography—no matter the subject, even war photography—was usually staged. I think it’s essential to teach children how photographs are made, of course in the analog sense but also within the digital spheres which seems even more pressing currently. Kids have smartphones everywhere; they use images, see images, create images and distribute images within seconds. But often, they don’t fully grasp what it really means to make an image. How is it made? What is the background of the picture? What is happening there? And who is involved? I think this is important—and this picture reminds me of that.

The work captures an emancipatory act—she’s very much the author here, owning her own portrait. The cable release in her hand emphasizes that she is the one creating this image. It’s an interplay between subject and object, because in photography—and in the fine arts more generally—women are often positioned as the object, exposed to the male gaze. Thun cleverly evades this by presenting blank photograms of herself.

The photograph balances between the familiar and the strange. I’m fascinated by how it’s clearly staged and arranged, yet I still read it as real. I believe in the image. Even though it’s obvious that I shouldn’t be able to, it still feels genuine. The image has influenced me in terms of how I want to create art. I also work with staging, and sometimes it works, while other times you just don’t believe it. That’s the beauty of this – you believe in it.

I don’t have one specific image in mind, but the question made me think about the images we see with our mind's eye. I thought about something I recently learned—many people can’t actually see images when they close their eyes, a condition similar to those people who don’t have an internal dialogue; they don’t hear the ‘voice’ inside their head.

I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of the gaze in photography. This particular image is especially interesting because it involves a refusal of the gaze. Each of the women has her eyes closed, yet their faces are very strategically positioned—almost in a diagonal line, tilted upwards toward the camera. It’s clear they’re aware of being photographed. Of course, it’s a posed image; I don’t believe for a second that they’re actually sleeping.

Right now, Instagram is the news outlet we rely on to follow the live streams of political events, and I'm struck by its importance, and also still pondering some people's use of it. I'm still thinking about a post from Katherine Diez, a Danish writer and Instagram influencer who became famous for her carefully curated selfies, accompanied by reflections on literature and feminism. In 2018, she sparked controversy with a nude selfie in bed, holding a book she was reviewing, with the caption ‘Going to bed with my job.’ But it's the fairytale-like post from a hotel in Paris, where Diez lay in a large bathtub reading Le Monde, with a quote from Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar in the caption: 'Nothing can't be cured by a long, hot bath.' It was one of many beautiful photo-novels she shared.

I quickly tire of images with a clear framework. Maybe it’s because I want to add my own story to the image—or at least leave room for that. I want there to be a form of communication between the image and the viewer, where my own experiences and associations also have space.

There is a newsletter. Laure Provoust opens a big new show. My day (and my soul) is slowly sinking and the accompanying photo lifts me up, it makes me smile. Breasts like eyes and head. Lots of tentacles, one even giving a thumbs up as if to signal that this is all going to work out, the rest holding water and a cup and other things. Some are just hanging there, ready to work. It makes me think of something Aretha Franklin said when asked what her biggest challenges in life were. I am pretty sure the journalist did not expect her to answer that the hardest thing was figuring out what to make for dinner every day. Although I am a long way from being Franklin, I feel very connected to this octopus who holds on to important things.

Despite the constant wave of visual and written information we receive every day, there's one video I've been thinking about since it came out. It's of two Palestinian siblings, Qamar and Sumaya Subuh, released by the Al Jazeera network. We see a journalist meeting these two young children, one carrying the other. The journalist asks them what has happened and where they are going. It turns out that one of them was hit by a car. They say they are on their way to the Bureij refugee camp or just anywhere that can help. The journalist decides to help and drives them to Bureij, where one of them carries the other. Then the clip ends. Of all the videos I've seen, this is the one I play over and over in my head.

As a photographer, I often think about the pictures I can't take. We live in a world where almost everything is documented, especially with the internet and social media. Everything is instantly shared and broadcast, especially in these turbulent times of war, genocide and more. It almost feels like nothing is off limits to be documented. I often feel that my brain and emotions are not built to consume it all at the current rate. 

When you asked me to choose just one image, it was difficult. I see so many images all the time—especially through social media—that my mind feels both full and empty at the same time. But there's one image I've only encountered on social media that has stuck with me. Every time I see it, I feel compelled to linger on it and return to it, both visually and because of its content.

I had a lot of options in my head, there's so much good stuff out there that I think about a lot. One of the first images that came to mind was from Nona Faustine's White Shoes series. I saw the series in New York at Easter and the artist took pictures, in different versions of nudity and with white shoes, of different places in New York City where there was a slave trade or places where black people were not allowed to be.

It’s funny to think back on the photographs that meant a lot to me when I was younger. Not just as a nostalgic reminiscence, but as a way to understand and remember what I saw and liked in them, compared to what I see today. I remember being five years old or so, and loving the photographs by Nick Waplington. Their plush, synthetic surfaces stood out to me. I think of families eating ice cream in rooms with carpeted floors and patent-leather sofas in different shades of pink. The drama and chaos and abundance of people and stuff—which I have now come to see as the images of struggling British working-class homes in the 90s—filled me at the time with an unsettled combination of envy and fascination.

You send me an old image of yourself somewhere in the West, near where I grew up. A squinting, grinning child, facing the sun, feeding a lamb, one hand holding on to a metal string fence. There is text written over the image. An invitation. But my mind is distracted by another image, and we text about it. I'm leaning on the hope that in our knowledge of the fickle status of images, of their bending, we still have a capacity that can help us think, even when we're distracted.

The image that occupies my mind these days is a photograph of the editorial team behind the feminist magazine Spare Rib. We see them posing on the windowsill of their office in Soho, London. The photograph was taken in 1973 by a photographer whose name we no longer know. Like many other self-published and independent publications, Spare Rib was built on friendship, collaboration, and countless hours of unpaid labor.

‘How's your hair?’ my friend and I text each other during hectic times when we haven’t been in touch for a while. We exchange messages about different styles—flat or high—without needing further explanation. We both know what frizzy means. My last reply to her included a picture of a king at Versailles, his hair big and fluffy. I hope we keep asking each other this question until our hair is white and beyond. I think of my friend when I see a picture of the Tunga twins tangled in each other's hair. The image is inspired by a supposed Nordic myth about conjoined sisters who caused trouble in their village.

There are lots of images and impressions from this year's annual exhibition, but Else Marie Hagen's puppy is the one that stays with me after the visit. All the way up the stairs to the sky-lit halls of Kunstnernes Hus we are guided by Asmaa Barakat's work. With golden letters she asks: please be kind... لطيفا كن... please be kind... لطيفا كن... please be kind...