Photography as a carrier of collective memory and identity was the focus of the conference "Encounters with the Photographic Archive" at the Austrian Academy of Sciences (OeAW). These themes are also central to the work of renowned photographer Susan Meiselas. In an interview, she reflects on her long-term projects in Kurdistan and Latin America, her engagement with photographic archives and the challenges of representation. Foto Arsenal Wien is currently devoting an exhibition to her exploration of these issues.

The photogapher’s path

The OeAW conference "Encounters with the Photographic Archive" focused, among other things, on the role of photography as a medium of memory. How does that connect to the work you’re showing at Foto Arsenal?

Meiselas: For me, there's a compelling dialogue between the conference and my Kurdistan piece at Foto Arsenal. While they differ in approach, they resonate with one another. The conference emphasized discovery—unearthing materials, often from Austrian archival contexts, that had been overlooked or lost. That sense of continuity, of recovering what’s been buried, shaped much of the conversation throughout the event.

Over time, my work evolved into something more curatorial—it became a collaborative process of building a visual history.

My path as a photographer began differently. When I first went to Kurdistan in 1991, it was simply to take photographs. But over time, my work evolved into something more curatorial—it became a collaborative process of building a visual history. The book Kurdistan: In the Shadow of History marked that transition. It wasn’t just documentation anymore; it became a way to gather, to involve communities, and to create something within an open-ended process. The project eventually took many forms: a book, a website, exhibitions. I tried to trace that layered journey in my talk at the conference.

Photography captures a moment, but that moment changes as time passes.

And how does this compare with the work shown in Vienna?

Meiselas: The piece began after an invitation from the Pompidou for their exhibit Face à l’Histoire to create something about Kurdistan. I responded with what might be called an assemblage—layering my own photographs with another photographer’s images, an anonymous execution video and select texts. The backdrop holds a moment in time from 1991 with the mass displacement of Kurds from Northern Iraq into Turkey following a campaign of destruction that bordered on genocide. I added two of my images related to the Anfal campaign and its aftermath. The piece merges perspectives to reflect on a singular, charged moment.

Even though these projects have different origins, do you see a common thread?

Meiselas: Definitely. The book evolved over years; the piece arose from a commission. But neither was planned in advance. I didn’t anticipate being invited to the conference or that Foto Arsenal would be so deeply engaged with the Magnum archive, which is now nearly 80 years old. The exhibition explores Magnum’s legacy and how three contemporary photographers, including myself, relate to our own archives. That conceptual framework is what brought me to Vienna.

Moments make history

Many of your projects stretch across years, even decades. What does that kind of long-term commitment mean for your work, particularly its political dimensions?

Meiselas: History loops, it doubles back. I’ve seen that especially in Nicaragua. We believed in progress at one point, but over time, the narrative has shifted.

Photography captures a moment, but that moment changes as time passes. Viewers bring new meanings to images. Every project has its own rhythm—some work I leave behind, others I revisit years later.

Can you share an example?

Meiselas: Recently, I revisited 44 Irving Street from 1970, a project on life in the boarding house where I lived. It’s not widely known—some of the images were shown at the Kunsthaus in Vienna in 2021 and just recently at the Fogg Museum. Re-presenting it made me wonder what it would mean to reconnect with the people in those photographs.

Each photo raised questions: Who took it? Why? What was happening in that moment?

That project was the first time I experienced both the discomfort and the challenges of representation. I used a 4x5 camera to make contact sheets, brought them back to the residents, and asked them how they saw themselves—what the camera revealed or failed to show. Each of them responded with a letter, which I included. Most only signed their first names, so 54 years later, I’ve managed to find only one of the 22 who I originally photographed.

That kind of participatory exchange seems foundational to your approach. Was it the same with Carnival Strippers?

Meiselas: Yes, but with a different rhythm. The Carnival Stripper project was built on a series of returns. I would process my films during the week and bring contact sheets back to share. It wasn’t just about taking photos, but creating dialogue, wanting them to see how I was seeing them. Over three summers, the project unfolded through repeated visits as the Girl show travelled from town to town. Each week became a return of sorts.

In Latin America, that rhythm shifts. The timelines are longer, but the impulse is the same: to return, to reflect, to engage again. With Nicaragua I photographed for one intense year, from June 1978 to July 1979, crossing borders in Central America throughout the 80s. Then I co-directed a film, Pictures from a Revolution, ten years later which led to another revisit with my photographs as street murals, on the 25^th anniversary of the revolution titled Reframing History.

Building a visual history

In contexts where history has been suppressed, like with the Kurds, how can photography address gaps in collective memory?

Meiselas: The gap I began with was immense. As an American, I knew next to nothing. When the Kurds fled Northern Iraq after Bush encouraged an uprising—and then left them exposed—Saddam retaliated with brutal force. Villages were razed. The destruction was mentioned in the press—4,000 villages decimated—but there were no images to help make sense of it. That absence pushed me to go. I followed the path of the refugees, trying to understand what had happened. What I found was mostly rubble. The silence surrounding that loss was staggering.

And that’s when the work became about building a visual history?

Meiselas: Yes. My own photographs couldn’t explain what had been lost. That shifted my focus. I started looking for earlier images—photos made by missionaries, colonial officers, travelers. Each came with their own point of view and purpose. Each photo raised questions: Who took it? Why? What was happening in that moment? I began assembling fragments—surrounding them with oral histories and primary documents. It wasn’t about creating a comprehensive archive, but a mosaic of memory.

Photographs can serve as evidence

You’ve mentioned feeling part of a timeline of image-makers. How did that perspective evolve?

Meiselas: It began in Nicaragua in 1978. Back then, it was just me, creating a book of my own photographs. But by the time I was working in El Salvador, I felt the presence of others—there were many photographers working alongside me. That led to El Salvador: Work of 30 Photographers, a collective book from the early ’80s. It was the first time I tried to create a shared testimony.

There were moments I chose not to take a photograph.

In those tense moments, how do you balance responsibility and empathy?

Meiselas: I lead with empathy and respond to situations as they unfold. There were moments I chose not to take a photograph—when someone said no, or when it didn’t feel right. Even with Carnival Strippers, I respected those boundaries. Representation comes with responsibility.

But sometimes, the act of witnessing feels essential. There’s a photo I took outside Managua—a body left by a death squad. The scene is unsettlingly beautiful, but horrifying. I took the picture because the world needed to see it. That kind of violence was becoming systemic. Photographs can serve as evidence and make it harder to deny.