Seeing and Being Seen: Michella Bredahl in Conversation

Can you photograph people you don’t love, or do you always need to feel a connection? 

Yes, I can photograph people I don’t love, but I’m usually drawn to people I’m close to or feel some kind of connection with. When there’s no connection, it feels constructed. For me, photography is really about connection. I can do it as a job, but it’s not the same. The camera feels like an extension of my heart. I capture people when I feel something for them. It doesn’t have to be love, it can be their talent, their presence, or a beauty that moves me.

Is there a difference between feeling close to someone in life and feeling close to them through the camera? 

Yes, I think there is a difference. Feeling close to someone through the camera is different, it gives you a chance to really appreciate someone. I think the camera just emphasises the feelings that are already there, it doesn’t create them, it illuminates them.

Does being the person with the camera make you an outsider? 

No, not necessarily. I think people experience photography very differently. I usually photograph people I know, and in those moments, it actually makes me feel closer to them. I try not to overthink whether photographing someone feels voyeuristic, because, at the end of the day, we are all outsiders in each other’s lives to some extent, and photography is often criticised for that. For me, it’s one of the most beautiful ways to connect with people, something I believe we are meant to do rather than remain disconnected from one another.

Do you ever feel like a voyeur? 

No, I don’t usually think of it that way. But I’m careful about being somewhere I don’t belong or taking advantage of a situation. I try to stay aware of my privileges and consider how I can use them responsibly. For me, photography isn’t about voyeurism, it’s about connection and respect. Nan Goldin explicitly rejected the idea that her work was voyeuristic. She argued that voyeurism requires detachment, and her photography was the opposite. She photographed friends, lovers, chosen family, people she lived with, fought with, slept next to, grieved with. The camera was not a shield or a way of hiding, it was a way of touching people. I really connect with this. She also said that she wasn’t looking in on a scene, she was part of it. I feel very much the same.

When you’re working, are you more loyal to the person in front of you or to the image you want to make? 

Both. I don’t impose an image someone doesn’t like because I don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable. At the same time, when I’m taking pictures, I take control. I don’t like photographing someone who is constantly worried about how they look in front of the camera.  I simply photograph what I see and what I want, and then we talk about the photographs together afterward. Of course, I can be persuasive if there’s a picture I really love, but at the end of the day, I respect people’s choices and never push them to do something they’re not comfortable with. For me, photography is about making someone feel appreciated and cared for and that always comes first. Sometimes, though, there are people you just don’t connect with through the camera, and I simply stop photographing them because some people aren’t ready for what the camera brings out.

Is there a limit to what should be made visible, even in the name of honesty? 

Yes, of course. Photographers are sensitive people, and we don’t all put the photograph above the person. I don’t like that kind of photography, and I notice it immediately. You can see it in the photograph if the person didn’t come first, and when that happens, it’s neither a good picture nor the right thing to do. Photographs never really tell the truth, they’re a blend of many things, but I trust the ones that touch me.

What happens after the photograph, between you and the person photographed, once the image exists in the world? 

Usually, people are very appreciative. They admire seeing their portrait, especially when it’s shared in books or shown in exhibitions. It becomes something we share, a continuation of the relationship rather than the end of it. In a way it’s saying that this person was here and they mattered. Many of my friends whom I photograph are artists, so it gives them a space to exist as artists and, in a sense, as art itself. 

Do you think photography can repair a relationship, or does it mostly reveal what’s already broken? 

Yes, for me, photography has repaired a lot of things. It helped my relationship with my mother when certain things were too difficult to talk about. She was not well when I was young, and I used the camera almost as an excuse to try to wake her up. Instead, I would photograph her while she was sleeping, which, for me, was a way to stay in that place with her and not lose my mind. Through photography, I learned that the camera could help me navigate a world I didn’t understand, and I think I still use it that way, to create connection, to move from disconnection to connection. Live through the chaos. In that sense, it’s very powerful for me. At the same time, I don’t think photography necessarily repairs relationships in general. If anything, it can make them more complicated. You’re portraying people and people are complicated. Having a camera within a relationship introduces a certain kind of power. People can feel ownership or get hurt if you stop photographing them. All of that adds tension. Relationships are already complex and the camera doesn’t always make things easier; it often confronts what’s already there. It can bring up jealousy, insecurity and difficult emotions, even in myself sometimes. 

Are there parts of your own life you refuse to photograph, and why? 

 It’s not that I refuse, it’s just that it doesn’t always work. I photograph everything. I always have, and I’m always photographing. But many photographs don’t work. I look at them and don’t feel anything, so I don’t show them. Sometimes that changes years later. In the end, it’s my feelings that decide. 

Is there a photograph you haven’t made yet because you’re still a bit afraid of what it would show you? 

Yes, self-portraits. I made many when I was younger, and I still make them every day. But I want to start making them seriously again and showing them. What stops me is the fear of exposing more vulnerability. But I’ve learned that fear and vulnerability are signs that I’m moving in the right direction. You have to allow yourself that space. 

Do you ever worry that including your mother’s photographs risks fixing her in one narrative, when in life she has already moved beyond it, and how do you negotiate that responsibility? 

I feel a responsibility to protect her. We talk and process everything a lot. My mother is very open about her past, talking about it is actually what saved her. She goes to meetings every day and speaks honestly about how she feels. She taught me to be vulnerable. I also saw, through those meetings, how vulnerability invites honesty in others: when someone speaks openly about their insecurities and their truth, it gives others permission to do the same. That’s something I find very beautiful and inspiring about my mother. She’s deeply honest, and she truly doesn’t care what people think of her as long as she’s happy, and she has never been happier. My mother never got the opportunity to show her work. No one ever asked her if she wanted to be a photographer. Not being able to express herself may have been what led her to suffer. I just want my mother to stand in the light she deserves, as someone extraordinary. She’s very proud of what’s happening for me and proud that this work is being seen. At the end of the day, everyone creates a narrative that fits them, so you can’t worry about people trying to fix yours. My mother would say the same.

Is there a tension between making a portrait that lifts up one person and one that speaks to (or for) a whole group of women like them? Do those goals ever pull in opposite directions? 

You can’t speak for everyone. I don’t think you can place an idea or a narrative onto someone else, everyone is different. That’s one of the things that feels wrong in the world to me: how often people force their opinions and ideas onto others. Two people can look similar, dress the same, or live in comparable ways and still be completely different inside. That’s what I love about people living their truth, it reveals how complex we really are. We are so much more than we allow others to see, and in many ways, we’re all hiding. But I do believe that when you tell your truth, you touch most hearts.  

Do you view your recent fashion photographs for Miu Miu as distinct from your personal work? 

Yes, it’s very different from my personal work. Fashion shoots, like the ones for Miu Miu, are collaborative and styled and everything has to move quickly. I don’t always get to choose the people in the photos, which is an essential part of my work. You’re selling something, it’s about the clothing, but I’m most interested in the people in fashion who care about photography as much as fashion. Working with them makes it exciting. These shoots throw me into situations I wouldn’t encounter on my own, and then I get to figure out how to make the images feel like me. It challenges me to adapt while still making sure it speaks to my heart, whether it’s fashion photography or not.