Ten Questions with Jonė Reed

Jonė Reed is a Lithuanian photographer living and working in London, whose photographs move between portraiture, self-portraiture, still life and landscape.

There is a quiet theatricality to her work — ordinary objects, gestures and places become strange, intimate and sometimes melancholic. Rather than explaining what an image means, Reed seems more interested in what it can hold: memory, feeling, ambiguity and the things that are difficult to put into words.

For 10 Questions, we spoke about photography as a necessity, growing up around theatres, photographing her children, Lithuania, melancholy, curiosity — and becoming less interested in explaining everything.

1.

You’ve described photography as both a necessity and a therapeutic act - a way of externalising things that might otherwise remain internal. After nearly fifteen years of making photographs, do you still need photography in the same way you did when you started?

Yes. The need has fluctuated from time to time, but I’ve now grown to realise that essentially, I couldn’t do without it. A bit like an addict without a hit I become rather awful if I don’t get to take photographs for a while.

It is so embedded in the way I experience the world that I’m not sure I can separate it from myself anymore. I am constantly making photographs in my head, even without a camera. I notice light, gestures, objects, strange little moments.

The strange thing, though, is that I’m not particularly emotionally attached to my photographs afterwards. Perhaps the need is in the making of them rather than in having them.

2.

Self-portraiture has been such an important part of your work. When you put yourself in front of the camera, do you feel like you’re photographing yourself, or does your body become another material - like light, colour or an object - that you can use to make the image?

I rarely think of a self-portrait as being about my physical self, or my shell. I’m quite a solitary person, so using myself is partly convenient - I’m simply there. But at the same time, I find self-portraiture quite difficult, as the challenge is having to be behind and in front of the lens simultaneously. But I completely admit  - I have often used my body almost as an object, as another element with which to create the image. And sometimes, quite simply, I really wanted to express my own feelings. Nowadays, however, I’m happier photographing other people.

3.

You grew up around theatres and have spoken about an early sense of the ‘world as a stage’. There’s something wonderfully theatrical about many of your photographs without them feeling overly staged. Do you think you’re documenting little realities, or quietly constructing your own?

I spent a lot of time backstage as a child, around rehearsals, sets, scripts and all the behind-the-scenes drama. I think that stayed with me, and perhaps that’s how I see the world: a little bit more dramatically.

But I’m not particularly interested in constructing something perfectly. Often the starting point is completely real. Sometimes there’s a scene already there, just waiting to happen a gesture, a person, an object, a particular light. Sometimes, however, it does need a little bit of “directing” and its most fun when someone is very willing to play.

4.

Your children and family have gradually become another major part of your archive. Has photographing them changed your understanding of what a family photograph can be - and do you ever think about what these pictures will mean to them when they’re older?

I’ve never been particularly interested in the traditional idea of family photography if anything, it slightly bores me. My kids are around, and it feels natural to take photographs of them. And I’m not biased, but I do think they are very photographable.

Gradually it became just like anything else I photograph -  part of who I am. I wasn’t documenting them as such. The only series that slightly resembles any sort of chronological document is our summers in Lithuania. But mostly it is all play: sometimes very willing, sometimes rather annoyed. And at some point, they do or have said NO to being photographed, which of course I have to respect.

But yes, I do think about what these photographs might mean to them later. I’d love for them to have a slightly different kind of proof of their existence. Hopefully they’ll think, Oh, this was an interesting photo of me. My mum was quite arty.

Or perhaps they’ll think it was all my imagination just fragments of light and maybe they won’t recognise themselves at all, almost like fictional characters.

5.

There’s often melancholy in your photographs, but rarely sadness in a straightforward sense. What is it about melancholy that you find visually interesting - and can a photograph hold a feeling that you couldn’t necessarily explain in words?

I think I am, and have always been, a melancholic person, but I never intentionally set out to make a melancholic image. If a viewer sees melancholy in it, then it must have happened internally, I guess.

I think photographs can hold feelings that words flatten. I’m quite suspicious of explaining photographs too much. I even dislike titles. If I could explain everything I wanted to say in words, perhaps I would be writing novels instead.

6.

Your still lifes can make very ordinary objects feel strangely significant. You’ve talked about objects carrying echoes of home, childhood and things passed down through families. Are you photographing the object itself, or what has accumulated around it?

I’m not interested in documenting an object faithfully. I’m more interested in why, internally, I chose to photograph that thing in the first place. What was it that made me notice it or feel something towards it - I think the meaning comes from whatever associations, memories or feelings I’ve unconsciously attached to it. But, sometimes, let’s just face it  - some objects are very photogenic and that’s all there is to it.

7.

You’re Lithuanian but have lived and worked in London for many years. Are there things about the way you see - aesthetically or emotionally - that you recognise as distinctly Lithuanian only because you’ve spent so long away from it?

That is such a great question that I almost don’t know how to answer it. I’m not sure whether the way I see is strictly because I am Lithuanian, but thinking about it, perhaps it is.

I think my worldview is slightly less Westernised. I particularly don’t care much about material and commercial things, maybe because my generation didn’t grow up that way. It’s a long story, connected with politics, occupation and resistance and our cultural DNA. There is a certain rawness and melancholy in Lithuanian photography that I recognise in myself, an interest in ordinary life, an innate connection to nature, suffering, silence, and things that are not necessarily beautiful in a conventional way. I grew up making do with what I had around me, and I still carry that instinct with me - I need very little to make something happen.

8.

Your photographs often feel timeless, yet you move between very personal work and commissions. When you’re making work for somebody else, how do you protect that sense of mystery and intimacy without simply repeating the visual language people already associate with you?

Timeless is probably one of the best compliments I receive. 

The best commissions are the ones where there is enough trust and freedom for something unexpected to happen.

9.

You’ve said that you work slowly and intuitively, sometimes moving objects repeatedly until something simply feels right. After making images for this long, have you become better at understanding why something works - or more comfortable with not needing to know?

Probably more comfortable with not knowing, I love surprises. I just really want to see how everything looks in a photograph in different light, from a different angle, out of context, through glass, reflected, distorted, motioned, blured, all of that. I’m just curious, really. 

10.

What are you trying to become less interested in as an artist?

I am less interested in explaining everything. There seems to be this pressure to define your work, the whys and the how’s, the identity.  I’m becoming less interested in putting myself into a category. I’d rather allow myself enough freedom to change.