Ms. Sanguinetti, as a Magnum photographer, what is it that makes you want to photograph someone: Their look or their aesthetic? Their personality? Their behavior? Something else?
I think it’s impossible for me to say. It’s intangible, it’s just like when you fall in love, you don’t know why… I can’t define it. It just happens, like this crackling of energy or this magnet that you have towards somebody — or an animal. I’ve loved animals since I was a child, and I still feel exactly the same way. I have so much empathy for animals, I feel intensely about them. Some of my first photographs were of horses and dogs on the farm when I was around nine or 10.
One of my favourite photos of yours is of a fawn curled up on the ground, it feels so tender and intimate.
You know, I remember being six years old and walking on the sidewalk in Buenos Aires, trying to figure out how not to step on the ants on the sidewalk, because I was just afraid I was killing them with every step I took. I still feel that so intensely with animals. It happens with people and relationships too, I just really try not to hurt people. I think about that humanity very deeply.
“In every work I do, if I don’t feel some kind of joy or exploration or play or the unexpected… It won’t happen.”
It’s something you capture in your work as well. Your photographs often have a real softness to them: a baby chick falling over as it runs, a smiling girl on a beach in Gaza, the kids playing with their shadows in Wisconsin.
I’m not even looking for that! It’s not intentional, it’s a very subconscious thing. I think I’m, again, just drawn to those situations or a mood like a magnet. Sometimes I don’t even realize that mood is there until afterwards, it’s totally happening organically.
One of your most famous series features two girls, Guille and Belinda, who grew up on a neighboring farm in your native Argentina. Apparently that series happened in exactly that organic way, you were simply drawn to them when you met them.
Exactly, it began organically, they were just around while I was working on another project about the cycle of life and death of animals, they just started getting in front of my lens. I was actually pushing them away at first, trying to focus on making my real work, and then little by little I just let them stay. I would watch them playing and then at some point I would say, “Hey, let’s pretend that you’re a farmer and you’re the wife,” and they would do it.
Play was an important part of the process?
I think the only way to get to know children really is through play. I mean, we all know that, right? That’s what really brings this theatrical quality to those early images and the looseness they have. All of that comes from that spirit. I also used to film them so we would pretend that we were on TV, and they kind of became stars of their own lives.
Was it also play for you? Did you also find yourself daydreaming and being a bit silly?
Oh, definitely. In every work I do, if I don’t feel some kind of joy or exploration or play or the unexpected… It won’t happen. It doesn’t happen. Play and improvisation, and the joy of discovering something is always in the beginning of any work that I’m close to.
You continued to shoot Guille and Belinda over the years, even continuing now into adulthood, and you can really see the sense of play fade away with time and age. How was it to experience that?
When they started becoming teenagers, they were changing every week. It took me a while to adapt and to realize that they weren’t kids anymore. I would be trying to say things like, “Let’s go outside, let’s pretend this, let’s do that,” and I would be frustrated because they were not into it anymore. They were more private, they were indoors more, they were more in this thinking mode. I had to try and grab the playfulness from them in other ways, but also accept the fact that the play had gone.
Was that sad?
No, I didn’t feel sad. I felt sort of… In a transition moment. It was just hard, because I thought I can’t photograph them anymore. I don’t really know what to do. But thankfully, I said “I’ve gotta stay,” because this is just life. You don’t leave when it’s not easy or not fun anymore, you know? So I stayed, and it was exciting in a way. And challenging. It challenged me a lot, how to represent them in that visually still stage, a lot of things were going on in their head but that wouldn’t translate visually.
You’ve said previously that you’ll continue to photograph them until the end of your lives… How does it feel for you to be so tied to this project?
Oh, it’s a joy. Now they’re around 36 years old and it’s a beautiful time. I’ve been working on a movie with them, with all everything that I filmed throughout the years, so for a while now, I was constantly thinking about them. I’m just dying to be with them, and also to have some time with them where I’m not hunting, where I’m not thinking, “Oh, the light is falling on Belinda’s hair that way. I really should have a camera,” and then I’m half listening to her, because I will be thinking about what I was missing. Now I can just be there with them, one hundred percent present. We are kind of like family, so those moments are a real gift. I don’t imagine my life without them in it — not only because of my work. It’s all mixed up together.
Do you forge those deep connections with all the people that you photograph? Your series Some Say Ice, for example, was shot over several years in Wisconsin, United States. Did you create any similar relationships?
Actually, no, Some Say Ice wasn’t about creating relationships. I mean, of course, I did create some relationships because when I photograph someone, some kind of love or affection exists. I did develop a friendship with a pastor there. But that series was more about a place, a mental state, it was about history, and life and death, rather than being about each individual person. I think if I had gotten to know them too well, it would have gotten in the way of the aura of the work.
So are there photos of people whose names you don’t know, or who you had no interaction with?
Absolutely, yes, it exists. Of course, I knew some people’s names and stayed in contact but there’s also some people I didn’t know and I didn’t see again. I don’t necessarily feel the need to create a relationship with everybody and I think there’s also a really interesting intimacy you can have with somebody that you only meet once. That’s really special to me. They might forget about me, but I don’t forget about them, because I have the image and the experience of having been there. They live within me.