We had the good fortune and pleasure of meeting and getting to know Rena Effendi during the opening days of the Lodi Ethical Photography Festival 2024, thanks to Fujifilm Italy, who also made it possible for us to interview her. We spent a wonderful day together in the streets of Lodi, going from one exhibition to another, while especially listening to her tell the story behind the project, “Looking for Satyrus”, which is part of the World Press Photo 2024 traveling exhibition. We have already discussed this project in our article titled: “Beyond Pain: Rena Effendi and the Human Side of Photography”. In the early afternoon, we found a quiet place to conduct the following interview.
How did your personal history with photography begin and evolve?
Actually, I started out as a painter. I was into painting, but I soon realized that sitting in a studio with a canvas and brush made me feel very restless. I wanted to be out on the streets, interacting with people. From an early age, I was curious about human stories. So, after about a year and a half of painting, I realized it wasn’t for me. I think I was around 21 or 22 when an ex-boyfriend gave me a camera and said, “Try it.” I picked it up — it was one of those old metal-bodied Nikons — and when I clicked the shutter, something about it just felt right. Even the physical act of taking pictures appealed to me, and I thought, “This is interesting; I should try it.”
This was around 2001. At the time, I still had a regular office job; I wasn’t a photographer or an artist. I was working at the U.S. embassy in Baku, and in 2001, I received two invitations. One was to the opening of the first McDonald’s in Baku, and the other was for a Magnum Photo exhibition about life in the Soviet Union. I was deciding between the two — McDonald’s or Magnum — and all my friends went to McDonald’s. But I thought, “This Magnum thing sounds interesting; I’ll check it out.”
When I went, I saw these incredible photos by Elliott Erwitt, Josef Koudelka, Henri Cartier-Bresson , and Robert Capa, depicting my own country, where I grew up. It was so expressive and artistic, and that’s the first time I realized that photography could be art. I became very curious, and that’s how it all started.
Your early work highlighted the oil industry’s impact on communities. What inspired you to undertake this project, and what were your initial impressions as you traced the pipeline through Azerbaijan, Georgia, and Turkey?
Azerbaijan, where I’m from and grew up, has a history deeply intertwined with oil. It was one of the first places where oil was commercially drilled, and at one point, Azerbaijan supplied 50% of the world’s oil needs — I think around World War II. Oil is almost part of our identity. Even the name “Azerbaijan” is said to derive from the Persian for “land of fire,” referring to the gas that rises from the earth and ignites. Oil is ingrained in our landscape, our history, and even our culture.
I grew up seeing and smelling it every day. When you land at the airport and drive into Baku, you can smell the petrol. Even though it might not be pleasant, that was our reality. You’d go to the beach, and after swimming, you’d find traces of oil between your toes because it’s in the soil.
When I started photographing, I was interested in how the oil industry affected life in my country. When the pipeline project was announced, I thought it would be a fascinating journey — following it through three countries, connecting the Caspian to the Mediterranean. Italy, if I’m not mistaken, is the biggest buyer of that oil. So, I set out to document the lives of ordinary people living along the pipeline’s route.
What was the most striking thing?
At one point, oil was selling for about $100 a barrel, and this pipeline was pumping 1 million barrels of oil a day — that’s $100 million worth of oil passing through it daily. Yet, people living above ground were in poverty, facing human rights violations and economic disparity. Those were the stories I found really interesting.
In 2013, your second book, Liquid Land, explored the environmental fragility of Baku. You chose to intertwine your photographs with butterfly images collected by your father. How did the idea of combining his work as a Soviet entomologist with your artistic vision come about?
Well, as you’ve heard me talk about my father a lot today, after he passed away, I went on a journey to understand what kind of man he was. I visited the Institute of Zoology, where he worked for 40 years, and found his collection of around 90,000 butterflies. One of his old colleagues gave me a manuscript my father had been working on — a book he hadn’t been able to publish before he died. It included 50 medium format color slides of rare butterflies, all endemic to Azerbaijan.
I wanted to honor his work and tried to publish it as a scientific book, but I struggled to find a publisher. People weren’t interested in work from the 1980s by a Soviet scientist. At some point, Thomas Edward Truck, a photographer friend of mine suggested, “Why don’t you combine his work with yours?”
That’s when it clicked for me. The theme of fragility, both of the butterflies and the landscape I had been photographing, really resonated. I paired his butterflies with my images of environmental decay, and they almost married each other — in terms of color and aesthetic, it was a perfect match. That’s how the book came to be.
Baku, your hometown, plays a central role in this project. How has your relationship with the city and its natural surroundings evolved as you documented its decline? And how do you feel about the F1 championship coming to Baku, given your concerns about the environment?
Oh, that’s a very Italian question!
To be honest, I don’t think Formula 1 is the biggest environmental issue Baku faces. The environmental problems in Baku existed long before Formula One arrived. I don’t believe Formula One is a major environmental factor in the city’s challenges. The issues facing Baku go far beyond a once-a-year event like this. The city’s struggles stem from much deeper causes. Baku wasn’t ready for the explosive growth it has seen, and that’s the real issue.
Think about it. Imagine a place like Lodi, a small town, suddenly discovering oil. It starts with 40,000 people, and then, overnight, major corporations move in. They need housing, infrastructure, everything. You start replacing beautiful old mansions with 50-floor skyscrapers. That’s what happened to Baku. The city wasn’t built to support a population of 3 million people. Originally, Baku was designed by Italian architects after World War II, and you can still see traces of that European influence in some Venetian Gothic buildings and older structures. The old city dates back to the 15th century. Then you have the Soviet-era buildings, and now, out of nowhere, these massive high-rises. But the infrastructure just wasn’t built to handle this — the grid, the roads, basic utilities like sewage, gas, water, electricity — none of it supports this rapid growth. Entire villages’ electricity gets diverted to keep up with the demands of the city.
Back when I started as a photographer, around 2001 or 2002, I spent four years documenting a neighborhood near where I lived. They were demolishing old buildings and replacing them with these massive high-rises. People were being pushed out to the outskirts of the city, and that’s what I see as the real catastrophe: the loss of history, of heritage, and a city expanding far beyond its capacity. This isn’t unique to Baku — you see it in other cities with urban-based economies. Half of the country lives in Baku now, and that strain is immense.
So, in short, I’m sorry to say, but Formula One isn’t really the culprit here. The changes happening in Baku are much more complex than a single event.
In 2018, you received the Alexia professional grant. How have awards like this shaped your career and your approach to photography? And do you believe photography can genuinely raise awareness about environmental issues and inspire action?
Awards like the World Press Photo and the Alexia Foundation are important milestones. They give visibility to stories that might otherwise remain in a drawer. In today’s media landscape, with shrinking budgets and fewer assignments, awards are another way to get stories out into the world. For example, the story I’m working on now has been exhibited worldwide thanks to the World Press Photo award. I wouldn’t be in Italy talking to journalists about it if it weren’t for this recognition.
People often ask if photography can change the world, and I think my focus is first and foremost on telling the story and informing others. I try to do it the best way I can, but whether it has a positive impact, that’s something beyond my control. I’m not an organization, an NGO, or a government. I hope my work touches people, connects with them, and helps them understand the complex issues we face as humanity. That’s what I think about when I’m working.
Sometimes, my work has had a tangible impact on someone’s life, though not always. It happens on specific occasions, and when it does, it’s incredible. For example, I worked on a story about seven children trapped in an ISIS camp in Syria. This was a collaboration with the Wall Street Journal, and we helped raise awareness about their situation. Their grandfather was trying to free them, but the government wasn’t helping him. He was a Swedish national. Once we publicized the story, public opinion rallied behind him, and pressure mounted. Eventually, the government agreed to assist, and I believe our work helped this man save his grandchildren from that prison in Syria. So yes, journalism can sometimes lend a helping hand.
You’ve worked with some of the world’s most prestigious publications, like National Geographic, The New Yorker, and The New York Times. Which publishing project has brought you the most satisfaction, and why?
This is a difficult question. There are so many different projects, and each has its own life, purpose, and time. It’s hard to choose a favorite. Some projects stand out because they win more awards or get more attention. My first assignment for National Geographic was in Romania, in Transylvania, where I documented farmers still using medieval techniques, farming as their great-great-grandparents did. It was a beautiful project, and I spent almost two months on it. What I loved about it was the slow pace, the meditative nature — there was no rush, no deadlines, just time to immerse myself. I enjoy projects that allow for that depth and nuance, especially when they stretch over time. For instance, the story about the grandfather who saved his grandchildren took six months. I kept going back and forth, and I believe the longer you spend on a story, the more interesting and layered it becomes.Shorter assignments don’t always have that depth or allow for such development. So, for me, it’s about the time and attention you can give to the subject.
What does it mean for you to showcase your photographs in artistic contexts like the Saatchi Gallery or Art Basel? How does that differ from presenting your work in an editorial setting, in terms of the message you’re trying to convey?
Honestly, I don’t make that distinction. I care about all audiences equally. Whether my work is shown in a photojournalism venue or a museum, the goal is to connect with humanity. I aim for an emotional response, to help people understand what I’m trying to communicate and connect with the subjects I photograph.
Some exhibitions may be more aesthetically pleasing, while others might be more traditional, but that doesn’t matter to me. I could have an exhibition in a metro station or inside a train, and I’d still feel the same about it as I would with a show at the Victoria and Albert Museum. For me, it’s all about connection.
Federico Emmi