There are artists who gaze at nature from a distance, as spellbound spectators. And then there are those who carry it on their skin, who feel its breath and its wounds. Ingrid Weyland belongs to the latter. Born in Argentina into a family of sculptors and architects, she transformed her training in graphic design and her love for remote landscapes into a singular photographic language: a visual dialogue between beauty and scar, between contemplation and intervention.
She shared with us the beating heart of her work, which travels across distant lands and crumpled sheets of paper, leading to a powerful and intimate reflection on the vulnerability of our planet. “I grew up surrounded by art,” Ingrid tells us. “My grandparents were a sculptor and an architect, and later I studied graphic design. Photography came gradually, as a way to preserve memory and emotion, and over time it grew into something deeper.”
The turning point came during a journey to Iceland, where she witnessed with pain the visible impact of human presence on the landscape. “In that moment I realized that showing only beauty was no longer enough: I also wanted to reveal its vulnerability.”
Out of this awareness was born Topographies of Fragility, a series that weaves together photography and sculptural gestures to reflect on the fragility of the environment.
In this long and thoughtful conversation, we spoke with the artist about her path, about how her images transform into emotional objects, and how the photographic act itself can become a form of care.
Your work often plays with image manipulation and the transformation of the landscape. How did this choice come about, and what do you want to communicate through these works?
The idea came to me almost by accident. I was organizing prints at home and realized I had to let go of some failed ones. Crumpling one of my own landscape images, strangely, felt like a sacrifice. When I looked at the creased paper, it struck me as a quiet metaphor for how we treat nature: something to be used and later discarded. That moment stayed with me, and the word paper kept echoing in my mind. This gesture of folding, crushing, and distorting became central to my process. I began experimenting with different types of paper, observing how they resisted and yielded. By layering these altered images over the original vistas and rephotographing them, I created a tension between untouched beauty and enduring damage.
Rather than documenting specific environmental crises, my aim is to evoke reflection. I want viewers to pause and consider the fragility of the natural world and our own place within it.
In the “Topographies of Fragility” series, the theme of the vulnerability of the landscape is central. How did this project come to life, and how has it evolved over time?
The project was born from a moment of tension and reflection. After a trip to Iceland in 2019, I was struck by how much the landscape had changed since my first visit, less due to tourism itself, and more because of the way some visitors ignored boundaries and disrespected the natural surroundings. That experience made it clear to me that just presenting beautiful images was no longer enough. I wanted to speak about what we risk losing.
Since then, the series has grown into a broader exploration of intervention and materiality. I began testing different types of paper, watching how they resisted and responded to pressure. Each image is carefully chosen, altered, and layered, never randomly. Over time, I’ve started incorporating other gestures like burning, tearing, or sewing, all as ways to reflect on the scars we leave behind. What began as a visual metaphor has become a space for experimentation, both aesthetic and emotional, where I continue to reflect on fragility and the imprint of human presence.
Many of your works reflect a sense of tension between beauty and destruction. In your view, what is the role of art and photography in raising awareness about environmental issues?
I believe art has the power to reach people on an emotional level, beyond facts, data, or news headlines. We’re often exposed to environmental crises through blunt and saturated imagery, and while that can be effective, it can also numb us. With my work, I aim to create a space for quiet reflection instead, a moment where viewers pause, look twice, and perhaps feel something more personal.
By combining beauty with disruption, I try to evoke a sense of loss and vulnerability. The tension in the image becomes a mirror: not just of nature’s fragility, but of our own. I think photography can plant a seed, something small that stays with you and maybe shifts the way you see the world.
Art by itself may not be able to reverse climate change, but it can move us to care, and caring is where change begins.
Your photographs seem to move between documentation and poetic interpretation. How do you balance these two aspects in your work?
That balance is very intuitive for me. I begin by photographing real landscapes, places I’ve traveled to, connected with, and experienced deeply. In that sense, there’s a root in observation, but I don’t see myself as someone simply documenting the world. What interests me is not only what I’ve seen, but what I’ve felt. After each trip, the transformation begins in the studio, where the image becomes a material object, one that can be folded, reshaped, or marked. That’s where the poetic layer unfolds. Through these gestures, the photograph shifts from representation to metaphor.
The pristine and the altered coexist within the same frame. That coexistence is where I find the balance between reality and emotion, between representation and expression. The landscape becomes not only a record of what was seen, but also a reflection of what was felt, transformed by memory, gesture, and the quiet act of looking inward.
Could you share some insights into the techniques you use? How do you decide on the vantage point and the composition of your images?
When I lay the creased print over the untouched one and rephotograph them together, the composition becomes more sculptural. I position the crumpled layer with care: not to cover the original completely, but to create a dialogue between what remains pristine and what has been altered. The placement, the folds, the shadows they cast, all of these shape the final image. My background in graphic design plays a quiet but essential role throughout this process. It helps me find visual balance, structure the frame, and guide the eye toward the effects I want to achieve, both formally and emotionally.
In your projects, nature is often transformed or reshaped into new forms. How does the public react to this unusual vision?
I’ve been truly touched by how rewarding this series has been through people’s generous reactions and thoughtful comments. The reshaped landscapes often spark curiosity, and viewers try to understand what they’re seeing. That moment of uncertainty opens a space for reflection. Some have shared that the images made them feel both unsettled and moved, as if something beautiful had been altered but not entirely lost. That emotional tension is intentional. Some responses have been especially meaningful, like hearing from professors who put the idea into practice with their students. They asked them to crumple a sheet of paper and try to flatten it again, then discussed how the folds do not disappear. That simple act became a metaphor for irreversible change and led to a conversation about our relationship with nature. I never expected the work to resonate so widely, but those moments of connection have become one of the most rewarding parts of this journey.
Your work seems strongly connected to your Argentine identity and the landscapes of your country. How do your cultural roots influence your artistic practice?
Even when my images aren’t explicitly tied to a specific place, Argentina is always present in my work. I was born and live in Buenos Aires, but I often feel drawn to the vast, less inhabited regions of the country, like Patagonia, the Atlantic Rainforest, and the Andes. These places feel like emotional sanctuaries, where silence and scale create space for reflection and connection to the land. For many years, I felt the need to travel far to find inspiration. But over time, I began to look inward, to see the richness and fragility of my own territory. Argentina holds an extraordinary variety of ecosystems and biodiversity, but also great vulnerability, with regions such as Patagonia facing increasing threats from wildfires and climate extremes. These landscapes have shaped my way of seeing. They’ve taught me to slow down, to observe more closely, and to sense that beauty often carries vulnerability within it. That understanding is at the core of my work.
Behind each of Ingrid’s images lies a profound presence, a silent attunement to the landscape. Her creative process is as much visual as it is sensorial, yet within this exploration and constant evolution, we also wanted to uncover with her how she is perceived in the world of photography.
Your work has received recognition at festivals and international exhibitions: what does this kind of attention mean to you, and how has it influenced your artistic evolution?
It’s been both surprising and deeply meaningful. When I first began working on Topographies of Fragility, I was exploring something very personal, a quiet reflection on nature, loss, and intervention. I never imagined that these images would travel so far or resonate with such diverse audiences. The recognition has brought visibility, of course, but more than that, it’s opened conversations. Hearing from curators, artists, students, and viewers who’ve connected with the work has helped me better understand its reach, and its responsibility. It’s encouraged me to keep experimenting, to trust my intuition, and to stay committed to the emotional honesty that shaped the project in the first place.
I feel grateful for the journey this work has taken me on. Every exhibition, every message, every dialogue becomes part of that evolution.
When you’re out in the field shooting, is there a moment or ritual that helps you get into the creative “flow”?
Yes, though it’s less of a ritual and more of a quiet transition. When I arrive at a new place, I don’t take out the camera right away. I walk, just observing, listening, letting the atmosphere settle into me. Silence is essential. I try to visit unpopulated regions and avoid traveling with large groups, so I can fully root myself in the stillness of nature.
I try to be present with all my senses, feeling the wind, noticing scents, textures, and the quality of light. There’s a moment when everything starts to slow down, my breathing, my thoughts, and I begin to feel in tune with the place. That’s when I start to see. Often, I lose track of time, absorbed in small details. That state of presence is what I would call my creative flow.
Among the artists who have inspired her, Ingrid cites Caspar David Friedrich, Olafur Eliasson, and Edward Burtynsky. Their work, she says, reminds her that art can be “both visually powerful and socially relevant.” And to those wishing to follow a similar path, she offers this advice: “Start from what truly moves you. Don’t follow only what feels urgent outside, but what resonates within. Give yourself permission to experiment, to listen to the landscape and to your own intuition. Even a small gesture can spark change.”
Today, Ingrid continues to push the boundaries of the image, exploring new gestures such as stitching, burning, and layering. Her recent experience in Antarctica has opened new creative trajectories: extreme landscapes, suspended between ending and beginning, that embody the same quiet urgency that runs through her work.
Ingrid Weyland reminds us that every landscape is also a skin—a living surface that can be wounded but also touched with care. Her gaze is an invitation to truly see what surrounds us.
To discover more about her work, visit: www.ingridweyland.com
Mariantonia Cambareri