Catalina Martin-Chico, Revolutions and Rebirths

Catalina Martin-Chico, a photojournalist of Spanish and French descent, began her career after studying at the International Center of Photography in New York. She first made her mark in Yemen, documenting the country's revolution and socio-political landscape for a decade, which earned her the ICRC's Humanitarian Visa d'Or award in 2011. For over a decade, she covered the Muslim world, from Morocco to Iran, gaining widespread recognition.

In 2017, Catalina shifted her focus to Latin America, beginning in Colombia to document the post-conflict era, which won her the Canon Woman Photojournalist Award and the "Contemporary Issues" prize at World Press Photo. She later explored Indigenous communities in the Ecuadorian Amazon, earning the POY LATAM Award in 2021. In 2022, she took an artistic approach to documenting Chilean youth, supported by a grant from the Centre National des Arts Plastiques.

In 2024, Catalina won the Françoise Demulder Award at the Visa pour l’Image Festival and was commissioned by the French Ministry of Culture for a project on outdoor schools. Represented by Panos Pictures, Catalina continues to shed light on global issues through her compelling visual narratives.

www.catalinamartinchico.com

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HM: Catalina, it sounds like you've had quite an international journey. Can you tell me a bit about your background? Where did you grow up?

CMC: Sure! I grew up in Madrid, Spain, until I was 13. Then my family moved to the southwest of France, to Bordeaux, where later I became a French citizen. I completed my studies in Bordeaux and then moved to Paris to work. My journey has been a blend of cultures and places, which I think has deeply influenced who I am today.

YEMEN- Sana'a 2008. Hanan, Alya and Amina (names are changed) are sisters. They are going back home before night falls after hanging out in a park. Women in Yemen cannot be on their own outside when night comes.

HM: That's such an interesting mix. What did you study at university?

CMC: I initially studied language translation. After that, I pursued a master’s degree in Latin American Studies in Paris. I later returned to Bordeaux for another master’s in communication. During that time, I started my first job in Paris, working for an association where I was in charge of managing European projects for rural areas. Honestly, it had nothing to do with photography, which is now my main passion, but was instructive and challenging.

YEMEN, SANA’A. " Fun city“ is the amusement park in Sana’a. The only entertainment place for girls in the capital. Here a group of teenage orphans had the entrance offered.

HM: So how did the shift toward photography happen?

CMC: It all changed when I moved to New York. But before that, something very personal happened: I met my biological mother for the first time. I grew up without her—I was raised by an adoptive French mother. My biological mother was American, and I found her through the internet. She was living in the countryside of New York State. So I went to meet her and my American family, and that’s when everything shifted. My boyfriend at the time was working for Agence France-Presse (AFP), and he got a position in New York. That’s how we ended up moving to the city. Since I didn’t have the right visa to work, I decided to pursue something I had always been interested in—photography. That’s when I enrolled at ICP (International Center of Photography) in New York.

YEMEN - 2010. Yemen is a tribal country. Decades of conflict divide the different tribes, which are resolved by murder and assassination via the vendetta . A Yemeni NGO Al salam try to explain that conflicts can be resolved without weapons. In a country where there are more weapons than people, the task seem difficult.

HM: What a life-changing experience! So, did you dive straight into photography, or was it a gradual process?

CMC: It was gradual. After I enrolled at ICP, I bought my first real camera in Santiago, Chile, during a trip. I was volunteering at an orphanage, and that’s when I began taking photos. Looking back, I think my personal experience with finding my mother influenced that first step into photojournalism. The orphanage became my first real project, though I wasn’t conscious of it at the time. I just wanted to help the kids and do something meaningful.

Photography came along as a way to document that experience. At that time I didn't see that I came into photography because actually I had something to say, to express after meeting my mother and those orphans were “talking” on my behalf.

YEMEN, TAEZ. Taiz, a city under siege. In the center of the country, the city is the front line between the rebel north and the regular army south. The city is the hub of clashes between all the armed groups present in Yemen: government forces, Salafist militias and al-Qaeda fighters.

HM: How did this project lead you to photojournalism?

CMC: After my time in Chile, I embarked on a series of transformative journeys that would further shape my path in photojournalism. My next destination was Togo, where I volunteered at another orphanage, immersing myself in the local culture and forming bonds with the community. However, it was my subsequent trip to Yemen that truly marked a turning point in my career. Yemen’s distinct and rich cultural tapestry, unlike anything I had ever experienced, compelled me to reassess my approach to photography and storytelling.

Yemen is a place like no other, and as a foreign woman, I encountered unique challenges that tested my resolve. The local customs, particularly around women, presented hurdles I hadn’t anticipated. Women are fully covered, and capturing their images—or even those of children—proved to be not just difficult but sometimes impossible. Yet, these very obstacles taught me invaluable lessons. I developed a new level of patience, honed my empathy, and deepened my understanding of what it means to adapt to different cultural contexts.

Looking back, I realize that these challenges were not just barriers; they were stepping stones that helped me grow. They pushed me to dig deeper into my craft, teaching me to be more resilient and flexible. Ultimately, the experiences I had in Yemen have become an intrinsic part of my work, shaping not only my perspective as a photographer but also strengthening my commitment to documenting the diverse realities of the world.

YEMEN, SANA’A.- 2017. Women fetching drinking water. The city is littered with garbage, which, especially during the rainy season, infects the water and spreads the cholera epidemic.

HM: Tell me more about that trip to Yemen. What did you hope to achieve, and what did you ultimately take away from the experience?

CMC: When I went to Yemen, I wasn’t aiming to create a specific story or thinking about photography as my future career. I just wanted to spend time doing something useful for the children, and photography became a natural part of that process. But Yemen was such a shock in so many ways—the language barrier, the cultural differences, and the difficulty of being a woman photographer in such a conservative country that I felt natural to . However, those challenges taught me so much. I realized that sometimes, when things are harder, they force you to dig deeper, and the outcome is more meaningful. Photography in Yemen required more patience, sensitivity, and adaptability than anywhere else I’d been. By the end of my time there, I had developed a strong connection to the place and felt compelled to continue telling stories from Yemen, especially those that were untold or underreported.

YEMEN, SANAA. Hanan is ready to go out and has to go through all the process of covering. "With the niqab (the face-veil), we cannot breathe fully in the streets" says Hanan

HM: It sounds like Yemen had a profound impact on you as a person and a photographer. You mentioned earlier that you continued going back to Yemen. What kept drawing you there?

CMC: Yes, Yemen stayed with me long after I left. I returned every year until 2017. At first, I didn’t have a clear idea of what I was documenting. I was simply fascinated by the country and its people. Over time, though, I realized how little the outside world knew about Yemen. Being a woman there gave me access to stories that male photographers couldn’t tell, particularly about women’s lives. I was able to be part of the women's world, which would have been impossible if I had been a male photographer. Over time, I also started working with journalists and covering broader topics, including the Arab Spring. Yemen became more than just a place I visited—it became central to my career as a photojournalist.

YEMEN, TAEZ. Yemeni armed police escort at the entrance to Taez, a besieged city in central Yemen, at war with Saudi Arabia and coalition countries since 2015.

HM: You mentioned working on stories with journalists. Were your subjects always orphans, or did you expand to other themes over time?

CMC: My work definitely expanded beyond orphans. At first, the orphanages gave me a way to engage with the country, but as I spent more time in Yemen, I became interested in telling stories about the country’s culture, politics, and people. For example, I did stories about Yemeni tribes, local leaders, and, of course, the women who lived there. I documented the last Jews of Yemen, the female soldiers at the new units of counter-terrorism, or the Socotra Island for Le Monde, Geo, Figaro, or Spiegel. Yemen is a country of contrasts, and being there allowed me to document stories from multiple angles. The more time I spent there, the more layers I uncovered. Being a female photographer gave me access to both men’s and women’s worlds, which helped me offer a more complete picture of life in Yemen. My work there, particularly during the Arab Spring and the following conflict, became a significant part of my career.

YEMEN, SANA’A. The female counter-terrorism unit during a training session in the outskirts of Sana’a, in Saarif.

HM: Catalina, your work as a photojournalist seems to be not only a tool to document events but also a way to navigate complex narratives. You mentioned earlier how photos can be used differently depending on the message someone wants to convey. Could you elaborate on that? How does the role of the photographer come into play when the same image can be interpreted in so many ways?

CMC: Absolutely, it's fascinating and also a bit troubling how a single photo can be used to serve completely different narratives. A photograph might be taken with a specific intention, but once it’s out in the world, it’s interpreted based on the agenda of the media using it, or even by viewers who project their own perspectives onto it. For me, as a photographer, it’s difficult to simply be an illustrator for a journalist or an outlet. I see myself as an author, just as much as the journalist writing the story. I’m not just there to take a photo that fits an article. I have my own perspective, my own story to tell about what I’m seeing and experiencing. That’s why storytelling is so crucial in photojournalism—the process of editing and selecting photos is highly subjective. Even if you have 10 photographers in the same place, no two will take the same photo. Everyone sees things differently. So, I believe being a photographer is not just about taking one "perfect" image, but about telling a story, a full narrative that gives depth to what’s happening.

YEMEN, SANA’A. Young Yemeni girls are always attracted on the trendy sexy clothes that they could only wear at home. "I wish a disco could be created in Sana'a, a day girl disco, where we could dance and wear the clothes we want. Without any men allowed..." said Alya.

HM: You’ve covered various regions, including conflict zones, but tell me about your recent work in South America. What drew you there, and what are you focusing on?

CMC: I began my work in South America in 2017, shortly after the peace agreement was signed in Colombia at the end of 2016. The FARC, which was the last standing guerrilla group from the revolutionary movements of the 60s, had ended its conflict after more than 50 years. This was significant, not just for Colombia but for the entire continent. As someone who studied Latin American revolutions, it felt like a historic moment I needed to document.

But initially, I didn’t know what to focus on. I had just returned from photographing the war in Yemen, where the destruction and chaos were visually compelling. War is highly visual in that way—everything is immediate and intense. But peace? How do you document peace? It’s not as visual, not as immediately striking. So, I started doing some research, reading local newspapers, and I discovered something fascinating: around 40% of the FARC fighters were women. That was a fact I hadn’t known. What really caught my attention was that when the peace agreement was signed, many of these women became pregnant. During the war, pregnancy was strictly forbidden in the FARC; many women had to endure abortions or give birth in secret and leave their babies behind. But after the peace was declared, it was like a collective sigh of relief—many women who had held off on starting families during the conflict suddenly felt it was possible.

Colinas, 2018. Yorladis and her partner live in a house in the Colinas camp in the Guaviare jungle, Colombia. They met shortly before peace was declared between the Colombian government and FARC. Yorladis is proudly carrying her 6th baby, having had 5 aborted pregnancies during the Marxist guerrilla war. Women were accepted, but pregnancy was strictly forbidden. Those who became pregnant had to have an abortion, no matter how advanced the pregnancy, or abandon the baby at birth.

HM: That’s such a compelling angle. So, how did you approach this story?

CMC: I knew I had to document this transition—from soldier to civilian, from fighter to mother. So, I traveled to Colombia’s jungles before the FARC had fully disarmed. I wanted to capture that moment of transformation, the very beginning of a new chapter in these women’s lives. It wasn’t just about the peace process in a political sense—it was about how it affected these individual women on a personal level. I spent three years returning to Colombia, documenting the lives of these female ex-combatants and their newborn children. I watched as they tried to reintegrate into civilian life, some with great difficulty, as the country struggled to adjust to peace after decades of conflict.

Guaviare, 2018. Jairo and Dayana have his sister Liliana staying with them for a few days. Their father was a campesino who lived off the land by growing coca leaves. While the FARC have gone back to farming, they are not allowed to grow coca, even though it is much more profitable than other crops, and is easy to grow in the jungle. Jairo and Dayana grow corn for their hens, plantain bananas for their pig, and have a small vegetable garden.

HM: That’s incredible work. What’s the next step in this project?

CMC: I’m actually planning to return to Colombia soon. I won a grant that will allow me to revisit the same women I documented during those early years of the peace process. This time, I want to focus on what has happened to them 10 years after the peace agreement. Post-conflict is a universal story—what happens after years and years of violence, after the world moves on? It’s not as simple as signing a peace agreement and moving forward. These women still face challenges. Many of them are targeted, assassinated, or marginalized. They’re still trying to find their place in a society that doesn’t know how to welcome them back. Some are ashamed of their past, while others are proud but can’t express it openly. This next phase of my project will be about understanding what peace really means for them, long after the headlines have faded.

Guaviare, 2018. Andrée Nicole epitomizes all the aspirations of her parents who have now laid down their arms and are learning to lead a different life. Some people see these children as the best insurance against their parents taking up arms again. While there are no official statistics on births to former FARC members, there has clearly been a baby boom.

HM: So you’ve been able to stay in touch with the women you’ve photographed?

CMC: Yes, absolutely. I keep in touch with many of them through WhatsApp. Even though they live in remote areas, like the Amazon or deep in the jungle, they’ll send me updates whenever they have a signal. They send me photos of their children, voice messages, and updates about their lives. This isn’t just a project for me—it’s a long-term commitment to their stories. It’s slow journalism in a way, where you build relationships and trust over time. And that’s what makes it so meaningful. It goes beyond just doing a job; it’s a way of life. When they reach out to me, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I make time for them. It’s that level of trust and connection that makes this work so much more than just a professional assignment.

Guaviare, 2018. Dayana is about to go back to the camp in Colinas to collect the belongings they left there. In the jungle, there were very few opportunities to have time for herself. “We used to change campsites every two or three days. We would pack up every morning and unpack every evening. There were no beds or mattresses, just a few palm leaves. Sometimes we had to carry as much as 50 kilos. I survived pretty well; I only got shot in the leg.”

HM: It’s incredible how deeply connected you are to the people and stories you cover. Your approach seems to embody slow, thoughtful journalism in an age where everything is about immediacy.

CMC: Thank you. Yes, I think in a world where everything is moving so fast, it’s important to take the time to dig deeper, to really get to know the people behind the stories. For me, it’s not just about capturing a moment—it’s about capturing lives, with all their complexity and nuance.

Guaviare, Colombia - 2017. Common everyday scenes in FARC camps at the time the peace deal was concluded. The women help one another, for many have no direct experience of dealing with babies, and no support service has been provided for them. Here, Edith, who has twins, is helping Jessica with her newborn baby.

HM: Catalina, how does one even begin to organize a journey into the jungle, meeting all these people, and photographing them? How did this happen for you?

CMC: Honestly, this is one of the aspects of my work that I love the most—figuring out how to make something seemingly impossible happen. As a photojournalist, if I have an idea and, say, I decide I need to go to Afghanistan tomorrow to photograph women, the usual process is to hire a "fixer" who knows the area, and they’d help me gain access to the people and places I need. But in this case, I had a clear vision for Colombia and documenting the peace process, but I couldn’t find the support. The timing wasn’t right. There was a lot happening globally—like the French election campaign—and Colombia wasn’t a priority for the magazines I approached. I didn’t have funding to hire a fixer.

But sometimes, when traditional routes close off, other avenues open up. I started reaching out to friends of friends. I contacted a few people in Colombia, asking if they knew anyone involved with the peace agreement, and through that network, I finally got a few contacts. It wasn’t easy, though. I needed to access these FARC camps where the fighters were gathered, and they were isolated, heavily guarded, and far from any major city. But through persistence and networking, I managed to get authorization to visit three different camps. It was quite an adventure!

Guaviare, Colombia - 2017. Olga (her nom de guerre) was one of the first female guerrillas to become pregnant while in one of the 26 rehabilitation camps set up to help transition from the jungle and adjust to civilian life. When she joined the FARC at the age of 11, she had already spent years living in the street after her stepfather had attempted to abuse her and her mother had thrown her out of the house. She has now changed her name back to Angelina.

HM: It sounds like a challenging process. What was it like actually getting to one of these camps?

CMC: Oh, it was definitely an adventure! Once I got the authorization, I was told which cities to travel to. For one camp, I took a bus for more than 10 hours through the night. It was nerve-wracking—there were checkpoints along the way, and the roads were dark and winding. When I finally arrived at the town where I was supposed to meet the NGO that would take me to the camp, I found out they had canceled the trip because there had been gunfire exchanged the day before. I suddenly felt very alone, wondering what to do next. It’s one thing when you’re with a journalist partner and can talk things through, but when you’re alone, the decisions are all yours to make.

In the end, I decided to push forward. I hired a local taxi to drive me two hours into the jungle. When we finally arrived, it was surreal. I didn’t know anyone there, and I was just hoping for the best.

Icononzo military camp. Icononzo camp is three hours by road through the mountains south of Bogota. Each of the 26 transition camps has developed in its own way. This year the road was built through to the camp in Icononzo, and it has become a little village with houses rather than tents. Residents are allocated a small house and may become owners.

HM: That must have been intense. What was the reaction like when you arrived at the camp?

CMC: It was a bit strange at first. People were busy with their daily routines—there were tents everywhere, and people milling about. I walked up to the entrance, introduced myself, said I was a photojournalist, and asked if I could leave my bag while I explored. They didn’t seem to mind. I think they were curious about who I was but also used to journalists coming through. From there, I just started talking to people—sharing my story, listening to theirs.

It didn’t take long to make friends. I noticed many of the women were pregnant, which was one of the reasons I had come—to document the unique situation of these women transitioning from being guerrilla fighters to mothers. I started with simple conversations: "Can I have a coffee? How’s the peace process for you?" That’s how it all began.

HM: That sounds like such an organic way of connecting. What was it like staying in the camp? Did people accept you right away?

CMC: Yes, after that initial introduction, things started to flow. The first night was particularly memorable. I asked one of the women if I could sleep in her tent, and we spent the night talking. She was worried about her father, who was ill, and she couldn’t leave the camp to visit him. She was also calling her boyfriend, who was in another camp, trying to figure out a way to leave and see her father before it was too late. It was such a raw, emotional night—she opened up to me about her past, how she had to have an abortion during the guerrilla warfare, and the difficulties she faced as a woman in that environment. It was one of those moments that made you realize how intimate and personal this work can become.

And yes, I think being a woman really helped in that situation. A male journalist probably wouldn’t have been able to share a tent with her, to be part of that emotional space in such a personal way. It was one of the moments where being a female photojournalist truly worked in my favor.

Guaviare, Colombia - 2017. Most of the former FARC warriors have known nothing but community life since they were teenagers. Until this year, cooking, washing up, guarding, laundry and showering were all done together. Here, the sanitary facilities: a water basin for washing and washing clothes. Showers are shared. No one washes naked, but everyone washes together. In the guerrilla movement, as in the camps, the principle of gender equality is still very much alive. This was one of the rules to be accepted before joining FARC. The rules also stipulated that it was forbidden to become pregnant.

HM: That’s such a powerful connection. You mentioned returning to Colombia after your initial trip. What did you find when you went back?

CMC: When I returned nine months later, there were visible changes. The camps were no longer just makeshift tents in the jungle—roads had been built, proper houses and bathrooms were constructed, and they even had the internet. The fighters were no longer wearing their uniforms; they had transitioned into civilian clothes. And, of course, the babies had been born. It was striking to see how much progress had been made in such a short time.

Colinas, the military camp. The FARC provided Olga/Angelina with the family she had lost. She says today that the life with the guerrilla forces closed off her heart, but then adds: “I can now manage to open it up again with my son.” Jaduer is one year old.

HM: How did the broader society in Colombia react to these former fighters reintegrating?

CMC: It’s been complicated. The peace agreement didn’t have full public support—there was actually a vote, and the initial peace deal was rejected. Many Colombians were skeptical of the FARC and felt that the fighters weren’t being adequately punished for their past actions. So, reintegration has been difficult for many of them. The woman I stayed with, for example, and her boyfriend decided to move to a small town where no one knew them, thinking they could start over. But when people found out about their past, they had to move again. It’s been a constant struggle for them to find a place where they feel safe and accepted.

And it’s not just about societal acceptance. Hundreds of former FARC fighters have been killed since the peace agreement was signed, often by paramilitary groups or other factions involved in the drug trade. It’s a tense and fragile peace in many ways, and the fighters live with the fear of violence, even though the war is technically over.

HM: That’s heartbreaking. After Colombia, what was next for you?

CMC: Then, COVID hit, and for about a year and a half, I couldn’t travel, which was incredibly challenging for my work. However, as soon as the restrictions were lifted, I returned to South America with renewed focus. This time, I dedicated myself to exploring the profound impact of climate change on indigenous communities in countries like Peru, Ecuador, and Panama. It was both eye-opening and humbling to witness how these communities are adapting to environmental shifts that threaten their traditional ways of life.

Around this time, I also secured grants that enabled me to embark on a long-term project in Europe, focusing on the transformative role of forest schools. This was an entirely different direction for me, but I found it deeply rewarding, especially as it dovetailed with my ongoing exhibition work. In addition to my projects in South America, I also spent time in France and participated in various exhibitions, including being honored with a showcase at the World Press Photo Awards.

Most recently, I was awarded a grant that has allowed me to make multiple visits to Chile over the past two years. This project focused on capturing the spirit of the younger generation in Valparaiso, particularly as Chile navigates the complex process of rewriting its constitution—a document that has remained largely unchanged since the Pinochet era. The youth are the driving force behind this movement for change, and I wanted to document their journey with a fresh perspective, differing from my usual photojournalistic approach. This ongoing work has given me a deeper appreciation for the resilience and dynamism of this new generation and their vision for the future.

Guaviare, 2018. Dayana (33) washing her baby Andree Nicole in the Guayabero River near the home she has moved to with her partner Jairo after leaving a FARC transition camp following the 2016 peace agreement. Dayana joined the FARC at the age of 15, leaving behind a four-month-old baby who she only saw again 17 years later. Although she has also been reunited with her own relatives, not having been in contact with them for nearly twenty years, after leaving the FARC they chose to move to Jairo's isolated farm to start a new life.

HM: How did your approach change for this project?

CMC: I started working with a large-format camera, doing black-and-white portraits rather than traditional documentary photography. It was a big switch for me. I wanted to slow down the process and really engage with the materiality of photography again. The large-format camera forces you to be deliberate—you can only take two pictures at a time, so you have to be precise.

Working with the LGBT and non-binary communities in Valparaiso, this approach felt right. They’re such a 21st-century movement—challenging gender norms, pushing boundaries in ways that feel revolutionary. I wanted to use an old, almost timeless medium to capture this new wave of activism. The contrast felt symbolic—something rooted and historical to talk about something very new.

HM: It must be a very different experience from digital photography. How did the subjects respond to this slower, more deliberate process?

CMC: They responded surprisingly well. In fact, I found that this community was more comfortable with the large-format camera than with my digital one. Maybe it’s because their lives are already so intertwined with fast-paced digital imagery—selfies, Instagram posts—that the slow, intentional process of portrait photography felt refreshing. It also gave them the space to express themselves differently. They opened up in ways I hadn’t seen before when I was doing traditional documentary photography.

For me, it was a revelation. After 20 years in this field, it was like discovering a new key to unlocking deeper intimacy in my work.

HM: That’s a beautiful evolution in your work. Do you think you’ll continue working with film and large-format cameras?

CMC: Absolutely. Rediscovering film has truly rekindled my passion for the art of photography. There’s a unique materiality to film—the tactile process of developing and printing—that feels so much more connected to the essence of storytelling. Unlike the instantaneous nature of digital, film forces you to slow down, to really think about each frame, each shot. That deliberate pace is precisely what makes it so meaningful and rewarding.

While I still appreciate digital for certain projects, there’s something deeply satisfying about choosing film for stories that call for that extra layer of depth. There’s a beauty in finding the perfect synergy between the narrative and the medium you’re using to tell it.

This brings me to what I see as one of the major challenges in contemporary photojournalism and publication today. Many magazines now feel pressure to deliver fast, accessible content, often losing sight of the value that slower, more contemplative storytelling can bring. In doing so, they sometimes miss out on exploring alternative narratives—those that require time, nuance, and a deeper connection to the material. Embracing both digital and film, with an understanding of their unique strengths, is one way we can start to bridge this gap and foster a richer, more diverse world of visual storytelling.

HM: So, what advice would you give to young photographers who are brave—or crazy—enough to want to make a living in this field today?

CMC: Well, I think the new generation entering this field is much more aware from the start that it’s going to be incredibly hard to make a full living from photography alone. In fact, I’d say most of them already know that they’ll need to supplement their income with other jobs. The landscape has changed so much. When I started, there were more opportunities within magazines and publications for photojournalism, but now, it’s different. I think these young photographers are coming into the field with a more balanced mindset. They know they might need to work part-time elsewhere, teach, or find other sources of income.

But, here’s the thing: I was talking with a friend the other day, and we were reminiscing about how much energy we put into this work when we started out. Back then, we gave it 100%, sometimes 200%. That level of commitment was crucial, and I think it still is. Even though the industry is in crisis now, that passion and dedication are what drive success. If you don’t give it everything, you won’t make it, but at the same time, today’s reality might require a more cautious approach.

Colinas camp. A bodyguard for FARC commanders at the Colinas transition camp sits in a hammock overlooking the camp. Following the 2016 peace agreement FARC guerillas moved into camps in preparation for civilian life. At Colinas the former fighters have built houses and bathroom facilities next to the jungle where they once pitched their tents, at the entrance to the camp.

HM: It sounds like you’re saying it’s about striking a balance—between passion and pragmatism. But I’m curious, you’ve made a full career out of this. Was it really just luck, or did you do something specific to make it work?

CMC: You’re right, it wasn’t just luck. Of course, there’s always an element of timing and opportunity, but the real key was hard work. So much of it is about resilience. It’s about getting back up every time you hear "no" and pushing forward regardless. There’s a level of persistence and energy that you need to have. The ones who succeed are often the ones who don’t give up after the first or second rejection. You have to be relentless.

But I’ll admit, the industry has changed. When I started in France, there were at least a dozen magazines that had space for photojournalism, with many offering six to 20-page spreads. Of those, maybe eight would even send photographers on assignments. Now, that’s shrunk down to two. It’s a very different reality, and that’s why I tell young photographers today to be smart and think about other streams of income.

HM: That’s a significant shift. You mentioned brands and grants as ways to sustain your work. How does that factor into the current state of photojournalism?

CMC: Yes, brands and grants have become essential. To produce high-quality, meaningful work that takes time and effort, you need funding, and that often comes from grants. It’s challenging because there’s so much competition. Every photographer is applying for the same grants, and we’re all coming up with ideas, writing proposals, and hoping for the best. It’s almost like a second job. The press, which used to be the backbone of our industry, is barely there anymore. So, grants and collaborations with NGOs or brands are often the only way to continue telling the important stories.

Guaviare, Colombia - 2017. In the jungle, before the transition camps were set up, they were simply known as “the twins.” They are being raised by their mother, Edith, alone, as their father, a FARC guerrilla, was already in a steady relationship with another woman.

HM: Do you see yourself moving into the art world at all, or is that a different industry entirely?

CMC: The art world is a whole other beast, but it’s something I’ve started to explore. There are things like artist residencies that I wasn’t particularly interested in before, but now they intrigue me. Residencies allow you to experiment with different media and techniques—whether that’s printing in new ways or working with older photographic processes like wet plate collodion or large-format cameras. I’ve started to think more about how the medium I use affects the stories I tell, and residencies give you the space to explore that.

HM: So, are you changing direction with your photography?

CMC: I wouldn’t say I’m completely changing direction, but I am trying to be more adaptable—like an octopus with many arms reaching into different areas. I’m giving more workshops, becoming more involved in education, and transmitting what I’ve learned to the next generation. At the same time, I still want to focus on my own projects, but maybe at a slower pace—working on one or two stories over the course of a few years, rather than chasing every assignment.

The industry is in flux, and I’m right there in the middle of it, trying to navigate this turning point. I’m applying for big grants and working on long-term stories, but I can’t predict exactly what 2025 will look like for me. It’s an interesting time, but also uncertain.

Guaviare, Colombia - 2017. At the camp, Tatiana, Sergio and little Pavel take advantage of a tropical downpour to wash. Tatiana was a fighter, and lost three of her brothers. “My brother who was with the FARC was killed in a clash with the army. The other two were killed by paramilitary forces because they had brothers with the FARC. Can you believe it! I’ve only just discovered that, and it was ten years ago.”

HM: It sounds like you’re used to dealing with uncertainty. Do you think that’s something unique to photographers?

CMC: Definitely. Photographers, especially photojournalists, have always had to deal with uncertainty. It’s part of the job. My friends outside of photography often don’t understand how we can manage with such unpredictable incomes. But I think most of us believe in our work enough to push through that uncertainty, trusting that somehow it will all work out. But I won’t lie—it can be scary at times.

HM: Right, the idea of excellence applies across all genres of photography. Whether it’s photojournalism or something else, the commitment to doing great work is universal.

CMC: Exactly. That’s the key—commitment. Whether you’re a wedding photographer, animal or documenting conflict zones, the level of dedication needed to reach excellence is the same. It takes time, energy, and a relentless pursuit of quality. You can’t just switch fields in photography as if you’re changing jackets. Excellence comes from years of practice and deep passion for what you do.