Ellen Virgona’s latest body of work is just that: a survey of the body, as a living archive of time.

Documenting the same subject in two sessions a year apart, proof of life is traced into the images. Where subtle shifts in posture, tension, confidence and gesture are present to the naked eye, lived experience is etched in ways that can’t be seen, too. Titled Monument, the softness of these still moments recalls classical sculpture – permanent objects. In returning to the same figure a year later, the work invites the viewer to reflect on their own bodies as evolving landscapes.

Do you find there is a sense of ease and intuitiveness when shooting the same subject during different seasons of life?

There is a growing sense of ease and intuitiveness when working with the same subject over time, but I think that comes less from knowing what images to “look for” or which positions to take, and more from the relationship between photographer and subject. What deepens is a sense of trust and familiarity. This closeness allows for a kind of unspoken understanding, where gestures and expressions emerge more naturally rather than being directed. I think you can feel that intimacy in the images. The comfort, the lack of self-consciousness. It becomes less about constructing a photograph and more about recognising something as it unfolds.

You have been creating works in black and white throughout your career. How do you wish to communicate through this language of photography?

For me, black and white is a way of distilling the image to its essential elements. It removes the immediacy of colour and instead invites a slower kind of looking, one that is more attentive to light, shadow, texture, and form. I’m interested in how the body can exist outside of a specific time. Black and white helps create that sense of ambiguity. It softens the pull of the present moment and allows the image to sit somewhere between past and present, almost like a memory or a fragment.

"For me, black and white is a way of distilling the image to its essential elements. It removes the immediacy of colour and instead invites a slower kind of looking, one that is more attentive to light, shadow, texture, and form."

It also draws me closer to the sculptural qualities of the body. Without colour, the emphasis shifts to shape, gesture, and the way light falls across the surface. In that way, the body becomes less descriptive and more symbolic, something that can be felt rather than seen. Ultimately, I think of black and white as a language of reduction. By taking something away, it creates space for a different kind of emotional clarity and one that feels quieter, but perhaps more enduring.

“Monument is not about nostalgia or loss. It is about recognition, honouring the fleeting states of our physical selves and acknowledging the beauty of transformation”. How do you feel relocating to Paris has had an influence on your perception of self and surroundings? I often think I see the world differently when the passage of time is more obvious in the streets, for example, in architecture.

I see what you mean. Making such a significant move, both in distance and at this stage of my life, has felt like the beginning of a new chapter. Relocating to Paris has certainly shifted my perception, both of myself and of my surroundings. It’s a place where the passage of time feels incredibly present, held in the architecture, the streets, and the textures of everyday life. I often find myself more aware of history there, not as something distant, but as something continuous. Living in an environment where age is so visible, and, in many ways, revered, has softened my perspective. It has allowed me to think less in terms of loss, and more in terms of accumulation and presence.

Has your relationship with your physical self shifted in the making of this body of work?

Yes and no. My relationship to my physical self has naturally shifted over time, and in many ways that evolution has made space for this body of work to exist. Although I am not the subject of this series, the work is still deeply personal. It reflects a place I’ve arrived at in my own life, one of greater acceptance, and even a sense of joy in that. There’s something quite profound in allowing the body to change without resistance. I think making this work has reinforced that feeling. It has reminded me that to age, to shift, to grow is not something to fear, but something to honour. What a gift it is to witness that in ourselves!

"My relationship to my physical self has naturally shifted over time, and in many ways that evolution has made space for this body of work to exist. Although I am not the subject of this series, the work is still deeply personal."

Your images have a cinematic feel. Which films have your heart?

Oh my, how much space do we have? I have a wide-ranging love of film, and a strange habit of returning to the same ones over and over. Each time, I find something new whether it be small shifts in character, in rhythm, in the emotional undercurrent. They seem to evolve as I do. To keep it simple, here are three that have stayed with me recently.

Love Streams (1984), directed by John Cassavetes. We actually share a birthday, and I feel a certain kinship with his chaotic Sagittarius energy. I am deeply drawn to the emotional rawness in his work, and to the lifelong romantic and creative partnership he shared with Gena Rowlands. There’s something incredibly moving about the way their lives and art intertwine.

Dressed to Kill (1980), directed by Brian De Palma is another that lingers with me. I’m particularly drawn to its stillness, the way tension is built through fragments, through close-ups of eyes, mouths, gestures. Those montages of detail feel almost sculptural in their focus. I think that has influenced my own work, especially in how I isolate parts of the body and allow them to carry emotional weight. There’s something about the gaze, and the act of looking closely, that feels very connected.

And lastly, Strangers on a Train (1951), directed by Alfred Hitchcock, is another favourite. I’m fascinated by the precision of it, the contrasts, the interplay of light and shadow, and the way small details carry so much tension. It’s a reminder of how powerful suggestions can be, and how much can be held within a single gesture or glance.

You have been taking photos for almost half of your life. Has your process changed much in that time?

I’ve been taking photos since I was 13, so now a bit longer than half my life. My Godmother kindly gave me a digital Kodak camera for my 13th birthday that came with a small photo printer. I would take photographs of my friends and everyday life constantly, print the images, and blu-tack them all over my bedroom walls. It must have been quite expensive at the time, I feel very lucky. So much has changed since then. I still question whether I know how to use my camera properly (though I think I do now), and my vision and ways of seeing have evolved.

At the same time, the things that draw me in have remained consistent – eyes, hands, mouths, feet. Details, in-between moments, the kinds of moments that are often forgotten but may hold permanence later. All I ever wanted when I was at art school was to grow into a photographer whose work is recognisable, that if someone familiar with my work saw an image, they could say, “Oh, that’s an Ellen photo”. That’s still what I hope to achieve.

Ellen Virgona's solo exhibition Monument will be on view until 18 April at China Heights Gallery in Surry Hills, Sydney.