As her artistic journey enters a deeply introspective place, Nigerian Photographer Yagazie Emezi invites us into the visions and memories that continue to shape her evolving world.
Yagazie Emezi is known for her striking photographs that have captured many Nigerian and African stories so beautifully. In this new chapter, she has transitioned into creating new and personal images that share pieces of her life. As a child, Yagazie envisioned futures and encountered experiences within the spiritual realm that inform her recent work. For her, this path is simply her life evolving, one she believes is guided by her Chi — a revelation unravelling. These new images show the importance of Nigerian women recording their own journeys and making space to define their own narratives. Her latest series of works, “I Keep My Visions To Myself,” opened up at Nahous for Lagos Photo Festival. A few images from there are also in “The Beautiful Ones” the inaugural exhibition at the new Dada Gallery.
In this exclusive interview, Yagazie shares pieces of her childhood and the road that led to photography. She reflects on the moments that shaped her visual language, from memories of home to the vivid inner world that still guides her today. She also opens up about the challenges of moving through her photography career and the courage it takes to follow her instincts. For her, her personal history, work ethic, and sacred beliefs converge in the images she creates now.
How did you get started with photography?
I like to tell people that I stumbled across photography, and it was out of necessity. When I moved to Lagos, I’d actually moved for entirely different reasons. I was not interested in being a photographer. But with the Lagos hustle, you start trying to do one thing, and when it keeps falling apart, you shift to something else.
It was actually my sibling who said, “You’ve been taking pictures and posting them on social media. Why don’t you try doing it professionally?” Then she introduced me to a model who then introduced me to the founder of Lagos Fashion Week. They gave me the opportunity to photograph backstage in 2015. So I started off as a backstage fashion photographer. Then I got a few jobs here and there to work for certain luxury stores, making product photography for them. At the time, that wasn’t really satisfying for me because I’m very much a storyteller.
I would also do my own work on the side. I did plenty of street photography before I got the chance to work with a nonprofit in Monrovia, Liberia and moved there. Working in a smaller city like Monrovia — as compared to Lagos, which at the time, even back then, was hyper saturated with photographers — really gave me the confidence to figure out my own visual approach. From there, I started working with certain publications, and the rest is history.
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How has growing up in Nigeria shaped your perspective as a photographer and a visual artist?
I left home at 16, and I was very attached to my childhood home. When I moved to Lagos, I really wanted to find things that reminded me of my hometown. Aba.
I think that’s what drew me into street photography, because if you’ve ever been to Aba or have driven around certain parts of Aba, it’s rough. For some reason, being in Lagos and driving through certain areas, I was always reminded of home. I ended up photographing things that reminded me of Aba. It could be something that wasn’t visual. Even if it was a strong smell or a food smell, I would make images there.
Photographing these grungy environments eventually fed into my documentary and then my photojournalism work.
My transition into the fine arts is what I would call a return to self. The times that I remembered having the most fun or being myself were when I was a kid and making things with my hands. Whether it was playing with dolls or getting clay and moulding it and throwing it into a little bonfire to burn it. These were things that I enjoyed. Now, as an adult, as an artist and photographer, I look back to that and look for those elements within myself and within art.
You’re well known for your documentary work. What inspired your shift into fine art that incorporates textiles and embroidery?
I didn’t feel like photography was tactile enough. Once again, I also transitioned to this as a necessity. When I started photography, I had no money. I was just like, “Okay, it’s either this or what do I do? Do I go back to Aba and live with my dad, or do I go back to New Mexico and live with my mum? Which neither were options.”
Photography was definitely a language that I needed because it was a form of storytelling that I was most comfortable with. However, I think I grew quite fast professionally and career-wise in photojournalism, and I burnt out very quickly as a result of that.
Photojournalism is not an easy career path, especially for an African woman. I was seeing my peers, especially the white men, struggling, and they were in their 50s. I just thought, “My goodness, if you are a white man in the States struggling in photojournalism, what are my chances?” I’m a big advocate of evolving and changing and going wherever the wind blows.
Beyond the desire to work with my hands, transitioning to fine arts was also a very logical choice, as photojournalism was not a sustainable long-term path for me. It took a lot out of me mentally, financially and also more importantly, physically. It takes a toll on the body to be outside all the time, bending down. I already have knee pain and early-onset arthritis, so it was a mix of all those factors that pushed me to dig deeper into myself and create my new photographs.
Tell me more about your journey into photojournalism. You’ve travelled across Africa and also captured many incredible Nigerian stories — what was that experience like?
Honestly, I really enjoyed it. I really did. It wasn’t until I started getting burnt out that I began to struggle with it. I loved the impromptu travel, the days when an editor would email you saying, “Are you free to leave in the next two days?”
I also really enjoyed working with the journalists that they paired me with and the times I worked independently. It gave me a broader understanding of life. When you’re able to see into the worlds of others and people are comfortable enough to share their lives with you, I don’t think that that’s something that I’m ever going to fully stop doing. If someone offers me a project now, if it’s a good story and if it’s a long-term story, I’ll definitely take it.
With the work you do in photojournalism, you hope that the work you’re doing has an impact on someone’s life and exposes an issue or exposes an audience to a better understanding of what people are going through. But also, personally, it gives you a better understanding. It helped me as a person.
When you think about the history of the camera and the power dynamics with that of a white person having always held the camera, and me going to certain spaces where I was deemed a foreigner. As an African woman in the field, the main challenges actually came from the publication industry.
Sometimes, their preference is to work with white men, white women, or non-African creatives, often creating excuses not to work with you. The core challenge, therefore, was the prejudice within the photojournalism and publication industry itself.
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With photojournalism, what was the specific thing that made you feel burnt out?
The amount of work was definitely a factor. I would return from a two-day assignment and maybe have three, four days or a week of rest before jumping into another long-term assignment. I also went through something I call eye fatigue, where I spent so much time looking through a viewfinder that my eyes would actually start twitching, or just be tired.
And after photographing, you’d open up a laptop, and then you’d edit all those photos. I felt that the quality of my work started slipping because I was editing up to three stories simultaneously. I began to feel like I had another calling, which was to move towards all these sketches that I had made for years that I’d used as this other expression of self.
I’d spent so many years telling other people’s stories, and I found this need to express myself more. The more that I didn’t do that, the more burnt out I got.
My photojournalism career really started growing in 2017. I was already done by 2019. I was burnt out, and I already knew I would transition into the fine arts. But then obviously COVID happened, financial things happened, family matters happened. It was really a matter of balancing responsibilities — both for my family members and for myself. I didn’t have the luxury to sit down at home for hours or weeks on end creating pieces.
I would always tell myself, “Maybe next year I’ll take some time off.” But when next year came, another emergency would arise. I’d think again, “Maybe next year,” because I needed to save enough money to afford the luxury of dedicating time.
Tell me about “I keep my visions to myself”, that’s a part of the Lagos Photo Festival that was up at Nahous and currently up at Dada Gallery?
“I Keep My Visions To Myself” started without my knowing; it comes from my childhood. I always thought that I had this self-awareness as a kid — that I had this hyperactive imagination. It was almost like — for lack of a better phrasing — it was spiritual. I would have these visions and write them off as having an active imagination. I wouldn’t tell anybody, I just thought that I was a heavy daydreamer. I would spend the whole night in my bed with my eyes closed, imagining scenarios.
An event in New York really shaped this experience. I went to get my palm read after a Broadway show. I used Google Maps and walked for five minutes. I’m not a big believer in these things, and I think they can be such a scam.
But everything she said was correct. She knew how many people were in my family, and she also knew our familiar relationship. There was some part of me that wasn’t surprised. Until she was looking at the cards, and she said, “You used to have visions as a child, but it looks here like you prayed it away or something. What happened?”
“I Keep My Visions to Myself” examines our relationship between the spirit and the physical world, ultimately questioning our place in the world. I tell people that I work closely with my Chi, which is my personal spiritual guide. That guides me into a better understanding of how life is meant to be lived here on Earth and what that also looks like in the spirit world, essentially.
I’ll add that I use the term spirituality loosely because it’s very much a Western input versus it being a way of life.
The new work explores themes of heritage, identity, body, politics, and community. What personal experiences most influence the stories you choose to tell?
I think with the connection I have with my chi and also the connection I have to myself, which is kind of one in the same. The only time I have a proper realisation of what a topic is within a piece is when the piece is complete.
That’s when I can say, “this represents this in the piece, and that represents the state of stagnancy we might be in the spirit world before we are born.” I have a piece at Nahous that’s a tree, and some of my work definitely comes from research, and I would say that I don’t research looking for legitimacy.
I read a lot of papers from old school anthropologists in the 40s and 60s. I’m not looking for legitimacy where I’m like, yes, this person said this back in 1922. I’m looking for original quotes from elders and from ancestors, and whatever resonates most with me is the truth. That is because a lot of my work deals with the body as an archive, where our body is a source for ancestral knowledge.
In the same way that years ago, before scientists had a name for it, black communities knew that trauma was passed down generationally. And then the scientists came across information and said, “Yes, and this is what it’s called.” It’s the same way that I believe ancestral knowledge is passed down generationally. It’s also passed down in our bodies, in our DNA. When I do my research, I’m looking for connections. I’m looking for the things that resonate most with me. It can be very hippie-dippy, as one would say, but when I feel it, I know it to be true. And then the stories come out of there. Each of the pieces that you saw at Nahous has a different story and point of view.
You mentioned working on new pieces before this interview — what direction is your new work taking?
It’s similar to the stories at Lagos Photo Festival that examine our relationship between life and death and the immaterial world. “I Keep My Visions to Myself” was more of a growth period of understanding the work that I’m doing, and now it’s more about creating individual pieces while introducing new materials, new patterns, yeah, and new stories.
I’m really looking forward to exploring these ideas more confidently. I am really excited about the response to my new work, and it has definitely given me a new sense of confidence in this type of work. What I’ve also really enjoyed and what I’m looking forward to more of is when I share the work, other people’s understanding of it and seeing the crossovers between my reality and theirs.
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