MAD HARPER: Destruction can become its own form of transformation and creation.

Your work often exists between performance, object-making, and photography rather than inside a single medium. At what point did you begin thinking of image-making as something sculptural and immersive rather than purely photographic?

I think that I have always approached the camera as a tool for play and performance. Since I was young, I have been staging scenes and constructing small worlds for the camera through a kind of make-believe. That freedom of experimentation still forms the foundation of my practice. As my work has evolved, I became less interested in photography as a fixed image alone and more interested in the constructed space around it — the set, the object, the act of performing for the camera, and the way a viewer physically encounters the work.

Having spent years in front of the camera as an actress, how has your understanding of vulnerability and control shifted now that you are the one directing the image instead of inhabiting someone else’s vision?

Having spent some time in front of the camera, it has given me a deep understanding of the vulnerability involved in being looked at, directed, and the need to perform. Now that I’m directing the image myself, I’m much more conscious of the power dynamics between subject and photographer — the negotiation of trust, control, and collaboration that takes place on both sides of the camera.

Many of your self-portraits feel less like documentation and more like rituals or emotional reenactments. What does using your own body as both subject and material allow you to express that another subject could not?

Using my own body in the work makes the process deeply intimate. My body isn’t simply being documented — it becomes part of the material and construction of the image itself. There’s a different level of emotional access and immediacy that comes from placing myself inside the work rather than directing another subject through it.

Many of the pieces begin from personal memories or past experiences that I’m trying to revisit. Through performance and self-portraiture, I’m able to ritualize those moments — reenacting, unraveling, and reprocessing them in the present. The work becomes a way of confronting memory physically, almost as a form of emotional excavation or transformation.

In works like Obliteration, destruction becomes part of the creative act itself. What interests you about physically altering or destabilizing the image after it has already been captured?

I’ve always been fascinated by the mechanics of the camera and the instability of the photograph itself. Photography is often understood as a medium that preserves a fixed moment in time, but I’m interested in pushing against that idea — how an image can remain active, unstable, and performative even after it’s been captured.

In Obliteration, the act of destruction becomes part of the image-making process itself. I physically burn a framed self-portrait while simultaneously holding it in front of the camera as the timer releases the shutter. The work exists as both a live action and a photograph — an event unfolding in real time rather than a purely static image.

What interests me is the tension between control and unpredictability in that process. The burning is intentional, but the exact way the image transforms or deteriorates can never be fully controlled. By physically altering the photograph, I’m also challenging the idea of the image as something precious, fixed, or permanent. Destruction becomes a form of transformation and creation in itself.

Lov-Ing #02 carries a striking sense of memory made tangible through performance and object creation. How do childhood references and personal mythology continue to shape the emotional architecture of your work?

Our personal mythologies shape the way we understand ourselves and move through the world. The past is never really separate from the present — it often exists just beneath the surface.

My work frequently begins from very specific memories or emotional fragments from my own life, but I’m less interested in nostalgia than in how those experiences continue to manifest in the present. I’m always looking for the point where past and present can collide — emotionally, physically, and psychologically — and how that collision manifests in the photograph.

Your commercial imagery maintains a strong artistic fingerprint despite existing within brand and campaign spaces. How do you protect experimentation and authorship while working inside commercial structures?

It’s so important to stay committed to your own vision and voice as an artist. I think in today’s world, clients are often just as interested in your personal work and perspective as they are in your technical ability. They want to know who you are, what your point of view is, and what your visual language looks like. Protecting experimentation and authorship within commercial spaces comes down to not separating the two. I try to bring the same instincts, curiosity, and storytelling approach into commissioned work that I do in my personal practice. I think the strongest work happens when you fully lean into your own style rather than trying to adapt away from it.

You often take ownership of every layer of the visual environment — makeup, wardrobe, set design, performance, lighting, and direction. Does total creative control feel liberating for you, or does it create a different kind of pressure?

It can be very liberating. When I do take on all aspects, it’s usually very intentional and often when I want full freedom to experiment and play without compromise.

That said, photography is a collaborative medium, and I really value working with a team. On commercial projects especially, I rely heavily on the people around me and the expertise they bring. For me, it’s less about control for its own sake and more about choosing when I want to build something entirely on my own terms versus when I want to open the work up to collaboration.

There’s a cinematic tension in many of your photographs, as though something has happened moments before the frame or is about to unfold after it. How consciously do you build narrative ambiguity into your images?

I think the bones of my work exist outside the frame. What’s visible in the photograph is really just one fragment of a much larger psychological or narrative space.

Sometimes that ambiguity is intentional, but a lot of it is simply a byproduct of how I work. I spend a long time building psychological and visual worlds before I ever take the photograph, so the images naturally carry traces of what came before and what might happen after. I’m interested in that unresolved tension and in allowing the viewer to enter the work through their own projections and interpretations.

Glitter, texture, sculptural elements, and physical materials recur throughout your work almost as emotional extensions of the body. What role does tactility play in the way you construct visual storytelling?

The more tactile and hands-on I can be, the better. Especially now, in a time when so much imagery is AI-generated or flattened through our screens, I feel an even stronger desire to push toward the physical and the real whenever possible.

I want the work to carry evidence of touch and presence — something that feels inhabited rather than endlessly reproducible.

Your practice seems deeply rooted in transformation — emotionally, physically, and visually. Do you see photography as a tool for preservation, reinvention, or confrontation?

I think photography holds all of those possibilities simultaneously. It’s an incredibly powerful medium that has shaped the way we remember history, how we construct identity, and witness moments of social and political change.

In an era where image-making is increasingly immediate and disposable, what do you hope people still feel when they encounter work that is deeply intentional and physically constructed?

I hope people feel a renewed sense of presence when they encounter work in person. Digital images absolutely serve a purpose, but experiencing artwork firsthand is a completely different kind of encounter.

We consume so many images so quickly now that intentional looking has become increasingly rare. I think that’s part of why there’s such a strong return toward analog processes, materiality, and nostalgia right now. We are yearning for tangible connection and for experiences that feel real and embodied.

Looking ahead, are there mediums, performances, or larger-scale installations you feel your work is naturally evolving toward that photography alone cannot fully contain?

I love the restrictions of the still photograph — it’s what makes the medium so powerful. Storytelling will always sit at the center of my work, and moving into directing feels like a natural extension of that. I’m currently developing and optioning a stop-motion animation series, Tales of The Tortillas, starring my two pet turtles. Stay tuned!

Model: Trevor Mullin @trevoramullin

Creative Director/Photographer/Makeup Artist: MAD HARPER @mharpersmith

Model: Sophio Maisuradze @sopiem

Makeup Artist: Luna Vela @lalunavela

Model: Ashley Wang @babyashw