Growing weary of a 12-year-long marketing career (that gave him increasing ethical qualms), Wayan Barre purchased a camera in 2019 to form a hobby and indulge a sense of curiosity. Originally from Paris and locked down in Lyon, France during the pandemic, he and his wife considered other options for themselves and their young son when restrictions lifted. What might they prefer to be doing? Where might they prefer to be? Snapping photos in lockdown, Wayan began to feel he had an answer to the first question.
When his wife was offered a French-immersion teaching job in New Orleans in 2022 they had an answer to the second. Having successfully published a photo essay about sardine fishermen before leaving France, Wayan had the confidence to dive in and start seriously exploring photojournalism in his new home. With his camera as his guide, he began documenting and getting to know the residents of marginalized local communities like Isle de Jean Charles, Pointe-au-Chien, and Cancer Alley. Through his work he preserves disappearing ways of life, documents evidence of systemic neglect, and (perhaps most importantly) captures tender, intimate details of the everyday lives of people who often feel overlooked.
This skill has also taken his work beyond the Gulf South. First he went to Kosovo to document the struggles and fading culture of the remaining Serbs in the politically volatile nation. Then he turned his interest to the Navajo Nation to report on the crisis of missing and murdered Indigenous people in places like New Mexico and Arizona. Indigenous Americans experience disproportionate levels of violence, go missing at higher rates than other groups of Americans, and are frequently failed by the U.S. justice system. Collectively, his work earned him entry to the prestigious Eddie Adams Workshop—an annual photojournalism seminar in New York state—whence he’d just returned when we sat down for our interview.
Welcome back! Do you want to talk about the workshop a bit and we’ll go from there?
Thank you, sure. The main goal for me was to meet editors in the industry and try to build my network. Photography’s a long grind, and I only started doing it when I was 34. So I felt I was already too old and I didn’t have a lot of expectations about the workshop. I heard there was a lot of competition, that you have to try to put work in front of editors at all costs.
And I was thinking, I’m not really that type, I’m an introvert, but I’ll make the most of it. And it was actually a very good surprise. The quality of the speakers was just—to give you a few names, there was Donna Ferrato, who’s basically dedicated her career to domestic violence. Her work is amazing. She was a character, and she was actually hanging out after the speech with everyone. You could approach her and talk to her. And those are legends, like Eugene Richards… the list is very long. Being among those people was the best experience.
How about your peers? How big of a workshop was it?
Every year it’s 100 students. It’s a mix of emerging photographers and people who are studying photography, like at ICP [International Center of Photography] in New York. We got portfolio reviews every night, and it can go all the way to like 2 or 3 a.m. You ask for editors, and you get one editor from your list, and the rest, they do their best. Olivier Laurent from the Washington Post was on my list, [but] I got Brent Lewis from The New York Times after midnight, and also Bruce Strong from the Alexia grant. It’s a big photography grant, and we spent an hour-and-a-half [reviewing] my work.
But was there a competition element to it? You won a prize, right?
Well, it’s not that bad because you’re split in teams of 10 and you really focus on your team and not the others. You try to learn from them, and teach them if you can. I got the best team leader. I got Kiyana Hayeri, who is an Iranian photographer who grew up in Canada. I got Heather Casey as our editor, who’s from the The New York Times at the National Desk. The people we got on the team, it was so good to be with them that you forget about the competition. You just do what you can, because it’s very exhausting. You sleep probably two hours a night for four nights.
Well, I was trying to lead you to brag about the prize that you won. [laughs]
Yes! At the end of the weekend, they have this big award ceremony where they give around 10 awards. So I won an assignment with Reuters, which has yet to be decided when and what. Corinne Perkins was the editor who I think pushed my work. I met Corinne Perkins during the workshop and she said, “I’ve seen your work, we love it, we want to assign you. So once you come back, let’s make a contract.” Then I won the award with the Reuters assignment so I made the connection. She wanted me, so maybe the award was a way to materialize this.
Congratulations! What elements of your portfolio did you bring?
I work almost only on longform projects, so I don’t have a lot of different [subjects] to show in my portfolio. I brought some of my latest work from the Navajo Nation, about the missing and murdered Indigenous people. I brought some work I did in Cancer Alley for maybe two to three years, going back and forth. It was really in the background of everything I did. And then the last pieces I brought were from the Serbs living in Kosovo.
I brought some very small prints. I was so ashamed during the workshop, because everyone has those big boxes with their giant prints, and I brought these [4”x 6” prints]. So I decided not to bring those to the reviews, and instead I showed my computer. I’m not really good at printing my work. I thought it would be hilarious to show those little prints to the editors.
[But] the portfolio reviews were really separate from the competition. The competition was for the assignment you had during the weekend. I had to document the hotel where we were spending our time, called the Villa Roma. I had to “find the story behind that,” and we had two half-days to do our assignment. Everyone gets a different assignment. You work on your assignment, then show your work to your editor, the editor gives you feedback, and in the end they show everyone’s assignments on the big screen. So it’s pretty stressful.
The prizes are related to who gets the best work, but also who was the most teachable and able to learn from their mistakes and hear from the editor, from the team leader, in order to fix the things the next day. And how nice they are as human beings also. No, really! They put a lot of emphasis on: If you want to be a great photographer and get a network of editors who want to work with you, you better be kind.
Vangie Randall-Shorty mourns her two sons in Kirtland, New Mexico. Christian died in a car accident, and Zachariah was murdered in 2020. Despite compelling evidence in the case, Zachariah’s case has stalled: a story that’s all too common in the Navajo Nation and that has driven Vangie to tireless advocacy. From Wayan Barre’s project on the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Relatives (MMIR) crisis, “Somebody Out There.”
With the state of the media and some of these more “mainstream media” sources you’ve listed, was there any vibe about the current state of the press, pressures that people are falling under, that type of thing? Or are there subjects that people are afraid to cover?
There was one example. A photographer said she is spending her days at the court in New York because there’s ICE officers who patrol inside the courts, and she’s like, “If we don’t witness this, how would people be treated?” They’re already treated a certain way, how would they be treated if we were not here? And she also said some photographers are on a visa. Some of them are not permanent residents, and there have been some rumors that [ICE] would be after them. So people are scared because they don’t have citizenship. And that really affects my way of documenting things. For example, I want to go to south Texas to document the Colonias and I’m on the fence right now. I think the subject is important. I think it would be very journalistic so I don’t see why there would be a problem. But I’m thinking twice before going to certain areas.
Because you’re here on a green card?
Not even a green card. I have a J-2 visa.
Well this seems like a good place to ask how you came here from France and how you got into photojournalism in that “late” stage of your life.
I was a marketing and digital consultant for 12 years. COVID hit. I was with my wife and our son in Lyon, in the southeast of France. We spent a lot of time together and I realized that I didn’t find any purpose in my job, in my career. And then we also discussed, in parallel, our will to live somewhere else, to experience other cultures and countries. And at some point my thinking about my career and my job made me look for other things that I love. And photography was one of them. I bought my first camera in 2019! I’d never touched a camera before! Only my phone.
What inspired that move? And what was the camera?
Honestly, curiosity. I was working for companies I didn’t really like. Bad companies trying to find a way to express sustainability through their communication, and everything was very false, and it was wrong. So yeah, curiosity. I did [my] first documentary in Brittany, in France, with my freshly-owned camera—a Fujifilm X-T3. I went to some fishermen and said, “I want to go with you guys. When is the boat leaving?” And they said, “6 p.m. to 3 a.m. every night.” I said, “Yeah OK, can I come tomorrow?” “Ah, we’ll have to see.” And so a few emails later I was on board this ship and the key to this was my camera. That was the only thing that allowed me to be on that ship. Nobody usually spends time on a ship, at night, with fishermen! It was great! I loved it. The experience, the smell, the people who were really different from my background, from where I lived, they had different political opinions. And that was awesome!
And then I pitched that story to a few magazines, and a French magazine from Brittany called ArMen, they said, “Yes, we’ll publish it.” So I was like, yes, it’s possible.
Then my wife, [who] is a teacher, got this job opportunity for her [here] that allowed my son and I to get a visa. I felt like it was a good opportunity to try photography because I had no job anymore. I didn’t have this fear of, “Should I quit my job? Should I continue and do photography on the side?” No. I was free, so I went all in with photography, and so far, so good. It works. I’m able to go to many different locations, see different cultures, get to know things that I would have never seen before. And I think that’s the driver for me. To go to Kosovo to document the Serbs. Go to the Navajo Nation and get in touch with families who’ve been through a lot. Learn about the culture, learn about how they feel and think about everything. I won’t go back to a “regular” job. It’s over.
And I love what you’re doing now on your Substack, these “Notes from the Field.” I read it all! I was really engrossed.
The goal of the Substack is to try to inspire people who want to do something, and they are too shy, or they don’t know how to approach people. And I also wanted something very personal, so it’s written in the first person. I don’t want to put too much thought into it, because I already do that with my publications where I need to think about every word, every sentence, the meaning of everything. Here I’m more free to express myself. If there’s a typo or something that’s not 100% accurate it’s not so important.
13-year-old Sani (right) and her mother Janae stay home despite an evacuation order due to the toxic smoke erupting from the Marathon Petroleum refinery just miles from them in Garyville, Louisiana on August 25, 2023. From Wayan Barre’s project on Cancer Alley, “Behind the Plants.”
All of that totally came through. I love the way you engage with people, even when the drawbridge lady doesn’t necessarily want to open up for you. “I put on my best smile and waited!”
That was a true story! In all my stories, in all the projects I did, I had so many encounters where things don’t go as intended, and you just need to adapt, and know when to be a bit more pushy, and when to just let go, when things can be a bit risky, and when things are safe.
Something else I enjoyed is that you get to engage with people in French. Was the tie to France part of the reason you came to Louisiana with your family?
Well, the opportunity for us to live in the U.S. is because Louisiana has a program that brings teachers from French-speaking countries to teach French. So that was the opportunity, but it’s not really what attracts me to this place. I’d rather speak English. I love English!
But my first assignment here was to document the Pointe-au-Chien Indian tribe, and the fact that they speak French was a really big asset for me. It really helped me get more intimate with them and get accepted. It’s a very simple thing, they love to speak French and practice French with me. That was the starting point—we have this connection, we have this language.
In the stories that you detailed, people all seemed pretty hospitable and even enthusiastic about what you were doing. They want to share their lives with you. But then at one point you wind up in some random dude’s shack. Are there moments where you’ve felt unsafe, or been a bit less well-received?
I think I am now confident enough to know from afar if something can be dodgy or not. The thing is, here in south Louisiana, I’ve been in Cancer Alley, where the people are the best. So welcoming. I’m obviously not from their communities, most of those communities are African American. You can tell, from my skin, from my accent, that I’m not from here. But I’ve had so many nice people come to me, or they invited me to their house and so, I really don’t have a lot of dodgy situations with Cancer Alley.
One time there was this big fire at Marathon refinery, and I saw that on the news and I just took my car and went there, and there was a pillar of smoke in the sky. And that was obviously not good for my health. But I was also thinking, those people live there on a daily basis for generations. If I’m not able to go there for a day and breathe the air that they are breathing, what’s the point? I felt like it was worth it, and necessary to do it.
A moment of solidarity, almost.
Yes. There was this woman and her daughter—I have a picture of them. I said, “Why are you not leaving the house?” And she said, “To go where?” And I realized that I had the power to leave this area, I had the power to come and go, and they didn’t. Because they had no family outside of that place. And that struck me.
And down the bayou, same thing. I would say sometimes you can feel like the people are a bit intrigued. Sometimes you see a curtain move, or you see a face through the window, or some reactions to what you do. And I always try to keep a smile. I don’t know what they might think, maybe I’m someone who’s there to investigate their property. Because yeah, it’s not always good news when someone knocks on your door, especially in that area. So that’s something I try to keep in mind, and when I see someone who doesn’t react positively, I just go away. Because I understand. You’re invading their space. With a bit of common sense you can avoid maybe 95% of the situations.
What about when you were doing the Navajo story? Did you run into any more skepticism there?
No, that was really different. I did a lot of research and I got to know a woman called Darlene Gomez. She’s an attorney, she does pro bono cases for the families. And I reached out to her from an article, and she replied, and she helped me through the whole project to get me in touch with families. And families trust her. So if she says, “There’s this photographer who wants to document your family,” they trust me by extension. They were waiting for me, they knew what my project was and what its purpose was, the benefits of having their story told. There was a lot of research. Maybe two months of research for 10 days of shooting.
How did you decide on that project?
I’m always looking for stories. I’m very attracted to communities facing issues—could be climate, could be social injustice, but the community is what really attracts me. There were a lot of articles about, “this family is going through this” or “this case has been finally solved,” but there was not a compelling body of work about, “OK, there is an issue here with the Native Americans in the U.S., and here are the causes, and here are the reasons this issue exists,” so I decided to fill this gap.
And it costs a lot of money to do this type of project, so I’m also very aware of—in the end, if the work stays in my computer, you don’t raise any awareness, and you lose money, which means you’re not sustainable, which means you can’t do another story after this one. So I have to find a business model that works for me, and for the moment the idea is to at least break even. By making some publications, I know it will cover at least the cost of the story. That was the goal. Because it’s not covered a lot, and because this topic is important, I thought it would have a higher chance of getting published. And it finally paid off. After a few months of pitching to editors it got picked up by The Guardian in the U.S., Geographical magazine in the U.K., and Fisheye magazine in France. Which means, with those three publications, I’m able to break even, maybe even a bit more, in order to be sustainable.
The Navajo story struck me as one that would have a lot of sadness and a lot of trauma to document and to process, and to be trusted with. How do you manage that?
Just… time. Since I did this story, I haven’t done any other project. So it’s been 10 months. Basically time. Try to find resources, find other things in my life… It was a really tough story. I felt really engaged with the families. I felt like I had something to give them in return. Then I spent three months trying to find publications, trying to pitch my story, and I thought, “If I don’t get published, it’s lost…”
One family, they were all there during the meeting. [A man] was beaten to death a few years ago. The son took a day off to come, the daughter was studying in university like five hours away, and she came. The father of the deceased man took me aside at the end and said, “You need to help us. You need to do something. I know you’re here for a reason.” He was really hoping that the story could raise awareness and also solve the case, because the case was frozen. And the idea was that if I managed to get published in an outlet that this would trigger the justice system to reopen the case and reinvestigate. There was evidence, there were confessions. Everything was there. You just needed the case to be reopened. They knew with almost certainty who did it.
That was really stressful for me because you get this imposter syndrome sometimes. I felt like I owed them something. I sent a message to the mother of the deceased man [when The Guardian U.S. picked up the story], and she was really thankful. Unfortunately, I don’t know if the case got reopened… But you never know when you publish a story. Sometimes the impact can be immediate, sometimes it can be long-term work. Or it’s just a brick and you need more and more to really change things.
I’m sure it does mean a lot to those families. In terms of being freelance and the limitations it has, is one of the goals to become a staff photographer for a publication?
Well it’s really difficult to be a staff photographer, so that’s not in my immediate plan. I think the network I got from the workshop is a good way for me to try to pitch stories and do the stories with the outlet, instead of me doing the work and then selling the work. And that’s really my goal right now, to be able to collaborate with a writer from an outlet and go in the field and do the story with the editor and the writer.
What’s the next project you hope to move on to?
I’m trying to pitch for a project in the Colonias. In the south of Texas you have those settlements from the ‘70s, I think, where promoters bought farmland and they started buying houses and selling them to migrants from Latin America coming to the U.S. It was pretty cheap, but there was no infrastructure, no sewage water, no electricity, no road. And they promised all those things, and it took a long time to come into reality, and right now there are still places under the radar where you don’t have electricity, where you don’t have those infrastructures, and I would like to document the challenges but also the solutions. Often community-based solutions. So I’m currently pitching that story to different magazines. So far I don’t have any tangible outcome.
And the Reuters assignment will come from them, as opposed to something you pitch?
Well, Reuters is more like a wire service, so it’s more news-based. So let’s say there’s a hurricane or flood or political event or something happening in Louisiana. Then they would call me and say, “Hey, can you cover this?” So it would be more like news coverage than an actual story. Which, I don’t mind!
For more info, check out wayanbarre.com, wayanbarre.substack.com, and @wayanbarre on social media.
Top and bottom photos by Angela Calonder
