A conversation with Julia Sara Noëlle

Could you introduce yourself and tell us a bit about your background and where you are currently based?

My name is Julia Sara Noëlle (1997), and I am a film photographer based in Amsterdam. I grew up in a small village by the sea in the northwest of the Netherlands, and at seventeen I moved to Amsterdam to study.

 

Your images feel very close, almost as if we are witnessing moments that weren’t meant to be seen. What draws you to these intimate situations?

I think those moments appear when something softens between people. When I photograph, I try to become almost unnoticeable, less a presence, more a feeling. In that space, people begin to move without self-consciousness, and what remains is something instinctive rather than thought through. It becomes less about the mind, and more about a shared sensitivity. That kind of closeness can only exist through trust and mutual understanding.

Many of your photographs revolve around women, in moments of rest, care, or closeness. What is it about these relationships that you keep returning to?

I’m drawn to the sensitivity within feminine energy, not as something delicate, but as something expansive and quietly resilient. There’s a strength in softness that I keep returning to, especially in moments of care and closeness. It feels like a gentle form of resistance — a way of making space for connection, for listening, for simply being with one another. I believe women, and those who identify as women, carry a capacity to gather and hold, to open up a shared language. In that softness, there is room for a different kind of conversation, and perhaps a different way forward.

 

Your images feel very natural and soft, in the light, the colours, and the way moments unfold. Is this something you consciously look for, or does it come more intuitively?

I think it exists somewhere between intention and intuition. The environment plays a crucial role. I’m drawn to spaces that already carry a personal, almost timeless quality. Most often, I photograph in the rooms of the women themselves, making only small adjustments. From there, I follow the light as it moves through the space, trusting both instinct and the unfolding moment.

The people in your photographs carry a certain presence, they feel both very real and almost dreamlike. How do you work with your models?

I usually find my models intuitively, or sometimes they find me. I’m drawn to a presence that is soft but strong. Recently, while working with a refugee organisation in the Netherlands, I realised how this presence can appear in anyone, across different lives and experiences.

When I photograph, I guide the moment carefully — through positioning, light and gaze — while allowing each person to bring their own presence into the image. In that collaboration, something emerges that feels intimate and almost dreamlike.

 

The presence of the body is very gentle and close in your work. What interests you about photographing physical closeness in this way?

The body fascinates me because it is both fleeting and vital. I believe the soul is something much larger, something that moves beyond the body when it returns to the earth. Yet it is through the body that I feel fully alive in the present moment. Photographing physical closeness allows me to hold that tension — between the immediacy of being here together, and the sense of something larger that surrounds and moves through us.

Do you work mostly with analogue, or do you also shoot digitally? What draws you to that choice?

I work only with analogue because it demands care and trust, making each frame intentional. I’ve tried digital, but it feels like a completely different craft. Recently, I’ve limited myself to one roll per person or setting — sometimes even just a few frames. With the right light and a camera I trust, even two images can be enough to capture what I need. Finding an art form that serves your vision is essential, and I tend to stay loyal to mine.

Your images feel slightly removed from the present, almost as if they belong to another time. Do you draw inspiration from a particular period or visual history?

I like that you notice that. I’ve always felt drawn to photographers of the past rather than the present. Julia Margaret Cameron is a major inspiration, both for her focus on women and children, and for the bold, emotionally intimate choices she made later in life. Her work also resonates with me personally, since my name is Julia and my mother’s name is Margaretha.

Images by Julia Margaret Cameron

I’m also inspired by the intimacy in Francesca Woodman’s work and the way Sally Mann balances beauty and tension. Beyond photography, I’m drawn to how women were portrayed during the Art Nouveau period — often through a male gaze, yet still carrying quiet strength and depth. That awareness guides my work today.

In some images, there is a strong sense of care — especially in moments between mother and child. What does this theme mean to you?

Care is everything to me. It’s one of the most valuable aspects of life, and I think it’s often forgotten — especially in Western societies where the focus is on the individual. In places like Morocco or Japan, I’ve seen how communities support one another, often out of necessity.

Volunteering at my local community centre made me realise how little I actually know about the people around me. There might be someone nearby who feels very alone, and yet it takes so little to offer attention. Of course, we need to care for ourselves, but I believe caring for others is just as essential.

When someone looks at your photographs, what would you hope they recognise — if anything — within themselves?

I hope they recognise that it’s okay to pause. To take a breath, to quiet down, and to act with intention.