Written by: Ana Cichowicz

Crossing Waters, Crossing Lives: The Ethics and Aesthetics of Jason Florio's Work

Jason Florio is a renowned British photojournalist whose work intertwines visual documentation with reflections on social complexities, particularly in non-Western regions. Born in London, Jason began his career in fashion photography in the United States. However, a chance encounter with National Geographic veterans shifted his trajectory toward photojournalism. Leaving behind the commercial lens, Jason embarked on his first major assignment in Afghanistan, confirming his desire to document lives and stories beyond the confines of the studio.

Destination Europe

One of Jason Florio's most impactful projects, Destination Europe, is a photographic series developed over two seasons in 2015 and 2016 aboard the MOAS Phoenix rescue ship, documenting the Mediterranean migration crisis. The project captures the extreme vulnerability of migrants and refugees risking everything for a future in Europe. During this mission, a particularly poignant moment occurred when Jason and his team rescued Abdoulie, the son of one of his Gambian friends, among 110 migrants saved from a drifting boat. In Jason's words, this unexpected encounter made the vast Mediterranean "feel incredibly small."

But this was far from an isolated moment during the nearly two years Jason Florio worked on Destination Europe. He frequently faced the fact that people on the boats had ties to his history in The Gambia. This connection is evident in how his images move beyond portraying faceless, dehumanized crowds in extreme circumstances. Instead, Jason composes his photos to also emphasize the individuality and narratives of those depicted, affirming that each person carries a past and has a right to a future. Amidst intense violence, Jason's ability to recognize the dignity and complexity of the other imbues his photographs with remarkable strength.

The Destination Europe project earned Jason the Magnum Photography Award, and his images remain a powerful record of the journeys undertaken by migrants and refugees in a world marked by global inequalities.

The Gambia: The Core of Florio's Work

While Jason Florio's work has taken him across the globe, The Gambia, Africa's smallest country, has become central to his career. Over nearly three decades, he and his wife, Helen Jones-Florio, have created long-term projects intricately connected to the lives of local communities.

Makasutu

Jason's first major project in The Gambia, Makasutu, took shape over multiple visits between 1997 and 2010. It documents the lives of people living in and around the sacred forest of the same name. The area holds deep cultural and historical significance as a meeting point between animist traditions and Islam. Before mosques were built, Gambian Muslims would gather there to pray, while the forest remained a revered space in animist beliefs, thought to be protected by spirits such as the mythical serpent “ninkinanko.”

In Makasutu, Jason uses a piece of cloth with deep personal significance as a backdrop: a blackout curtain his grandmother gave him, originally used by his family in London during World War II, to block out light and avoid guiding aircraft during bombing raids. Only upon arriving in The Gambia did Jason discover the curtain's wartime history, which added an unexpected layer of meaning to its use in his work.

Silafondo

In 2009, the Florios embarked on the first documented circumnavigation of The Gambia on foot, covering 930 km while documenting the daily lives of the communities they encountered. The project's name, Silafondo, references an ancient Mandinka tradition where travelers offer a gift, typically kola seeds, to the village chief in exchange for hospitality. Throughout their journey, the Florios carried a small portable printer and, as a gesture of thanks, offered not only seeds but something unique: an instant portrait—often the first photograph these individuals had ever seen of themselves.

In the Silafondo series, Jason once again employs the blackout curtain. The curtain isolates the subjects from the external environment while simultaneously allowing subtle glimpses of the background, creating a visual effect that evokes the fluidity and vagueness of Impressionist art. Like Impressionist painters, who rendered contours and shapes with ambiguity, Jason's photographs soften the captured setting—the landscapes of The Gambia—transforming them into something elusive and dreamlike. These spaces, deeply familiar to the chiefs he portrays, appear less defined to viewers who experience them solely through the photographs.

When reflecting on Jason’s aesthetic, I am struck by how the blackout curtain functions almost as a "barricade," mediating the viewer’s access to the complexity of the depicted world. This effect underscores that photography can never fully mirror reality, serving instead as a reminder of our own foreignness. In doing so, Jason Florio challenges the dominance of sight in our understanding of the world, questioning the assumption that seeing equates to knowing. To comprehend a context, Jason prompts us to think with his photos—it takes more than just looking. It requires deeper engagement and a willingness to truly listen to the people and their stories.

River Gambia: source-to-sea

Silafando—circumnavigating the Gambia by foot—was what gave Jason Florio and Helen Jones-Florio the impetus to embark on a new, more challenging expedition than they had previously undertaken. Between December 2012 and January 2013, they co-led the first documented expedition along the River Gambia from its source in the remote highlands of Guinea to the Atlantic Ocean, crossing through Senegal and The Gambia. Over more than 1,100 kilometers, the river connects communities that have depended on it for generations.

To ensure the journey's success, the couple dedicated nearly eight months to detailed research in the archives of the Royal Geographical Society. This included logistical planning, like arranging canoes, and an in-depth study of the region’s historical and anthropological context. The Gambia River, once a stage for colonial conflicts between powers like France and Britain and a critical route for the slave trade, remains essential today for commerce and the sustenance of riverine communities. Beyond that, the river is a thread weaving together the stories and hopes of those who live along its banks and travel its waters.

The project’s urgency stemmed not only from documenting these communities but also from capturing their relationship with the river at a pivotal moment. At the time, the Gambia River was on the brink of ceasing to be Africa's last major free-flowing river, with plans underway for a hydroelectric dam at the border between Guinea and Senegal. As a result, the project became a vital record of an ecological landscape on the brink of irreversible change.

The Gambia: Victims and Resisters

The Florios skillfully navigate the personal and the political, balancing intimacy and collectivity, as highlighted in their project, The Gambia: Victims and Resisters. In collaboration with The Gambia Centre for Victims of Human Rights Violations and The Gambia's Truth, Reconciliation and Reparations Commission (TRRC), the Florios documented survivors of 22 years of brutality under Yahya Jammeh's dictatorship. The project includes over a hundred portraits of victims, personal artifacts, and photographs of sites tied to human rights abuses. Beyond documenting the consequences of this painful chapter in Gambian history, it amplifies the voices of those silenced for decades, fostering dialogue and catharsis.

This remarkable work leads me, once again, to reflect on the blackout curtain, which I approach in this text as an analytical lens to explore Jason's photographic practice. In this series, the significance of the curtain emerges through its absence. As I have previously noted, the curtain in works like Silafondo not only altered the landscape but also revealed the photographer's presence. However, throughout their intricate history with The Gambia—a place the Florios did not merely visit but eventually came to call home—they developed a closer connection to the space and its people. With each project and photograph, the Florios gained a deeper understanding of local stories and contexts, learning to communicate more effectively in the local language and to truly listen to what Gambians had to share. This relationship was reciprocal; their consistent presence and genuine commitment to the place and its people shaped how Gambians perceived them.

In The Gambia: Victims and Resisters, the photographs portray victims of extreme violence within the intimacy of their homes. For this series, Jason used wide-angle lenses, a choice he had also explored in the River Gambia project, where the blackout curtain was absent. This decision underscores the distinct character of these projects: one focusing on the people’s connection to the river landscape, and the other delving into lives profoundly shaped by dictatorial violence.

Reflecting on this project within the Florios’ history in The Gambia, I consider how their journey has brought them closer to the world and the people beyond the curtain. This does not suggest that, even after nearly three decades, they have become “natives” or achieved unrestricted access and knowledge. Nor does it imply that a photograph without a material barrier, like a curtain, offers an unmediated truth, as both the photographer and the camera are inevitably present in the scene. However, entering and being invited into Gambians' homes and composing images that reveal these spaces marks a new kind of closeness.

In the reading I offer here, the absence of the curtain in this project signifies a pivotal shift. While Jason’s earlier works often isolated subjects from their surroundings, these images seem to offer glimpses into lives within familiar spaces, highlighting the deeper relationships the Florios have cultivated with Gambians over the years.

A Practice of Engagement: Jason Florio's Approach to the Other

In a practice that seeks closeness with the other not just through time spent together, but through opening up to the other's knowledge and understanding, Jason's career as a photojournalist is marked by a conscious effort to avoid the exoticizations often associated with the presence of foreign photographers in non-Western countries. His sensitive and respectful gaze, attentive to the other's voice and story, challenges stereotypical representations and presents them not as objects of curiosity but as protagonists of their own stories.

I had the privilege of asking Jason about his experiences, creative process, and the stories behind these remarkable projects. His thoughtful responses offer deeper insight into the challenges and motivations behind his work.

Jason, when thinking about works that document situations of extreme vulnerability, such as your projects on migrant rescues in the Mediterranean and victims of The Gambia's dictatorship, how do you define photographic ethics?

JF: When defining photographic ethics in delicate contexts, especially in situations of extreme vulnerability, I believe they center on empathy and respect. Documenting reality, especially in vulnerable contexts, does not equate to exploiting it—this is crucial when working with individuals in fragile states. The aim is to create images that tell stories authentically without reducing people to mere symbols of suffering. For me, it’s about engaging with the subjects as people first.

An important ethical consideration is obtaining informed consent whenever possible and being transparent about my work's intent. At the same time, I strive to create visually compelling work that inspires care and attention to these issues. I believe the power of photojournalism lies in its ability to connect viewers emotionally, but it must never be at the cost of the subject's dignity.

Ultimately, I see my role not as speaking for the voiceless but as amplifying their voices truthfully and ethically. This often means collaborating as much as possible to ensure they feel comfortable with how they are represented. It’s about making storytelling a shared experience rather than a unilateral act.

You’ve mentioned that speaking some Mandinka comforted young migrants during the Mediterranean rescues. How has your immersion in The Gambia’s language and culture, and your decision to live there, influenced your photographic approach and connection to local communities?

JF: This was a gradual process, a slow immersion. At first, I was primarily looking from the outside in. But as we spent more time there, eventually moved to the country, and became more adept at the language and culturally immersed, my perspective changed. I think the projects I've done there reflect that evolution.

For instance, with Makasutu and the portraits, the focus was on achieving a specific aesthetic. As beautiful as I believe those portraits are—and I mean the people are beautiful, not just the photographs—there’s a sense that I was still testing the waters at that stage.

Later, we pushed the boundaries further with Silafando, which involved a much more physical immersion into the country. Walking across The Gambia, meter by meter, allowed us to experience the country in a deeply visceral way.

The walk, however, pushed us to engage with the country as a whole and to start understanding life across different regions—not just from a cultural perspective, but also politically and economically. This experience paved the way for the river expedition. I don’t think we could have undertaken the river expedition without first working in the forest and walking the country. This process helped us build our ‘vocabulary.’

As we learned more of the language and delved deeper into the culture, we were able to expand both mentally and physically. The projects expanded significantly in scope, both geographically and photographically, with each one informing the next. Looking back, they feel like stepping stones.

When we moved to The Gambia in 2013, we began focusing more on stories affecting local communities, such as water pollution and environmental degradation. This eventually led to the project documenting victims of human rights abuses under Yahya Jammeh's dictatorship. By then, after several years of living and working in the country, we had firsthand experience of the regime’s impact.

All of these experiences built up to the point where we could approach the victims’ project with the understanding it required. I don’t think I could have grasped the nuances of that project when I first came to The Gambia. This gradual process enabled us to get close to communities and work with them on an intimate level, approaching the stories as someone working from the inside, rather than as an outsider.

Do you believe documentary photography still holds a strong social and political impact? How do you think it can inspire change?

JF: Yes, I firmly believe that photography is still essential in fostering political dialogue, inspiring change, and driving social impact. Though it cannot achieve this alone, I believe it plays a crucial role alongside other mediums like writing and filmmaking. Together, these voices form a unified toolkit that can act as a powerful catalyst for change.

However, we must ensure that our intentions are clear and that photography is used responsibly, always in service of the people whose stories we are telling.

I could talk more about the project The Gambia - Victims and Resisters, which serves as an example of how photography can inspire change. Under the former regime, people could not speak out about what had happened to them. Many across the country, whether victims themselves or family members of victims, suffered in silence. They were often unaware that others shared similar experiences, as those voices had not yet been connected.

The portraits, paired with text and testimonies, were featured in public exhibitions across Banjul, the capital, and other locations. Hundreds of Gambians attended, and it was astonishing to hear how many said they had no idea about the breadth and scope of the human rights violations under the regime.

Detention centers were sometimes located near residential areas, yet neighbors were unaware that people were being held and tortured there. Many believed their missing neighbors had simply emigrated in search of better opportunities, unaware they had been disappeared by the regime. A pervasive fear, cultivated by the government, prevented people from speaking out.

This work, alongside efforts from victims’ associations, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, lawyers, and social groups, exposed the full extent of these atrocities. It contributed to public awareness and sparked conversations about accountability and healing, both locally and internationally.

I recall one man who had been tortured, imprisoned, stripped of his livelihood, and silenced for years by the regime. We spent an afternoon together when we met, and it was clear how deeply the regime had affected him and his family. Despite this, he told us, “I don’t really care what you do with the photographs or the interview. Just the fact that you took the time to listen to me, to hear my story, has been cathartic.”

This sentiment was echoed by many others we worked with. Change often begins with shifts in individual mindsets, rippling outward to create broader societal transformations.

The portraits and testimonies also helped challenge public opinion. Some communities remained staunch supporters of the former dictator, Jammeh, believing him to be a divinely appointed leader. The public display of images and stories encouraged these communities to question their beliefs and confront the reality of what had happened. As people within their own communities came forward to share their experiences, it became harder to deny the truth.

These collective efforts—portraits, stories, public exhibits, and advocacy—played a role in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and now lay the groundwork for trials in a West African court addressing crimes committed under the Jammeh regime. In a small but meaningful way, this work has contributed to the tapestry woven over the last few years, helping to create a clearer picture of what happened during those times

You frequently collaborate with your wife, Helen Jones-Florio. How does this partnership influence the development of your projects and your photographic approach?

JF: I tend to lead on the photographic and technical aspects of our work, but Helen is incredibly organized and has this amazing ability to take my somewhat wobbly creative ideas and make them tangible. One of her great tools is mind mapping, which she uses to visualize how a project can feasibly come together. This has been absolutely essential to many of our projects, especially the Silafondo and River Gambia expeditions. Those simply would not have happened without her organizational skills and her ability to fundraise and secure support from companies and organizations in various ways.

Helen is also the voice of reason in our partnership, creating the framework that allows me the freedom to focus on being in the moment and creating photographs. She essentially builds the structure that makes the work possible.

She has also played a crucial role in creating balance, particularly when we’ve worked with women who were victims of Yahya Jammeh's dictatorship in The Gambia and experienced sexual and gender-based violence. I became very aware of my position as a man in these situations, especially given that the perpetrators of these crimes were men. Having Helen there created a sense of balance. She often took the lead in conducting interviews with these women, while I stayed behind the camera. This arrangement felt much more comfortable for everyone—it became a conversation between two women, which was incredibly important in fostering trust and allowing these women to share their stories.

You've mentioned your admiration for the work of Richard Avedon, but are there influences from other fields, such as literature or painting, that guide your photographic vision?

And regarding West African art, is there something you particularly appreciate in that universe?

JF: Well, I guess we draw influences from many different places, not necessarily photographic ones. One that comes to mind is the work of American novelist Cormac McCarthy. His writing often conveys raw, brutal truths, exposing both humanity's vulnerabilities and its resilience to endure even the harshest hardships. Yet, his prose is imbued with a poet’s heart. In some small, almost microcosmic way, I hope my images respond to the world in a similar vein. While McCarthy’s influence on me isn’t directly photographic, it has been profound.

Regarding my African influences, I can point to the work of Malian photographers Malick Sidibé and Seydou Keïta. Around the late 1990s, while planning my first trip to The Gambia, I discovered their work. Both were from Bamako, Mali, and their studio portraits were lyrical, playful, and an intimate reflection of Africa’s post-colonial aspirations. I hadn’t encountered work like theirs before—photographers documenting Africans through their own lens. Until then, my view of Africa had been shaped by Western photographers, especially those focusing on the continent’s harsher realities. To this day, I think that’s how many Westerners still perceive Africa. But Sidibé’s and Keïta’s work offered a radically different perspective.

Around the same time, I also discovered the work of American photographer Mike Disfarmer. His austere, honest portraits deeply resonated with me, and his use of black cloth as a backdrop influenced my approach to the Makasutu project.

Another influence has been the poetry of Rumi, which inspires me to embrace change and remain open—a philosophy I consider vital to the photographic process.

What you said about the poet Rumi is interesting because, in the Silafondo project, you mentioned how the way you initially envisioned composing the series evolved as the project progressed. Could you talk more about how you remain open to change as your projects develop?

JF: Although Silafondo became the title, we didn’t know that would be the project’s name at the start. Initially, we called it A Short Walk in the Gambian Bush. The idea was that the work would extend Makasutu’s portrait-driven style in black and white, using World War II black cloth. I thought it made sense to give it a consistent aesthetic that seamlessly followed Makasutu.

When we began the Silafondo expedition, I brought a DSLR for daily reportage and to create digital portraits we could print and share with local chiefs. At first, the DSLR was just a practical tool for our journey, not intended for the final images. However, after seeing the first color print, I immediately realized that Silafondo needed its own visual identity. The decision to switch to color was a simple yet defining shift, while other elements—like the black cloth background—remained consistent.

Two years later, during the River Gambia expedition, I took the black cloth with me, intending to continue Silafondo’s visual style. However, after using the cloth for a few portraits in one of the first villages we visited, I had a visceral reaction. An inner voice told me not to be lazy and to avoid getting trapped in the same visual tropes.

The black cloth had served its purpose, but it was time to let it go. Packing it away felt liberating—I was no longer tied to expectations or repeating what I’d already done. This freedom transformed the project. The work over the next three months, combining reportage and portraits, felt much more spacious and reflective of the journey.

The free-flowing and expansive River Gambia mirrored this evolution. Letting go of the background cloth allowed me to step into a new creative direction, which became a transformative moment in my photographic process.

Finally, how do you envision the future of photojournalism amid rapid technological advancements, such as the increasing use of drones and the potential distancing of photographers from their subjects? What advice would you offer to emerging photographers on adapting to these changes while staying true to fundamental principles?

JF: Another great question. I believe we need to embrace tools that can enhance our storytelling process. I occasionally use a drone to provide an alternative perspective within a story. It can help create an establishing shot or offer a fresh angle, and while it might sound cliché, it genuinely adds a unique viewpoint.

For instance, last January, during a project in The Gambia, I worked with oyster women I’ve been photographing over the years. They were participating in a swimming training program, and while I started by photographing them in the water, the images quickly felt repetitive. Using a drone transformed the perspective, capturing a poetic and lyrical view of the women floating in the River Gambia.

That said, I’ve never used a drone exclusively for an entire project. I believe it works best when integrated with other forms of storytelling. However, in the right hands, it can be a powerful tool to tell a more complete story. A great example of this is Blue Sky Days by Tomas Van Houtryve, a project responding to drone attacks in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

However, proximity to the people I photograph remains essential. As Robert Capa famously said, “If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough.” For me, this goes beyond physical closeness—it’s about emotional and empathetic proximity as well. My humble advice to emerging photographers is to get close to your subject on a deeply human level and not let the tools become a barrier.

Interview with Jason Florio