Miya Tsudome

Heidi: The photograph of Laura Pineau on Wet Lycra Nightmare ultimately became the cover of Gripped. When you were hanging there watching Laura move through the crux, did you sense that the moment had the potential to become a defining image?
Miya: Initially I was up there to film Laura climbing Wet Lycra Nightmare so when she actually sent the crux, she was climbing in the shade and I was filming it. Higher up on the wall, I was waiting to shoot another pitch and I watched this sliver of light hit the wall, with the valley still mostly shaded in the back, and I knew I wanted to go shoot the crux in that light. So when Laura sent the route I convinced her to stay another night on Ahwahnee Ledge with me so we could get photos of the crux pitch. I knew that it would be an impactful image – it’s not every day you get to watch history being made in rock climbing with a female first ascent of a notoriously difficult route. We both were committed to bringing that photo to life, knowing it would be an important one.

When a woman photographs another woman in a space like Yosemite — a place with such a long photographic legacy — do you think the image carries a different kind of narrative weight?
I think it does carry a different kind of narrative weight. I love the camaraderie that comes along with women shooting women, which is something we experience together on the wall. But also creating photos together that will go down in Yosemite history feels meaningful. There are so many incredibly strong women in the sport, absolutely dominating big wall free climbing. And I feel like it’s significant when women are behind the lens as well to capture it.

Because you’re also a climber, you’re not just observing the moment — you’re  part of the system on the wall. How does that embodied perspective change the way you compose an image or anticipate a moment for your work on the Free Wall Kit and your Gripped cover?
Being a climber who is familiar with big wall environments has become a huge advantage in what and how I shoot. One of my biggest concerns is always how to move around athletes in the least impactful way possible, and knowing how to adapt quickly to different scenarios. Whether that’s climbing ahead myself, or fixing lines, sleeping on the wall, or rappelling in; it is a constantly shifting environment and each assignment demands different tactics. And a lot of the time I’m shooting things in real time as they happen, like shooting Doerte Pietron and Daniel Gebel for the Freewall Kit in Madagascar as they attempted to send King Line, 8a+ (5.13c/d), which means I don’t always have the luxury of composing and recreating a shot like I did with Laura. So I have to rely on my instincts as a climber and photographer to capture what I can the best I can.

Patagonia’s The Freewall Kit was designed around the realities of long days on the wall. How do those design details change the experience of working as a photographer in that environment?
The Freewall Kit was designed for big wall free climbers, which has become the new frontier of modern rock climbing. But photographers and filmmakers are doing just as much work, jugging like crazy up fixed lines, hauling, managing ropes, only to sit for hours shooting. So a kit that emphasizes durable, flexible layers like the Freewall Kit for when you’re moving but also for when you’re resting is also a big wall photographer’s dream. We have to prepare to shoot in any conditions that the athlete wants to climb in, and taking care of yourself up on a wall is really important. And a huge part of that is having the right layers. You never want to be the reason why something can’t happen.

You spent time working with photographer Corey Rich and his production company Novus Select. What did that experience teach you about the craft and logistics of adventure photography and filmmaking? 
Interning under Corey Rich was a huge stepping stone in my career. At that point I knew how to use a camera, but knew next to nothing about the broader world of photo and video production. I was able to take part in such a variety of shoots, and absorb what it takes to be the best at your craft as well as run a production business. I think mentorship in this career path is essential. And there’s no easy, straightforward path to finding the right mentors. I’ve been lucky to have people like Corey as well as Ben Ditto to get me on jobs and give me advice. Corey also introduced me to Sarah Steele who helped to found an all-female production company called Well Travelled which has grown my network of female creatives to look up to.

Your work often sits at the intersection of athletics and storytelling — you’re a strong climber yourself, but also documenting the moment. How has developing your own climbing ability influenced the kinds of images and films you’re able to make?
Developing my own climbing has definitely helped with what types of images and films I’m able to create. I used to be a guide for the Yosemite Mountaineering School, and those skills also have come into play a lot when I’m out shooting. Not only do you have to be fit enough to keep up with athletes, but you have to have a keen awareness of how to adapt to different climbing environments. Being someone who is really dedicated to my personal climbing allows me to know I have more wiggle room in planning logistics of a shoot. Because sometimes the easiest way to shoot is by climbing ahead of a team yourself.

You started in Yosemite with a one-way ticket, a service job, and a life built around climbing. Now you’re photographing historic ascents and landing magazine covers. When you look back at that version of yourself arriving in the Valley, what would surprise her most about where you are now?
I was just talking about this to a friend the other day. What would me 10 years ago think about me now?? We take so much for granted in our present realities. And I’m guilty of falling into the trap of “not good enough, have to work harder, have to do better,” that it’s good to remind myself that the me 10 years ago, who was bussing tables in the Ahwahnee dining room and climbing 5.8 would be utterly in awe of who I am now. I think she would feel amazed that she gets to work regularly with a brand like Patagonia, and gets to shoot all around the world for her job. It’s a good reminder. Always look back to see how far you’ve come. And always strive for more.

What are you working on now (photographically and personal climbing objectives)?
Right now I’m coming off a wonderfully simple winter of being at home in Bishop, California, working on some local photo and video jobs and putting time in out at the boulders to build up my strength base for the year. I’ve got some exciting international work trips planned this summer, and am going to the valley in the spring to try to tick off some personal climbing goals and get back into route climbing and multipitch shape. It’s a constant management of expectations trying to balance my personal climbing and my job, but I love both so much and am so grateful to be able to do what I do.

Tracy L Chandler

Heidi: You talk about the desert as a ‘silent character’. How do you think it’s harshness and beauty influenced the emotional language of the images, beyond simply being your physical past?
Tracy: The desert is both a container and a character in this work. I grew up there. I breathed that air, I was shaped by that light. It’s in me.
What makes the desert so particular as a photographic subject is the way it refuses neutrality. The light alone can shift from oppressive to tender within a couple of hours. At high noon it obliterates everything. It’s so vast and so harsh that it becomes almost claustrophobic, which I know sounds contradictory, but there’s something about that relentless, unforgiving openness that offers no refuge, no shade, no place to hide. You can’t escape it. That sense of being exposed and trapped at the same time, that was the emotional texture of growing up there. But then at the edges of the day, that soft pastel window at dusk, the desert can feel like the most gentle thing. And then at night it gets strange. There’s this deep black with nothing in the distance to emit or reflect light. Everything just falls into the absolute unknown. I think that swing between beauty and threat is the same emotional range I was navigating as a kid. The desert didn’t just inform the pictures’ content and aesthetics. It became the psychological language of the work.

How do you wrestle with time’s passage and nature’s relentlessness in shaping how we feel and remember? Here I was thinking about time as a photographic element and how you created portals for us to explore….or simply put, how do you approach photographing time?
Time in the desert is genuinely strange. The natural environment is so prehistoric and durable. Any trace of humanity just accumulates dust and holds its shape for decades. So when I’d return to a site from my adolescence, the architecture or object often hadn’t changed. But I had. Time had changed me. And now my memory of those places wasn’t the same as what I was looking at. So what you get is this uncanny collision where the present physical reality clashes with the ghost of your past experience of it. And then to photograph it morphs the perception once again.

I tried to honor that strangeness by working slowly. I use a large format camera, which forces you to be deliberate and spend real time in a place. And I’d return to the same sites over years, letting meaning accumulate rather than looking and moving on.

The portals and other constructed objects in the work were my way of using symbology to make time and transformation visible as a concept. A door in the middle of nowhere is absurd. It asks a question… What is on the other side? For me those objects function as portals in the most literal sense, apertures between past and present, between what I remember and what actually exists and what could be in the future. 

You noted photography is a “fraction of truth,” what does photography fail to capture in this work, and how might that failure be as meaningful as what is shown or remembered?
Photography only records a surface, a fraction of a second, framing more out than in. I knew this going in but the full weight of it hit me hard on this project specifically, because I wasn’t just grappling with photography’s limits in the abstract, I was living them.

Years before I began this work, a storage unit fire took everything. Every photograph I had ever made. All of my family albums. And the photographs I had of my father, who died when I was seven. All I had left of him visually were my own memories, which are unreliable and fading. So I went back to the desert to make new photographs, partly to replace that lost archive, but what I came away with looks nothing like what I lost. What I made is not a document of my story. It’s more like a fiction based on a true story. And strangely, it feels more true to me than the literal photographs ever could have.

That’s the paradox I keep circling. Photography’s failure to capture the full truth created the space for something more emotionally honest to emerge. The fire took away a whole version of history and forced me to reconstruct. I had to invent. And what I built is mine in a way that a documentary record never could have been.

How does your personal narrative intersect with broader cultural or socio-economic narratives of the American desert (e.g., displacement, development, tourism, climate)?
I grew up in Palm Springs, which is a strange place to be from. It was built as a playground for Hollywood elites and retired snowbirds, gated communities, golf courses, tennis clubs, designed for people who were passing through or escaping, not for the people who actually lived there year-round. My family was not wealthy. We were locals on the fringe, and I always felt like an outsider in my own hometown, a kind of reversed displacement. So when I photograph, I’m not photographing Palm Springs the brand. I’m in the peripheral spaces of my youth, the dry lake beds, and makeshift shelters at the margins, places that hold a different story. One of people who couldn’t afford the fantasy. And maybe that’s a class narrative as much as a personal one.

And then there’s the land itself. The Coachella Valley is in the middle of a desert. It only exists the way it does because of massive water infrastructure, aqueducts that pull water from hundreds of miles away. The whole thing is precarious at best. Climate is not an abstraction here. As I photograph, I’m aware that this landscape has its own timeline that dwarfs all of our efforts to control it, and hoarding these resources will prove unsustainable.

I didn’t set out to make a political project, but I think those tensions are in the work. I think personal work does that. We can’t escape being part of the whole.

What does the title A Poor Sort of Memory suggest about the reliability of memory?
The title comes from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass, where the White Queen tells Alice: “It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.” On its face that’s nonsensical. How else would memory work? But that’s exactly what makes it interesting. Carroll is suggesting that memory doesn’t have to be fixed or unidirectional. It can work forward. It can be circular. The past doesn’t just recede behind you, it’s also present, maybe even ahead of you in ways you haven’t recognized yet.

For me, “poor” doesn’t just mean unreliable. It means limited, insufficient, sad. When I first started making this work I was trying to recover something fixed, to return to a static past and document it. What I found instead was that the past kept shifting under my feet. My childhood home was much smaller than I remembered. Specific locations looked nothing like my mental image of them. The camera kept showing me how partial and warped my version of events was.

So the title is both a confession and a provocation. Yes, my memory is poor, unreliable, incomplete, distorted by time and trauma. But maybe that instability is what makes memory a living thing rather than an archive. It keeps reshaping itself in response to who you are now. That’s actually how we survive.

How does the inclusion of human figures, such as your son, affect your interpretation of the narrative? Are they bridges from past to present, self reflective metaphors or memories? I was thinking about the ramp image here…
All of those things at once, which is what makes it complicated.

Eli (my son) wasn’t part of the original plan. I started making this work alone, out in the desert, and then COVID hit and there was no school, and suddenly I was bringing a tweenager on my photography trips. I was initially annoyed, I was in work mode and now I had to be in mom mode, and those felt like incompatible states. But then I turned around and saw him sitting on top of this old motorcycle ramp in the middle of nowhere, and something shifted. It was like a Hitchcock zoom. I looked at him and I saw myself as a kid. I saw my father. He loved motorcycles, he died in a motorcycle accident, I had lost every photograph of him in the storage fire, and here was this ramp in the landscape he would have loved. And in one frame I had all three of us: him, me, my dad. Past, present, and future all collapsed into each other. 

Eli became a child guide, a protagonist to lead me through my own story. But the closer I got, the more he resisted it, and I think that resistance was honest and important. He wasn’t going to simply be a vessel for my projections. He’s his own person. And that pushing back, that refusal to stay still as a symbol, that became part of the work too. The mother-and-son dynamic folded back on itself and complicated everything, which is exactly right for a project about the instability of memory.

There’s also Uncle Bill in the work — this adult male figure who carries both the longing for a father and the menace of the stepfather simultaneously.  Longing and danger. That’s a pretty exact description of what it felt like to be a kid in my house growing up. Together they hold this protagonist-antagonist tension throughout the work. There’s a sense of chasing ghosts and evading monsters.

Which places in your work feel most alive — and which felt like ghosts and why? Did reframing meaningful events act as a release or allow you to heal?
The places that felt most alive were the edge spaces, concrete washes, the end of a dirt road, etc. There was still a charge in those places. The isolation, the sense of potential danger and freedom existing right next to each other felt like a homecoming of sorts, even if it was an uncomfortable one.

And then there were the objects. Found things, constructed things, totems I placed in the landscape. Those became some of the most alive moments in the work for me, because an object in the right context stops being a thing and starts being a symbol. It opens up. It becomes a portal into something larger than itself, a way into a story that language alone couldn’t access. That’s where I felt most free as a photographer, in that space between the literal and the symbolic.

As for healing, I want to resist that framing a little. I don’t think this work healed anything or released anything in a clean sense. What it did was build complexity. It gave me a more nuanced relationship to my own history. I came to understand that memory isn’t a fixed record, it’s a living thing, and the only constant in it is change. It’s something more like making peace with ambiguity. 

Now that you’ve had distance on the project – what have you learned about yourself as a creative? Or what surprised you? 

The thing that surprised me most was the gap between what I set out to make and what the work actually wanted to be. The pictures I felt sure about at first weren’t the ones that lasted. The quieter, stranger, slightly-off images were the ones that kept creeping up on me over time and revealing more meaning the longer I sat with them.

That taught me something real about patience and about listening, to the pictures, to the place, to the process itself. The best images in this project are NOT the ones I planned. They arrived sideways. And I think that’s true of creative work more broadly: you have to make your way toward the thing you don’t know you’re looking for. You may have to be wrong first. I’m still learning to trust that. 

Photographer: Trevor Traynor

Now that NEWSSTANDS has been published as a hardbound book — a substantial archive of 110 kiosks across 22 cities over 12 years — how has the act of sequencing and preserving these images in print changed the way you think about the project as a cultural artifact in 2025?
When I first started photographing Newsstands it was all about framing and collecting kiosks so to speak, It felt like an open ended series that was endless and I was working very much in the present tense. What’s interesting now is that a project rooted in constantly changing headlines and the documentation of isolated kiosks has been preserved in book form. Read this way, the images function as cultural markers, mostly paired as diptychs to reveal visual and social parallels, whether it’s a sidewalk book stall along the Nile in Cairo or stacks of magazines at El Periódico on La Rambla in Barcelona. So in short, the series feels complete in book form. It’s my first hardbound book, self-published edition of 250 and I’m grateful to have it out in the world for people to enjoy.

When you transitioned Newsstands into tangible objects — from an NFT collection to broadsheet posters with a QR link — what role did the physicality of print play in how you wanted audiences to experience the work?
This marked an exciting transition for me. The book quickly became the goal and was something I felt compelled to realize but by 2022 I was also curious about the idea of preserving art on the blockchain. Because the series already had continuity in its presentation, the unified golden border naturally lent itself to becoming a cohesive on-chain collection, readable as a single & recognizable body of work rather than isolated images. To elevate the launch of that NFT collection it was important to create an IRL experience. I built a replica newsstand where visitors could physically engage with the stand and take away a piece of actual newsprint which honored the project in its most elemental form. I’ve often used the phrase Web0 kiosks, shot on Web2, minted on Web3 as a kind of tagline during that time. It speaks to pre-internet kiosks photographed on an iPhone and shared via Instagram, then permanently preserved on the blockchain. So a bit of irony in what was never meant to last has now become permeant.

When did the series shift from “something fun between commercial shoots” to a body of work with its own artistic and cultural significance?
I think the shift happened the first time I photographed a newsstand outside of New York City. It opened up a new perspective on what these kiosks might look like on a global scale. It was a top box to tick during my down time on work trips and a necessity during personal travel. I never treated it like work though, and made sure all the small encounters with kiosks operators were genuine which was important for the integrity of the project.

You’ve called a wall pop-up in Cusco, Peru “probably the most unique.” What about that specific site stood out to you?
The wall pop-up in Cusco felt like it could appear on any corner. Assembled with a metal frame and clothes pins it gave the operator the ability to set-up and takedown fast. That mobility, paired with a focus on classic items such as magazines & newspapers made the stand feel singular & somewhat timeless. Also the stack of coins he collected struck a familiar chord that echoed my childhood memories of subway tokens, or watching adults place coins on a bodega counter for a newspaper and a cup of joe. It was a quiet reminder of simpler times.

Looking at a newsstand now—amid digital media’s decline of print—how do you think these kiosks function as time capsules, and what do you hope this book preserves for future audiences?
I think simply put, it preserves memories. The act of archiving a fragment of the world through art. One of I hope to be a handful of my small artistic contributions that find their way into bookstores and libraries. I will always love photography books. Having the opportunity to release one and have folks collect it for their coffee table is an honor and feels like a rarity in this digital era.

What was the defining moment or experience that made you realize this project deserved a standalone book rather than remain a long-term photo series?
With each newsstand sharing a common thread across continents and time, creating an artifact that is itself a collection of artifacts felt important to archive. I briefly entertained going a bit meta by printing the book on newsprint, allowing the physical object to age and decline more quickly, much like the printed matter these newsstands were built to serve but in the end, I chose to give the book a little more time which in turn will feel like a true relic of relics to our newly born generation beta.

Photographer: Pierre Lavie

Heidi: How did your HEFAT training influence the way you approached the Minneapolis scene — both in terms of keeping yourself safe and in how you mentally and emotionally navigated the tension of the protest?
Pierre: Being situationally aware is crucial, and that’s something Global Journalism Security really drove home during their 3-day HEFAT course I took last August in D.C. Like many photojournalists, I have a family/loved-ones to get home to, so I want to be as safe as possible. To me, being safe in a hostile environment means being prepared and preparedness is achieved by learning how to conduct yourself in such an environment. It’s not magic. It takes time and practice. GJS provides the opportunity to learn and practice skills that might come in handy, like navigating a mob or splinting a leg. I can’t recommend GJS enough — they’re a top-notch outfit, I learned a lot, and honestly enjoyed every minute of it. My only regret is not having done it when I first started.

Can you describe the moments before this photo was taken, and your relationship to John?
As the police lined up to press the protestors, everyone knew what was coming. I put on my gas mask and helmet and waited with everyone else for them to make their move. I didn’t know John at all before this happened, but we’re texting just about daily now. He’s a great guy and I expect we’ll keep in touch.

What were the visual and emotional cues that made you decide to press the shutter at that exact split-second?
I noticed John getting swarmed by the police. As he went down, he managed to get into a prone position…instead of sprawling out flat as most seem to do, to me…while the officers piled on top of him. I moved around to face him, thinking he might look up — and he did. We saw each other. Click. He prepared to throw his camera — click — then actually tossed it — click — and then tossed his phone — click.

In your view, what story does this image tell about press freedom, civil tension, and the role of photojournalism?
John had a remarkable instinct to protect his images, and I really applaud him for that. People say/joke that he was saving his camera; he was saving his images. In all likelihood, the police would have confiscated his camera and phone and deleted everything. History keeps teaching us the same lesson: bearing witness and creating a record of events is essential to the survival and healthy growth of any democracy — through good and bad times. John gets that and had the wherewithal to respond accordingly.

What information can you share for anyone setting out to photograph these highly charged moments?
Be smart and be safe, please — for your sake and everyone else’s. Educate yourself. There are some amazing, even legendary, photographers and journalists working in Minneapolis right now (Guttenfelder, Haviv, Guzy, Moore, Decker, Rudoff, Davis, Fedorova, Allen-DuPraw, Farina Lott, Gray, just to name a few) and across the globe.
Learn from them. A lot of them are generous with their experience and wisdom if you politely reach out. From what I’ve seen, none of them are careless; they’re calculated. Emulate them.
Learn your gear. Practice using it. Have the right PPE. In these particular type situations (like Whippple), I wear a vest all the time that’s clearly marked PRESS and keep a tactical helmet, gas mask, and saline eye wash with me. It might be overkill, but it makes me feel safer, which keeps me relaxed and gives me the confidence to put myself in the situations where I can make the images I want to make and stay clear headed and calm. We all operate differently, so you need to find what works for you. …I mean, while I’m out in body armor, others are out in pants and t-shirts. We both make images. Do you.

By now, many of you have received the new Freelance Photographer Contributor Agreement from Dow Jones/Wall Street Journal. While the effective date is 2026, they are asking for signatures now.

After legal review and discussion, it is clear that this contract represents a significant step backward for freelancers. It introduces a “Work Made for Hire” clause and allows WSJ to sublicense our work to third parties for profit. They have said that they will increase the rate to $600, but we feel that is not given how much they gain from this contract as well as the increased demands for video and long hours.

Many of us have already sent individual responses, but there is power in numbers. We have drafted a collective letter to Lucy Gilmore and WSJ leadership asking them to pause the rollout and rewrite the contract with actual freelancer input.

Please read the letter below and share it widely with freelance colleagues. If you agree, please add your name to the list https://forms.gle/BZHh3nzYdFMS7a4V9 by midnight PST on December 23rd, 2025.

We value our relationship with the WSJ, but we need to stand together to ensure it remains sustainable.

Hello, colleagues.

The new WSJ freelance contract is yet another example of a national newspaper not compensating photographers fairly (not to mention the effects of inflation and ACA premium increases).

We’re writing to flag critical issues we should all be aware of before signing this new contract effective Jan 1, 2026. 

Afterall, the WSJ has no staff photographers. Freelancers and wires illustrate 99.99999999% of their stories.

We hope this can be an opportunity for the WSJ to do the right thing. We need to push back collectively on the WFH language and the rates by emailing Timmy Huynh (timmy.huynh@wsj.com) and DoP Lucy Gilmore (lucy.gilmour@wsj.com). Also please feel free to write to other WSJ photo editors or anybody else in the industry who should see it.
You can use the language below as a template. Add what you want and tweak what you want:

Template:
I have reviewed the new contract terms and would like to discuss critical concerns regarding the “Work Made for Hire” classification, sublicensing and the current rate structure.

1. Work Made for Hire & Copyright Structure: Section 1.2 classifies our work as “Work Made for Hire.” While I appreciate the subsequent clause assigning a joint interest back to the photographer, classifying freelance work as WMFH is legally problematic for independent contractors. It alters the fundamental authorship of the work and strips creators of rights under the Copyright Act. Proposal: If Dow Jones requires joint ownership, this can be achieved through a direct assignment of specific rights rather than a Work Made for Hire framework. I ask that the WMFH language be removed in favor of a standard assignment clause.

2. Compensation & Sublicensing: The move to a co-ownership model grants Dow Jones significantly more value — specifically the right to sublicense images to third parties (Section 1.3) without paying royalties to the photographer. This is a major departure from the previous contract, which allowed secondary market sales to generate revenue for the creator.

Furthermore, the base day rate has remained static despite inflation and increased scope, specifically:

* Video Demands: We are increasingly asked to capture video, which adds significant workload in the field and post-production.
* Hours: Day rates often do not account for days that stretch well beyond 8 hours.

To ensure this partnership remains sustainable, we need a review of the rate and sublicensing structure and copyright language. 

Decisions regarding rights, rates, and liabilities must include the voices of the people doing the work, particularly when a new contract fundamentally shifts so far from the previous agreement.

I strongly urge Dow Jones to pause the rollout of this contract and reconsider these terms by convening a working group of regular freelancers to assist in a rewrite. If you need assistance identifying a representative group of photographers, organizations such as Women Photograph or Diversify Photo would be excellent resources to help facilitate this conversation. 

This must be the standard for any impactful contract change in the future.