Some places never really let you go, even when you wave goodbye at the airport as if you’re closing a chapter for good. The favelas of Rio de Janeiro, for me, are one of those places. I lived there long enough to understand that there’s no “final version” of what they are. They’re worlds that shift shape at every corner, depending on the hour, the light, the mood of the street. And when I think about them now, years after leaving Brazil, I realize how much my photos have changed… maybe even more than the favelas themselves.
Back when I lived in Rio, visiting the communities had become almost natural. The big ones like Rocinha, Complexo do Alemão, Vidigal… each with its own personality, rhythm, and soundtrack. I remember the tangled electric wires hanging overhead, the smell of churrasco mixed with exhaust fumes, the music bouncing off chipped walls. In the middle of that wild, beautiful chaos, I walked around with my camera, convinced I had to capture “everything.” I shot instinctively, without really asking myself what I was actually looking for.
When I look at those photos today, I can see a kind of haste I no longer feel. The curiosity was there, of course, but I didn’t yet understand the importance of the position I was photographing from. And that makes all the difference. Shooting in a favela isn’t like shooting in just any neighborhood: every image carries weight. Not just because of the subject, but because of the responsibility. Telling the story of a community that already carries so many stereotypes means being careful not to reinforce them out of laziness or superficiality.
The paradox is that, visually, favelas are irresistible. The light behaves in a strange way, squeezed between narrow alleys and improvised rooftops. The colors are never neutral: rust, bright blues, concrete, and the marks of time mix in a way no designer could recreate. And yet, today, visually “strong” photos wouldn’t be enough for me anymore. I’d look for images that tell a story without taking something away, that participate rather than extract.
If I went back now, I’d do it with a different kind of attention. I wouldn’t chase the dramatic shot—I’d look for the stories. I’d spend more time talking, listening. I’d look for the everyday moments: a woman rolling her hair at her doorstep, a child kicking a deflated ball, a young guy fixing a motorcycle in a dim alley. Small scenes I probably would have ignored back then, too focused on the idea of “documenting.”
With time, you realize that photography isn’t about having the right answer at the right moment. It’s about being present, and being respectful. Especially in places the world often insists on looking at from above. And maybe that’s what would draw me back today: the desire to photograph not just what I see, but what I’ve learned.
Rio is a city that dazzles and wounds at the same time. Its favelas even more so. But it’s precisely there, in that unapologetic complexity, that I learned photography is, above all, a conversation. And some conversations deserve to be continued—with new eyes, and a lot more respect.