From January 17 until April 5, Efie Gallery presents the works of Aïda Muluneh — the Ethiopian photographer and artist.

Muluneh’s practice is deeply rooted in her home region of Africa. She is a strong advocate not only for greater representation of African and female artists, but also for the long-term development of photography across the continent — through education, institutions, and cultural infrastructure.

Listing all her awards and accomplishments would easily take another hour or two, so here is just one detail to give a sense of scale: in 2019, Aïda Muluneh became the first Black woman to co-curate the Nobel Peace Prize exhibition, returning the following year as a commissioned artist for the Prize.

In this conversation, we tried to cover as much ground as possible — no easy task. We spoke about how her journey began, the key ideas behind her latest exhibition "This Bloom I Borrow", how she navigates the misinterpretation of her work, and the ways in which she actively contributes to the growth of photographic education across the region. This is the story of an extraordinary woman — a compelling personality and an artist whose work leaves a lasting impression.

— What first drew you to photography?

— I first became drawn to photography in high school in Calgary, where we were fortunate to have a strong art department that offered photography classes. We even had access to a darkroom, thanks to a teacher who encouraged us to experiment freely. I still remember making my very first print — watching the image slowly emerge in the tray felt almost magical, and that moment sparked something that stayed with me.

— What kind of photography were you doing in those early days?

— I was in Grade 11 at the time and also an athlete — I played basketball — so naturally, my first subjects were basketball games and other school sports. Because I understood the rhythm and flow of the game, I could anticipate moments before they happened, which helped shape the way I photographed.

Around the same time, I was working exclusively with black-and-white photography, developing my own negatives and printing everything from scratch. That hands-on process taught me patience and discipline early on; it wasn’t just about taking pictures, but about understanding photography in its entirety.

— Before becoming an artist, you spent many years working as a photojournalist. What were you photographing during that period?

— I have worked across almost every category of photography. Early on, I spent about three years in a studio with its own lab, which gave me a strong technical foundation. At the same time, I was developing stories around representation, particularly focusing on people of colour and the African-American community.

Later, I began freelancing with The Washington Post, covering community news across different areas. That experience was where I truly learned photojournalism. Being part of that system gave me a much broader understanding of photography — not just as an image-making practice, but as a tool for communication, responsibility, and storytelling.

— Was there a specific story that stayed with you or sparked something deeper during that time?

— It wasn’t so much a single story as it was the people who guided me along the way. Mentorship played a huge role in shaping my path. One of the first people who deeply influenced me was Chester Higgins Jr., whom I approached after seeing his book In the Spirit. The work explored Black communities and the African diaspora through black-and-white photography and showed me that the medium was still powerful and deeply relevant — it didn’t need colour to carry meaning.

Another key figure was Dudley Brooks, an accomplished photojournalist and World Press winner, who helped introduce me to The Washington Post world. My studio and commercial experience, meanwhile, came from assisting a photographer Harley Little.

Looking back, my formation wasn’t academic in a traditional sense; it came from real-life experience — assisting, observing, and learning from photographers who were generous with their knowledge.

— You have mentioned that you don’t enjoy over-explaining your work, yet context clearly matters to you. How do you balance intention, interpretation, and impact in your work?

— For me, making work is a very conscious process — I know exactly what I am doing and why while I am creating it. But I have noticed that audiences often respond more to what they sense on a subconscious level than to my deliberate intentions, and I find that fascinating.

Art doesn’t have a single, fixed interpretation. Everyone brings their own experiences, memories, and emotions to an image. My role is to place my story into the work honestly. From there, the interpretation belongs to the viewer — and it is in that space between intention and interpretation that the real power of art exists.

I have said this before, and I genuinely believe it — the aim isn’t simply to be understood, but to be remembered. I want someone encountering my work, regardless of their background, education, or social position, to carry it with them in some way. Ultimately, that is what I think we should be striving for as artists: creating work that resonates across different layers of society and leaves a lasting impression, even if it is interpreted in many different ways.

— What has been the most unexpected or surprising interpretation of your work that you have encountered?

— What always surprises me is how children interpret my work. During museum exhibitions in the United States, there are often school visits, and sometimes children leave written notes or sketches showing what they see in each image.

These are young viewers who often have no prior knowledge of my culture, history, or background. They respond purely to what is in front of them, without context or expectation. That raw, instinctive way of reading the images has always stayed with me

— Have you ever felt frustrated when your work was interpreted “incorrectly” or in a way that felt uncomfortable?

— Honestly, no. Once a piece of work is released into the world, it no longer belongs solely to me — it lives with the people who encounter it. Everyone is entitled to their own interpretation, and I respect that.

My photography deliberately breaks many traditional rules. It isn’t meant simply to document reality; it is meant to show that photography can also be a creative, expressive tool. Across exhibitions, the responses I have had have been overwhelmingly positive.

— How do you personally know when a work is finished — when it feels right?

— Everything begins with a sketch. My work is planned and mapped out from the very beginning, so I already know what I am aiming for. From there, it is a process of refinement — making small adjustments in post-production, colour, or composition.

I approach my work much like a film. There is a script, a narrative, and an edit. Occasionally, a magical moment appears along the way, and if it serves the piece, I include it.

— Where do you find your models, and how do they fit into your creative process?

— The models come from different places — for example, Ethiopia and Côte d’Ivoire. They are cast specifically for each project and become part of a carefully controlled, constructed environment that allows me to express my ideas visually.

If you watch the Nowness video, it documents my process in detail and answers many of these questions visually. It shows how I work on set, how the images are built, and how intention shapes every element within the frame.

— Your decision to incorporate drawing into your photographs was influenced by the Armenian Boyajian family. What specifically caught your attention in their work?

— What first caught my attention was the tradition of hand-colouring black-and-white photographs — a practice that existed in Ethiopia and was also introduced through Armenian communities. When you look at photographs of the Ethiopian royal house from that period, many of them are beautifully hand-coloured.

That history fascinated me. I wanted to explore that space by stepping away from the digital world and moving towards a more extreme analogue process. It became a way of engaging with photography’s past while reinterpreting it through my own contemporary lens.

— A significant part of your practice focuses on African women. How would you describe the African woman today?

— I would describe the African woman today as deeply resilient, with a strength that is far greater than many people realise. Research, including work by institutions such as the UN, consistently identifies women as the backbone of society. They carry not only household responsibilities, but also cultural, traditional, and generational ones — preserving heritage while raising future generations.

While progress has undoubtedly been made, much remains unresolved. It is that tension — between movement forward and unfinished work — that I aim to articulate through the images and in the catalogue text.

The new collection continues to explore the same themes. At its core, this body of work is both personal and collective. It functions as a kind of diary — a record of my experiences, questions, and emotional landscape — while also bearing witness to the lives of women across Africa. The work draws on many influences, but is anchored in Mariama Bâ’s So Long a Letter, written in the 1970s and still profoundly relevant today. The book speaks to the condition of women in Africa, where life often unfolds between tradition and modernity.

— How long did it take you to develop this into your own visual language and recognisable signature style?

— It took a long time — and that is something many artists struggle with. Finding your own visual language doesn’t happen overnight. For me, that process truly began with an exhibition curated by Simon Njami, The Divine Comedy.

That exhibition set the trajectory for my work and helped me understand how I wanted to express myself visually. At that point, photojournalism was no longer enough for me. I needed a space where I could be more expressive, more abstract, and more personal in the way I communicated ideas.

— You mentioned at Efie Gallery that this was one of the first exhibitions where you genuinely loved every piece shown. Why do artists sometimes include works they feel unsure about?

— As artists, we have to be willing to be vulnerable. That means putting everything out there — both the stronger pieces and the ones we feel less certain about. Once I decide to build a collection, I commit to presenting it in full, because different people connect with works in different ways.

Every body of work has stronger and weaker pieces — that is simply the natural balance of things, and as artists we are usually aware of which works we believe carry the most weight. Still, it is often surprising: an image I personally love might receive very little reaction, while another resonates deeply with viewers.

With this particular collection, I felt confident in the entire journey. Each image carries its own distinct language and trajectory, which makes the exhibition experience quite unique when viewed piece by piece.

— There is a common belief that art must come from pain or grief. Do you agree with that?

— I don’t believe art comes only from pain or grief. For me, it begins with curiosity and questioning. It comes from introspection — from examining your own journey and experiences — and that is where the most authentic work tends to emerge.

Across my collections, there are many emotional layers — resilience, reflection, and different states of being. Human emotion naturally exists within art because art is an expression of what lives inside us. Ultimately, what matters most to me is authenticity.

— Many publications suggest that your work helps reframe global perceptions of the African continent. Do you feel that responsibility?

— My path isn’t necessarily the path for everyone. I am not only an artist — I also run festivals, teach, and operate a small printing facility. For me, impact isn’t only about how Africa is viewed from the outside, but about strengthening the ecosystem locally and emphasising the importance of visual communication on the ground.

I have been teaching since 2008, working with emerging talents across different parts of Africa. Diversity in visual language and storytelling is essential, and that responsibility cannot sit with a single voice alone.

— You have served on juries for many artist competitions. How do you assess the current contemporary art landscape, particularly for young artists?

— When you look at the numbers — especially for artists from the Global South, women artists, and women of colour — representation within museums and major institutions remains very limited.

At the same time, there has been a noticeable rise in contemporary art from the Global South entering international markets. This isn’t because these artists have only just started creating — they have always been making work. What has changed is curiosity. People are beginning to look beyond familiar centres.

Technology has played a role in that shift. In the past, artists had to physically send slides or prints simply to be seen; now, everything is an email away. As a result, many artists are building sustainable careers without ever exhibiting in museums or participating in art fairs. Social media has also contributed to this transformation — although there is still plenty of room for improvement.

— Why is education such a central part of your practice?

— If we want to challenge misrepresentation, we have to educate people to tell their own stories. That urgency is very real. International media still often portrays Africa in outdated, reductive ways — focusing almost exclusively on struggle and suffering.

But there is also hope, youth, and energy driving change, and those narratives deserve to be documented and archived as well. That is why I teach photojournalism — because recording the present is vital for the future. It has also what pushed me to found Addis Foto Fest and later Africa Foto Fair.

My teaching spans many levels and disciplines. I have worked with emerging photojournalists, schoolchildren using mobile phones to document their neighbourhoods, and even medical professionals. For me, photography isn’t just an artistic tool — it is a way of opening conversations and shifting perspectives.

— What do you hope visitors take away from experiencing your work at Efie Gallery?

— I hope visitors come away understanding that photography isn’t a single form or fixed language — it is a creative tool with many possibilities. I also hope it encourages people to look more closely at creativity emerging from the Global South, not just through my work, but through the work of many others as well.

We are telling our own stories, histories, and cultures, using our own visual languages. Ultimately, that is what I hope stays with people.