Pilar Aymerich never believes in chasing photographs the way Doisneau did, preferring a different rhythm: she goes out to fish for moments rather than hunt them. Her technique has always been precise—arrive at dawn, master the light, remain unseen, and wait. She carries a compact device, ready for demonstrations, and when confronted by force, she would slip to a corner to apply lipstick while the scene unfolded around her. Power is replaced with finesse, she would say. He might be recognized as a major photographer of social movements in the Catalan scene of the 1970s and 1980s, yet the collection now spans fifty years of snapshots, iconic portraits, memoirs, and the occasional candid confession. The book titled “Pilar Aymerich’s Barcelona” has just been released by Comanegra, available in bookstores today. An exhibition called “Los vintages de Pilar Aymerich” opens at the Rocío Santacruz Gallery, inviting viewers to revisualize the archive through a contemporary lens.”
What was it like to bring together fifty years of experience in one book? Photography, in this context, is a deeply personal pursuit. Those who dedicate their lives to the craft accumulate a private trove, while also acknowledging that they are stitching a chapter of the nation’s history. The process includes the rare returns of exiles and the fortunate chance to capture them. Many figures in the period soon faded from the frame, while Aymerich’s lens kept turning, preserving fragments of lives that might otherwise vanish.
Was there a favorite photograph among the vast body of work? The most meaningful moments came from reuniting Montserrat Roig, Fabià Puigserver, and other deportees from grim chapters of history, including Ferran Planes, Joan Pagès, and Joaquim Amat-Piniella. As the photographer posed each figure as if guiding them across a field, their expressions shifted in an instant, revealing the weight of past traumas while the present moment offered a fragile healing. A photograph of Montserrat pregnant, resting, and composing a piece about the deported remains one of the most powerful images, a reminder of fear for the unborn and the enduring pride of the mother.
Asked whether photography was shaped by a female gaze, Aymerich’s answer centers on honesty and responsibility rather than gender alone. The craft, she insists, is not about superiority but about the ethics of choosing which facets of reality to reveal. The power to alter perception rests with the photographer, and it is essential to avoid staging beauty at the expense of truth. Forging a candid connection with the subject, she notes, requires a self-imposed constraint: stay calm, avoid mockery, and honor the person in front of the camera.
She learned how to work alongside her uncle in France, absorbing a disciplined approach to color and technique. The influence shaped a meticulous habit: flawless negatives and ongoing improvement. A London loft exposed her to the sense of freedom she sought, initially linked to a dream of directing theater. Barcelona’s weathered streets felt grey and stifling at the time, a lure toward new horizons beyond the familiar city.
Montserrat Roig, portrayed on screen by Aymerich, appears again in the gallery of memories. The photographer acknowledges how her work is intertwined with the lives of those she depicted, especially where feminist movements of the Transition era left an indelible mark. Iconic scenes, like the mother with her child beside a poster declaring a bold message, endure as theatrical climaxes that reveal truths about an era when a woman found herself criminalized for her choices, facing years of punishment.
The image from Trinitat dam stands out as well. It captures a moment just after the sisters of Christ the King left prison, when the regime’s controlling gaze in the penal system was revealed: ban on trousers, censorship of letters, and punitive measures that infantilized inmates. Demonstrations pressed for female prison staff and, in 1978, saw the nun’s hold loosen. Behind the scenes, the prisoners learned to organize—kitchens, workshops, cleaning—turning hardship into a shared sense of agency.
Photographs taken at home reveal the person behind the lens. Aymerich’s archive also contains images of prisoners and children in difficult settings, a testament to photography’s capacity to restore identity. The photographer recalls encounters with people at pivotal moments, including a trans woman from Córdoba who was undergoing gender transition in 1979, a story she pursued with discretion and respect. The work here emphasizes revealing margins and unseen worlds with gentleness and clarity.
The Trinitat prison of 1978, among other scenes, completes a thread of healing through imagery. The portraits were never about sensationalism; they were attempts to humanize those who have been dehumanized by circumstance.
How does one perceive the late resurgence of movements like Montserrat Roig’s legacy? After his death, the figure drifted from public memory, but today a new generation discovers his work and claims it as their own. Aymerich notes that girls reach out, saying they read his writings, and that resonance continues to shape their identities.
What missing subject would she still like to photograph? Acknowledging unfinished chapters, she often says she would die with her boots on. Immigrant children, she believes, hold the future of the country, and she would like to give them a voice through her camera.
How does she view modern social platforms? She jokes about being a disaster with time, spending only minimal energy on one app, chiefly to view images of beloved cats. The essence remains unchanged: photography is a vehicle for memory, empathy, and a clearer sight of the world we share.
In the end, Aymerich’s body of work stands as a living archive—an archive that speaks to the resilience of people and the power of images to illuminate truth, even when the subject matter is painful or difficult to face. The fifty-year odyssey continues, inviting viewers to walk through the rooms where history is kept, one frame at a time.”
Photographer Pilar Aymerich at home.
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