Having made history by winning the Hasselblad Award, one of the world’s most prestigious photography prizes, SA visionary Zanele Muholi reflects on their journey of being consistent in unapologetically telling black queer stories through art.
What went through you when you won?
My first thought wasn’t “me” at all; it was all the faces I’ve photographed over the years. My people, especially our black communities. I thought of those from Umlazi who trusted me when we were still hiding, those who survived violence, and those still fighting to breathe freely today. My heart swelled up with this mix of gratitude and responsibility. I’m happy because “finally, the world is forced to see us properly.” This isn’t just an award for me; it’s proof that our lives have always mattered. It’s for every black child who dreams of becoming big.
What does the foundation calling you the most influential contemporary photographer mean?
Personally, it’s huge. This is one of the most important global recognitions in photography. It feels like someone finally said: “We see your labour, we see your love.” For the community, it means everything. Our stories are no longer footnotes or statistics. A young black queer child in a township can look up and see that their life and story are valued. This honour carries them back as much as it honours me.
Your work focuses on dignity and visibility for black queer lives. How does the win affirm that?
It doesn’t just affirm it, it shouts it. For over 20 years, I’ve been saying: “We exist, we love, we resist, we are full human beings.” Now the world’s biggest photography prize is saying the same thing back. Every portrait, every person who looked at my lens with dignity – this is their victory too. Visibility is survival. Refusing erasure is powerful enough to reach Sweden and return home stronger. The mission is working.
You’ve described your photography as both art and activism. How do you balance the two?
I don’t separate them. The art is the activism, and the activism makes the art honest. Every portrait is composed with care, light, framing, and gaze so people feel seen with dignity. I want joy, vulnerability, strength. Art without politics is empty; activism without beauty is preaching. I make technically strong images that carry the soul of love for my people. Visual activism is my life.
You’ve said this prize belongs to the communities you photograph. How have they shaped your work?
They shaped everything. Lesbians in the townships, trans siblings, black queer families... they taught me how to see. They co-created, corrected me when I got it wrong, and reminded me this isn’t my story alone; it’s ours. Every photograph must carry respect and protection. Without their courage and trust, I would be nothing. This prize is their mirror back to them.
Having grown up during apartheid, how did that period influence your storytelling?
Apartheid taught me that images are weapons. Black people were shown only as problems or less than. That pain planted something fierce in me. Whoever controls the image controls the narrative. Representation isn’t decoration; it’s power. Storytelling is survival. Every portrait I make is a refusal, a declaration that we will write our own history with dignity.
Later this year, your work will be showcased in a solo exhibition at the Hasselblad Centre in Gothenburg, Sweden. What can audiences expect?
Audiences will meet real people, not symbols or victims, but full, breathing human beings who have loved, laughed, fought and survived. Strength, tenderness, quiet power… It’s all there. New work will sit alongside older pieces from Faces and Phases and Somnyama Ngonyama; so the archive feels alive. I want people to leave seeing the beauty and strength of black communities. For those in the community, I want them to feel seen, held, celebrated.
