At a time when photography feels disposable, Juanita Richards’ work insists on care, presence, and feeling. In sunlit shorelines, stone-strewn villages, and surf gatherings, she captures not only what she sees but also how she feels. And in doing so, she offers something rare: photographs that don’t just document life, but honour it. For photographers like her, photography is not just about flashy lights. “It’s about feeling,” she says. “About connection.” This clarity of thought seems to have arrived early, an understanding that her camera could be a conduit not just for images but for creating presence, care, and conversation. Juanita’s journey as an image-maker has always been rooted in people: their gestures, their laughter, the grain of their skin or the flicker of fabric in the sea breeze. It is also due to the aforementioned creative process that Juanita easily moves between portraiture, documentary, and fashion. Frame to frame, there’s a through-line of warmth and humanity. “I take the truth and depth from documentary,” she explains, “and layer in elements of beauty and stylisation from fashion.” The result is imagery that feels both editorial and intimate, carefully composed yet emotionally raw, with evidence that Juanita is acutely aware of how Blackness has historically been framed in photography, especially in Western media. “So often we’re only shown through a lens of struggle or trauma,” she says. “But there’s everyday beauty, humour, tenderness — and those deserve space too.” Her work honours this fullness. It’s not about erasure of pain but the radical act of foregrounding joy, ease, and community.

Before picking up her camera, Juanita asks, “How would you like to be seen?”, a simple question, but one that shifts the dynamic of image-making entirely. It allows for agency, for collaboration, for people to offer their own vision of themselves. That sensitivity is visible in how she balances solitude and community within the same frame. In a single series, one might find images of collective play, sun-drenched afternoons with kids leaping into waves, alongside quiet portraits of lone figures in reflective pause.  Another hallmark of Richards’ visual language is her relationship with environment and texture. She describes herself as a tactile person, drawn to the curve of a weathered wall, the sheen of wet skin, the softness of fabric moving in the wind. “The environment isn’t a backdrop,” she insists. “It’s part of the story.” Her photographs often feel physically present, layered with dust, salt, sweat, and heat.

There’s also a conscious optimism threading through her work — what she calls seeing the world through “rose-tinted glasses.” Far from naivety, this is a deliberate politics of tenderness. Especially when working within underrepresented communities, Richards wants to reflect the joy, style, and vitality that’s always been there. “Not to add beauty,” she says. “But to reveal it.”

As her practice expands, Richards remains rooted in this ethos. A forthcoming book project will translate her images into print matter, a tactile continuation of the closeness and texture that defines her work. “Holding photographs matters,” she says. “It reminds you these aren’t just images, but lived lives.”

What’s one question about your photography journey you wish people would ask more often?

“What fulfills you most?”
“What makes your heart sing?”
“When did you realise this is what you were meant to do, that there was no other path?”

That moment of clarity is something I think about often. Photography for me has always been about the people I capture, the connection, about feeling. That’s what fulfills me.

Your work respects both solitude and community, often in the same frame. How do you navigate that balance?

Great question. I’m always sensitive, always seeking to make people comfortable — whether they’re alone or surrounded. Community is personal to me. The collective often welcomes me into their space, and I don’t take that for granted. I usually start wide, capturing the group in its natural setting, letting things breathe. I observe who naturally gravitates toward whom, then gradually move closer, physically and emotionally, to tease out intimacy. Whether I’m photographing an individual or a group, the process starts with conversation. I ask, “How would you like to be seen?” I listen first. Shared understanding is the foundation. With collectives, I might step back more and let life unfold, but the principle is always the same: care, respect, and presence.

Across fashion, documentary, and portraiture, what are the visual or emotional through lines in your work?

Feeling is always at the forefront. I’m looking for a moment, something honest, emotional, even within harder or more complex subjects. My work always holds a sense of optimism. Even when the context is complicated or the subject is heavy, I try to hold space for tenderness. There’s always light — I look for it, and reflect it. I like to imagine a documentary on one end and fashion on the other — and I sit somewhere in the middle. I take the truth and depth from documentary, and layer in elements of beauty and stylisation from fashion. To me, it’s more exciting and how my subjects deserve to be seen, in this lively manner. I’ve trained myself to see the world through rose-tinted glasses, maybe even naively at times, but I think there’s value in that. Especially when telling stories of underrepresented communities, I want to bring out the beauty that’s always been there — not add it, but reveal it. I’m drawn to yellows, warmth, natural light, and the outdoors. I want people to feel joy and softness when they look at my work — a sense of life, of familiarity, of care.

Your imagery shifts from candid everyday moments to more sculptural, composed visuals. How do you choose your visual language?

Intuition is key, but that intuition is shaped by my lived experience, values, and beliefs.
It’s less about planning, more about responding. I trust the energy in front of me. A safe, comfortable lens is essential. How the subject feels is always my responsibility. It’s never just about the image. It’s about the connection that leads to it. I’m not trend-driven or focused on capturing endless frames. I wait for something honest to surface, and then I move with it. My movement becomes part of the moment. Shifting, circling, responding. It keeps the energy alive, spontaneous, and engaged. There’s a natural freshness that comes from staying present and physically involved. The way I move allows the moment to breathe. It opens space for subtle shifts, for something real to unfold. I’m drawn to images that feel lived-in and emotionally present, not overly rehearsed or overly constructed. The medium is photography, but what matters most is people, feeling, and culture. That always comes first. What I’m really doing is creating a space where people can be seen as they are — even within a stylised or composed setting, the emotion and truth always lead.

Of the images you shared, which one is your favourite, and why?

The photo of the surf girls under the tree. It’s raw and unforced. I gave gentle direction, then stepped back and let the moment unfold naturally. That’s my favourite way to shoot, creating the space, then letting the energy shape itself. A close second is the cropped portrait of the little girl looking up at the camera. It’s actually taken from that same scene with the surf girls. There’s something so pure in her gaze. That quiet intensity and openness is what I always hope to catch the small, still moments within something larger and alive.

The textures in your outdoor portraits — stone, skin, fabric — carry as much narrative weight as your subjects themselves. What role does the environment and natural materials play in your creative process?

Environment is everything. It shapes the energy of the image, feeds spontaneity, and allows me to see the full frame with clarity and intention. The surroundings are never just a backdrop. They are part of the story I’m telling. I’m drawn to what feels natural and unforced. The way light filters through trees, the curve of a stone wall, the softness of fabric in motion. These elements hold mood and memory. They help me build images that feel grounded and alive. I’m fascinated by texture. I’m a tactile person. I need to feel things. And I want my images to carry that same depth and physicality. I want them to feel crafted, not flat or overly polished. Texture adds that extra layer. It brings the viewer closer. It makes the image feel real, lived in, touchable. That’s why my upcoming book is such an exciting step. Seeing the work in print, holding it, turning the pages. It reinforces everything I value in my process. It’s a continuation of how I shoot — close, textured, human.

There’s an unforced tenderness in your images of Black life, whether it’s a street scene or a social gathering. How conscious are you of framing your subjects in ways that resist spectacle while honoring their presence and stories?

There are so many Black communities and subcultures that exist outside of the classic narratives we’re used to seeing. Especially in Western media, Blackness is so often shown through a narrow lens, usually focused on struggle, trauma, or clichés. I try to honour Blackness authentically and joyfully. Not by ignoring the pain, but by showing the fullness of life. The everyday beauty, the intimacy, the humour, the pride. These are stories that deserve to be told just as much. Take the Caribbean, for example. That series came from a place of love and a deep desire to reframe how those communities are seen. There are so many rich, layered subcultures in the Caribbean that have yet to be celebrated. I wanted to shift the narrative, to spotlight what’s often overlooked and give it the visibility it deserves.