A vision: Lufuno Ramadwa, producer at the Muholi Art Institute, which co-hosted the conference at The Market Square in Newtown, Johannesburg.
When I first heard that the Muholi Art Institute, an institute founded by renowned photographer Zanele Muholi, in partnership with The Market Photo Workshop and the Ruth Motau Photo Mentorship, would be hosting the Black Women in Photography (BWP) Conference, I knew it would be something more than an event.
Scheduled for 21–23 August at The Market Square in Newtown, Johannesburg, this gathering feels like a reckoning, a homecoming and a declaration all at once.
At its heart lies an isiZulu proverb: izandla ziyagezana, “the hands wash each other”.
It is an ethic of reciprocity, of care, of collective responsibility. In an industry that too often isolates artists and pits them against each other for survival, this principle carries a radical charge. It says: ‘“We rise together.”
For Lufuno Ramadwa, producer at the Muholi Art Institute, this spirit is more than metaphor; it is practice.
“For me, izandla ziyagezana is a reminder that we rise by lifting each other. The industry often makes us feel like we have to compete for crumbs but I believe there is more than enough light to go around.
“Sharing resources, knowledge and opportunities makes this work more nourishing because when one of us grows, the whole community grows.”
Her words echo the conference’s intention: to create a nourishing ecosystem for black women photographers.
Under the visionary leadership of Zanele Muholi, a globally acclaimed artist, activist and Market Photo Workshop alumna, the BWP Conference will centre the voices of black women, while demanding structural change in the field of South African photography.
It is no small task. For decades, the images, stories and legacies of black women photographers have been erased, undervalued or appropriated.
The conference insists that this erasure must end and that the future of photography must be written differently — through care, through collaboration, through unapologetic visibility.
One of the central pillars of the conference is mentorship, specifically, how to build mentorship that liberates rather than exploits.
Ramadwa is clear-eyed about the dangers: “I have seen how mentorship can sometimes be exploitative, where young people give so much but do not get protected.
“I want to create pathways that feel safe and generous, where the next generation of black women photographers can be guided without being controlled.
“Mentorship should leave you more free, not more bound.”
These words carry weight in an industry where power often flows one way, from the young to the established, without reciprocity. The BWP Conference seeks to flip this dynamic. Mentorship here is about protection, generosity and trust. It is about leaving doors open behind you, not closing them.
The conference also acknowledges a truth often ignored — that photography is not just art, but labour of heart and body. Documenting trauma, injustice and the everyday wounds of society can take a toll.
Ramadwa does not shy away from this duality.
“Photography has been both healing and heavy for me. Carrying other people’s stories, especially stories of trauma, can take a toll.
“Personally, I check in with myself and I rest when I need to.
“Collectively, I think we need spaces for debriefing and healing together. It is possible to tell hard truths while also holding space for our own well-being.”
Here lies one of the BWP Conference’s most powerful contributions: it recognises that artists must also be cared for. The work of telling the truth must not consume the people who do it. Healing, rest and community debriefing are not luxuries but necessities.
Safety, whether physical, emotional or professional, is another pressing concern. In a world where black women are disproportionately vulnerable, safety is foundational to creative freedom.
“Black women deserve safety in every sense, physical, emotional and professional,” Ramadwa says. “That means contracts that protect us, environments free from harassment and resources to work without fear.
“Creative freedom cannot exist without safety and I believe that must be treated as a right, not a privilege.”
This demand is uncompromising: safety is not optional. For too long, black women photographers have navigated dangerous spaces whether in the field, in institutions or within exploitative contracts. The conference names safety as a right.
Much has been written about “visibility” for marginalised groups. But visibility alone is not enough. To be seen without being resourced, to be showcased without being compensated, is another form of exploitation.
Ramadwa names this clearly: “The barriers are deep: gatekeeping, lack of access to funding and being tokenised instead of truly included. For me, true visibility is not just being seen. It is being resourced, published, exhibited and remembered in history on our own terms.”
Here, visibility expands into something more durable: ownership, preservation, legacy. The BWP Conference recognises archives as acts of survival.
“If we do not protect our own stories, they get erased or stolen,” Ramadwa insists. “I believe in community-owned archives where we keep our work in our hands, both digitally and physically. That way, our legacies are not just preserved but also controlled by us.”
This vision extends beyond the three-day programme. The Muholi Art Institute plans to integrate women’s photographic archives into school curricula, ensuring that future generations grow up seeing themselves reflected in visual history.
None of this exists without the groundwork of Zanele Muholi. Their career has been one long insistence on visibility, dignity and truth — documenting the lives of black LGBTQIA+ communities, insisting on images that resist erasure.
For many, Muholi is not just an artist but a guide, showing what photography can do when wielded as love and resistance.
“Being part of a movement shaped by Zanele Muholi feels humbling,” Ramadwa reflects.
“They have shown us that photography is love, resistance and truth. For me, carrying their vision forward means remembering this is bigger than me.
“It is about all of us building something collective and lasting.”
While rooted in Johannesburg, the BWP Conference speaks across oceans. The struggles of black women photographers in South Africa are similar to those faced all over the world — in Nigeria, in Brazil, in the US, in the Caribbean.
“I hope that women across the diaspora hear our stories and feel less alone,” Ramadwa says. “Our struggles mirror each other, but so do our dreams. This conference is a reminder that even if our geographies are different, our fight for recognition and dignity is shared.”
This global resonance transforms the conference into something larger than itself — a node in a worldwide movement of cultural resistance and self-determination.
And so, what of the young black woman picking up a camera for the first time? The one who wonders if her perspective matters, if her story has weight?
Ramadwa offers words which function like a compass:
“Your eye matters and your story matters. Do not wait for permission. The world needs the way you see. Protect your vision, trust your instincts and know you are not alone.
“There is a community walking with you.”
In the end, the BWP Conference cannot be confined to the word “conference”. It is a gathering, yes. But it is also a reclamation of history, a building of futures, a rewriting of the terms of belonging in photography.
It is the hands washing each other — izandla ziyagezana — in action. A vision where black women are not just seen but sustained, not just included but celebrated, not just present but remembered.
Because when one hand washes another, both emerge clean.
When one woman rises, so does the whole community. And when black women photographers tell their stories on their own terms, the world itself sees differently.