In the quiet spaces between light and shadow, Xènia Fuentes builds her world. A Barcelona-based artist whose lens turns inward as often as it looks outward, Fuentes’ work explores themes of duality, intimacy, and transformation. Through self-portraiture and careful choreography of space, she blurs the line between the observer and the observed, inviting viewers into moments that feel both deeply private and universally resonant.
Drawing inspiration from cinema, memory, and the subtle passage of time, Fuentes crafts images that are painterly in their atmosphere yet raw in emotion. Her photographs often unfold within the familiar walls of her home, where natural light and solitude become collaborators in her storytelling.
In this conversation, Fuentes reflects on her evolving practice, the interplay between vulnerability and control, and the ways in which photography becomes a mirror—one that captures not just who we are, but who we are becoming.
Your work often explores the idea of duality—being both the observer and the observed. How has this duality evolved in your practice over the years?
Self-portraiture emerged quite unintentionally. In the beginning, I was photographing my empty home. At the time, I lived in a modernist flat in the Raval district of Barcelona and was completely fascinated by the space and how light moved through it. Gradually, I began to include myself in the images—discreetly, distantly—like a quiet feminine presence. Over time, this became a more established way of working. There’s a duality, a kind of mirror game, of hidden identities. Sometimes you’re not sure which one is more real—the woman behind the camera or the one in front of it. You hope to discover it with every photograph you take, as if each image were a clue to a mystery waiting to be solved.
When you are both the photographer and the subject, how do you navigate vulnerability and control?
There’s always an element of control in photography, in any kind of photography. From the moment you decide what’s included in the frame and what’s left out, you’re already shaping it. In my case, since I work with movement, chance plays a big role. This means I often do long sessions and shoot a lot. I try to create the right conditions for a “happy accident” to happen—something beyond my control that might reveal vulnerability or fragility, but also strength, even a kind of violence. Ultimately, I’m searching for truth—within hundreds of images, I look for the one that distils something real.
Do you feel your self-portraits document who you are, or who you’re becoming?
Yes, in a way, they do. The process of self-portraiture makes you evolve, especially when nudity is involved. It’s something gradual—you begin to let go, little by little. The way you see your own body changes, which then affects you on a personal level and influences how you interact with your medium. Everything feeds back into itself.
How does your femininity influence the gaze in your work, especially when you are the one constructing it?
That’s a great question. You don’t usually think about it consciously. You don’t sit down and decide, “I’m going to express femininity in this image”—it’s just something that’s inherently there. It comes from lived experiences, from inherited culture, from various influences. Over time, you shape your own personality, and with it, your way of seeing the world. Photography, as a form of record, bears witness to that gaze.
You often use your home as a setting. What role does space play in your visual storytelling?
Initially, it played a major role. Now, it’s less dominant, though still present. What I’ve always wanted was to create atmospheres filled with a sense of mystery. That’s why I’ve always worked at home—it’s the space I know best, where I can observe the light closely. It’s where I live, where I spend my time. That’s why I try to live in spaces that inspire me and offer a sense of play and possibility.
How do everyday rhythms, like shifting light through the seasons, influence your creative impulses?
Because I always work with natural light, I’m completely bound to it. I observe it—we’re old friends. 🙂 I’ve been shooting in the same space for years. I’ve done so many sessions that I know the light in each room depending on the time of day and the season. I plan everything around it.
In portraying solitude, silence, or intimate transformation, what emotion do you hope the viewer is left with?
I try to create a feeling of intimacy. On more than one occasion, people have told me that, when looking at my images, they feel as if they’re watching someone in a private moment—almost like spying on a neighbour, in the spirit of Hitchcock’s Rear Window. A woman alone, in her home… and from there, questions arise: Who is she? What is she doing? I like that idea—and the multiple narratives that can emerge from it.
Do you begin with a concept or a feeling, or do you let the environment and your mood guide you in the moment?
I usually start with a concept, even if it’s not very defined. As I mentioned before, I try to create the right atmosphere, decide which elements I want to play with, and then build something as the session unfolds.
Your images often feel painterly. Do you draw inspiration from other art forms like painting, literature, or film?
I try to draw inspiration from different disciplines, but especially from cinema. I’m quite a cinephile—many of my references are filmmakers: David Lynch, Krzysztof Kieślowski, David Cronenberg, Ingmar Bergman, Wong Kar-wai… Cinema has always been a huge source of inspiration for me. My obsession with colour and lighting comes from there.
What role does post-production play in your process? How do you preserve the raw intimacy of your images while refining them?
There isn’t much post-production in my images. To be honest, I don’t usually spend a lot of time on it—it’s never really appealed to me. That’s why I try to create the colour and atmosphere during the shoot itself. I use filters, gels… it’s a very organic process.
Your work has been shown in Spain, the UK, France, and the Netherlands. How has it been received in different cultural contexts?
It’s actually been well received everywhere, which makes me very happy. 🙂
What did it mean to exhibit at a space like PhotoEspaña, and how do festivals shape your connection with audiences?
It was a great experience. Festivals tend to attract a wider, more diverse audience, and that’s always enriching. You get more feedback from people with very different backgrounds.
Among your solo shows, is there one that felt like a personal turning point?
The first one I did with the gallery I currently work with (Alzueta Gallery). The show was called The Woman Next Door. I think it’s an important body of work because it defined a style and introduced themes and obsessions that would go on to appear in later projects.
Your book Todos los muertos que me construyen (All the Dead Who Build Me) suggests a poetic, even existential lens. How does writing interplay with your visual work?
I love the idea of creating interdisciplinary projects. Writing offers possibilities that photography doesn’t—and vice versa. When you combine them, you can reach new places. Just like in photography, I work from a place of intimacy. In this case, the book explores the family album. I build a narrative around the hidden layers of memory that an image can hold or reactivate.
What themes are you still eager to explore, or what questions do you keep asking yourself through photography?
Right now, I’m still working with self-portraiture and movement, but I’ve started incorporating historical costumes traditionally associated with violence—clothing that has usually been worn by men. By using these garments, I aim to reinterpret them from a female perspective, challenging and subverting the symbols of power, war, and domination they represent. My intention is to renew the popular imagination—questioning historical gender roles and imposed constructs, giving these costumes new meaning through the female body.
If your body of work were a letter to your future self, what would you want it to say?
I’m not sure about the exact content, but I’d want it to be enigmatic and raw, stripped of anything superfluous. Something beautiful and direct, something that would shake me and make me think.
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