Q&A: Photographing the Women of Svalbard with Catherine Lemblé

Rather than focusing her lens on glaciers, polar bears, and the northern lights, Lemblé documented the women who live and work in and around Longyearbyen—mechanics, researchers, guides—highlighting the human presence in a landscape often depicted as remote and forbidding. Shot on medium format film and shaped into a carefully sequenced book that includes historic archival images sourced from the Norwegian Polar Institute, the project quietly challenges how we imagine the far north's wilderness and communities, and who belongs within them.

Recently, we caught up with Lemblé to discuss gender narratives of the Arctic, photographing in extreme conditions, and the women at the center of her project.

What drew you to focus specifically on women living in Svalbard?

At first, I was interested in the contrast between the capital, Longyearbyen, and its surrounding wilderness. The town, with a population of around 2,600 people, is modern and comfortable, with restaurants, hotels, and a large supermarket. But the landscape beyond remains extreme. You can’t leave without a gun to scare off polar bears in the rare event that you encounter one, and even a short walk can lead to frostbite. I wanted to capture that contrast.

But during the lockdowns, I started reflecting more on the stories we tell about the Arctic. Most narratives are written by men and focus on conquering nature, while women rarely appear as central figures. When I read The Living Mountain by Nan Shepard, it resonated with me much more. She writes about the mountain as a companion, not something to overcome. I began questioning how both women and wilderness are framed, often through a similar territorial lens.

Who are the women you met while working on the project?

I actively sought out women who lived and worked there. For example, I photographed Mia, a mechanic in the coal mine, and Angie, a hotel employee from the Philippines. Others I met by chance, returning multiple times and spending a month each visit. In Svalbard, there is no indigenous population like in Greenland, Alaska, or Russia. You can’t be born there, because there’s no fully equipped hospital. For most of the women I met, moving to Svalbard was a conscious choice. They chose to start a new life there because they love the outdoors or because they saw better opportunities than in their home countries. Longyearbyen hosts residents from over fifty nationalities: I photographed a Filipino taxi driver, a Finnish researcher, a German artist, a Ukrainian guide, a French student.

What camera did you use?

I mainly brought a Pentax 6×7 with a 150mm lens. I like working with medium format because it’s essentially the same system as a 35mm camera, but you get more information in the negative and the depth of field is different. Shooting on film also beautifully translates Svalbard’s unique light. And color film is forgiving if you slightly overexpose, which works well with the brightness of the snow.

What challenges did you encounter photographing in such a harsh environment?

The Pentax 6×7 is heavy and only allows ten frames per roll, so you become extremely conscious of every shot. I wore thin gloves under thick mittens to change film, but every time you open the camera, there’s a risk it will freeze. That happened a few times, and there’s nothing you can do except go inside and wait for hours. On top of that, you’re completely dependent on the unpredictable weather and on people, who themselves are limited by the weather conditions. You could never count on a plan actually working.

The book itself feels very intentional as an object. How did you approach its design?

I wanted the book to reflect the place. The cover and essay are printed on cardboard, while the images appear on thin paper. This design captures both the harshness of the environment and the softness of Arctic light and the pastel tones. The images are printed on a single side, separated by a thin white sheet. Faint silhouettes of the following photograph subtly emerge through the page, creating a slower rhythm and evoking the sensation of moving through a snowstorm.

You include archival photographs of women at the end of the book. Why was that important?

Since the start of this project, I’ve been fascinated by memoirs of women who lived for a year or more in hunters’ cabins on Spitsbergen. I was equally intrigued by the few photographs in these books, such as Wanny Woldstad standing between two polar bears, or Christiane Ritter in front of her snowed-in cabin. Though they were a minority, their presence was significant. I wanted to highlight not only contemporary women but also those who lived and worked there before. Through the archive of the Norwegian Polar Institute, I discovered photographs and stories that moved me with their humor and perseverance. Some images came directly from descendants, like a photograph of Herta Grøndal—who overwintered there—shared by her daughter Eva, whom I met in Longyearbyen.

These historical images are printed on a different paper and slightly layered, echoing the idea of revealing and concealing—how certain histories remain partially obscured. Short biographies provide context. It is as a way of recognizing these lives and asking: who gets remembered, and why?

Which perspectives do you most hope to highlight with the book?

I want to challenge old patterns and show how we often feminize nature in language and imagery. A guide in Svalbard told me that some tourists react skeptically when she leads a snowmobile tour, but they don’t question her when she leads a dogsled tour, as if working with animals makes more “sense” for a woman, because she’s supposedly closer to nature. In the book, there’s an essay by author Abi Andrews that explores these themes. She highlights women’s stories in Svalbard and presents counter-narratives from authors like Ursula K. Le Guin, raising the question of what Arctic stories might look like if we stripped away the heroic romance.

Which moments have stayed with you most?

One memorable person is Sam, an American reindeer researcher. She travels several times a year to a remote cabin in a reindeer area, sometimes staying there for weeks. One time, I went with her to retrieve a collar from a deceased reindeer. We walked over 20 kilometers a day through snow with heavy backpacks—it made me feel how resilient and agile the body can be. We slept in cabins without water or electricity, melting snow over a gas stove, using candles and a wood stove. Yet, the story I tell is not about this dramatic wilderness. I was most interested in what life is like for women in Svalbard—how do they connect to this place and how does the environment shape their daily lives?

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