In the quiet, deliberate space of the archive, photographs are often treated as static relics—fossilized moments pinned under glass or buried in forgotten boxes. But for Julia Winckler, a photographer and Principal Lecturer at the University of Brighton, the photograph is never merely a record; it is a living, breathing instrument of inquiry. In her recent lecture, Winckler challenged the audience to reconsider the medium of photography, reframing it not as a passive documentation of the past, but as a dynamic, evolving practice that bridges the chasm between personal memory and collective history. Her work, which spans over two decades of cross-disciplinary research, argues that when we engage with archival material, we are not just looking back—we are actively constructing a bridge to the present.
The concept of "activating archives" sits at the heart of Winckler’s practice. She draws heavily on the notion of "postmemory"—a term describing the ways in which later generations relate to the personal and cultural trauma of those who came before them. This is not a detached, historical curiosity; it is an embodied encounter. Winckler shared the intimate story of the Hecker family suitcase, an object discovered in her own aunt’s attic, which served as a portal into a history that predated her own existence. By transforming such private, inherited collections into catalysts for public research, she demonstrates that history is not just found in the halls of museums, but in the domestic detritus of our own families. This movement from the personal to the institutional is a vital piece of strategic storytelling, one that invites others to find their own "strands" of history and follow them to wherever they lead.
Winckler’s commitment to community-led photography has taken her across the globe, from the arid beauty of Agadez in Niger to the high-density urban sprawl of Hong Kong. In the Stories from Agadez project, she worked alongside local Tuareg and Hausa community members, providing them with the tools to document their own lives, hardships, and achievements. Similarly, in the Through Our Eyes initiative in Hong Kong, the camera became an instrument of agency. These projects are a masterclass in cultural understanding; they reject the extractive tendencies of traditional photojournalism in favor of participant-led documentation. By allowing individuals to frame their own reality, these initiatives challenge the alienation that so often accompanies the reporting of "foreign" or "othered" cultures. They restore dignity to the act of being seen, proving that photography is most powerful when the subject is also the author.
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Beyond the sociological and historical, Winckler’s work probes the therapeutic and educational potential of the lens. Through collaborations with students on projects like Absent Loss, she explores how photography can act as a container for grief and identity. She highlighted the work of students such as Holly Oliver, who used the medium to "reinsert" absent family members into home spaces, effectively utilizing the image as a way to negotiate the presence of those who are gone. This is photography as an act of restoration—a way to fill the physical voids left by loss and to make the intangible feel, for a moment, tangible. This intersection of the personal, the therapeutic, and the academic provides a transformational framing of the image: it becomes a site where healing is not just a concept, but a practice.The act of "returning" images to their origin is another cornerstone of Winckler’s methodology. Whether documenting the demolition of neighborhoods in Toronto, the changing landscape of Paris, or the development of Crawley’s new towns, her research is deeply rooted in place-based inquiry. By taking archival photographs back to the very sites where they were created, she invites the community to engage in a dialogue with their own changing environment. In several instances, this engagement has led to the identification of subjects in photographs decades after they were taken—a literal "re-membering" of a community that had been scattered by urban planning and displacement. This is the photograph acting as a social glue, a way to recover lost threads of identity and reconnect the past to a current, evolving topography.
Winckler concluded her lecture with a powerful call to action, urging her audience to move past the idea that photography is a finished product. Instead, she posits that every photograph is a dynamic, ever-shifting element that gains new meaning every time it is viewed by a new set of eyes. By opening archives to new audiences—students, community members, and historians alike—we transform the silent image into a voice. This is the core of her philosophy: photography is a tool for solidarity, a medium for agency, and the most effective bridge we have to our shared human experience. Ultimately, Winckler’s work reminds us that we are all, in a sense, archivists of our own existence. Every image we capture or inherit is a potential conversation with the future. Her lecture was a powerful reminder that history is not a static monolith, but a fragile, shifting narrative that requires our active, thoughtful participation. When we treat photography with this level of emotional precision and intellectual rigor, we do more than document the world—we engage in the profound, necessary work of ensuring that what was once lost can, through the persistent act of looking and telling, be found again.
