Interview by Erika Giulietti
All Images © Valentine de Villemeur
Valentine de Villemeur is an artist and photographer based in Paris. She works with film, often in medium format, documenting everyday life, its stories and details.
After completing a project in Ireland, entitled Heritage, which has been exhibited several times and in which she explored the link between individuals and their territory, she has now turned to a more introspective approach with “I’ve always wanted to be a mom,” her first autobiographical project. Through this intimate and poignant series, Valentine de Villemeur delivers a personal narrative, inspired by her own experiences. Between hopes and uncertainties, she recounts the ups and downs of her journey toward motherhood. Between the joy of an expected pregnancy and the unspeakable pain of loss, to the fragile hope of a new attempt through IVF.
By capturing the invisible and the intimate, Valentine de Villemeur invites us to reflect on a subject that is still too rarely discussed: reproductive assistance. With her sensitive gaze, amplified by her work with film photography, she captures the depth of emotions that mark this journey. Each image tells a story, between strength and fragility, driven by the deep desire to become a parent.
Undoubtedly her most personal project, “I’ve always wanted to be a mom” is a moving series that explores the desire for motherhood in all its forms.
Erika Giulietti (EG): In your work, images seem to carry what often remains unspoken. How did you find the balance between what you chose to reveal and what you decided to protect?
Valentine de Villemeur (VdE): There are several answers to this first question. When I started this project, I had just lost my first baby, and I was trying to show that loss. But showing loss is very difficult, because it’s a feeling; it’s like photographing something that isn’t physically there — it’s absent, yet obviously present within me, in what I feel. I wanted to make that visible, but it was hard to express.
Then I went through IVF and eventually the birth, and I was trying to draw a line between what I wanted to show and what I didn’t want to show. For the birth, it was “easy,” in a way: I didn’t want to show my baby. I shared a few photos of her on Instagram, but her face is never visible. I didn’t want her to be the subject.
At the same time, when she was hidden — still inside me — it was difficult to decide what I wanted or didn’t want to reveal. And, funnily enough, I’m someone who is a bit shy, a bit reserved. Turning the camera toward myself was difficult at first. I tried to show what I was experiencing without putting the camera directly on my face: only my hands, the inside of my fridge, my home… showing what I was going through. You see parts of my body, but I tried not to put all of me in the frame, like my face.
Not showing my face also became a way to allow others to see themselves in the images, because I’m sure many people have gone through something difficult like I did. When I was working on this project, I felt very alone and wished I could see other stories, other images of what people were experiencing with IVF or loss. It was hard to find anything like that.
So I continued working with the intention of showing what I hadn’t been able to find. I wanted to create something so that someone could see my work and think: “Oh, this is exactly how I feel.” That was another reason why I didn’t want to show everything and wanted some things to remain implicit.
My story is unique, but everyone’s story around these themes is both universal and unique at the same time. There are parts that will never be identical from one story to the next. That’s also why I wanted to show some things and not show others — if that makes sense.
(EG): I’ve Always Wanted to Be a Mom weaves together photographs, personal archives, medical documents, and handwritten notes. How did this interplay of materials shape the narrative and its emotional depth?
(VdV): It’s funny because while I was going through IVF — while it was happening in real life — I was photographing everything, looking at the pictures, the documents, collecting whatever was happening, and I was doing it mainly for myself. It was a kind of therapy, which also relates to the first question about showing and not showing: it was primarily for me. When I put everything together, after a while, I thought: “This could help others.” So I began to consider the project as a book.
Keeping the documents was strange, because I never knew when I might need them. So I kept everything. And as the idea of turning it into a project grew, I thought: “Maybe this will be useful material.” That was another reason to hold onto them.
Writing things down was a way of having proof that what I was experiencing was real. Writing every day — “This happened today” — helped me not think I was imagining it. It was real. And I thought that if I ever had a baby one day, it would be beautiful to show them everything I had written, to tell them: “This is your story, this is what happened, what your father and I went through.”
I’m not someone who writes daily: I don’t keep a diary. I like writing when I travel — little collages, a visual journal. And in a way, this was a kind of journey that I ended up documenting.
While I was in the middle of IVF, treatments, appointments, creating this project kept me afloat. The goal of the day wasn’t “I hope it works and I’ll have a baby,” but rather: “Today we do this treatment, we take a photo, we remember what happened.” It was therapeutic.
We did two IVF cycles. After the first one failed, we had to wait, and during that time I looked at what I had done already and thought: “There is something here. Let’s keep going and see where it leads.” It became a work in progress collected during that season of my life.
During that period, it was my way of surviving. When you want a baby, even naturally, it can be difficult: waiting, wondering what will happen. After a loss, it’s even harder. Documenting, photographing, keeping everything is what helped me keep going.
I think everyone should do something like that when going through something difficult — not necessarily something creative, but something that helps you feel okay and work through the hardship. For me it was this, and in the end it became something more: not a “beautiful memory,” of course, but a memory that shaped me and made me who I am today.
(EG): The series moves through three essential stages: loss, IVF, and a new pregnancy. How did you work to make visible the inner continuity of an experience that, in real life, unfolds through ruptures, pauses, and restarts?
(VdV): What helped me was writing and continuing to take photos. But I didn’t photograph every day: sometimes it was too difficult, so I let it go, and came back to it later. When I realized that important images were missing, I sometimes recreated moments, and that helped me build a timeline.
Some moments I simply couldn’t photograph. For example, the day of the embryo transfer. I was on the chair, and I asked my husband to take a picture, but it was too dark, with many flaws. Artistically useless, but sentimentally very important.
We had two transfers: the first failed, the second worked. Knowing the first hadn’t worked — and that the photo hadn’t worked — was interesting, almost metaphorical. I learned to let go, to accept the moment, the stress, the hopes. Some things you cannot show, but you can tell them through text.
In this project I learned: here I want to show, here I want to tell. And make everything work together.
(EG): Many of your images have a tonal softness that seems to slow down time. Did this visual delicacy emerge organically, or was it a deliberate choice to hold the vulnerability of the story?
(VdV): That’s a beautiful question. It also relates to the question about film choice. I used a medium format camera: only 12 frames. This limitation wasn’t an obstacle — I like that kind of restriction. But I knew I had only 12 images, and that the project itself was slow, because the timeline was slow. Two years of life. You don’t shoot every day.
It was a combination: the restriction of the camera, the cost of film, and the fact that you cannot “push” beyond what you’re experiencing as a human being.
So yes, it was deliberate. It was a delicate subject: now that I have a daughter, I look at the project with many emotions — positive and sad. IVF is hard, loss is hard, pregnancy after loss is full of fear. I didn’t want to show all that in a raw way: I wanted to show it poetically, softly, beautifully.
Many people who saw the project suggested more “press-like,” more documentary approaches, even photographing other women or couples going through IVF too. All valid suggestions. But it didn’t reflect who I am. For this project, involving others while I was still going through the process myself felt complicated.
I felt this project had to be what it needed to be for me: soft, peaceful, slow — not with an aggressive or harsh aesthetic. Its form was my form.
Sometimes it’s difficult to know where to go with a project. Here, because it was so intimate, I knew it had to be this way. When I received outside feedback, it was useful, but inside I felt it wasn’t what I wanted. I kept photographing while waiting for guidance, and eventually I understood on my own: “This is what I want to do, and this is how it should be.”
I wanted to show it in a soft, tender way because yes, going through all this is difficult, but I still had hope, and hope is beautiful. I think that’s what made everything possible: the project, the book, the hope of having a baby, which kept me motivated each morning to go to appointments, take photos, and so on. And returning to your previous question: that’s why I kept everything, that’s why I documented it this way. Because I want people, when they see it, not to feel tenderness for me, but tenderness for themselves. I want them to think: “I feel much better because this is exactly how it is, and it can be beautiful in its own way.”
I wanted to show it in an artistic way. For this project, I felt that if I had shown it in a too harsh or “red” way, it wouldn’t have conveyed how I feel or how I see it.
(EG): After exploring the relationship between individual and territory in Heritage, this project turns the territory into yourself. What did you discover about your artistic identity in shifting from documenting what is “outside” to what is profoundly “within”?
(VdV): It’s funny — I’m glad you asked, because as I said earlier, I’m a shy, reserved person. I believe a photographer’s path isn’t only about talking about themselves, but about everything they see and feel. That’s how I’ve always worked. My project Heritage, in Ireland, was a great project for me and I really enjoyed doing it.
I’m curious about everyday life, and that’s what I question in my projects. I was curious about Irish culture and celebrations, so I went and photographed them. This 180° shift — photographing myself and my own life — happened by chance.
It happened because I had a pregnancy that couldn’t continue. Then I started IVF, and during that time I felt alone, lost. I was younger too, so I didn’t understand what was happening. Everything happened fast, and I had to act fast. I tried to digest it, listened to podcasts, read books, but no story felt like mine. I was looking for something that resembled what I was going through, so I wouldn’t feel alone… you know what I mean?
When I couldn’t find it, I thought: “Where are the photographers? Am I the only one?” Now I see many projects about motherhood or different paths to having a baby, and I’m happy to be part of that. But back then, there wasn’t much. So I thought: “Okay, I can’t find what speaks to me. How can I create it at least for myself?”
It was my therapist who suggested it. After losing my first baby, I was trying to cope, and she said: “You’re a photographer. Why don’t you take pictures?” At first it felt silly. But then I started walking, photographing trees, flowers — nothing and everything — and it made me feel better. And then I thought: “Why don’t I see others doing this? I need to do it myself.” I started shooting every day, writing, documenting. Many of these early photos aren’t in the book, but the process made me realize I could talk about myself without showing what I didn’t want to show.
Since then I’ve understood that intimacy — in a broad sense — is an artistic theme that interests me. I don’t know if I’ll have another series this intimate, but now I know I want to explore the subject more.
I want to explore — not only myself, but other projects too. I have some ideas I’m starting, but nothing certain yet. I don’t want to make only intimate projects; I want to continue the line of Heritage as well. Now I have two directions I love. It’s great, because if all this hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have discovered this side of my art. It was hard to live through, but looking back it’s also a blessing: I discovered something new about myself and my way of working. Making something good out of the bad.
(EG): Analog photography involves slow rhythms and precise rituals. Did this way of working influence how you processed and lived through the events described?
(VdV): Yes. As I was saying, having a limited number of frames or rolls is a constraint I really enjoy, because it forces me to think more about what I’m photographing. And what I truly love — especially for this project — is that since you have to develop film, you can’t see the images immediately. So I can pour all my emotions into the work, and then I look at it a week or two later, when the immediate emotional impact has softened a bit. Seeing myself from a distance helped me enormously in developing the project, because photographing myself allowed me to see how I was changing and how I felt in that period, even if the images were only a few days old.
During IVF you go through constant highs and lows, incredibly intense emotions. Working with analog allowed me to channel all of that into the images, and then give myself time to look at them again. Sometimes it was very hard, because many photos show sadness or fragility, and seeing them again hurts. But at the same time, that’s what makes them strong. I’m not saying that because it’s my work: I’m saying it because the real emotions are clearly visible in them. And that was exactly my goal: to show what truly happens “behind closed doors,” to help people understand what others go through during such a journey and how they can be supported.
I sometimes work with digital as well, but for me it would be difficult to force myself not to look at the images right away. With film I feel a different kind of responsibility: I know I have only 12 frames, and that makes me far more intentional. It’s part of the process.
I started with digital when I was younger, but since getting my first film camera I’ve almost stopped using digital, except for practical needs. For example, now I photograph my daughter a lot: she moves quickly, so a fast digital shutter is more convenient! But for personal projects I much prefer analog: I love the slowness, the waiting, and the fact that you can’t control everything immediately. It makes me more intentional.
For this project, it was simply the right medium. I had no doubts: I picked up the camera I always use and started.
(EG): The cover features a moment of rupture—an emotional self-portrait in tears. What was the process that led you not only to take that image, but to choose it as the threshold through which viewers enter the book?
(VdV): It’s interesting, because at first I didn’t want to show it. It’s a raw emotion: I’m crying, and it’s an extremely vulnerable moment. We had just received the result of the first transfer, and it didn’t work. I wasn’t pregnant. And even though I knew I shouldn’t get my hopes up too high, in that moment it felt like hitting a wall. I started crying and couldn’t stop.
I don’t know what came over me, because I usually don’t photograph myself in moments like that. But I felt the need to. I thought: “One day you’ll have your happy ending, your positive test. And you’ll need to remember this moment too. Remember where you started.” I’d been documenting everything for weeks, and if I truly wanted to tell my IVF story, then I had to tell all of it, even when it hurt.
I set up the tripod, arranged the camera, and took the shot. It’s the only photo I have of that moment. I have a love–hate relationship with this image: I love it because it’s honest and shows the truth, but I hate it too because it’s my deepest pain crystallized in one frame.
Choosing it as the cover came later. The project is called I’ve Always Wanted to Be a Mom, and this image perfectly embodies the desire to become a mother at the exact moment when I wasn’t one. It’s the purest, most stripped-down form of that desire. And it was the most honest way to open the book.
Now, when I see it in people’s hands, in bookstores, at events, I feel I made the right choice. And oddly enough, the fact that I now have short hair while in the photo it’s long creates a distance that helps: that’s the me of that moment. It’s a fragment, not all of me.
(EG): Many people experiencing IVF or perinatal loss speak of a deep sense of isolation. To what extent has sharing this project become a bridge toward others?
(VdV): I’ve received many messages. Several people wrote to me that they bought the book to give it to someone going through IVF, as a gesture of support. One person said: “I’m going through almost the same experience. I have a genetic condition. I was looking for a work that reflected my story and couldn’t find anything until I saw yours. It made me feel less alone.”
That means so much to me. It’s exactly why I started the project: because I wished I had found something like it when I was in the middle of this journey. Knowing that my work now helps others… gives meaning to everything. It’s not for nothing. And I hope to organize more events in the future, because I know so many people have stories to share, and feeling less alone makes an enormous difference.
(EG): The book contains meaningful silences: black pages, handwritten words, absences. How did you think about the presence of “emptiness” as an active part of the narrative?
(VdV): Emptiness is fundamental, especially in the first part of the book. After the loss, you feel it physically and symbolically. It’s difficult to photograph, but it was important to try to give it a shape. Even as the series moves forward, the emptiness remains, even if it transforms: with the new pregnancy I focused on the future, but that presence continues to live inside me. My first baby still has a place in the project and in my life.
Expressing all of that visually is complicated, so partly I did it through writing. Words sometimes reach where images cannot. Over time the project became a weave of photography and text, and that helped me give voice also to the silences.
You feel it especially at the beginning. Playing with light was a good way to express it. I worked on that a lot.
Otherwise, I expressed it more in my words: saying that I wish he were here, that I miss him deeply. It’s a way of acknowledging his presence through his absence. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it was important for me to show it because it’s part of the story. I actually dedicated this book to my son and my daughter, because he is part of who I am and part of how the project was born. If my first pregnancy had gone well, I don’t think I’d be here talking to you about this project — you know what I mean? He is here, and at the same time not physically here. Including him was my way of honoring him, and it was important. I’m grateful I have the chance to talk about him.
(EG): Now that this project exists publicly and is no longer solely a personal process, does its life outside of you influence your outlook toward future work?
(VdV): Of course it does. In a way — it’s strange to say — it gave me a form of closure. When I started working on the book, my daughter had just been born, and when it was published — I think the following week — she turned one. So to me, this book is like a third baby.
At the same time, it gives me closure because now it exists physically: I can open it and see my story, say: “This is what happened,” and then I can literally close it and put it on the table and not look at it anymore. I use the metaphor of the book, but having it physically in my hands makes everything more concrete. I put my most intimate emotions in there, my life, and now it doesn’t hurt to talk about that period anymore. I can’t express it perfectly, but it was a difficult moment in my life — also beautiful, because I learned so much, discovered so much, and it’s what led me to this project, which I’m very proud of. And now I feel I can move forward.
I return to what I said earlier: I turned something very complicated and sad into something good. It helped me grow, understand what I was going through, and having it physically set aside helps me in a way. It changed many things, personally and professionally, even in my photography. As I mentioned before, now I want to discover what else I can show intimately, what else I can build with this way of photographing and documenting life. It’s a starting point toward new explorations, and that’s very exciting.
