Rémy Ryumugabe's work: The Conditions of Being Seen

Rémy Ryumugabe’s work, films and photographs, move between presence and return, gesture and remembrance. His practice unfolds at the intersection of film and photography, where gesture becomes thought and the image becomes a form of listening. His practice reflects a deep attention to the human presence—the way a face, a silence or a simple thought can carry the light of memory. Across his films and portraits, he constructs a language of intimacy that challenges the boundaries between the seen and being seen.

Through Ryumugabe’s work,  his films and his photographs, Ryumugabe has the gift to capture what just lies beneath the surface. His portraits are not only images of people but traces of their inner life, as if the camera could register memory, hesitation, or resilience. 

A recurring gaze draws the viewer in—close to the way Lynette Yiadom-Boakye lets her painted figures return our look, or how Félix Nadar’s long exposures once captured a person’s stillness as much as their face. What interests Ryumugabe is not representation alone but the conditions of presence: how someone carries their history, how a body can appear both confined and expansive at once.  It is no coincidence that he once thought of becoming a pharmacist, fascinated by formulas and combinations; his work feels built out of a similar logic, assembling fragments of experience into an image that resonates with the viewer in affectionate ways.

His early short films, such as /’Ieri/ and Mnemosyne, already set this tone. They unfold less as narratives than as movements of searching—through a handheld camera that walks and listens, often accompanied by a voice-over that speaks in near-whispers, as if confiding an inner thought.

Later, in Wingless Bird That Flies, the rhythm sharpens: black-and-white images trace steps. Music, too, works here less as accompaniment than as vibration, carrying the sense that what we are seeing is not simply an external world but an inner one, resonating. 

It is in this continuity that Ryumugabe’s photographs align with his films: both capture the instant when a subject’s gaze meets the lens and something more than representation is exchanged.

The photographs extend this search in a different register. If the films trace movement and voice, the photographs hold stillness, but with the same intensity. Many of them echo the tonal palette of his latest films, both mediums seems to be testing the same lens. What strikes the viewer is not only the clarity of the image but the suspension it creates: the subject looks directly back, and for a moment the roles seem reversed—we are the ones being observed. Here the abstract thinking Ryumugabe once associated with chemistry feels relevant again: each photograph is less a record than a composition, a careful arrangement of light, gaze, and silence that forms a kind of formula for presence.

Taken together, Ryumugabo’s films and photographs form a body of work concerned less with storytelling than with encounter. Whether in the walking rhythm of a camera or the stillness of a portrait, his images hold space for the fragile balance between memory and possibility, vulnerability and resilience. The consistency of his gaze—direct, searching, at times disarming—suggests not a style imposed from outside but a way of meeting others, of testing how an image might carry the vibration of a life. What emerges is a practice that is both intimate and rigorous, one that reminds us that the portrait, in any medium, is never just about likeness but about the conditions of being seen.

We met in Gishushu, Kigali, where our conversations often drift—as they have for years—between cinema, art, and the quiet honesty of being. Our friendship has long been rooted in this dialogue, born from a shared love of Jonas Mekas and after John Berger’s Ways of Seeing. What moves me most in Rémy is his authenticity: nothing in his body can pretend; he simply is.  Just a reminder that this  text is a humble attempt to trace a thread through his work, aware that some things will always remain beyond my sight—yet the very questions I ask are a testimony to that unseen space.

How do you find yourself drawn to these encounters? What attracts you to a particular individual or moment? 

Growth comes through encounters, especially with the unknown. Whether it’s a person, a place, or an idea, the intangible and abstract draw me in. When I come across something unfamiliar that stands apart in a way my mind finds unique, it captures me. Sometimes, it takes shape as an image or an idea, sparking my imagination. To balance this imaginative pull with reality, I seek to understand what attracts me, who or what it is, and why it resonates. This journey of discovery fuels my creative process. My imagination weaves something new, blending with what I uncover in reality. Often, the decision to create begins when I find an image, real or imagined, that becomes the starting point of my work. From there, I attempt to capture the poetic essence of what seems ordinary. My work is always a trial, an exploration. Yet, not everything that attracts me becomes part of what I create as an artist. Some encounters simply shape me, helping me grow, not as an artist, but as a human.

Nudity has become an increasingly important element in your work, both in your photography and filmmaking. Would you say this shift has made your work more explicit than implicit? What role does nudity play in your artistic language? 

I don’t think nudity, what I call the bare body, is too present in my work. But when it is, it isn’t about being explicit or implicit; it’s about honesty. It allows me to strip away layers, both literally and metaphorically, to explore vulnerability, identity, and the unspoken emotions embedded in the human form. In my photography and filmmaking, the bare body is not about provocation but rather a language, one that holds intimacy, fragility, and strength in the same space. If anything, this shift has made my work more open, not necessarily more explicit. It invites interpretation rather than imposing meaning. I’m drawn to the way the body exists beyond societal constructs, beyond judgment, simply as a presence, a texture, a movement. I believe the bare body reveals more about a person than words ever could; it’s a canvas that carries every mark of our existence, from the very first day of life. In that sense, the bare body is not just a subject in my work; it’s a tool for expression, a way to capture something raw and deeply human.

Each of your images and frames feels meticulously chosen, carrying a deeper metaphor. Do you consciously construct this symbolism, or does it emerge organically in your process?

When it comes to my filmmaking, or rather, my time-based work, to avoid limiting it, I think of images as paintings. I’m always collecting them, sometimes without knowing what I’ll do with them. When something catches my eye, I keep it. Editing, to me, is like working on a canvas; you start with an idea, and once the right images align with it, the process begins. Sometimes, I collect images with a clear intention; other times, I don’t. But I always begin editing with a starting-point idea, allowing the process to organically shape both the idea and the work itself. Every choice in editing feels like a brushstroke, and the blending of images happens intuitively, like mixing paint. When I’m editing, I don’t think about metaphor or symbolism. I focus on the images, the rhythm, and how they feel together. It’s an intuitive process—one that unfolds organically rather than being guided by predetermined meanings. If something carries metaphorical weight, it’s not because I deliberately placed it there but because it emerged naturally through the flow of the work. I continue this process until the work, as a whole, reflects what I want it to, until it carries the emotions and experiences I want to share, with myself as the first viewer