Photographer Atong Atem Steps Into (Good) Chaos

There is nothing quite like a self-portrait by Atong Atem; behold a fantastical fusion of face-painting, sumptuous hues and boldly patterned drapery. In the midst of the colourful chaos, her arresting eyes and expression steer the viewer to her gaze.

“It’s like making an oil painting,” says the award-winning artist, who studied fine art and painting before branching into photography. “They’re also about my love of colour and texture. So much of painting is playing with light and shadow, it’s the same with photography,” she explains on an early morning call from her hometown of Melbourne.

Mornings aren’t the best for Atong, 31, who battles with insomnia. It was during these sleepless evening hours back in her late teens that she first began taking iPhone pics of her handiwork with face paint and posting them to Instagram and Tumblr — the seedling phase of her current large-scale self-portraiture.

Backtrack to 1997: Atong arrived in Australia as a refugee from Kenya’s Kakuma Refugee Camp when she was 6, along with her mother and four siblings. Although her parents are South Sudanese, Atong was born in Ethiopia after her parents escaped the civil war in South Sudan.

Due to visa issues, her father wasn’t initially able to join them in Australia, which she says was difficult for her mother, who scrimped and saved to look after them.

“We sort of accepted a lot of things just weren’t for us. All the cool kids in school had the Roxy backpack and the Billabong pencil case; mine was from Best & Less.”

Atong says her story is a familiar migrant experience — one mixed with the feeling of being an outsider, with hints of belonging. Although she can’t recall many of her early experiences — she was a kindergartener when she arrived in the small NSW town of Wyoming — Atong remembers fitting in with other children; however, as she grew up, her thoughts became tinted by how the predominantly white community in Australia looked upon her for her differences.

“There weren’t too many South Sudanese people in the small town we lived in, so there was this feeling of cultural isolation, especially for my parents. We spoke our own language at home and sometimes went to Sydney to visit cousins, but it wasn’t easy.”

She was a creative child, who loved drawing, painting and writing novels.

“I was a bit nerdy, I suppose; not many kids write novels, but I loved developing my creative outlets and using my brain.”

These outlets soon became vital vents for her feelings of otherness.

“I learnt that it wasn’t just about being Black: it was about being a dark-skinned Black woman with particular features. My skin is a big part of my photography, it feels powerful to paint my face blue.”

Atong went on to study. Her research at art school looked at the history of photography — she learned many things: the dynamic range of Kodak film was biased toward white skin, which meant photos of blacks and whites in the same shot would turn out partially under- or over-exposed.

And how photography was used as a tool for colonial empires to record non-Western cultures, including African people. In the late-1800s, colonial anthropologists used photography to take portraits of African peoples for social scientific research — dehumanising the continent’s original inhabitants by mapping their features, living conditions and resources to further their colonial plans.

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“In the aftershock of colonialism, and due to my own experiences as an African dark-skinned woman in a white world, I was forced to consider my place in the world. I’ve seen ethnographic photos all my life — I’ll walk into a furniture store and see a picture of an African woman on the wall — the people taking these photos weren’t Black. And now in fashion there’s this trend for big companies to use people of colour — blackness used for capitalism… the ethics of photography still need to be examined.”

Atong’s self-portraits do just that — by regaining control over who is taking the image and of whom, she is reclaiming her identity and her cultural narrative, and having a ball doing it.

“I’ve been very influenced by the early studio photography in Mali in the 60s by the likes of Seydou Keïta and Malick Sidibé; it’s the antithesis of ethnography, it’s Africans taking pictures of Africans.”

This studio photography movement in West Africa in the mid-20th century often featured flat light, graphic patterned fabrics in the background, and very specific poses and props.

“Often you’d see people squat sideways or hold flowers, or show off their outfit — like they were presenting themselves in a specific way, there was little smiling — these photos were seen as documentation, more than art, even though they were very artistic.”

Atong recalls stumbling on her own archive of family photos and realising they were much like the ones taken by her Malian photography heroes.

“I remember as a kid, my parents made a point not to smile in family photos and I think that’s because it’s not really natural to force a smile.”

Atong also rarely smiles in her self-portraits, and even though she’s addressing post-colonialism, the African diaspora and the politics of race and gender, she’s having a lot of fun.

“It’s really playful, I forget who I am making art for, I do it because I love it.”

She works alone, setting the timer on her camera and rushing back to pose.

“The timer is quite theatrical, I like the panic of getting there in time.”

Atong produced her first studio photography series in 2015, paying homage to the West African studio photography movement. At that point she was hiring a camera and she roped in friends and family members to pose.

The self-portraits followed and, eventually, she purchased a Canon 5D Mark 11, along with a 50mm Sigma lens — the majority of her work to date has been created with this single lens.

She tends to buy her backdrops from op shops or Spotlight — being drawn to interesting textures, colours and embroidery.

“In South Sudanese culture, traditional embroidery is a recurring motif, and there’s always these saturated colours, vibrant jewellery and patterned fabrics.”

Though she doesn’t use flash, Atong employs static lights, spiral globes and softboxes to control the lighting, which is purposefully bright to illuminate any shadows.

“I learned through painting that light is used as a tool to represent the world — it’s all intentional. Who do you want in the shadows and who do you want in the light? I felt I needed to examine this.”

The face-painting aspect of her practice began when she was studying architecture at Newcastle University — a degree she never completed as she felt compelled to follow her artistic instincts. Atong had joined a few friends who were face-painting on the side for extra cash and ended up winning a competition and a swag of face-painting equipment.

“I never really thought of it as a job — face-painting was like painting, but in a fast way. It just made sense to include it in my self-portraits as it is part of who I am and, of course, there are a million and one cultural face-painting references.”

Along with her vibrant self-portraits, Atong will also be presenting her new book, Surat, at the Aotearoa Art Fair. Surat translates from Sudanese Arabic as “snapshots” — homage to her family photos and the characters within, that saw her restage and reimagine scenes, with all the characters played by Atong.

As for her process, she admits to not overthinking it.

“Over time I’ve refined my own visual language, which makes it easy for me to figure out how to dress and style my photos. I just sort of start and see what happens.”