Isabelle Scotta’s photography brings forgotten spaces to life, turning the ordinary into a cinematic exploration of time and memory. Her work focuses on capturing the soul of abandoned places, whether it’s a train station shrouded in mist or a vintage villa frozen in time. In “The Train Station,” Scotta uses light and emptiness to transform a fleeting moment into something permanent, inviting viewers to see the hidden beauty in what’s often overlooked. Her images, like “TV 50,” blend nostalgia with mystery, offering a glimpse into another era while challenging the viewer to reflect on what is left behind. Through her lens, she creates worlds where time, place, and memory collide, giving voice to the often silent architecture of our past.
Q: You capture the hidden spirit of cities through your photography, focusing on empty, soulful spaces. How did this approach develop, and what draws you to these moments of stillness?
A: My approach started in 2018, on the islands of Frioul in Marseille. I began to play with the morning and evening lights through my frequent ambles between the village and the wild spots of the archipelago. These wanderings allowed me to detach from the reality of daily life, escape urban frenzy, return to basics, and slow down. From these experiences, a new interpretation of the landscape emerged—more mysterious and fictional.
Since then, I have continued to explore this form of introspection in other timeless places, such as off-season seaside resorts, where I aim to transcend the marks left by humankind and reveal the beauty and soul of their past.
Q: Your work often gives a sense of loneliness, where time and place disappear. How do you use these elements to create a narrative in your photographs?
A: I like to capture the essence of objects, architecture, and landscapes in their everyday environment. Standing alone in the frame, without the accompanying context, they appear much more enigmatic. We wonder why they are there, what happened before, and what will happen next. We lose track of their time and age, giving the scene a sense of shared loneliness. The subject becomes a reminiscence of the past, a sensory image, a metaphor—inviting the viewer to reinvent their own memory.
Q: In your series shot in French seaside resorts, you explore both whimsical and experimental architecture. What do you find most intriguing about the architecture of these historical places?
A: The cities of Deauville and Royan were built on Parisian models typical of the Belle Époque era, symbolizing elegance and extravagance with the emergence of casinos and iconic hotels. These seaside resorts, almost overreaching in their fantasy, inspired numerous writers, painters, poets, and filmmakers with their innovative ideas.
Royan was destroyed during World War II and rebuilt based on the modernist Brazilian model of architect Oscar Niemeyer. It soon became an open laboratory for young French architects, allowing for creative urban experiments. The traditional city was transformed into a modern town, where whimsical designs, futuristic colors, and unusual materials grew from the sand.
What fascinates me about this architectural movement is its utopian quality—an artificial world emerging from nothing. When you think about it, Deauville was built on marshlands, Royan rebuilt on ruins, and these territories were transmuted into dreamy summer paradises.
Q: "The Train Station" was captured during your residency in Deauville. How did the mist and emptiness contribute to the atmosphere you wanted to create in that image?
A: A train station is a transitory space, one we usually pass through without paying much attention to its architecture. Choosing to photograph it at dawn, in the mist, under artificial light—before anyone arrived—was a way of taking it out of its context, out of its usual function.
It was about revealing a different image, perhaps inviting the traveler to truly see its unseen beauty.
Q: "TV 50" is a fictional photograph set in a villa in Deauville. How do the setting and furniture reflect the passage of time, and what kind of emotions do you want the viewer to experience?
A: The last owners of Villa Strassburger donated it to the town of Deauville in 1980. The entire house remained in its original state, with furniture from different eras, including this TV set from the 1950s. When I stepped into the house, it felt as though the inhabitants had just left and could return at any moment. I suddenly felt transported back in time, immersed in their past.
I used the TV as a symbol—watching their reimagined history unfold. A long-unused television can still tell many stories. I believe the objects we leave behind allow future generations to imagine what our lives were like. So the question becomes: What will we leave behind? What story do we want to tell?
Q: In "Dead End," you photographed Royan’s modernist architecture illuminated by violet lights. How did this lighting transform the scene, and what did it represent to you?
A: I love the ability to transform something mundane—like a row of ordinary houses—into a remarkable scene. In this case, the church Notre-Dame de Royan lights up each night with a violet artificial glow, casting a cinematographic atmosphere over the buildings.
Through photography, I aim to create a contrast between the ordinary and the extraordinary, to alter reality and turn it into fantasy. If you take the time to look, there is always something beautiful to be found, no matter where you stand.
Q: You’ve been involved in numerous exhibitions and received several awards, including the Emerging Artists Public Prize. How have these experiences shaped your artistic journey, and where do you see your work going next?
A: Each exhibition is a connection—an encounter with curators, art professionals, other artists, and visitors. Working as a photographer can be a solitary pursuit, and the final result is never achieved without these interactions. They are a constant source of references, inspiration, and new opportunities, expanding my creative horizon.
Receiving an award is, of course, heartwarming. It serves as recognition for the time-consuming efforts behind the work and offers encouragement to keep going. It validates a step in my practice and gives me the confidence to move forward and experiment with the next chapter.
I wish to continue my series on other seaside resorts—this time, introducing people into the frame, much like in a film when characters begin to appear. In a way, I see myself as both the film and the filmmaker, moving in and out of the story, shaping its plot, not knowing what path it will take or how it will end.
Now that I have exhibited several of my latest series, I am also working on publishing an artist book.