The feeling of home and belonging in Linda Zhengová’s photography

Finding roots and narrative form through global aesthetics and proximity

Images that circulate widely on social media play a decisive role in shaping how social and political realities are produced, perceived, and contested. Far from being neutral, these images contribute to the formation of cultural and territorial identities, reinforcing dominant narratives while also holding the potential to disrupt, reframe, and resist them.

Within this context, Der Greif “Local Voices” continues to foreground situated perspectives and collaborative authorship as a way of slowing down image circulation and re-embedding images within their social, cultural, and political conditions. Through an ongoing exercise in co-writing, the project examines how visual practices can counter homogenizing narratives and support more plural, democratic forms of representation by insisting on specificity, locality, and dialogue, foregrounding situated knowledge over dominant or centralized narratives.

How do we capture the feeling of belonging when the physical concept of belonging is constantly shifting? For nomadic artists working in a globalized landscape, identity is rarely tied to a single geography. Instead, it is actively co-created in the fleeting spaces between strangers, shared tables, and temporary sanctuaries. Through her deeply intimate visual language, photographer Linda Zhengová explores these temporary architectures of home, offering a profound counter-narrative to the highly polished, homogenized images that dominate our digital feeds. In this conversation, we feature Zhengová’s work to go deeper into tracing her view on analogue aesthetics and emotional affect when portraying life and encounters in search of belonging.

Zhengová is a Czech-Chinese photographer, writer, and curator based in Paris. Her work is rooted in an exploration of human emotions, ranging from vulnerability and trauma to the search for happiness. Through photography and interdisciplinary methods, she strives to capture fleeting emotional states, the intimate connections between strangers, and personal transformation. Her imagery, evocative of a bygone era, suggests that memory is the space where love most vividly resides. By confronting viewers with moments of vulnerability and intimacy, her work invites a deep reflection on the intensity of human relationships. Through this, she challenges us to reconsider how we connect with both ourselves and others, offering a delicate balance between discomfort and empathy.

Ilaria Sponda: I am really interested in how you moved away from your home country. That transition seems to be a powerful element of your work, especially in “Maybe, Happiness Is…” project. It touches on this freedom of being able to move, but also raises the question: what do you do when you don’t have a fixed home? How do you make sense of your relationships and build a sense of place through photography?

Linda Zhengová: I really love this question. It’s not something people usually ask me in relation to ‘home.’ The truth is, this nomadic identity hasn't really ended for me. Even now, living in Paris, it still feels very temporary. I’m there for two weeks, then I’m somewhere else. It still doesn’t feel like a static, permanent location.

IS: It feels like a generational question that is coming up more and more: trying to make sense of what ‘home’ actually means. Some people say home is a feeling, others say it’s where their friends are. I often find myself questioning where home is for me, too. How do you define it?

LZ: I relate to that a lot, especially the idea of home being a feeling.

In my work, I often invite myself into people’s homes, and for me, it’s about creating a temporary sense of home through those encounters. My idea of home is less about a physical, fixed place and more about the people I meet who share similar experiences of constant relocation and movement. I’ve realized that I photograph a lot of people who have mixed roots like me, or who don’t feel they belong to just one place. For me, home is something I co-create with those people in a specific moment.

IS: Did this search start when you first moved to the Netherlands? Was that your first time living outside your home country?

LZ: I first moved to The Hague, where I studied at an art school for four years and then I lived in Amsterdam for two years. While I was in The Hague, I developed this nomadic urge to question everything and search for what was out there. That urgency is how the project “Maybe, Happiness Is…” started. From one day to the next, I realized it made no sense for me to just stay in that apartment; there was so much more beyond it. That feeling shaped the next five years of my life.

IS: How did not having a fixed home during those years affect you, both personally and artistically?

LZ: Not having a physical home had a massive mental impact on me, and I think that reflected heavily in my images. Without a permanent space, ‘home’ became about the small things like sharing a dinner with someone while crashing on their couch, where maybe the food reminded me of something I ate as a child. In a way, the absence of home became my only permanent state, while the feeling of home became something incredibly fleeting. Photography became my way of holding onto both: the brief moments where I feel a sense of belonging, and the lingering moments when I feel its absence, all at the same time.

IS: Do you photograph people you already have a relationship with, or is it complete strangers you connect with along the way?

LZ: It’s a bit of both, but for this project in particular, it was almost entirely strangers. I photographed people I had met maybe once or twice at most. I think that was the magic of those encounters; neither of us knew anything about the other. That "blank canvas" is wonderful for creativity because it allows you to project things onto one another and leaves so much open space to create around.

IS: Did they ever take pictures of you, or were you primarily the one behind the camera?

LZ: It was mostly me taking the pictures, but it was grounded in genuinely spending time together. We would hang out for hours, share meals, or if I was traveling, they would drive me around and show me their city. That made the connection feel much deeper than just showing up, taking a few photos, and leaving.

IS: I completely understand that. For me, conducting interviews and connecting with others is also a way to build a relationship.

LZ: Exactly. That connection is absolutely crucial for my work. If I don't feel a genuine connection with the person, I find myself completely unable to even make an image. There is a high level of vulnerability, intimacy, and often nudity involved, so trust is everything.

IS: Your work feels entirely detached from a specific national identity; it belongs to a global, urban underground that looks remarkably similar whether shot in Paris, Amsterdam, or elsewhere. Do you feel that rootlessness has granted you a "global aesthetic," one defined by shared emotional states, youth culture, and transient lifestyles?

LZ: I actually started out as a digital photographer, but I switched to analog because of an accident: I drowned my digital camera in water and didn’t have the money to buy a new one. Analog became a cheap fix to keep shooting.

Today, of course, shooting film is much more expensive, but I stayed with it because the process aligns so much better with how I think about images. It’s slower, more tactile, and has a physical depth and texture. I also love the element of risk. Sometimes a roll fails, or there’s a light leak. It creates a healthy distance between me and the work, reminding me that not every single moment can be preserved or owned. When I see the dust and film particles on my images, it reminds me of my own physical presence, sometimes it’s literally my hair or my fingerprint on the negative. It’s proof that I was actually there in that intimate space.

IS: Does growing up in the Czech Republic influence that aesthetic?

LZ: Absolutely. The Czech Republic has a very traditional, strong history of photography. Early on, I was deeply inspired by Czech photographers like Jan Saudek, Miroslav Tichý, and Adam Holý. They all possessed this incredibly intense sensitivity to textures and colors. They taught me that visual imperfection can carry just as much emotion and intimacy as the subject you are photographing. That was very important to me in my formative years. Today, though, most of my inspiration comes from outside of photography, things like cinema, music, dance, sculpture, or just quiet, everyday observations.

IS: Sexuality, intimacy, and erotics play a major role in your work. You also turn the camera on yourself sometimes. How do you navigate self-portraiture in relation to these themes?

LZ: To be honest, I initially didn't want to include self-portraits in my book “Oxymoron”. But my editor, Lucia Černá, insisted that they were vital to the narrative. At first, looking at myself in those vulnerable states was incredibly painful, but eventually, I realized she was right. I tend to take self-portraits during moments of intense emotional overwhelm. They serve as a marker of where I was and who I was at that point in time. They don't necessarily document the objective past, but they preserve the raw feeling of the space I occupied.

Regarding sexuality, I view erotic energy as a highly active, powerful force. Growing up with a dual background, being both Chinese and Czech, female desire was treated as a major taboo in both cultures; it was always something to be hidden or controlled. In my work, I want to explore what happens when that energy is simply allowed to exist freely. Releasing that taboo energy is an incredibly healing and liberating experience, not just for me, but also for the women I photograph.

IS: Your book “Oxymoron” is out, and you are working on releasing “Maybe, Happiness Is…” asa photo book soon. What is on the horizon for you now?

IS: Yes, it’s currently being turned into a photo book, which we are hoping to release in September with Lucia's publishing house, “Untitled”. Meanwhile, I’m in the research and production phase of a new project exploring the concept of transcendence in relation to creativity, sexuality, and madness. I’ve been collaborating with dancers, musicians, painters, and people who want to explore their sexuality in front of the lens. I actually began this project in Brazil last autumn, and I’ve been floating around developing it ever since.

IS: How do you approach the research for a new project like this? Is it highly structured, or do you let things happen spontaneously?

LZ: It’s a mix of both. I always start by reading heavily on the topic. Interestingly, once I immerse myself in the literature, I start "seeing" the project everywhere in my daily life. It’s like putting on a specific pair of glasses.

For example, just yesterday, I photographed my neighbor who is a painter. We only realized we were neighbors because we got off at the same metro station and walked the exact same path home. When you are deeply tuned into a subject, the right people and coincidences just seem to find you.

IS: I love that. What are you reading right now that is shaping this work?

LZ: Right now, I'm reading “Animal Joy” by Nuar Alsadir. She’s a psychoanalyst who attended a clown school, and the book explores how we express our most authentic selves through laughter. I'm also reading a book about insomnia written by an insomniac, and of course, Georges Bataille’s writings on desire, transgression, and transcendence. Those have been my main starting points.