Time Travelers: Nostalgia, Identity, and the Art of Seeing
Having grown up in Canada and now based in Orient NY and New York City, Josh Nefsky specializes in the Photography of Fine Art. For over 3 decades he has worked with many of the leading galleries, artists, museums and private collectors in the U.S. and Europe. Focusing on sculpture and decorative arts, paintings, installations and interiors, his photography of artwork has been reproduced in numerous catalogues, periodicals and publications.
HM: Josh, please tell us about your family’s history—how did your parents’ journeys to the US shape your early life?
JN: There's actually two compelling stories here—my father's and my mother's. Let me give you a concise version if I can. My father was around 18, living in Kraków, Poland, when World War II broke out. He was immediately drafted to the front lines and was quickly captured. He had to make a difficult choice—to surrender either to the Germans or to the Russians. Wisely, he and his companions chose the Russians. They were sent to a prisoner-of-war camp about 800 miles north of Moscow. After about a year, they were released, and he made his way to Central Asia—Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan, I believe—where he survived the rest of the war before eventually emigrating to America.
My mother’s story began differently. Her family left Poland earlier, in 1934, foreseeing the rise of tensions in Europe. My grandfather, who was Jewish, had to sell his business under pressure. They moved first to Portugal, where they lived for about a decade. My mother, along with her siblings, spent their teenage years in Portugal. Eventually, in 1944, part of the family made it to New York City. My aunt married a Portuguese man who couldn't enter the U.S., so they moved to Canada. That's how my family ended up partly in Canada, partly in New York.
My parents met in New York and had me in 1951. Sadly, my mother passed away shortly after childbirth when my younger brother was born. Thankfully, he was healthy and was sent to live with my aunt in Montreal. Initially, I stayed with my father in New York for a couple of years, but it proved difficult for him to manage, as fathers weren't very involved at that time. Eventually, I moved to Montreal to join my brother, living in a Portuguese household, situated in a French city, in an English-speaking part of town—a unique cultural blend, to say the least.
HM: How did this unique upbringing shape your early experiences?
JN: It was complex, but quite positive. While my father settled in a small Pennsylvania coal-mining town—a true snapshot of America at its industrial peak—I would visit him once a year. The rest of the time, I’d see my grandparents in Jamaica, Queens. Despite losing my mother, the household I grew up in Montreal was nurturing. My uncle became like a father figure to me. Rather than feeling that I'd lost a mother, it felt like I'd gained another father. My childhood was actually quite happy and culturally rich.
HM: Eventually, you left Montreal. What motivated that move?
JN: By the time I turned 30, I felt I’d outgrown Montreal. I'd established myself there as a photographer and had entered the film business, doing reasonably well. Thinking I could continue my success, I relocated to New York. But upon arrival, I hit a wall—I couldn't join the union required to work in film photography. It was a closed shop—very old-school, controlled, corrupt even. When I approached the union rep, he bluntly told me, in a conversation straight out of a Scorsese movie, that without family or connections already inside, it was impossible. The door was firmly shut.
HM: Facing such a setback, how did you pivot your career?
JN: Initially, I struggled. For a couple of years, I felt lost. Then, I began photographing friends’ artworks. Gradually, that became my niche—I started shooting paintings, sculptures, and artworks for galleries and museums. It picked up in the late 1980s. Meanwhile, I'd been quietly photographing everything around me. Before leaving Canada, I had some exhibits showcasing photos I'd taken in Spain. But upon arriving in New York, I temporarily abandoned personal photography because the cost of film and processing was prohibitive. Instead, I sketched, painted a bit, and experimented creatively. It took me almost ten years to comfortably re-establish myself.
HM: Let’s step back even further. How did photography become your passion?
JN: I was your quintessential kid of the 1960s—rebelling against tradition, wanting to create, but unsure of my artistic voice. My uncle was an architect, my environment was very structured and professional, and I reacted against that by wanting to be an artist. The problem was, I didn’t know what art I wanted to make—until my father gifted me my first Nikon 35mm camera. It was revolutionary: instead of struggling to imagine something to create from scratch, the world suddenly offered endless possibilities. Photography was intuitive for me—I saw interesting things everywhere; I only had to interpret them. I’d found my creative voice.
HM: What types of subjects captured your attention initially?
JN: Anything and everything—landscapes, people, ordinary objects. But I quickly developed an interest in distorting reality rather than capturing it exactly. Early on, a friend invited me to photograph dancers. I started with conventional stills, then experimented with long exposures—two seconds or more—capturing motion blurs. Those blurred images revealed something deeper and more dynamic. Soon, I began applying this technique even to static objects, focusing on color, form, and movement.
HM: Tell us about your formative experiences abroad, particularly Morocco and Spain. How did these places influence your style?
JN: Those were pivotal moments. At age 21, disillusioned with traditional academia, I left Canada for Spain and found myself enchanted by Ibiza—a quiet, untouched paradise at the time, long before the tourist boom. It was serene and inspiring. I started photographing landscapes and people. There was a clarity there—life seemed simple yet vibrant. Later, traveling to Morocco with a friend profoundly impacted me. The ancient city of Fez, particularly, fascinated me. It was devoid of cars, filled with burros and donkeys, and the call to prayer echoing through narrow alleys. Life unfolded quietly but vividly. I captured striking portraits and experimented extensively with color photography, particularly at the colorful tanning pits. These vivid environments taught me to find beauty in simplicity and authenticity, to appreciate quietness, subtlety, and the vibrancy hidden within everyday moments.
HM: Finally, what drives your creative endeavors today?
JN: After so many detours and experiences, I’ve learned that creativity is fluid—it’s always evolving. After temporarily stepping away from photography, focusing on sketching, painting, and various other explorations, I realized photography was indeed my enduring passion. It took time, but ultimately, I circled back to the art form I love most. Today, my work continues to focus on subjects that speak deeply to me—moments that are vibrant, poetic, and human.
HM: You mentioned that your experiences photographing merchants in Morocco were pivotal. Tell us more about that—what did you discover there?
JN: It was the people that really drew me in—the merchants especially. There was something uniquely compelling about their quiet dignity, their presence. But there was a technical challenge I hadn't anticipated: when I'd approach with my 35mm camera and bring it up to my face, they would freeze. It felt as if the old myth of capturing their soul had returned. Interestingly, my friend, using his twin-lens Rolleiflex, looked downward while composing his shots, making him less intimidating. He'd get these natural, unguarded portraits. Realizing this, I had to adapt—I began shooting discreetly, from the hip, using a wide-angle lens. Although the framing wasn't always perfect, I captured genuine moments.
HM: Did that influence your choice of equipment later on?
JN: Absolutely. On my next journey, a trip to Portugal in the late 1980s with my then-girlfriend, who was also a photographer, I brought along a Hasselblad medium-format camera. Like my friend’s Rolleiflex, it allowed me to shoot from waist-level. It completely transformed my approach. I could engage more comfortably with people, especially since I spoke Portuguese at the time. I'd quickly ask permission, swiftly lift the camera, and snap—a technique perfected down to mere seconds. I captured countless portraits this way: farmers, merchants, ordinary villagers. It became my signature style on that trip.
HM: What struck you most about Portugal?
JN: It was an extraordinary trip. Portugal in 1988 still felt untouched by modernity in many rural areas. It was essentially medieval—peasants working fields with hoes, scythes, dressed in heavy woolen clothes like jalabas despite the scorching summer heat. There was a sense of timelessness. Growing up in Montreal and later experiencing life in New York, it was striking to see communities still living as if frozen in the past.
I was particularly captivated by the stone architecture—thick walls and rustic simplicity. And there was this village called Peniche, a fishing town famous for its sardines, a staple from my childhood. Being there felt nostalgic, like revisiting my roots.
HM: Speaking of nostalgia, your earlier experiences in Ibiza sound similar.
JN: Ibiza in the early '70s was a revelation. The island was beautifully primitive then. I lived simply—no running water, cooking over open fires, surrounded by quiet beauty. Morocco and Portugal echoed this simplicity, reminding me of that formative period in Ibiza. I have always been attracted to places where life is pared down to essentials—no distractions, just genuine human experience.
HM: What made Marrakech special compared to other places you photographed?
JN: Marrakech was a vibrant chaos, especially Jemaa el-Fnaa, the central square. It felt like stepping into another century, a circus of humanity—blind musicians, snake charmers, traders with fascinating wares. This was just after the Rolling Stones had been there, famously inspiring their "Goats Head Soup" album. Indeed, I vividly recall seeing actual goats’ heads hanging from butchers' stalls, a scene I captured eagerly. Everything in Marrakech was intense, colorful, raw—perfect for photography.
HM: You’ve mentioned your photography evolved considerably after these trips. How exactly?
JN: After extensively photographing people and traditional scenes, I gradually shifted toward experimentation. In Venice during the early '90s, the subject became architecture itself, abstracting its forms and textures. Later in Turkey, I pushed my film to extreme ISO (3200), creating grainy, high-contrast images that shifted focus from content to form.
Returning to Spain, especially Barcelona and Ibiza, I sought complete abstraction—using deliberate camera movement to blur the image during longer exposures. It wasn't purely abstract; viewers could still recognize subjects, yet the images were distinctly surreal.
HM: Can you elaborate on why you enjoy distorting your images?
JN: For me, distortion adds emotional resonance. I'm less interested in literal representation than in capturing a sense of mystery or emotion. Even now, I manipulate colors digitally to evoke specific moods. I tell viewers not to think of my work strictly as photography; think of them simply as images. Once people stop feeling obligated to analyze them as photographs, they connect more naturally and comfortably. They're more open to enjoying them as pure visuals, free from expectations.
HM: You've been a photographer through a transformative period in the art world. What changes have you noticed?
JN: When I moved to New York in 1982, photography wasn't fully accepted as fine art. There were only a couple of dedicated photography galleries in the city. At that time, you could purchase prints by Irving Penn or Sebastião Salgado relatively inexpensively—I bought a Penn platinum print for just $2,000, a Salgado for under $800. Photography's prestige skyrocketed throughout the '80s and '90s, eventually exploding in popularity around the turn of the millennium. Suddenly, painters and artists of all disciplines embraced it. Today, of course, everyone is a photographer. The field has expanded incredibly.
HM: With all this change, do you still pursue exhibitions?
JN: No, I've actually lost interest in exhibiting entirely. My joy comes from capturing images, not from what happens afterward. Today, I shoot almost exclusively on my smartphone—it's always with me, unobtrusive, and immediate. There's an old joke among photographers—the best camera is the one you have on you. Today that's a phone, and it costs nothing to experiment endlessly. Best of all, I never have to return to the darkroom, a place I always disliked. My phone has become my mobile studio—allowing instant editing, immediate gratification, and endless creative freedom.
HM: Has using a phone changed the nature of your photography?
JN: Definitely. Resolution aside, phone cameras offer freedom. I capture spontaneous moments that would've been impossible with bulky equipment. Subway characters, fleeting scenes, candid emotions—my phone enables genuine snapshots of daily life. Photographers today are fortunate; we're living in a golden age of accessible photography, where spontaneity and immediacy reign supreme.
HM: Many photographers relate to that—owning expensive gear but rarely using it in daily life.
JN: Exactly! Just recently, friends and I laughed about owning all this advanced camera gear but rarely touching it because it's inconvenient. We carry it on trips, then find ourselves reaching for our phones instead. It's liberating—our best camera is always in our pocket, ready to capture life as it unfolds.
HM: You mentioned earlier the evolution from shooting sparingly on expensive film to freely using digital photography on your phone. How do you feel about that transition? Has it changed your approach?
JN: Definitely. It’s fascinating—I’ve lived in both worlds. When I started, film was very costly. A roll of 36-slide film, including processing, cost about 15 bucks in 1970, which felt astronomical then. The mantra was, “Every frame a Rembrandt.” I was incredibly selective; every shot mattered. But photography improves through experimentation, which was limited when each shot was expensive. Today, I encourage people—especially kids—to shoot liberally on their phones. I’d tell parents, just let them use their phone rather than buying expensive cameras they’d abandon after two weeks anyway.
HM: Yet you also say there's a downside to shooting freely. Can you elaborate?
JN: Yes, something valuable is lost: intentionality. Before digital, you'd consider each image more thoughtfully, because each shot cost money. Now, photographers shoot weddings like machine guns firing continuously—thousands of images to edit later. Editing becomes overwhelming, which ironically delays the final product. Still, I appreciate experiencing both extremes—careful deliberation and uninhibited experimentation.
HM: You don’t exhibit often or publish your personal photography. Yet you remain passionate about it. Why continue?
JN: That’s an interesting question, and it's hard to pinpoint exactly. It’s like tasting sweets; there’s no logic—just pure joy. Photography is a compulsion for me; it’s about the thrill of discovery. I relate photography to hunting, actually. A friend of mine in Oregon is a dedicated bow hunter. Photography mirrors that—tracking down a fleeting moment, a beautiful scene. It’s deeply satisfying.
HM: Beauty seems central to your work, especially abstracted forms. Why the attraction to abstraction?
JN: Abstraction fascinates me because it operates emotionally rather than intellectually. Personally, I often don't "get" purely abstract paintings. They’re emotional, experiential, rather than literal. In my photography, I strike a balance: my images are abstracted enough to elicit emotion but recognizable enough that viewers immediately grasp the subject. I rarely use captions; the subject should speak clearly but ambiguously, oscillating between representation and abstraction.
For example, sunsets fascinate me, not simply for their beauty but for their potential to become almost painterly—like Mark Rothko’s color fields. Rothko spent time in East Marion near here. When I photograph sunsets over the sound and abstract them, I wonder if this inspired him. It sounds absurd, perhaps, but it resonates deeply with me.
HM: You've also specialized in photographing artwork professionally. How did this begin?
JN: Initially, I did stills for feature films in Canada, but arriving in New York in the early 1980s, that opportunity vanished. New York’s indie film scene hadn’t fully developed, and union issues prevented me from continuing film stills work. So, I turned to photographing my friends' artworks in the burgeoning East Village gallery scene, often trading images for favors or friendship.
My breakthrough occurred serendipitously. At a club event on Avenue C, I met a woman from Christie's auction house. They urgently needed photographs for their fall auctions. Without even owning a proper 4x5 camera, I accepted the job and quickly mastered photographing paintings and sculptures, using tungsten lighting and precise exposures on large-format film. The experience opened doors to major galleries, institutions, and artists.
HM: You mentioned technical complexity. What’s challenging about photographing art professionally?
JN: It's less artistic and more technical—problem-solving, really. Most galleries don't offer ideal shooting conditions; space is cramped, lighting uneven, and often there's unwanted daylight mixing with artificial tungsten light. The trick is controlling glare. Many amateur photographers neglect polarizing filters, resulting in subpar images. Polarizers and controlled lighting are essential. I often carry a large black cloth to eliminate reflections, especially for artworks framed behind glass, which can be notoriously tricky.
I recall a recent Warhol shoot involving his diamond dust paintings—dark canvases covered in reflective particles. Polarization kills glare but also dims the sparkle. Balancing this is challenging. One painting, mounted high behind glass, required me to precariously balance on a ladder holding my camera in one hand and the blackout cloth in the other—quite the gymnastics!
HM: You've worked extensively with major art institutions. Tell us about your collaboration with one Foundation you work with.
JN: I've collaborated with this Foundation for decades, working on catalogues documenting many amazing works of art. The Foundation, based in New York, transitioned from owning works of art to supporting emerging artists with grants. Now, I photograph privately held works of art nationwide. It's fascinating work—each artwork has a unique story, and I love uncovering these historical narratives alongside my photography.
HM: How did you establish yourself professionally with museums outside New York?
JN: Years ago, I reached out proactively to museum registrars nationwide through Art Cyclopedia’s directory. I offered my services photographing artworks in New York before they traveled to museum exhibitions elsewhere, making catalog production smoother. Now, whenever museums like Wichita or elsewhere organize shows with artworks in New York, I’m their go-to photographer. It's rewarding—much better than photographing hardware store products like garbage cans, a job I once did when first starting out in New York!
HM: Can you elaborate on your relation with Portugal?
JN: Portugal represents a cultural home for me despite having no Portuguese heritage. Raised by my aunt and uncle in a Portuguese household in Montreal, I absorbed their language, traditions, food, humor—it felt deeply familiar, comforting. Visiting Portugal was transformative, almost religious. After months in Spain and Ibiza, crossing the border into Portugal was overwhelming: hearing Portuguese felt like coming home.
This profound sense of belonging deeply impacted me. It pushed me toward eventually leaving Quebec, where I'd always felt culturally detached. It took another decade, but those early experiences crystallized my resolve. Visiting Portugal clarified my identity—I might not be Portuguese, but Portugal represents an emotional home I hadn’t realized I was missing.
HM: Ultimately, how would you summarize your journey?
JN: Photography has been central to my identity, shaping my view of the world, my relationships, my sense of home. From selective shooting on costly film to capturing spontaneously with smartphones; from Morocco’s medinas and Portugal’s medieval villages to New York’s sophisticated art galleries, photography allowed me to explore and connect deeply with diverse cultures and people. Today, while I no longer exhibit or pursue traditional recognition, my passion remains undiminished. Photography remains my way of engaging with life's beauty, its mysteries, and—perhaps most importantly—with myself.
HM: You mentioned your deep connection to Portugal earlier—can you elaborate on how photographing there affected you personally?
JN: Portugal felt strangely familiar, though I never fully engaged with my relatives there. Yet, it always felt like home, deeply ingrained through my upbringing. I remember vividly photographing an elderly fisherman who embodied everything about the harshness and dignity of traditional Portuguese life. As I prepared to take his portrait, he suddenly said, "Wait," and disappeared inside his house. Moments later, he emerged holding this beautiful model boat, hand-carved entirely with a penknife from soft cork-like wood. The pride in his craftsmanship moved me deeply. Being able to converse with him—in Portuguese—created a meaningful connection I often missed in Spain, where language barriers made interactions superficial. Interestingly, the Portuguese easily understand Spanish, yet the Spaniards rarely reciprocate.
HM: Perhaps we can explore some of your specific photographs from Portugal and the stories behind them. Could you share a few?
JN: Of course. One that stands out clearly was taken in Nazaré, long before it became known globally for gigantic surfing waves. Back then, Nazaré had no harbor, so fishermen hauled their vividly painted boats onto the beach using oxen—a tradition already fading by my visit. One day I spotted this fisherman standing near his boat, weathered face, expression of deep fatigue, cracked lips—a face that spoke volumes about the harshness of his life. Without words, I raised my camera, and captured his weary stare. It felt like the very essence of his hardship, etched permanently into that portrait.
Another powerful memory is photographing an elderly woman, severely hunched almost 90 degrees, slowly navigating streets paved with massive stones. I hesitated—partly embarrassed at my fascination with her physical hardship—but asked permission. She quietly sat down, turned her face away, and allowed me to capture her dignity, resilience, and life's heaviness without confronting the camera directly. Her silence said everything.
I recall photographing two women in a remote farming village. One stood with a distinctly protruding belly, unintentionally reminiscent of Degas' sculpture of a young ballerina. It was the incongruity of this visual reference in such a stark, timeless environment that fascinated me. I found myself repeatedly drawn to images symbolizing an era untouched by modernity—villagers traveling on horses, ancient stone architecture, and people dressed in clothes unchanged for generations.
HM: You seem particularly drawn to nostalgia in your work. What is it about these older times that appeals so much?
JN: I’ve always had an inexplicable attraction to bygone eras, especially the 1930s through the 1950s. Growing up in Montreal, I witnessed the tail-end of a simpler age—milk delivered by horse-drawn wagons, coal-driven steam trains, streetcars rumbling through the city. Visiting Portugal reawakened this nostalgia intensely. It was as if I'd stepped back in time to my own childhood, surrounded by simplicity, hardship, and authenticity. There’s something profoundly comforting about that.
One striking image captures firemen sitting casually beside an antiquated fire truck. Today we associate firefighters with high-tech equipment and protective gear, but these men appeared almost vulnerable, completely unshielded against danger. Another image shows barefoot children running freely through village streets, a simplicity almost unimaginable today.
HM: Were there other specific moments or scenes that particularly resonated during your Portugal journey?
JN: Yes—one photograph features a narrow Lisbon alleyway bustling with daily life. Women cooking over tiny charcoal burners, smoke rising lazily, people stepping out of doorways mid-motion. It encapsulated an organic rhythm of community interaction that I found beautifully ordinary yet poignant.
Then there was a curious granite statue of a pig in northern Portugal, worn smooth by centuries of weather. It symbolized a region sustained by pork farming for generations, evoking both whimsy and respect for longstanding traditions. These small details continually fascinated me, each image capturing a fragment of a world rapidly disappearing.
HM: You've spoken about a certain nobility you sensed among these rural people. Could you expand on that?
JN: I repeatedly encountered villagers who carried themselves with quiet dignity despite challenging lives. There's a photograph of a family—parents dressed in traditional garments, with their young daughter standing between them, dressed in more contemporary clothes. It symbolized generational change happening right before my eyes. Despite their poverty, these people had an undeniable elegance—a sense of self-respect untouched by modern pressures or vanity.
In rural communities, especially among elderly men and women, there was a gracefulness born from simplicity. Women dressed entirely in black, often mourning, slowly climbing steep streets—each movement deliberate, dignified, symbolic of endurance. That profound dignity left a lasting impression.
HM: Beyond the people, the architecture in your images seems especially impactful.
JN: Indeed, Portugal’s rural architecture captivated me. Structures seemingly untouched for centuries—large stone barns elevated on granite stilts, resembling ancient Roman monuments—left me in awe. How did villagers erect these massive, durable structures without modern machinery? They symbolized strength, permanence, and a timeless quality I sought constantly in my work.
I also remember noticing peculiar towers in village squares topped with crosses, mysterious and intriguing. Their purpose remained unclear, though I imagined historical uses—perhaps ceremonial or, grimly, executions. Their presence reinforced my sense of stepping into another age, a civilization built on deep traditions, both beautiful and harsh.
HM: Did you participate in any traditional Portuguese events or celebrations during your time there?
JN: I photographed a religious procession during a saint's day celebration—a tradition echoing those I knew from Quebec, though more solemn and authentic. Positioned atop a hill, I captured villagers in traditional dress, ascending slowly, united by faith and tradition. Compared to more commercialized religious festivals elsewhere, this procession felt genuine—reflecting deeply rooted cultural spirituality.
HM: Reflecting now, what do these photographs collectively represent to you?
JN: Looking back, these images portray a solemn beauty. They reflect not only Portugal’s enduring traditions but also my personal yearning for simplicity and authenticity—a reaction perhaps against today’s relentless modernity. There's a quiet somberness to these pictures, yet they offer peaceful contemplation of lives unburdened by modern distractions. That simplicity feels profoundly appealing today.
HM: Did you ever consider returning, perhaps to revisit these communities?
JN: Surprisingly, I've never returned. Perhaps subconsciously, I’ve preserved Portugal in my mind exactly as I photographed it—unspoiled, timeless. Revisiting might shatter that illusion, showing modernization’s inevitable influence. I prefer to maintain my memories intact—captured perfectly in that moment, untouched by change. My own connection was more personal, emotional, perhaps idealized. Yet I’m proud of Portugal’s subsequent progress—their success economically, socially, and politically has been genuinely admirable. They've evolved significantly yet thoughtfully, and I remain proud of that heritage.