“I Live by the Camera, I Die by the Camera”: The Relentless Eye of Donna Ferrato

BIO & PHOTO NEEDED

HM: Donna, I want to begin many years ago, with something more personal. I’d like to talk about you. About your childhood. Where you grew up, what shaped you, what kind of world you were born into. Can we start there?

DF: Absolutely. That’s a great place to begin. Childhood is such an essential subject—where you come in the family, whether you have siblings, and how the world looked to you then. All of that plays such a huge role in who we become.

I was born in New York City. My parents were both in the medical field. My father was training to become a chest surgeon, and my mother was a surgical nurse. For a while, we lived in Queens, and it was a wonderful life. They commuted together to Bellevue Hospital, which, at the time, was a wild place—infamous for treating the mentally and criminally insane. And they loved it. They were passionate about their work.

I was their only child back then, and we were a tight-knit little family. My father—he was electric. He adored the arts, loved opera, musicals, classical music, even rock and roll. He was the firstborn son of Italian immigrants, and he wasn’t expected to become a doctor—maybe an engineer, but not a surgeon. But he was determined. Humanistic to his core. He wanted to help people, to save people. He was an atheist—deeply committed to science as a way of understanding our place in the world.

My mother, on the other hand, was self-sacrificing in the most profound way. She loved being a nurse. She was elegant, perfect—too perfect. And she wanted me to be that way, too. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I rebelled against it. I didn’t want to be a “lady.” I didn’t want to follow any social rules or be controlled. I didn’t want to be a girl. I wanted to be free. And my dad understood that. He let me speak my mind. I was strong. I dressed like a boy. I had short hair, hated dolls—just give me a baseball bat and some kids and we’d run around the fields until it was too dark to see.

Later, we moved from New York to Ohio to be closer to my father’s family. We landed in Lorraine, near Cleveland—a steel town. Tough, working-class, Catholic. They sent me to Catholic school, and the nuns… well, they didn’t know what to do with me. I either made them laugh or drove them crazy enough to beat me with their rulers. Eventually, it all fell apart, and they pulled me out of St. Mary’s.

By then, I had two younger brothers—Peter, who was nine years younger, and Louie, a baby when I was already on my way out. I adored them. But I didn’t want to stick around. At twelve, my parents sent me away to boarding school—Laurel School for Girls in Shaker Heights. One of the top girls' schools in the country. And honestly, it saved me.

HM: So at twelve, you were already living away from home?

DF:  Yes. And from that moment on, family life became more of a novelty. I wasn’t built for domestic life. Never have been. Even years later, when my daughter Fanny was born, I didn’t want to be the kind of mother who stayed home, cooked, cleaned, read bedtime stories. That wasn’t me. Philip—Fanny’s father—was actually better at that. He was a wonderful dad. But we were both travelers. Nomadic souls. Neither of us wanted to be tied down by domesticity.

Back in high school, Laurel was full of strong girls—competitive in sports, academics, arts. Rebellious girls. My people. We were the Class of 1968. We graduated the day Robert F. Kennedy was shot. June 5th.

HM: I remember that day so vividly. I was actually in a taxi on the way to a party in Israel.

DF: Yes—it was devastating. Another leader gunned down. First John Kennedy, then Martin Luther King, then Bobby. It felt like the end of the world. Our generation took our leaders seriously. They represented ideals. Change. Hope.

Kennedy wasn’t perfect, of course. None of them were. But they had charisma. And they meant well. You know, it was like what we later saw with Obama—flawed, yes, but full of hope. Still, even Obama made decisions that hurt people, especially when he sided with the banks during the housing crisis. That really broke trust for many of us.

HM: It’s hard not to drift into politics when talking about that era, but I want to return to that sense of rebellion you talked about. The girls at Laurel. The desire to break free.

DF: Yes. After high school, I went to a women’s college in Boston—but we didn’t want to be in college. From 1968 to 1970, we just wanted to be out in the parks, listening to Bob Dylan, living in the moment. The world was on fire—so much music, art, protest. The Vietnam War galvanized us. After the assassinations, we didn’t trust adults. We didn’t want their world.

We wanted to burn it all down and start over.

We were idealistic. Passionate. We protested. We organized. On campuses like Harvard, buildings were burning. We weren’t afraid. We were certain we could change the world.

And in some ways, we did.

Mother and Daughter Shelter Minneapolis 1986

HM:  It must have been something—coming of age in the late ’60s and early ’70s. That combination of openness, rebellion, music, and freedom. What was that like for you, Donna?

DF: It was glorious. Truly. To be young back then, to feel so alive, so untethered. Everything felt possible. We were wide open—to each other, to the world, to the music, the ideas, the revolutions happening around us. And yes, of course, we had marijuana, LSD… mind-altering substances that helped expand our sense of being, our place in the universe. It gave us a new kind of consciousness—one that felt bigger, freer.

A lot of us wanted to live outside of society as it had been handed down to us. We dreamed about communes. In Israel, there were these incredible kibbutzim that American kids were drawn to, and I was one of them. I desperately wanted that sense of community, of shared values, of purpose. It just felt right.

HM: And then you converted to Judaism?

DF: Yes, in 1971. I fell in love—with a man at Harvard. He was Jewish. His name was Mark. And his story, his family’s story, just overwhelmed me. His parents had conceived him in a concentration camp. I mean—in the camp. Can you imagine? The resilience of that. But his mother was terrified of Catholics, understandably. And I had already lost all connection to Catholicism. I saw it as the root of all evil. I’d had my battles with nuns. I’d seen how religion could be used to control and punish.

So I converted. My father, an atheist, was completely supportive. My mother, still Catholic, didn’t mind. And I dove in—I studied Judaism, learned some Hebrew. Before our wedding, three rabbis took me out to Lake Erie—we didn’t have a mikvah—and there I was, in a little yellow leather bikini, standing between these rabbis who told me to submerge myself. Each time I came up from the water, they gave me a different prayer to say. It was one of the most powerful moments of my life. I felt born again, but in a way that made sense to me.

HM: That’s an incredible image—what a transformation.

DF: It was. And I really did believe in that moment that the Jewish people were extraordinary. My whole childhood, even in a town like Lorraine, Ohio—where we didn’t know any Jews—my mind was filled with the Holocaust. My only Jewish connection growing up was my dentist, but I knew. I felt that history. It shaped me.

Then I married Mark. We had this beautiful backyard wedding in Ohio. All my Italian relatives wore yarmulkes. Even my father. It was a big deal—crossing cultures, bridging worlds.

We moved to San Francisco afterward. He was studying law. I had a degree in art history, but I worked as a secretary to support him through school. I was good at it—typing, dictation, filing, all of it. I felt useful. I bought into the dream: marriage, a house, a couple of kids. That was the plan.

HM: But things changed?

DF: Radically. San Francisco in the mid-70s was like no other place. It was a cultural explosion. Gays, women, artists—everyone was breaking free. The city was alive with rebellion and expression. I realized that I didn’t want to be a wife anymore—not like that. Not confined. I didn’t want to play the traditional role. I wanted my freedom.

So I left. I reclaimed my name—Donna Ferrato—and I reclaimed myself. That marriage was a close call. Love is powerful. It can pull you in, make you want to shape yourself into someone else’s ideal. But I had to ask—why was it always the woman who had to change?

HM: And that’s when photography came back into your life?

DF: Yes. A friend from Lorraine had sold me a used Leica M4—with three lenses—for $400. That camera became my passport to the world. I was newly divorced, full of restless energy, and I called my best friend Pam in L.A. and said, “Let’s go. Let’s hitchhike across America. Let’s open a shoe store in Florida. Let’s just live.”

We had nothing. We waited tables, slept wherever we could, and I photographed everything. That’s when I really began.

HM: You had studied photography before though, right?

DF: Technically, yes—but I wasn’t inspired by it in school. My true influence was my father. He was a passionate photographer. A chest surgeon by day, but he photographed everything—his surgeries, our family, me. He’d wake me up in the middle of the night to take my picture, even if I had zit cream on and my hair in curlers. He loved chaos. He captured it with devotion.

He had Leicas, Hasselblads—he knew light, exposure, the science of photography. And he’d tell me, “Donna, you’ll never be a great photographer. You don’t understand the math. The chemistry. The rules.”

It was intimidating, and it hurt. But it also lit a fire in me. I decided: Fine. I’ll do it my way. I didn’t need perfection. I needed truth.

I ended up at the San Francisco Art Institute—not as a student, but a shadow. I snuck into classes. Stanley Greene was there. He’d let me crash overnight in the darkroom. I’d spend hours printing alone. Donna McAdams was there too. We were older than the students, not officially enrolled, but we showed up. We belonged.

HM:  You’ve been describing a time when everything felt alive—when it seemed like change was not only possible, but inevitable. What was it like, being a young woman in that moment?

DF: It was electrifying. We were organized, prepared, and passionate. Nothing could stop us. We believed in our power—our voices mattered. There was this tidal wave of energy building across the country. The protests against the Vietnam War were intensifying, and for the first time, it felt like the media was on our side.

One moment that really shifted everything was when Life magazine published that unforgettable issue—the one with the faces of all the young soldiers killed in Vietnam. Pages and pages of portraits. Boys barely out of high school. That issue made it undeniable: we weren’t winning anything. There was no victory, no justification—just death. Death for Vietnamese families, and death for Americans too. It was senseless, brutal, and completely unjust.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just us radical kids yelling in the streets anymore. That magazine brought it into every living room in America. It made it real.

HM:  And then came Larry Clark.

DF: Yes. One night, Larry Clark came to speak. I snuck into that talk like I did with everything else. And that night changed me.

His presence, his energy—it was like someone throwing gasoline on a smoldering flame.

He talked about Tulsa, his groundbreaking book. At the time, there was nothing like it. Nothing that came close to capturing the raw, unfiltered lives of teenagers—their beauty, their recklessness, their darkness. It hit me like a lightning bolt.

And then he made Kids. But it all started with Tulsa. That night at the Art Institute, hearing him speak about the courage to photograph truthfully, to not flinch—that was when I realized I had something to say, and photography was going to be the way I said it.

HM: Let’s go back to that unforgettable night at the San Francisco Art Institute—when Larry Clark came to speak. What do you remember most?

DF: God, he was a mess. He was so high—totally out of control, rambling like mad. But somehow… that made it all the more real. Most of the truly great photographers I encountered early on, they could barely string a sentence together. They were wrecked—drunk, strung out, burned by what they’d seen and what they’d lived through. But the work? The photographs spoke volumes.

Larry’s work—especially Tulsa—shook me. I didn’t like watching him that night. He was raw. Sad. Like he was either going to cry or pass out. But I could see how much he had given of himself. He had photographed these kids—heroin addicts, junkies, friends—people he was a part of. It wasn’t just documentation; it was immersion. You could feel it in every frame. And I realized that’s why he was falling apart in front of us. That kind of proximity to pain… it carves you up.

But the photos—they lived. And I remember thinking: How do you even begin to do that kind of work? You have to be inside. Not just physically, but emotionally. You have to become part of the world you're documenting.

HM: Did you speak to him that night?

DF:  I did. I stood up for him. I didn’t know what I was talking about exactly, but I felt it. I felt for him. I still do. He sacrificed something for that work—but maybe it gave him something too. He got to live wild and free. He got to be one of the bad boys. And maybe you need to be a little bad to make powerful art. I realized then: If I’m going to do this, I have to be a bad girl. I have to go where others won’t.

From that point on, I started moving through the world like that. Following chaos, following feeling.

HM: So that’s when you left San Francisco?

DF: Right after that, yeah. I left with a wild, totally untrustworthy artist named Michael Bowen—he told me he’d teach me photo-etching on copper in Portugal. I was working as a camera girl at the Hilton Hotel, shooting souvenir snapshots, sticking them on matchbooks. I was getting restless. One night, I met a newspaper publisher who said, “If you ever want to be a photojournalist, give me your number.” And a couple weeks later, he called. One of his photographers had broken his leg. I had a real opportunity.

But at the same time, Bowen called and said, “Come to Europe with me—pay your own way on the QE2. We’ll make art, live in a commune, it’ll be wild.” And there I was, living in a falling-apart cabin in Sausalito, alone, just me and the mice.

One night, I was in the kitchen, talking to one of the mice like it was my therapist. “Do I take the newspaper job in New Jersey? Or get on a ship with a lunatic artist?” The mouse climbed up on the faucet and stared at me. And I swear—he was saying, Go. Be free. See what happens.

So I called the publisher and said no. And I got on the boat.

HM: And Bowen turned out to be as chaotic as you expected?

DF: More. He showed up with two young children he had basically kidnapped from his ex-wife, who was apparently living with Timothy Leary. He brought along a strange woman in black, and a giant Great Dane. I had my own cabin, thank god. But I quickly realized: I had to escape.

He had stolen artwork from the Vorpal Gallery—backed a truck into it, took everything, and was using the trip to Europe to sell it all to his former clients. The woman in black had stolen his address book, and she was arranging all the meetings. And he was just basking in attention—eating, drinking, talking nonsense. I stayed with the children. I knew I had to get away.

In Cherbourg, I tried to run. But he started locking me in rooms with the kids, moving us from city to city. Eventually, we landed in Liège, Belgium—on a beautiful horse farm owned by a single doctor who bred Arabian stallions. It was there that I started plotting my final escape.

I told the doctor everything. We’d sleep in the hayloft, and I finally told him, “We have to do something.” Bowen had a mole removed before we left the U.S.—kept the biopsy in formaldehyde. I told the doctor, “Get that specimen tested. Tell him it’s cancer, even if it’s not. He’ll bolt.”

And it worked. He left within 24 hours.

Self Portrait giving away free baguettes to Claude Montana Paris 1977

HM: He threatened you?

DF: Oh, of course. Told me gunmen were coming for me. I wasn’t scared. I knew I could call my ex-husband in San Francisco—who, at the time, was representing the Hells Angels. He told me, “Donna, if anyone messes with you, I’ve got you covered.”

That was my life then, Amnon. Throwing myself into boiling pots of water just to see how long I could stay in before jumping out.

HM: And through all that—you were still photographing?

DF: Yes. Always. That was my tether. After I finally escaped, I went to Paris. I met Claude Nori, who ran Contrejour—a photo gallery and publishing house. I showed him my little box of pictures—Belgian men, wild street shots, all my madness—and he said, “You need to learn how to print. Come work at the gallery.”

Claude was a lifeline. He introduced me to everyone: Gilles Peress, Susan Meiselas, Jean Gaumy, Richard Kalvar—all the Magnum crowd. I didn’t say much. I was too in awe. But I listened. I watched. I learned.

Claude became my boyfriend, my mentor, my pasta-making teacher. We’d fill the bathtub with prints fresh from the darkroom. Hang them on the tiles. Drink wine. Talk about books. He gave me belief in myself.

I started doing self-portraits. I became obsessed with baguettes—these long, phallic staffs of life everyone carried around Paris. I swore I could judge a man by the baguette he chose and how he carried it. I mean, that was my mind at the time.

HM: And from there, you came back to New York?

DF: Yes. It was 1980. I came back to New York, and everything felt urgent again. The streets were full of energy, of danger. Everyone was photographing. We were all trying to capture this fever-pitch moment in America—between Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan. Carter was a good man. Too good for that job. Honest, decent, conscientious. But out of step with the machine.

Reagan… Reagan was perfect for the role. A Hollywood face for an era of denial.

HM: How did you meet Philip?

DF: So that’s how Philip and I met—at a party hosted by Rick Smolan. It was a book launch, part of Rick’s dream of gathering the greatest photographers in the world for a wildly ambitious project: A Day in the Life of Australia. I wasn’t in that league—those were the Magnum and Contact Press photographers, serious heavyweights. But I knew Rick’s sister, and a close friend of mine was connected to the Smolan family, so I slipped in through the back door.

Philip and I started hanging out soon after—going to protests, shooting in the streets, seeing movies. Eventually, we moved in together. It was a very exciting, intense, meaningful time. We were always photographing—life, each other, the world around us. I wasn't just interested in assignments or headlines. For me, photography was part of daily life. That’s what my father did, and that’s what I felt was normal. Philip started doing that too. We photographed everything. When we had our daughter Fanny, we had a home birth—Philip hated hospitals, and so did I. It was grueling—two days of labor—but it was glorious. We even had a belly dancer there! Fanny was born just after midnight, on Philip’s birthday. He photographed the entire thing—the pain, the joy, the blood, the miracle. From that day forward, he said, “We need two birthday cakes now. One for me, and one for Fanny.” That moment bonded them forever. Our life together… it was magical for a very long time.

Self Portrait Paris Hotel with Philip and Fanny 1986

HM: Listening to you, I keep thinking: where did you find the courage to document such difficult, complex realities? You could have photographed fashion, glamour… but you didn’t. You chose pain.

DF: I wasn’t chasing pain. I was looking for love. I liked people who could tell stories with their lives. In Paris, I’d photograph baguettes as a clue to a couple’s love life. Were they lovers? Family? Strangers? I was always trying to understand love—and also why I had failed in love. Why did I leave the man I loved? Why was I alone? I tried to answer those questions with my camera.

Violence wasn’t my calling. But my father—he prepared me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he left newspaper stories at the breakfast table about women being abused or escaping violent relationships. His own father had abused my grandmother, though I never saw that side of my grandfather. Still, my father was teaching me to pay attention.

One memory stands out. I was four. We lived in a Quonset hut in the Adirondacks. One spring morning, my dad brought me to the woods. He stood in a freezing stream and said, “Run and jump into my arms.” I did. But each time, he stepped back a little. The last time, I jumped and missed—fell right into the icy water. He pulled me out, stripped my wet clothes, wrapped me in his jacket, and took a photo of me—soaked, shivering, smiling. Then he said, “This is your first lesson, Donna. Never trust anybody. Not even your father.” That moment changed everything. He was training me to see beyond the surface, to be strong, to think for myself. That’s the photographer I became.

When I met Philip, I could’ve gone in a very different direction. I loved Sophie Calle’s work—the conceptual setups, the stories in hotel rooms. But Philip showed me the power of pure documentary. “Don’t interfere,” he said. “Just get the picture.” He taught me the sacredness of witnessing reality.

In those days, I was photographing at Studio 54 and swingers’ clubs. I even thought about becoming a paparazza—until I saw Robert De Niro smash a photographer’s camera. I decided then: that’s not the kind of photographer I want to be.

Philip and I hosted the most extraordinary dinners. Magnum photographers would come to our place with boxes of prints. Philip would review their work, marking the backs of the best images with his initials. I soaked it all in. We were living inside photography.

THE NIGHT EVERYTHING CHANGED “I HAD TO TAKE THE PICTURE” DONNA FERRATO ON WITNESSING VIOLENCE

DF: Yes, Fanny was with me that night. She was just a child. When I heard the screaming, my instincts kicked in. I ran to her, hid her in a closet—I needed to protect her. Then I grabbed my camera and ran down to the other wing of the house. That’s where it all unfolded—in the bathroom.

It was chaos. He was hitting her. She was screaming. And I had my camera. What else could I do? I'd been photographing that couple for nearly a year—through parties, family dinners, tender moments, even when they made love. I was documenting the whole rhythm of their lives. So why would I stop now, when it had turned into something dark and brutal?

He said he was “disciplining” her. But it was a beating. And when he went to raise his hand again, I stepped in. I stopped him. I’d already taken the picture—I only needed one. That’s the difference between me and photographers like W. Eugene Smith or Larry Clark. Some of them keep shooting while bad things happen. But me? I get what I need, and then I act. I’m fast. I got it. And I didn’t want to see it again.

He kept threatening her after that—screaming, towering over her—but there were no more punches. I kept shooting because that tension, that threat—it was important to show. I didn’t have a recorder. I didn’t have a phone. But I’ll never forget her voice—her cries, the way she called out. She was such a kind woman, such a devoted mother and wife. She gave him everything. Too much, maybe. But for him, it was never enough. He wanted her soul.

I was running on instinct. I was documenting something no one wanted to see, but that needed to be seen. And now? If I saw someone being attacked—man, woman, child—I’d step in again. No hesitation. I’d do whatever it took.

WHY NO ONE WANTED THE PICTURES

DF: I took those photos—my first confrontation with domestic violence—to People, to Time-Life, to anyone who would look. Nobody wanted them. They were afraid. A rich, white man beating his wife in his own house? That was too close to home. Too uncomfortable.

But Philip—Philip Jones Griffiths—he said, “Donna, you have to keep going. This is your path now. You’ve made a commitment.” And I knew he was right. I needed to understand what I had witnessed. What happened next? Where did women go when they ran? Who helped them? How did they survive?

THE SEARCH FOR SHELTER AND TRUTH

DF: I started writing to battered women’s shelters. I asked if I could visit, speak with the residents, document their lives. Every single one said no. They didn’t let residents talk to the press, let alone allow a photographer in. So I tried something else. I started writing to police departments across the country, asking if I could ride with officers on domestic calls.

Eventually, some said yes. My first breakthrough came in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, then Philadelphia. I was already doing assignments for LIFE magazine, People, but they wouldn’t touch this work. It was too raw. Still, I kept pushing. I’m relentless when I believe in something—especially when it’s about justice.

In 1985, I was assigned to photograph Margaret Atwood. Her novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, had just been published, and I read it before our meeting. That book—it terrified me. I saw its dystopia as a warning, not fiction. And by then, AIDS was spreading fast. Gay men were dying. Bathhouses and swingers' clubs were closing. Fear was rising. Everything was changing.

So I shifted focus—from private lives to public systems. What were police doing? What were courts doing? How were cities responding?

Eventually, I got what I needed: access. To me, that’s a sacred word. Without access, we have no story. And I don’t mean access given to you by a publication—that’s not the same. I earned mine. I lived in shelters, slept on floors, rode with cops on midnight calls.

My biggest breakthrough came when The Philadelphia Inquirer Sunday Magazine gave me a major assignment. This was after I won the W. Eugene Smith Grant in 1986. That changed everything. It gave me credibility. No woman before had done what I was doing—photographing domestic violence from the inside.

The Inquirer gave me nine months to document how Philadelphia was handling this crisis. I had an incredible team—Gene Roberts, the legendary managing editor; the best writer they had, Dick Polman, who traveled with me. I made $3,000 for those nine months—barely anything—but I poured my soul into it. I left Fanny with Philip, with my mother, with anyone who could help. I went wherever the story took me.

When the magazine was finally published, Gene was so moved he gave me two full issues—28 pages total. That kind of space was unheard of. And that’s what started everything. That’s what got the ball rolling.

SHIFTING THE NARRATIVE

DF: Until then, I’d been told that domestic violence was something that happened “elsewhere”—in poor communities, in Black families, among drug addicts. But what I saw contradicted that narrative. I saw wealthy white women hiding bruises behind sunglasses, clinging to privilege rather than safety. They didn’t want to leave. Not their husbands. Not their country clubs. Not their children’s private schools.

And I wanted to photograph them—white women suffering, white men abusing—because that was the story nobody was telling. The patriarchy protected them, but the same patriarchy—those white men in positions of power—were also the ones who eventually gave me a platform. They let me tell the truth, when others wouldn't.

The most important sequence in the history of photography. House of Horror New Jersey 1982

“AM I CRAZY FOR DOING THIS?'“ - THE FIGHT TO TELL STORIES THE WORLD DIDN’T WANT TO HEAR

HM: Donna, when you were doing this work—photographing such raw, intimate, and at times deeply traumatic moments—did you ever stop and ask yourself: Am I crazy? Should I be doing this? Is this really the right path?

DF: Absolutely. All the time. I questioned myself constantly. The work was emotionally brutal—going out on assignments, seeing what was happening behind closed doors. It was dark. It was depressing. I saw the worst of what people could do to each other in private. I often asked, Am I too close? Is this my story to tell? Is it even possible to make a difference with this?

That’s actually why I kept going to the lifestyle and swingers’ events. They were the opposite—they were about love, acceptance, joy, freedom. I’d spend part of the year at these conferences where couples—married for decades—were still exploring, still curious, still laughing and loving without jealousy. Then I’d switch back and ride with the cops, responding to domestic violence calls all over the country. That strange balance kept me sane. It reminded me that love was possible, and that maybe the camera could help protect it.

HM: Did anyone help guide you through the self-doubt?

DF: Philip did. He was my anchor. He believed in me more than anyone. Whenever I was down—when magazines turned me away or people told me no one would ever publish these photos—he would say, Donna, that says everything. You’re doing something that scares them. That means it matters. Keep going. And my father… he trusted me, too. His lessons from my childhood stayed with me. They both gave me strength to push through the doubt.

I also had a kind of instinctive comfort with the chaos. I could be out riding with the cops all night, walking into messy, dangerous scenes, and somehow I knew how to handle myself. When they told me to stay in the car? I didn’t listen. I’d roll down the window, squeeze myself out, and follow them right in. I'd say to people, Don't worry, I'm not a cop. I'm with LIFE Magazine, or The Philadelphia Inquirer. I'm not here to hurt you—I want to understand what you're going through. And I never published a single photo without a signed release. Ever. If someone said no, that was the end of it. I respected their boundaries, always.

Staten Island Ferry with Katherine Philip & Fanny 1987

**HM: What do you feel Living With the Enemy changed—in the world, and in you?**

DF: Oh, it changed so much. For me and for the country. The '90s were a time of real momentum. We had a Democratic president, and we had Joe Biden—then a senator—who truly listened. My photographs became tools that activists could use to convince lawmakers this was an emergency. Women were dying—even with protection orders in their pockets.

President Clinton had been raised by a battered mother. He understood. And Biden was educated by survivors and advocates who brought him Living With the Enemy. I met him once on a train from New York to D.C. I walked up to him, introduced myself, and thanked him for supporting women. He said, Wait—Donna Ferrato? And then he told me he had my book. That the women in his life, in his office, had given it to him, and that it had made a real impact on how the Violence Against Women Act was shaped.

That’s when I started to really see what photography could do—not just document, but change things. I began hearing from women and children who had my book at home. They’d hold it up to their abusive fathers and say, Is this what you want? That’s when I knew I had made something more than a book. It was a weapon. A shield.

And then I began speaking out. Colleges, hospitals, courtrooms. I spoke to judges, doctors, police. I gave slide shows, set up exhibitions, and told the stories again and again. I was on fire, Amnon. That’s what happens when a photographer is doing what they were born to do. You can move mountains.

HM: And then came the shift… the Iraq War. Did that change everything?

DF: It did. After 9/11, things turned. The media's focus moved to war. War became glorified again. Suddenly, everyone wanted to photograph battlefields, explosions, trauma in faraway countries. Domestic trauma? Not sexy. Not newsworthy.

I saw funding for shelters disappear. Police training scaled back. People stopped listening. Women started to feel ashamed again for running, for protecting themselves and their children. The world was watching Baghdad, not the woman bleeding in her kitchen in Pittsburgh. It was devastating. And confusing. How could we justify spending billions on bombing Iraq—a war we all knew had no righteous cause—while cutting aid for women trying to survive in their own homes?

That was the beginning of the decline. The visibility was gone. Photographs like mine didn’t get published anymore. There was no room for activism in photojournalism. It was all about carnage without context. War photography wasn’t asking how do we stop this? It was just saying, Look how bad it is. That’s not enough for me.

“I LIVE BY THE CAMERA. I DIE BY THE CAMERA.”

HM: Do you see yourself as an artist, a journalist, an activist? How do you define your role?

DF: I see myself as all of it. All of the above. But first and foremost, I’m a woman—an independent-minded woman who feels deeply. Empathy is my strongest muscle and sometimes my greatest weakness. From there, I’m a photographer, a storyteller, an artist, and yes, an activist. Because I don’t just want to witness people’s lives—I want to change something. I want my work to activate minds and hearts.

But I’m also a caretaker. For over 20 years, my home has been a shelter—literally. Women and children who couldn’t find space in a safe house, or were turned away from overburdened shelters, would call me. Somehow they found my number. My phone line became a personal hotline. If I couldn’t place them somewhere, I told them, Come stay with me. And they did.

Everyone who’s lived with me—my daughter Fanny, the men I’ve loved—they’ve all been exposed to the brutal realities of domestic violence. It’s part of our daily lives. The stories, the phone calls, the crises—it never stops. And yes, it’s damaged all of us. This life I chose… I didn’t just embrace it. I surrendered to it. It swallowed me whole. And now I can’t leave it behind.

I live by the camera. And I know I’ll die by it too.

HM: What is the role of empathy in your photography?

DF: In the 1980s, I had wind in my sails. There was momentum. There was awakening. I had something to say, and I finally had the space to say it. My camera became my voice, my shield, and my sword.

This work—this commitment—it didn’t come from a place of ambition. It came from witnessing pain and refusing to look away. From finding love in the ruins. From knowing that once you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it—and once you’ve heard her cry, you have to answer.

 Empathy is everything. It's my gift and my burden. I feel too much—but I don't let it paralyze me in the moment. When I'm with someone in crisis, I don't break down. I stay calm. But they can see it in my eyes—that I’m horrified, that I’m there with them emotionally. I think that’s what builds trust. It’s what connects us, even if we don’t speak the same language.

I can go to a village in Uganda, a shelter in Italy, a tenement in the Bronx—and I don’t need words. I see what’s happening. I can feel the tension, the fear. I’ve developed a kind of sixth sense. I can smell when violence is about to erupt. And instead of running from it, my body becomes very still. I prepare. I surrender to what’s coming. I don't look for protection—I am the protector, with my camera.

My camera is not just a tool—it’s proof. It's a witness. It's a way of saying: This happened. This is real. You can’t deny it now.

HM: What about when you were documenting hate groups? How did you manage your ethical compass there?

DF: In the early 1990s, I spent six months traveling with the Ku Klux Klan for an assignment from The Philadelphia Inquirer. I wanted to understand their culture, the roots of that hate. But eventually, I had to stop. I couldn’t continue photographing people who were proud of their cruelty—who celebrated racism, violence, murder. They were unredeemable in my eyes.

That was one of the clearest ethical lines I ever drew. I could not be around people who felt no shame, no remorse. I left that story behind.

That’s why I’m not a war photographer. I can’t document carnage for carnage’s sake. There’s too much of that in the world already. What I do is different. I want to help stop the violence, not glorify it. And war photography, as powerful as it can be, often doesn’t activate change—it just shows devastation. That’s not enough for me

HM: Is there a moment that still haunts you?

DF: There are many. But the ones that haunt me most are the ones I couldn’t change—the women I couldn’t save. The children who kept living with fear. The stories I witnessed but couldn’t turn around. That helplessness never leaves you.

But at the same time, I carry the knowledge that some lives were changed. Some girls got out. Some men stopped hitting. Some laws were passed. That keeps me going.

HM: Do you still believe in the power of photography to drive change?

DF: I do. I’ve lived it. I’ve seen it. But it takes persistence, and it takes truth. You can’t chase awards. You can’t chase likes. You have to chase the story—and the people who trust you to tell it. That’s sacred. And if you’re brave enough to stick with it, even when nobody wants to look… you might just change the world.

“YOU HAVE TO EARN THE RIGHT TO WITNESS”

DF: There are certain things I just couldn’t photograph. I worked in Soweto. I did important stories for The New York Times on child sexual assault. I photographed in Uganda and Sudan—but I never photographed people starving to death.

To me, that felt unethical. I couldn’t stand in front of a mass of starving people, set my camera to f/11, fire off shots, then return to a Red Cross camp where we had warm beds and plenty of food. My belly would be full while theirs were empty. I couldn’t square that. I didn’t feel I had the moral right.

I don’t judge photographers who do that kind of work—some of their images have changed the world, brought aid, ended famines. But I couldn’t do it. I knew my limits.

ON BEING A WOMAN IN THE FIELD

HM: Do you think being a woman affected how you were received, the kind of access you had, or the assignments you got?

DF: Being a woman shaped everything. It helped me. People trusted me more. I could get into places a man never could. But I’m not going to lie—being a woman also meant I didn’t get the big assignments. Not the ones the boys club handed out.

I worked for LIFE magazine for years. David Friend was the editor. And I was frustrated. I wanted to be seen like Harry Benson or the rest of the guys. One day, I snapped. I stuffed a salami down my pants, walked into David’s office, and said, “What do I need to do to get one of the big stories? You never offer. I always have to beg.”

He barely looked up, just kept shuffling slides around. So I unzipped my pants, pulled out the salami, and slapped it on his desk. “Is this what it takes to get your attention?” I said. He was horrified. “Donna, no, it’s not like that. I respect you. Please.”

Two weeks later, he sent me on assignment with Guns N’ Roses. Go figure. That salami worked.

And to this day, it’s a metaphor for how I navigate the world. I think like a man. I walk like a man. I call myself a man-woman. I’ve got one foot in each world.

Women Protest Against Potus #47 WA DC 2017

WHAT THE PHOTO WORLD GETS WRONG—AND RIGHT

DF: Today, I think the photo world is finally starting to get it—how powerful women photographers are, how vital we are. We’re everywhere now, doing the work that matters.

Photographers like Lindsay Addario, Daria Addario, Susan Meiselas, Maggie Steber—these are giants. And people like Gulnara Samoilova are doing incredible work to elevate other women photographers. Magnum, too, is pulling more women out of the shadows. They’re starting to correct the imbalance.

Younger photographers like Nicole Tung, working in Ukraine and Gaza, are fierce. Smita Sharma, her book We Cry in Silence—that’s one everyone should own. She’s documenting domestic violence in India and Pakistan with breathtaking honesty. Brenda Ann Kenneally, Jane Evelyn Atwood—their work is extraordinary. Women are “cleaning up,” as I like to say. They’re winning the grants. They’re on the frontlines.

We’re no longer dismissed. We stand toe-to-toe with the men. Do we still get fewer big assignments? Sure. But women know how to push through.

A CALL TO THE NEXT GENERATION

HM: What would you say to a young photographer—man or woman—who wants to take on difficult, risky stories like you did?

DF: I’d tell them: think carefully. This work is not glamorous. It’s not for the faint-hearted. I understand why so many young photographers today—like Sarah Messinger, who’s brilliant—don’t want to go down that path. They want a world full of possibility and beauty, not trauma and pain. And I get it.

But here’s the thing—women’s lives are being erased. We are being pushed back. Look at Afghanistan. All our progress could vanish overnight. And that's why we still need photographers who are willing to look, to listen, to bear witness.

Kiana Hayeri—that’s the photographer I admire so deeply. Her work in Afghanistan is breathtaking. She’s not just publishing stories in The New York Times; she’s creating spaces—like dinners around the world—where people can break bread and talk about what women are going through. She’s encouraging real dialogue, building awareness through intimacy. That’s powerful.

So my message to young photographers is this: don’t walk away too quickly. We need your eyes. We need your hearts. If you have the courage and the patience, this work will change you—and maybe even change the world.

The most important thing is, no matter what, to never, ever give up. Never give up believing that you can make a difference and keep trying—no matter how many times people discount you, ignore you, or shut you out. Number one, believe in yourself and understand why you do what you do. It’s not just about recognition—although, yes, that helps. When we get recognized, when we gain credibility, it gives us momentum. So we have to work for those little signs. The signs that tell us, maybe from the Mother of God or from the universe, that we're on the right path. If you never get any recognition, it can destroy you. But when your work starts to get seen, when people finally begin to appreciate it—then you work even harder. You don’t rest. You don’t sit back and coast on old victories. Stay sharp. Stay hungry. Stay on the edge.

Don't let yourself get comfortable. That’s the death of creative work—complacency. You need to keep your body agile, your mind alert, and your soul engaged. Walk the tightrope between stability and the unknown. Keep asking the hard questions. Keep standing up for what’s right. For me, being a photographer means staying passionate until the end. Until we die, we photograph. That’s the calling. You don’t retire from this life. And you can’t get “fat”—not in body, but in the head. Don’t let your ego inflate. We’re all under pressure now. Photography is one of the most dangerous professions in the world today. But like doctors trying to save lives, we’re out there trying to save truths—with our cameras.

HM: Looking back over your career, is there one image that you feel encapsulates your work?

DF: Yes. There’s one image that will always stay with me. It’s of a young boy yelling at his father. He’s standing up to him, screaming, “I hate you for hitting my mother! Don’t ever come back here!” That boy had hit his own father with a pot to try and stop the violence. That image, to me, is everything. It’s a child reclaiming his power. A child speaking truth.

And here’s the thing—he loved his father. It wasn’t a simple situation. I got to know that family very well. The father was a musician. He’d struggled with alcoholism, but he’d gone through AA and changed. This wasn’t a daily thing. He hadn’t been violent in a long time. But on that particular day, something broke. He and his wife had been arguing, and their son couldn’t take it anymore. He called the cops.

Later, I followed up with that family. I visited them years afterward—the boy had become a hairdresser. His mother and I stayed close. She’s had a complicated relationship with that image, but she understands why I took it. That photo has opened so many minds. It has helped people understand what violence does to children—the emotional instability, the fear, the confusion. That picture made people listen. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do: make people see what they refuse to look at. To understand what children endure. That’s why I was there. That’s why I took it.

And I always got releases. Every picture I ever published—I got consent. I went back to that family three months later and got their signatures. That's something people don’t always talk about. In war photography, you don’t always need a release. But in this kind of work—this close, this intimate—you absolutely do.

HM: And how would you like your work to be remembered, fifty years from now?

DF: I want my work to be remembered as a relentless appeal for justice. For women’s rights. I want people to know that women have fought tooth and nail for their survival, and my photographs bear witness to that. My archive—it’s sacred to me. It’s like a Holy Bible of women's resistance. And yes, I worry about censorship. About books being banned. About truth being erased. But I’ve worked very hard to protect this work. To spread it. To get it into libraries, institutions, hard drives, magazines, galleries, classrooms. It’s everywhere.

This archive—it belongs to the world now. I’ve seen entire cultures wiped out in war zones. I’ve seen archives burned in wildfires. So I know this could all disappear in an instant. But because I’ve worked so hard to disseminate it, I believe that my work will survive. I hope that in fifty years, young people—especially girls—will still be looking at my images and learning something real. Understanding who we were and why we fought.

HM: But the violence—it never really ends, does it? That human aggression, the darker instincts. It seems like it just... evolves.

DF: You’re right. The violence doesn’t end. But awareness can grow. And so can resistance. Women need to stand up. We need to realize our power and stop colluding with the very systems that oppress us. That’s one of the most painful truths: women themselves can uphold these patriarchies. Some do it for protection, some for power, for money, for status. But in doing so, they sell out their sisters.

We could change it all—if women worked together. That’s what I believe. That’s what I fight for. And that’s what I hope my pictures help people understand.