Bearing Witness: A Conversation with Donna Ferrato
HM: Hello, Donna. First off, congratulations on the prestigious honor you received from John Jay College of Criminal Justice in May. That must have been incredibly moving. Would you like to tell us more about it?
DF: Thanks, Amnon. Yes—it was one of the most emotional moments of my life. The faculty at John Jay made it happen, and President Karol Mason put it best when she said the honor was for my work as both a photographer and an activist. She even wrote an open letter to the community, saying my work "sparked a national dialogue, illuminated a dark world, and advocated for justice."
What made it all the more meaningful was the presence—spiritually and visually—of the women in my book Living with the Enemy. They’re the real heroes. In the '80s, they let me into their lives, into their homes, during some of their darkest moments. To see them honored through video projections on huge screens, along with clips of me and Elisabeth speaking with TIME Magazine—it was deep. Then Professor Shonna Trinch came up, hugged me, and draped a white satin collar over my shoulders. The crowd roared. I cried.
In that moment, I silently promised myself I would live on through their library shelves. What could be better than being preserved in a college that fights for real justice—for real people—with real photographs?
HM: Powerful. When was Living with the Enemy first published? I remember the impact it made.
DF: It came out in 1991. Aperture reprinted it four times before I eventually took back the rights. Now, I’m working on something really exciting with a brilliant student from NYU—a narrative graphic novel inspired by the original photographs. We’re creating a visual story that brings the book to a new generation in a new form.
HM: Colleges clearly continue to keep an eye on you. But tell us, why did you choose this subject? You could have done fashion or something more glamorous. Why pursue something so painful?
DF: I wasn’t chasing pain—I was trying to understand what it takes to keep love alive. Violence wasn’t my calling at first, but I think my father unknowingly prepared me for it. Growing up in Ohio, he used to leave newspaper clippings on the breakfast table—stories about battered women and children. At the time, I didn’t get it. But later, I learned his own father abused his mother.
My grandma would talk about it sometimes, but it was hard to believe. Grandpa Pizzoferrato was fun, charming. He was good to my mom and me. But Grandma? She was always in the kitchen, always tired, praying to the Virgin Mary. She worked in sweatshops and over hot stoves. One time, she told me how she lashed out at Grandpa when he tried to kiss her before church. That was her truth. She carried so much.
My father would often leave me with them for months. Maybe he was showing me the invisible burdens women carry. He wanted me to see—and eventually, to photograph—it.
HM: That’s a remarkable origin story. How else did he prepare you?
DF: I’ll never forget this one day. I was four. We were living in a Quonset hut in the Adirondacks. My dad wanted to take a walk. We reached a fast-moving creek and he said, “Let’s play a game.”
He stood in the middle of the water, rolled up his pants. “Jump, Donna. I’ll catch you.” I trusted him completely. Each time I jumped, he moved a little farther back. Eventually, I missed—fell in. He pulled me out, wrapped me in his suit jacket, and then—he took a photo.
He looked me in the eye and said, “This is your first lesson: never trust anyone. Not even your father.”
That moment shaped my worldview. It was brutal and beautiful.
HM: He sounds like a complex man. Let’s fast forward. Why do you think you documented domestic violence with such relentless passion?
DF: In 1979, I came to New York with nothing but a suitcase and my Leica M4. I’d left Paris and San Francisco, chasing clarity after failing as a faithful wife. I think I was looking for people who understood not just love—but lust.
Then, in 1982, while on assignment for Japanese Playboy of all things, I saw a man hit his wife. That moment changed me. I brought the photos to LIFE Magazine. John Loengard, the Director of Photography, told me, “You’ve done the impossible. I never thought domestic violence was photographable.” But still—they didn’t publish it.
At the time, I was living with the anti-war photographer Philip Jones Griffiths, president of Magnum Photos. We were expecting our first child. He told me, “If they’re scared to publish it, it means you’re doing something right.” That gave me fuel.
HM: Did you have help accessing shelters, survivors, courtrooms?
DF: No fixers. Just hundreds of letters and phone calls. Persistence. But I did have mentors—giants of the movement—like Ellen Pence, Ann Jones, Stacey Kabat, Kit Gruelle, Amanda McCormick. These women taught me how the system worked. They gave me a political lens.
It wasn’t just about bruises. It was about coercive control. Isolation. Fear. Every woman in my book taught me something. They were collaborators, teachers, warriors. We’re still in touch.
HM: It was a different world. How did you navigate it as a woman with a camera?
DF: I became obsessed with exposing the unspeakable. I left my daughter for months at a time—with my mother or with nannies—so I could embed in shelters, prisons, emergency rooms. I rode with police on domestic calls, day and night. I was constantly in unstable environments.
Young women would live with me as assistants, wanting to learn photography. It was chaotic. Creative. Gonzo. Like a constant workshop. I needed them—they helped raise Fanny while I lived the work.
HM: You were documenting trauma. Did you ever stop and think, "Am I crazy?"
DF: No. The crazy ones were the people who pretended this wasn’t happening. The ones who minimized it, looked the other way.
What I saw made me furious—especially the hatred directed at women for simply having bodies. We’re still living in a world where our bodily autonomy is under attack. Trust is eroded. Even now, women can’t trust men to stand with them. Not all men, but far too many.
This is my expedition. My lifelong fight.
HM: What’s next for you?
DF: I’ll keep telling stories—no matter who the enemy is. I want to find a permanent home for the Living with the Enemy archive. A place where future journalists and photographers can study this work, learn from it, and carry the mission forward. Places like John Jay or the Missouri School of Journalism come to mind.
Because domestic violence is a crime against humanity. It’s political. It’s epidemic. And it’s not going away.
HM: What advice would you give a young photographer—man or woman—wanting to take on risky, hard stories?
DF: Be fearless. Focus on the biggest true crime story of the century: the genocide of women. The erasure of women. The silencing, dismembering of women’s bodily rights.
Photograph what’s in front of your eyes. Be relentless. Right now, about 140 women a day are killed by someone in their family. Courts fail them. Systems are built to protect abusers, not victims. As a photographer, you have more power than AI or surveillance tech. You can witness. You can testify.
HM: That’s a heavy truth.
DF: Yes, but there’s hope. I’m launching a unique workshop for women to come live with me, study this work, and develop their voice. The first resident will be Sara Messenger. I admire how tenderly she photographs anxious teenagers.
I’m also inspired by photographers like Smita Sharma—who reaches audiences through both books and TED Talks. Or Kiana Hayeri—whose work about confining women to the home is epic in scope. She creates safe spaces, holds community dinners, and builds awareness through togetherness.
And Fatimah Hossein—she bears witness to destruction. And she does it with soul.
These women aren’t just documenting the truth. They’re changing it.
HM: Donna, thank you. Your work continues to shape our understanding of justice, love, and survival.
DF: Thank you. As long as there’s injustice, I’ll keep photographing. One day at a time.
