Pia Riverola’s photographs are instantly recognizable for their dreamlike palette, cinematic intimacy, and quiet emotional resonance. Born in Barcelona and based between Los Angeles and Mexico City, Riverola has built a deeply personal body of work that spans editorial, documentary, and fine art contexts—always grounded in a sensitivity to light, gesture, and place. Her images oscillate between stillness and movement, presence and memory, capturing fleeting moments that feel both timeless and urgent.

Your work feels both intuitive and deliberate. Can you describe your process when approaching a new body of work?

My creative process begins with intuition. I tend to carry my camera almost everywhere, it’s a kind of extension of my presence. When I’m in a new environment or even somewhere familiar, I allow myself to be led by light, by a certain atmosphere or emotion. I’m not trying to force a narrative onto what I see, rather, I wait for the image to reveal itself. Later, in the editing and sequencing phase, the deliberate part comes in: shaping what those moments are saying together.

Light plays such a significant role in your images, how do you see it functioning beyond aesthetics?

Light is memory. It holds a sense of time, warmth, nostalgia, and fragility. I think that’s why it resonates so much in my work,it’s never just about making something look beautiful. It’s about preserving a feeling, sometimes even a loss. I often say that I’m chasing a memory that hasn’t happened yet.

There’s a clear sensitivity in your portraits and still lifes, how do you approach photographing people or intimate spaces?

Gesture language is very important to me. The way someone holds their hands, the tilt of a neck, the pause in a glance, these small cues speak volumes. I want that connection to be felt. There’s a sense of reciprocity when someone allows themselves to be seen, and when I, as a photographer, am fully present. That presence builds trust. I don’t want to just take an image, I want it to be shared.

Your work has often been described as dreamy or nostalgic. Do you feel those labels capture your intentions?

To some degree, yes. Nostalgia is part of who I am and how I see. But I’m also interested in the present moment, in its textures and shifts. Dreaminess can sometimes suggest a distance, but I’m very rooted in the environments I shoot, especially in places like Mexico, where nature, architecture, and human life are layered in such powerful ways. What I do is more about heightened perception than escape.

Do you see your practice as political or ethical?

Neutrality in art is complicated. Even if you’re not addressing politics directly, the act of choosing what to frame, what to preserve, carries weight. In times of change, upheaval, or even ecological grief, I think my work holds a quiet resistance. It’s not shouting, but it’s paying attention. That in itself is a form of care.

You’ve photographed all over the world. How do you maintain a respectful and ethical gaze in unfamiliar contexts?

Listening. Observing. Being aware of your presence and its implications. I’m always mindful of not aestheticizing someone else’s story without context or consent. If I’m photographing people, especially in their communities, I try to understand before I interpret. That care is reflected in the image, I think. It’s felt on both sides of the lens.

Where do you see your work evolving next?

I’ve been thinking more about slowness, about what it means to commit to a place or a theme for a longer period. Whether that’s returning to the same site over seasons, or focusing on the same subject over time. I’m also working on projects that involve archives and the traces people leave behind. I think the past and present are always talking to each other.