Leora Rosner: The Finestranaut
- 4 days ago
- 7 min read
Worlds Opened by Glass
Leora Rosner arrived in Amsterdam in 1975 and, among its canals, older façades, and shifting light, found the scenes that would, decades later, gather into the series The Finestranaut. She coined the word herself, from the Italian finestra, meaning window, to name a way of moving through images formed in glass, where interior, street, reflection, and the photographer’s own gaze meet.
Her photographs are made as single exposures. Leora walks through Amsterdam’s older neighbourhoods, stops before windows, works with distance, angle, and light, and allows the irregularities of old glass to bend buildings, trees, and colour into images that often feel closer to painting than to conventional photography. In this conversation, she speaks about Amsterdam, the first camera that taught her patience, glass that alters an image, and a way of seeing that has developed alongside her over the years.
When did you first realise that, for you, a window was far more than a motif, and that it could become a place where different layers of reality meet?
I suppose it began when I first came to Amsterdam in 1975. It was like entering a universe of windows: sometimes closed, sometimes partially open, and occasionally wide open. Each one revealed, in stages, what lay inside, behind the glass, while at the same time reflecting what was in front of it, as well as what was behind me. I found this game of juxtaposed realities fascinating. Although I continued to photograph other subjects, worked on various photographic projects, and took on other work over the years, the seed had been sown and, after several decades, would finally begin to grow.
You coined the word finestranaut to define your own artistic position. How does that term capture your relationship with seeing, space, and image-making?
Ah, yes. I needed a term to define what I do, and late one night in the shower, I came up with finestranaut. As you know, finestra means window in Italian. For me, the term finestranaut is a complete description of my relationship with seeing, in the true sense of the word, and in this case, with windows. I see the different realities, the space, and the way they work together. Sometimes they don’t work together, and that creates a particular tension that also grabs me, sometimes like a punch to the gut. When they do work together, they make my senses sing. The window frame holds it all together, regardless of the song, the tension, or anything in between.
Each of your photographs is made as a single exposure, without digital compositing. Could you describe your process, from your first encounter with a scene to the final image?
The process, at least for me, is really straightforward. The most difficult decision on my part is where I will go on any given shooting day. Interestingly enough, most of my images were shot in the Grachtengordel, the canal belt of Amsterdam’s main canals, as well as in my own neighbourhood around the Nieuwmarkt and the Plantage area here in Amsterdam. In any event, the choice is always an older neighbourhood.
Once the decision is made about which canal or neighbourhood to visit, I’m out the door and on my way. Generally, I shoot from one side of a canal or street to the other. Something catches my eye, and I stop, aim and immediately take the shot. If I move ever so slightly, rock to the right or left, or move slightly forwards or backwards, the scene can change dramatically. This is caused by the distortion due to the age of the glass.
Another influence is the possible tinting of the glass, which can give the final image a kind of rainbowing, or simply change the overall colouring. By rainbowing, I don’t mean a true rainbow; colours can become splotchy, like a not-quite-as-splotchy Rauschenberg. Another point is that I usually shoot above the ground floor.
Once I’ve uploaded the images, I go through them, make my choices and begin the process of straightening the windows, which in and of itself is virtually impossible because the straightest windows in Amsterdam are those in new, modern buildings. Therefore, when looking at my images, there is almost always a crooked side or two. I also enhance the colour and retouch any dust and detritus, and that also makes me, in a sense, a window washer.
In your work, older panes of glass hold a special place because they distort the scene and open up unexpected forms. How do those surfaces reveal the world differently from new, flat glass?
The older the glass, the greater the distortion. I was once told that this was partly due to gravity. In fact, however, it is due to the way the glass was produced. Old glass was blown into a cylinder, then cut down the side and reheated in an oven to flatten it. This could cause bubbles, waves, ripples, varying thicknesses, and so on. Impurities would give the glass a slightly greenish or yellowish tint. Therefore, anything reflected in this type of glass can bend, twist, stretch, and/or become completely distorted, with a legible area here and there. One could almost call it lyrical! Modern glass, on the other hand, acts like a mirror, smooth and as perfect as one can imagine. I would add that there is another modern type of glass that also distorts, but generally in a broad way that I don’t actually like. It is instantly recognisable if one looks at how the reflections are distorted, because the effect is the same wherever I have seen that type of glass.
You grew up surrounded by art, literature, museums, music, and ballet. Amid all those influences, what drew you to photography as the medium that felt most fully your own?
I was always an observer and always loved looking at photos, images, paintings, illustrations, and so on. Imagining myself within those worlds was part of the process. In fact, it was only years later that I was told that, as a kid, I was often labelled as being in my own world. How right they were…
Anyway, when I was at art academy, my drawings were becoming super-realistic. Other students began telling me that it might be easier to shoot photos, and that it would certainly cut down the time considerably. One day, it dawned on me that photography might indeed be just the thing.
So, my first camera, which had been my father’s, was an old Italian SLR from a company that no longer existed, called Rectaflex. The Rectaflex was the first camera with a pentaprism eye-level viewfinder; it still needed improvements, and for that reason it was sent to my father. My father, among other things, had also been an inventor. Well, he wrote to them in Italy, giving them a list of things to improve on the camera. They didn’t take his advice, and the company closed.
So, there I was, a number of years later, with this camera that had a leaky shutter, didn’t close very well, was a bit slow, and had no through-the-lens light metering. I renamed it Rectumflex due to its negative points. Not wanting to give up, and not knowing anything about cameras, I bought film and went out and began shooting. I took a pad of paper and wrote everything down: aperture, shutter speed, film, light, shadow, the time of day, the whole kit and caboodle! I did that for every single image I shot.
A friend from the graphic arts department showed me how to develop film, and I was off to the races and loved every minute of it. I was absolutely hooked, even though that camera made me work for it because of the problems it had. Finding workarounds was also part of the adventure. At some point, I borrowed 400 dollars and bought a Nikon Nikkormat with a 50mm lens, and my world improved 100%! The Rectumflex disappeared along the way, which I find sad because that camera, in a sense, was my teacher. If I could find one now, it would be most satisfying!
Looking back on the path from your earlier work to The Finestranaut, which aspect of your way of seeing has changed most over the years, and which has remained constant?
That’s easy! It’s as though I SEE more, in the true sense of seeing. The seeing has become… um… greater, deeper? Maybe it has basically stayed the same. Thinking now about a portrait series I did years ago, there were a couple of people who refused. They said I saw inside them, that I got too close, and that it disturbed them greatly. I said, OK, no problem, and then they told me again that I had got too close, that I could see inside them. It was strange, because I hadn’t got into a discussion about it. Again, I said OK and then walked away.
So, I suppose the bottom line is that I still SEE in the same way; all that has changed is that I do it unabashedly. It’s simply a part of me! Lately, I just say I have a very keen left eye. You might wonder why the left eye… well, the right eye is dreadfully lazy and is there to enjoy the ride.
How has Amsterdam, a city of old façades, shop windows, reflections, and shifting light, shaped your photographic language?
The shifting light you mentioned is the key ingredient. When I was at art academy, I first learned how to deal with very harsh light, bright whites, and deep black shadows in which everything was lost. I learned how to balance that in order to show clearly what was there, and what was too timid to shine, as it were. Coming here to Amsterdam was also an introduction to a gentler light, one that could caress, enfold, embrace, and also shout at times. The scale was broader and offered every shade between light and dark. What a concept, being able to work with light that was malleable and had a friendly countenance.
There is one small irony now: back in the day, people told me to use a camera, and now they often say my images look like paintings. Who would have thought…? However, I have no intention of starting to paint, although I draw occasionally and write as well. And I shall continue to do so… there is more up my sleeve for the future.
Leora Rosner approaches photography as an exercise in attention and a space for play. Her story carries technical discipline, memories of an unpredictable Rectaflex camera, humour, persistent curiosity, and the Amsterdam light that expanded her range between darkness and brightness. After this conversation, a window takes on another role: it becomes a surface where architecture, light, trees, the movement of the street, and the photographer’s gaze come together in an image that everyday life too often lets pass unseen.
