What if a single question could unravel the complexities of womanhood across cultures and continents? ‘Can I come over and take your picture?’ is more than an exhibition—it’s a decade-long journey into the lives of over 300 women, captured through the lens of Clémence Polès Farhang. But here’s where it gets controversial: in a world that often reduces women to stereotypes, Polès Farhang dares to ask, What happens when we look at women with curiosity instead of judgment?
Polès Farhang, the founder of Passerby magazine, began this project shortly after immigrating to New York City. Her mission? To deconstruct the internalized misogyny she inherited from her upbringing. Her mother, an Iranian woman who fled during the revolution, championed bodily autonomy yet criticized women who defied conventional norms—a paradox that shaped Polès Farhang’s perspective. And this is the part most people miss: the tension between cultural expectations and individual freedom is a universal struggle, not just a personal one.
Photography became her tool for rebellion, transforming her fixation on appearance into a lens of empathy. This evolved into Passerby, a photographic and oral archive that spans New York, Paris, London, and Los Angeles. To celebrate its 10th anniversary, Slip House gallery in New York is hosting her first solo exhibition, Can I come over and take your picture?, curated by Nastasia Alberti. The show pairs over 200 portraits with excerpts from intimate interviews, offering a raw look at cross-cultural womanhood.
Here’s the twist: while preparing the exhibition, Polès Farhang noticed that most of her subjects were immigrants or children of immigrants. Their stories of displacement reveal how migration shapes identity, belonging, and creativity. But here’s where it gets controversial: in a world that often frames immigration as a crisis, these portraits challenge the narrative, showcasing women who build homes, create art, and redefine what it means to belong.
Take Huong Dodinh, for example, who fled Vietnam in 1953 and settled in Paris. Her memories of harsh boarding schools and culture shock highlight the resilience of immigrant women. Or Rose, a Mexican woman who left her children behind to seek a better life in New York, only to find kindness from a stranger. These stories aren’t just about survival—they’re about thriving against the odds.
Then there’s Shirin Neshat, who dreamed of America through Hollywood but faced depression upon arrival. Her journey from loneliness to building an Iranian artistic community in the U.S. raises a bold question: Can we ever truly escape the stamp of our childhood?
Ana Kraš, who grew up during the Bosnian war, offers another perspective. She believes that hardship, not abundance, fosters growth. And this is the part most people miss: her story challenges the notion that stability is necessary for success.
The exhibition also features Isabel Sandoval, a Filipino filmmaker who discovered her trans identity in New York. She navigates the double-edged sword of identity politics, questioning whether representation can inadvertently limit artistic freedom. But here’s where it gets controversial: should artists be defined by their identities, or should their work transcend labels?
Naïlat Salama Djae and Salimata Ali Chahidi, a mother-daughter duo from the Comoro Islands, showcase the intergenerational impact of immigration. Chahidi, a social worker, helps refugees craft their asylum narratives, while Djae embraces her Gen Z emotional expressiveness. Their contrasting communication styles invite us to consider: How do we bridge generational gaps in understanding?
Tiana Rainford, raised by a Jamaican immigrant chef in East New York, highlights the cultural significance of food. When her mother’s health was questioned by medical professionals unfamiliar with her diet, it sparked a larger debate: Should cultural dietary practices be dismissed in the name of mainstream health norms?
Finally, there’s Sunny Shokrae, an Iranian-born photographer who moved to California as a child. Her return to Tehran to document its underground music scene reflects a universal longing: How do we reconnect with places we’ve left behind?
Can I come over and take your picture? isn’t just an exhibition—it’s a conversation starter. It challenges us to rethink womanhood, immigration, and identity. But here’s the real question: In a world that often silences women’s stories, are we ready to listen? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s spark a dialogue that transcends borders and biases.
