Kim Van Liefferinge

You have a background in archaeology—how has that shaped your eye as a photographer?

In many ways, my interest in photography grew hand in hand with my studies in archaeology. While based in Belgium, I spent long stretches in Greece for excavations and research, always with my camera in hand. I was compelled to capture not only what I was studying, but also the world around me: the Greek landscape, steeped in history, became a constant source of inspiration.

Archaeology also gave me a strong technical foundation. Every artifact and every stratigraphic layer required meticulous documentation, and that’s where I truly learned how to use my camera. I experimented with light, exposure, and aperture until it became second nature.

Over time, I began taking on creative projects outside academia. One that truly planted a seed was a collaboration with a historian friend on the history of food, which evolved into a published cookbook of historical recipes. I photographed, she wrote—and that’s when I realized photography wasn’t just a tool for research, but a creative path of its own.

Kim Van Liefferinge | Through The Fog | 2017

What was the turning point when you decided to leave academia and dedicate yourself fully to photography?

The turning point came toward the end of my postdoc at Stanford. I had to decide what came next, and while the research itself was inspiring, I was confronted with the reality of an academic career—the constant pressure to publish, chase tenure, and navigate endless politics. It no longer felt like the path I had once imagined.

Photography, meanwhile, had always been a source of joy and creativity. When my fellowship ended, I chose to stay in California and pursue it fully. The first years were difficult, but the openness and encouragement I found here gave me the confidence to keep going.

In the end, the leap didn’t just change my career—it opened the door to a life that feels far more authentic. And I carried the best parts of academia with me: the drive for research and the curiosity to explore the unknown, now on my own terms.

Kim Van Liefferinge | Through The Fog | 2017

You often describe seeing the world through “stratigraphy.” Could you explain what that means for your creative process?

Yes, that idea is crucial to my process. In archaeology, “stratigraphy” refers to the study of layers—soil, debris, and artifacts that build up over time at a site. It’s based on the geological law of superposition: the oldest layers at the bottom, the newest at the top. By analyzing those strata, archaeologists reconstruct timelines of human activity and history.

In my art, I use stratigraphy more symbolically. To me, everything in this world has layers—a story, a history—that only becomes visible when you dig deeper and ask questions. Unlike in archaeology, I’m particularly drawn to non-human actors: landscapes, ecosystems, animals. They don’t have voices in the same way humans do, yet they’re profoundly shaped, and often harmed, by human activity. My work is a way of giving them presence, of offering a platform where their stories can be seen and felt.

That process doesn’t start with the camera. It begins with research: studying the history of my subject, where it comes from, how it has changed over time. It’s about peeling back layers of context before I even make an image. And visually, that layering often comes through in the work itself—through texture, color, or composition—so that the final piece reflects both the surface and the depth beneath it.

Kim Van Liefferinge | Through The Fog | 2017

What first drew you to the story of the tule elk at Point Reyes?

I first encountered the tule elk on a day trip to Point Reyes while living in the San Francisco Bay Area. I was struck by the landscape and the animals themselves, but it wasn’t until later that I learned their full story—the fence and the fact that so many were dying of thirst each summer. I was horrified. That realization pulled me back to the area, determined to document their story more closely.

I returned on a summer morning, when the Bay Area fog rolls thick along the coast, thinking it would add an eerie, fitting atmosphere. But the fog was so dense I could barely see a few feet ahead. After two hours of hiking with no elk in sight, I was ready to turn back when suddenly the wind shifted. The fog lifted over a field, and the elk appeared, emerging from the grass like a vision.

It was an unforgettable moment, and two of my images come directly from it.

How did you balance the emotional weight of the tragedy with the hope for renewal in your images?

That balance is always the challenge. Any activist knows you have to enter spaces most people avoid, because they’re painful, overwhelming, or make you feel powerless. As a photographer, my role is to translate those realities into stories people can engage with more easily than, say, a dense academic study. Even if it reaches just one person, that awareness matters. This was never art for art’s sake—it was about giving visibility to a struggle.

I also see the images differently now, since the fence has finally come down. For me, they’re now both a tribute to the elk that perished and an acknowledgment of the activists and lawyers who fought for years to make change possible. In that way, the photos carry both grief and hope, honoring what was lost while celebrating renewal.

Kim Van Liefferinge | Through The Fog | 2017

How do you want viewers to feel when they encounter “Through the Fog”?

I hope the images leave people with a sense of relief and recognition. It’s rare in wildlife preservation to witness a “good ending,” and I didn’t know we would when I took the photos. The tule elk are majestic creatures, and for me these images are about their beauty as much as their survival. It’s about the simple right to live in their native environment without being killed or driven out.

That theme is, unfortunately, universal—woven through history and still pressing today. In the current political climate, questions of land, rights, and survival feel more urgent than ever. My hope is that viewers not only see the beauty of the elk, but also reflect on what it means to share space and responsibility—with other species, and with one another.

How do you navigate your dual identity as Belgian-American in your creative work?

Living between two worlds has made me more open. After eleven years in the U.S., I don’t feel fully American, but no longer entirely European either. At times it feels rootless, but that in-between space has shaped me into a better photographer. It keeps me curious, observant, willing to listen—all, I believe, crucial parts of the creative process.