There is a delicate oscillation between memory and fantasy in the photographic practice of Spanish-born, London-based artist Maite de Orbe. The artist, preoccupied with embodied experience and expression, translates sideways time through image — time that glitters and pulsates. Maite seeks out the erotic in the everyday and reveals that the erotic can be found in the heat and speed of a motorcycle, the elusive magic of a stranger befriended on Christmas eve, or in a moment of stillness with a landscape.
There are elements of documentation in Maite’s work: London’s experimental performance artists, queer peers, the Domincan Republic’s ballroom scene; although the work is more concerned with bottling reality as it fractures and presents another form of language, or truth, through sensorial code. De Orbe is not seeking resolve; they are content to be held in poetic suspension and invite us to surrender for a moment, maybe longer.
We meet with Maite at the Assembly Darkrooms, a tight knit, community-run printing studio in East London (that they adore). As we speak, Maite sifts through new prints, pausing to tenderly reflect on portraits and memories, while tracing new connections between the images. Here we discuss the preparation for their first solo in London, A Moment Opposite to Blindness at Miłość gallery, the recent release of their photo book, The Infamous Spaghetti Sisters, a film on the queer ballroom scene in the Dominican Republic, and the power in stepping back to assess our impulses in the creative practice.
Your work centres on storytelling, imbued with elements of fantasy. Can you share why you choose to shape, or deepen narrative through fantasy in your practice?
I’ve always admired how we use stories to soothe ourselves. I think fantasy is a form of escapism. I like work when it’s an experience, whether it is a club night, a scary film, or a really good book. It’s immersive, so you're fully present. You’re removed from your physical self, and then, when you return, something has shifted. Fantasy is not necessarily about creatures but about generating otherness, which is a synonym for queerness, and I find that otherness much more interesting.
I try to find space in my day-to-day for daydreaming, as a productive way to spend my time and experience intimacy with my thoughts, and then I try to merge this intimacy with whatever I am working on, whether it is an experimental film or a documentary project.
I try to find space in my day-to-day for daydreaming, as a productive way to spend my time and experience intimacy with my thoughts, and then I try to merge this intimacy with whatever I am working on, whether it is an experimental film or a documentary project.
Congratulations on the release of your photobook, The Infamous Spaghetti Sisters. It is a lure — the title, the lack of accompanying text, the timeless quality of the images. Was that sense of mystique intentional in conveying this narrative?
Thank you! The book feels like a counter-book, in the way it has been designed and produced. It is very big, red, and tied up with satin lace. It’s hard to ignore. But as you point out, it is removed from any description, context, or markers of time — they were just not necessary. This photo series was made in a very playful way, and I wanted to transform that feeling into an object that needed no further explanation but could be effortlessly enjoyed.
It does scream look at me, as do its protagonists. Who are The Infamous Spaghetti Sisters? Why were you drawn to work with them on this?
The Infamous Spaghetti Sisters are a drag and acrobat duo composed of Miss Lucinda B. Hind and Shigella Problem (aka Angel Baby as a boy). I had known Shigella for a couple of years. The first time I met her, she split an apple in half with her index finger, smiled, and said she was in circus school.
Going back to the idea of fantasy and otherness, I liked the intersection between acrobat and drag. I was doing some research, and I found this Japanese porn that perfectly merged both worlds with my obsession for showgirls. One thing that has always surprised me is how strong performers are versus how delicate they pretend to be on stage. I get that a part of that is to make the performance effortless, but in this case, I wanted to shoot something that celebrated their strength. When I invited Shigella to do this shoot, she immediately thought of Lucinda to co-star — and that’s when The Infamous Spaghetti Sisters were born.
Going back to the idea of fantasy and otherness, I liked the intersection between acrobat and drag. I was doing some research, and I found this Japanese porn that perfectly merged both worlds with my obsession for showgirls. One thing that has always surprised me is how strong performers are versus how delicate they pretend to be on stage. I get that a part of that is to make the performance effortless, but in this case, I wanted to shoot something that celebrated their strength. When I invited Shigella to do this shoot, she immediately thought of Lucinda to co-star — and that’s when The Infamous Spaghetti Sisters were born.
You mention that the material choices in designing the book were intentional in capturing the experience of the shoot. Is your preference for working with film also tied to the experiential nature of your work and how you’d like the audience to receive it?
I always work on film for personal projects. It’s how I learned to make images, and I like the craft associated with it. It’s in the darkroom printing process that I make all the final decisions, and only there do I see what works and what doesn’t. I find that in both black and white and colour printing, the feeling is always softer, and I like the dreamy, non-hyper-detailed ending that film has. As a result, specifically with the photobook, it taps into a kind of glam 1970s cabaret that is very much what the performers were representing.
What drew you to work in the Dominican Republic recently?
My sister lives there, so I’ve been going for a couple of years. While visiting her, I came across Santo Domingo’s queer ballroom scene. It was so fascinating to me, but also unusual, given the kind of impressions or references we typically have of ballroom scenes in the context of New York or from films like Paris Is Burning.
But then here was a ballroom with bachata: Caribbean ballroom. It was so incredible to witness and to begin meeting some members of the community. I started working with one of the houses, Casa Aton or House of Aton, and eventually it became clear that this project would be a film. I am really taking my time with this work. I mean, filmmaking in general is a slower process, but this is also a precious subject. Trying to shoot it all in the few weeks I was there, and develop a show from that material, felt far too reductive. I’m going back to shoot more later this year.
But then here was a ballroom with bachata: Caribbean ballroom. It was so incredible to witness and to begin meeting some members of the community. I started working with one of the houses, Casa Aton or House of Aton, and eventually it became clear that this project would be a film. I am really taking my time with this work. I mean, filmmaking in general is a slower process, but this is also a precious subject. Trying to shoot it all in the few weeks I was there, and develop a show from that material, felt far too reductive. I’m going back to shoot more later this year.
That is so special to have connected with the community in this way and be working towards this. Now I’m starting to understand the context of these images in the Dominican Republic and those taken during your time in Mexico. Ok, so will any of the ballroom prints be part of your solo show, A Moment Opposite to Blindness? Can you tell us about the show and the title?
Yes, some of the prints from the documentary project will be included in this show. The title takes its name from Autobiography of Red, a novel by Anne Carson. There’s this moment when the protagonist, Geryon, a gay little red monster boy with wings, sees another boy at the bus stop. He describes the moment they first look at each other as “a moment opposite to blindness.” I find that incredibly powerful. There’s so much in that for me and the moments I chase, where we encounter a kind of truth, and then it’s gone. Films can capture this really well — with silence. That is in essence what a lot of the work is about.
You shoot a lot of performers, in London’s underground scene, as well as amongst your peers. Do you also see your practice as the documentation of these communities?
My work is documentary in the sense that I don’t create characters or worlds that don’t exist; I facilitate them to happen through my lens. The people, collectives, and spaces I photograph and film exist without me. A lot of these communities I also belong to. So I would say that a lot of what I do is a form of collaborative storytelling. I’ve always shot performers, that’s always been part of my practice.
Lately, I’m discovering more threads between how I’m approaching the film on the ballroom scene and how I approach portraits. I feel like I’m uncovering something in my practice. I've recently taken a step back to sit with all the work and ask: what is it that really takes me there? What draws me to these subjects? What exactly is it that I’m always trying to chase?
Lately, I’m discovering more threads between how I’m approaching the film on the ballroom scene and how I approach portraits. I feel like I’m uncovering something in my practice. I've recently taken a step back to sit with all the work and ask: what is it that really takes me there? What draws me to these subjects? What exactly is it that I’m always trying to chase?
I think it is really useful to step back and ask yourself these questions. Something the artist Arthur Jaffa once said in an interview that always stuck with me was, “what is the compulsion that precedes your practice?” So understanding those impulses that connect it.
Exactly. Finding the connections between why this [gestures at a print], the softness of worn-out metal in a car, is the same as the intimacy in a portrait — to me the feeling is the same. I was speaking with a friend the other day who mentioned the idea of ‘suspended violence,’ — the suspended violence of a car crash in relation to cars and motorcycles which have become a recurring theme in the work. Perhaps it’s this sense of suspension, or the feeling of everything being up in the air for a moment that I try to capture and translate.
The sublime is definitely something I am always chasing. I’m also not interested in being explicit, or in trying to convey the whole story. I don’t think it’s even possible. I think there are moments of truth, those kinds of truths that are shared briefly with another person, or discovered by following your intuition. I’m engaged with emotional truths. I’m much more invested in communicating a feeling through my work, or transferring an experience.
The sublime is definitely something I am always chasing. I’m also not interested in being explicit, or in trying to convey the whole story. I don’t think it’s even possible. I think there are moments of truth, those kinds of truths that are shared briefly with another person, or discovered by following your intuition. I’m engaged with emotional truths. I’m much more invested in communicating a feeling through my work, or transferring an experience.
