LéAna Clifton (b. 1971, Pretoria, South Africa) is a multimedia artist whose work distills the elemental forces of light, form, color, movement and time. 

Her recent work focuses almost exclusively on creating abstract images of freight trains running through the far west Texas desert in Marfa, capturing their visceral drama. Drawn to movement—trains, shifting light, passing forms—she rejects the tradition of photography as a fixed instant, instead using long exposures and in-camera techniques to “paint” with light and motion. The ethereal quality of these works results from experimental processes that push the medium toward abstraction, creating images that reverberate with physicality, immediacy, and a deep sense of time and place.

Throughout her practice, Clifton recontextualizes overlooked and utilitarian subjects, using what she calls “visual sampling” of industrial and commercial forms as source material for transformation. In the darkroom and studio, she has pushed her work beyond the single frame, from shredding, deconstructing, and reconstructing photographic prints in her earlier series to more recently incorporating drawing and painting directly onto large-scale photographic works. These interventions emphasize the artist’s hand and expand photography into mixed media terrain.

Clifton was born in South Africa, where she was first exposed to photography at a young age by her father, an avid photographer. She emigrated to the United States in 1994, where she honed her craft as a professional photographer in Austin, Texas. She moved to Marfa, Texas, in 2007, where she has been pushing the boundaries of the medium throughout various bodies of work over the years. 

She lives and works in Marfa, Texas.

How did your journey with photography begin?

The long version of the answer probably begins when I was very young, watching my father take photographs. He was an amateur photographer, and I loved observing him as he observed the world—people, places, and small, seemingly ordinary things.

My mother was creative in a different way. I remember her sitting in front of large pieces of paper with a pencil in her hand, quietly studying whatever she was about to draw. I loved being around both of them when they were creating. There was something deeply peaceful about those moments—the concentration, the quiet, the feeling of being completely absorbed in looking and making. Those memories are still very vivid for me. They carry a deep sense of joy, peace, and safety.

Without realizing it, my parents were teaching me to quietly pay attention. I didn’t know then that I was dyslexic, or that the way my mind worked would become such an important part of my life as an artist. I simply knew that I was naturally curious. I wanted to watch everything happening around me, to study it, and to find beauty in things that might otherwise go unnoticed.

As a teenager, I struggled in school. I often found myself trying to disappear into the background, hoping no one would notice me. Ironically, that created an extraordinary position from which to observe the world. I became very aware of people, their gestures, their relationships, and all the little things happening around me. Looking back now, I recognize that this was the beginning of the photographer in me.

A few years later, I met a young man who had been fortunate enough to study art in college. He always encouraged me to push my limits. When we immigrated to the United States, he was working a great deal, and he handed me a camera and asked me to photograph our life as young immigrants so that we could share it with our family. Before long, he told me, “You have a great eye.” I remember being confused by that. I didn’t understand what he meant. He laughed and explained that I had the ability to see the world with a unique vision. That stayed with me, and he encouraged me to keep photographing.

After the immigration process was complete, I continued photographing our life for a couple of years. Somewhere along the way, I had the extraordinary good fortune to work with the wedding photographer B. R. Wayland, who became my mentor. I became her shadow, assisting her and learning by watching her work. She taught me so much simply through example.

One of the great gifts in life is discovering someone who can see your potential even when you don’t yet know how to see it yourself. Because of my dyslexia, college had never seemed like a realistic path for me, but photography gave me another way to learn. It allowed me to trust my own way of seeing.

I worked as Miss Wayland’s assistant for a couple of years, until she immigrated to Canada. At that point, I started my own photography studio. I photographed portraits and weddings, as well as architecture and products, and I loved all of it. But my favorite work was always the photographic essay, taking my camera and walking through the streets of a city, a small town in America, or a village in Africa, simply looking for beauty in unexpected places.

When my husband and I moved to Marfa, that way of working became an important part of my life. I began creating photographic essays about Marfa on a regular basis. My husband and I would cycle through town with our cameras, stopping whenever something caught our attention. We photographed seemingly random objects, details, textures, buildings, and moments. There was no particular agenda other than to look.

By then, my obsession with trains had become pretty well developed. They fly through Marfa many times throughout the day. For a couple of years, I kept pushing the limits, photographing freight trains because I was fascinated by the dramatic and visceral experience of being close to one: the sound, the smell, the movement, the overwhelming wash of color and energy. It was terrifying, loud, obnoxious, and completely hypnotic all at once. I loved it.

Then, one evening, everything came together. My exposure was exactly right. My timing was perfect. I pressed the shutter, and when I looked at the photograph, I was completely blown away. I captured all those feelings in one image. Lightening in a bottle. In that instant, I knew I had found the beginning of my next chapter. 

What was it about Marfa, specifically, that made you stay and shift your practice toward it after 2007? 

There is something magical about Marfa that I still can’t completely explain. The first time I drove into Marfa, I had this extraordinary feeling that I had somehow driven home. Perhaps it was because it reminded me of South Africa, the enormous skies, perfectly formed clouds, endless grasslands, dry heat with a breeze that tickles your face, and even the sounds of lazy doves sitting in the trees or dogs barking in the distance. Whatever it was, Marfa captivated my soul. It felt strangely familiar, as though some part of me had been waiting for it.

I think one of the most profound things about living in Marfa is the light. I still can’t completely explain it either. Maybe it is the lack of pollution, the elevation, the extremely low humidity, or some combination of all of those things. But the light (and color) here can make everything feel almost otherworldly. It transforms the most ordinary things.

And Marfa is full of ordinary and forgotten things.

There are faded, sun bleached painted signs, broken-down adobe structures, very little sidewalk, thorns that look like the heads of tiny goats and can bury their way into your foot through your flip flops, rattlesnakes, dust storms, and yet somehow all of these things become beautiful. Even the challenges of the landscape become part of the character. One of the remarkable things about Marfa is that you can often see things coming from miles away. The horizon is so open that storms, light, and weather and yes, the train become events in themselves.

Marfa is also far away from everything. It is difficult to get to, and there isn’t an endless list of things to rush out and do. For an artist, that can be an extraordinary gift. There is very little here to distract you, so you begin to look more closely. You find yourself seeking and digging deeper, trying to understand what drives you.

Suddenly, the smallest flower becomes an obsession. You notice the way the wind moves it, sometimes softly, sometimes whipping it with such force, and yet it stands back up and beams with joy. So small that everyone ignores it. It knows its purpose. 

I get to stop and observe it. Sometimes I lie down next to the tiny flower and study it for a long time. I wonder what it sees when it looks up at the sky. It’s enormous at that point. And the sky is impossibly beautiful with perfectly formed thunderclouds changing from brilliant white to spectacular pinks and purples, and then recomposing and disappearing. 

I think that is what Marfa ultimately gave me: time. Time to look. Time to be curious. Time to become obsessed with something insignificant. Time to listen to the wind and watch the sky. Time to reconnect to the source. Time to discover what matters to me without the constant noise of the outside world telling me what should matter.

If you come to Marfa expecting someone to entertain you, you are probably going to be greatly disappointed. But if you allow yourself to slow down, Marfa gives you something much more valuable. It gives you the opportunity to let go of everything you think you are supposed to be and discover who you actually are.

For me, that changed my photography. I stopped simply photographing what was in front of me and began looking for what was underneath it: the feeling, the silence, the strangeness, the beauty, and the stories hidden in seemingly insignificant things. This led me to find the essence of things, which naturally led me more and more to abstracted images using long-exposure and movement. Marfa didn’t just become a place where I made photographs. It became a place that taught me how to think and see.

Walk us through what actually happens when you’re photographing a train. How much is in-camera versus what happens afterwards in the studio?

Photographing trains is challenging, first and foremost, because of safety. Trains don’t run on a schedule that I can simply follow, so I have to rely on seeing one or hearing the whistle in the distance. When I hear that whistle, I’m ready. I grab my camera setup which is always ready, and head toward my car, and as I’m moving, I’m already assessing the light, the time of day, and the direction the train is traveling. All of those things determine my exposure, my timing, and where I need to position myself. Once I have identified a place where I can safely intercept the train, I set up my tripod, take my light readings, and wait.

The exposure depends enormously on the conditions. On a bright, sunny day in the middle of the afternoon, I may intentionally overexpose the image, and my shutter speed and timing have to be very quick. Later in the day, or on a cloudy or darker day, I can allow myself more time. The train itself also determines everything. A train slowing down to stop creates a completely different photographic situation from a freight train traveling at 75 miles an hour. The speed changes the movement, the timing, the exposure, and ultimately the character of the image.

It is difficult for me to explain exactly what happens in that moment because I have been doing it for so long. There is a certain amount of automatic finger movement, timing, judgment, and reading of the atmosphere. It becomes almost like a language or dance. I’m not consciously thinking through every step anymore. I am responding. Kind of like a musician. 

The movement in the photograph is primarily created in the camera, in the relationship between the speed of the train, the shutter, and my timing. I want to capture as much of what is actually happening in front of me rather than manufacture it later.

Once I have the images, I do very minimal post-production on the computer. I might remove a spot, crop an image, or straighten it, but I prefer to do as much of the photographic capturing and manipulation as possible in the camera in a single image. I have never been particularly interested in digital editing. Even though it can mimic what I did manually in the darkroom for many years. 

For me, the real transformation happens afterward, in my art studio.

I print the photograph large on beautiful paper and then hang it and live with it. I look at it and begin thinking about where I want to take it next. The layering process begins. This is what takes most of the work. Where should the eye travel? Would lines help draw the viewer into the image? Should they be bold and thick, or incredibly fine and delicate? Do I want to work with the colors already present in the photograph, or introduce and interweave something completely unexpected?

That is where the photograph becomes a painting, or perhaps something between a photograph and a painting.

You’ve described your process as “visual sampling” of industrial and commercial forms. What draws you to utilitarian subjects, rather than more conventionally “beautiful” ones?

I think part of the answer comes from knowing what it feels like to be overlooked, misjudged, or not seen as an equal. Perhaps because of that, I have always been drawn to things that other people might consider unworthy, ordinary, ugly, useless, or even annoying. I have a tendency to look closely at those things and ask myself, “What am I missing? What is here that other people aren’t seeing?”

If I can take something as large, loud, and seemingly utilitarian as a freight train and isolate one small detail—a particular color, a piece of texture, a reflection, a line—and reveal the beauty within it, that makes me incredibly happy.

I often have people tell me, “Trains aren’t blue or yellow or orange.” And I’ll ask them, “Have you ever really looked at a train?” That question usually makes people stop and think.

Most of us don’t really look. When the booms come down and the train rushes past, we look down at our phones. We answer emails. We talk to the person next to us. We might even take a momentary nap. We experience the train without actually seeing it.

Sometimes, weeks later, someone will come back to me and say, “Oh my gosh, I finally looked at a train.” And suddenly they see it, the extraordinary colors, the layers of weather and rust and paint, the graffiti, the reflections, the enormous physical presence of it. They experience the sound and movement and color washing over them in a completely different way. And they are present. 

That is what I love about my work. I like to take something unusual, overlooked, or even considered ugly, and sample it visually, isolating a fragment that catches my attention and representing it in a way that asks the viewer to look again. I am not necessarily trying to convince people that a train is beautiful. I am asking them to reconsider what beauty is and where they are willing to find it.

For me, beauty is everywhere. Sometimes you simply have to slow down long enough to see it.

How do you decide when a piece is finished? Since you’re layering drawing, pastel, and burnishing onto a photographic base, is there a point where you stop treating it as a photograph at all?

It is hard to know when a piece is finished, especially when you are having a great deal of fun creating it. I love taking my photographs and hanging them in my studio, then observing them for a couple of days, watching how the light changes the colors, what parts of the image catch my eye, and where I might need to add a little more work to draw the viewer in.

The challenge comes when you are enjoying the process so much that you begin to float into the color, almost becoming one with it. You start dreaming in color and experiencing the joy of creating. It is almost like meditation, or sometimes even a love affair. At that point, it can be difficult to step back and let go. But ultimately, you have to let go so that you can begin again.

For me, there is a very specific point when I realize that the piece has become something beyond its photographic beginning. The photograph is still there, but through the drawing, pastel, burnishing, and layers of color, it becomes its own thing. I’m no longer thinking of it simply as a photograph; I’m responding to what is happening on the surface and allowing the image to evolve.

It is wonderful when you can finally let go of a piece and allow it to enter the world, knowing it will bring joy into someone else’s life. That helps me get to the finish line. In all art, I think there comes a very specific moment when you have to stop, walk away, and trust that you have given the piece everything it needed. And then, of course, you get to start again.

Why do you think you’re drawn to things in motion, rather than to stillness?

Firstly, I’m drawn to the abstraction of these into still images that distill the elements of color, light and time into single, beautiful new images. The compression and expansion of time in these images particularly tickles my brain. Secondly, they create a beautiful and inspiring starting point for my handwork that I layer over the photography to create much more powerful works. Lastly, and this is a photography trick, I tend to get much more saturated colors using my long exposure techniques and I really love color!

Is there an artist that has felt particularly inspiring to you lately?

I have a few artists who inspire and intrigue me.

I love Agnes Martin because her work is so delicate and meditative. Her graphite drawings are especially inspirational to me. I also admire the way she never allowed herself to be defined by one body of work. She kept evolving, changing, and exploring.

Another artist I always return to is English artist McKenzie Thorpe, who has spoken about being dyslexic and the struggles he faced and overcame. His work is full of life, love, and hope. When you look at his images, they simply make you happy, and I really hope my work can do the same.

Very recently there are also a couple of fellow artists in Marfa who are very much at the top of my mind. Daniel Marty with his incredible, technically perfect monotone photographs,  images that simply take your breath away. And Adam Borg who never stands still. He is constantly changing, experimenting, and finding new ways to express himself. It is such a joy to observe because he is literally a blur of creativity.

Being surrounded by such incredible artists truly lifts my spirit. They encourage me to keep growing, to be better, to try new things, and, most importantly, to keep creating.