How photography can bridge a language barrier

One of the reasons I was drawn to my partner was the way he spoke about his family – especially his mother. It’s not unusual for people to revere maternal figures; however, her warmth and strength of character radiated through the anecdotes he shared. I felt like I knew the essence of her before we’d even met. There was just one thing: we didn’t speak the same language. With English as my mother tongue and hers French, I wasn’t yet proficient enough to converse fluently. In the meantime, I was keen to find other ways to build emotional intimacy as my language skills developed. 

It's not difficult to connect with someone like Marie. She’s a fiercely independent matriarch with a multifaceted personality that would inspire most women. She’s vivacious, determined and, above all, kind-hearted. She’s currently in the throes of renovating her home and loves to DIY at every opportunity. In retirement, she returned to Bourdeaux in the Drôme, a charming commune in southeastern France with around 700 inhabitants. It’s a place she spent her childhood summers, rich with memories of family and friendships, and long-held rituals – from daily boulangerie runs to summer excursions off the beaten path.

Our first meeting was unconventional. Whereas many people first meet their partner’s parents over a brief activity, in May 2024 my partner and I were kindly invited to stay at her home for a week-long holiday. The itinerary included hiking Les Trois Becs and visiting neighbouring communes, while I happened to be experiencing a chronic illness flare-up. Although the circumstances weren’t ideal, my vulnerability was met with tenderness: she brought comforting dinners to my bedside, lent me hiking equipment and encouraged me to run baths.

From that first meeting, we sought creative ways to bond. What began with laughter and hand gestures evolved into language exchanges (Marie offering French translations of English words, and vice versa), me gaining the confidence to read French books aloud, cooking together, and sharing photographs of our families. The Langlois family champions the latter and they contribute to a monthly family newsletter – a paper trail of the family’s achievements, travels and updates.

We’ve also created food memories together. In France, gastronomy is held in high regard and, having moved from London to Paris in 2023, I’ve come to see food as its own language – one that has shaped my understanding of French culture. Sharing recipes with cultural significance, cooking and dining together opened a dialogue between us. The moments when she taught me how to make aquafaba mousse au chocolat or the local speciality ravioles du dauphiné, layer by layer, felt as meaningful as conversation itself. I’ve also found that trying something new together can be powerful: when both people step into unfamiliar territory, it creates a balance that invites vulnerability. There’s an opportunity to learn a skill or immerse yourselves in a fresh experience, whether it’s an exercise class, art exhibition or attempting flatpack DIY.

Shared experiences have become an inimitable tool for connection and, whenever we spend time together, I feel inspired to honour the moment with a photo album. I’ve captured Marie cooking, the changing light from the windows of her new home across the seasons; and her rituals, like travelling to Nyons for fresh olives, the twice-weekly village market that spills onto her doorstep and the vibrant village bistro, Magasin Général, which serves an indulgent cinnamon-enriched brioche on Thursdays and Sundays. In the summer months, the bistro holds open-air events where we gather, along with many of Marie’s friends and fellow villagers, to enjoy local musicians and share meals in a communal setting.

These snapshots preserve moments that might otherwise slip by. Over the past few years we’ve explored neighbouring villages – from Saou and Dieulefit to Mirmande. The area offers endless photographic opportunities: a visit to the nearby goat farm, displays of the region’s renowned picodon cheese, or cooking on the outdoor barbecue in winter beneath strings of fairy lights. On my visits to Marie’s village, I’ve also captured quiet moments between my partner and his mother as they sit basking outdoors, just as they did when he was a child. 

Documenting these has felt particularly meaningful as I navigate a life transition and nurture new relationships, which is why I always travel with both my analogue and digital cameras. While we store memories internally, having something tangible to revisit deepens my appreciation of them. The moments Marie and I have shared have taught me that love transcends language – and that shared experiences can become a common tongue. It’s a way of communicating I’ll continue to treasure, even when I eventually reach fluency in French.