Whales, with their grace and resilience, have become the symbol of my fight for the oceans. They teach me every day that, even in the face of difficulties, it is worth continuing to fight.
My name is Claire, and my camera is my tool for telling stories. Not simple images, but fragments of reality that often escape our eyes. For years, my focus has been on the oceans and the creatures that inhabit them, especially whales and humpback whales. These giants of the sea have always fascinated me: their majesty, the deep songs that seem to speak directly to the soul, and their crucial role in the balance of marine ecosystems. But behind their beauty lies a story of suffering. Climate change is transforming their habitats, making their survival increasingly difficult. And so I decided to dedicate my life to telling this story, with the hope that my work can inspire others to protect the blue heart of our planet.
My first encounter with whales occurred years ago, during a trip to Iceland. I was on a small boat, wrapped in the bitter cold of the North Atlantic, when suddenly a humpback whale emerged next to us. I still remember the sound of his breathing, an explosion that seemed to echo throughout the ocean, and the sight of his tail rising elegantly before disappearing beneath the waves. It was a moment that changed everything.
I returned home with a new understanding: the oceans were not only vast and mysterious, but also incredibly vulnerable. I began to read, to inform myself, to discover how fundamental whales were for the marine ecosystem. Every breath they take releases nutrients into the water, encouraging the growth of phytoplankton, a key element in the absorption of CO2 and the production of oxygen. I realized that protecting them meant protecting life itself on Earth. It was then that I decided to combine my passion for photography with my love for the sea. Through images, I wanted to tell the beauty of these creatures, but also show the threats they face. Each shot would have been a voice for those who could not speak, a reminder of the responsibility we all have towards this shared planet.
The ocean is the beating heart of the planet, yet it is also the place where climate change is leaving the deepest scars. Every journey I take to document whales reminds me of how much we are altering their world. Waters that were once cool and abundant with life are becoming warmer, more acidic and, in many areas, less hospitable. Ocean temperatures have increased by about 0.1°C over the last fifty years. It may seem like a small change, but for the whales it's an immense transformation. Their migratory routes, which follow currents and food-rich areas, are being altered, forcing them to travel longer distances and face unpredictable conditions. This puts them at risk, especially mothers and cubs, who depend on stable habitats to survive.
Another problem is the acidification of the oceans, caused by the absorption of enormous quantities of CO2. This phenomenon is threatening the foundations of the marine food chain, such as krill and plankton, which many whale species feed on. I have found myself several times photographing whales in waters where plankton was once abundant, but which now seem almost desert-like. It's like watching an ecosystem lose its vitality before my eyes. And then there are other threats, such as the melting of polar ice, which destroys the natural refuges for many marine species. Whales living in these regions must adapt to an ongoing loss of their habitat, and this often brings them closer to human activities, exposing them to noise pollution, collisions with ships and fishing nets. Every piece of data I read, every image I capture, leads me to reflect on the responsibility we have. The ocean is a complex and interconnected system: destroying a part of it means compromising the entire balance of the planet. Whales are not just majestic creatures; they are indicators of the health of the oceans and, ultimately, of our very survival.
My latest mission took me to the Pacific Ocean, one of the most vital and at the same time vulnerable areas of our planet. It was the time of the humpback whale migrations, and I hoped to document their journey, not only to capture their beauty, but to chronicle the hardships they face along the way. The journey began aboard a small boat, together with a team of marine biologists. The atmosphere was a mix of excitement and seriousness: we all knew we had a common goal, but also that the work would be challenging. Sailing in the open sea requires patience and endurance. The weather conditions were unpredictable, with waves that made us bounce and gusty winds that made it difficult to maintain stability with the camera. After hours of searching, it finally happened: a group of humpback whales approached our boat. The first thing I noticed was their singing. It was deep, almost hypnotic, and seemed to cut through the water into the soul. One of the humpback whales, huge and majestic, slowly rose above the surface, spraying a column of water as it breathed. That moment was perfect. I raised my camera and captured a shot that would tell a thousand stories.
During that expedition, we came across tangible signs of the hardships these creatures face. In an area that once must have been rich in life, we found unusually quiet waters. The biologists explained to me that ocean warming had pushed krill, the humpback whales' main food source, into deeper, more difficult-to-reach waters. A mother humpback whale and her calf, who we had been watching for hours, appeared to be struggling to find food, swimming longer than normal. Despite everything, there were also moments of hope. During a calm dawn, a humpback whale leaped out of the water with extraordinary elegance, as if it were dancing. It reminded me that, despite the difficulties, nature has an extraordinary ability to resist. That leap wasn't just a feat of strength; it was a symbol of resilience, a message that pushed me to continue my work with even more determination. Every day in the Pacific Ocean taught me something new. Every shot I took is a piece of a larger puzzle, a testimony to a world struggling to survive.
Every encounter with whales is like a silent dialogue with the sea. They are incredibly intelligent creatures, with complex social behaviors that reflect a deep connection to the environment around them. Observing them up close doesn't just mean seeing an animal: it means immersing yourself in a world that tells the story of the oceans. One of the things that fascinates me most is their singing. Each male humpback whale produces a unique melody, which changes over time and is transmitted across the ocean, creating a sort of global language. During the expedition, I had the privilege of listening to these melodies several times, while the boat remained motionless on the water. It was as if the sea itself was singing, telling stories of distant places and invisible bonds between the creatures that inhabit it. Whales also have an incredible sense of family. I remember a mother humpback whale protecting her calf as they swam alongside our boat. The mother was gigantic, the cub much smaller and more curious. Every now and then the little one got too close, and she called him back with a firm but delicate movement. Looking at them, I couldn't help but think of their fragility: they are completely dependent on the marine environment and its resources, which are now increasingly scarce.
But the beauty of these creatures clashes with a harsh reality. Noise pollution, caused by maritime traffic, interferes with their singing, making it difficult to communicate with each other. Microplastics, invisible but lethal, contaminate water and end up in their bodies. Every time I photograph a whale, I think about everything these creatures have to go through to survive, and I wonder if future generations will still have the privilege of seeing them. A moment I will never forget was when I watched a whale slowly move towards a school of krill. Its movement was majestic, almost choreographic, as it opened its mouth and swallowed a cloud of tiny organisms. It was a perfect image, but also a reminder of how connected everything is. If we lose the krill, we lose the whales. If we lose the whales, we lose a piece of the soul of the oceans. Every photograph I take is a testimony to their beauty, but also to their struggle. I want people to see what I see: not just amazing animals, but an entire ecosystem struggling to survive.
Photography is a universal language, a way to tell stories that don't need words. Every image I take is not just a fragment of reality, but a bridge between what I see and what I want to convey. Whales, with their majesty and vulnerability, are perfect subjects to tell the story of the climate crisis. I saw how my photographs could make a difference. During an exhibition organized in Italy, I exhibited a series of shots I had taken in the Pacific Ocean: a humpback whale emerging from clear water, a mother with her calf swimming next to her, an iceberg slowly crumbling in the background. I remember a visitor who approached me, visibly emotional, and said: "I didn't imagine it was so serious. What can I do to help?"
This question is what pushes me to continue. Every time someone sees a photograph of me and starts to reflect, I feel like I have achieved my goal. I collaborated with environmental organizations, providing images for awareness campaigns and fundraisers. One of these campaigns funded a project to monitor noise pollution in the ocean, a problem I had documented during my expeditions. The impact of images does more than inspire. It can also educate. During a lesson in a school, I showed a photo of a whale trapped in a fishing net. The children were silent for a moment, then they began to ask questions: “Why is this happening?” “How can we help you?” That moment showed me that change begins with awareness, and that each generation can be more attentive than the previous one. But the power of images is not just to document loss; it is also to show the beauty that still exists. I want people to see what we stand to lose, but also what we can still protect. Whales are ambassadors of a world that is crying out for help. If we can protect them, we can protect the oceans and, with them, the future of our planet.
Being a photographer documenting the oceans is not an easy job. Each expedition brings with it challenges that test not only the body, but also the mind. The sea is unpredictable: sudden storms, waves that rock the boat and biting winds are just some of the difficulties we face. But, for me, the emotional challenges are even greater. During one expedition, I happened to find a dead humpback whale, its body lying on the shore, with clear signs of a collision with a ship. It was a heartbreaking image. I raised my camera to capture the moment, but my hands were shaking. There was a part of me that didn't want to shoot, that just wanted to turn around and forget that scene. But then I thought about what that photo might have meant. It was not just an image of loss, but an urgent call to change the way we interact with the oceans.
Loneliness is also a constant challenge. I spend weeks, sometimes months, away from home, immersed in a world where the silence of the ocean can be as comforting as it is oppressive. But it is precisely in those moments of solitude that I find the strength to continue. Every time I see a whale emerge from the water or hear its distant song, I am reminded of why I do what I do. Despite everything, there are also moments that rekindle hope. During one expedition, I saw a group of humpback whales working together to hunt. They created air bubbles to push the krill towards the surface, a behavior known as “bubble net feeding”. It was a perfect example of their intelligence and ability to adapt. In those moments, I feel privileged: witness to a world that, despite the difficulties, continues to fight to survive. Resilience is not just about the whales, but also about myself. I have learned that, to carry out this mission, I must be strong, despite the fatigue and emotions. Every photo, every story, is a small step towards a bigger change. And if my work can contribute even a small part to saving the oceans, then every challenge will have been worth it.
Every time I look at the ocean, I remember that it is much more than an expanse of water. It is the beating heart of the planet, an ecosystem that supports life in ways we often take for granted. Whales, with their majesty and their crucial role in the oceans, represent everything that is wonderful and vulnerable in this world. Yet, every year, we come closer to losing all of this. The link between the well-being of the oceans and the health of the planet is indissoluble. Whales, for example, play a fundamental role in regulating the climate. Every time they dive and resurface, they help mix the ocean layers, bringing nutrients to the surface and encouraging the growth of phytoplankton. This small organism not only produces 50% of the oxygen we breathe, but also absorbs enormous quantities of CO2, mitigating the effects of global warming.
But the climate crisis is putting all this in danger. Ocean warming, acidification and pollution are pushing marine ecosystems towards a point of no return. If we lose whales and their habitats, we lose an essential piece of the stability of our planet. Despite everything, I believe there is still hope. I've seen conservation projects that are making a difference: marine protected areas, campaigns to reduce shipping in critical areas, and programs to clean the oceans of microplastics. These efforts demonstrate that change is possible, but it requires everyone's commitment. Each of us can do our part. Reducing plastic consumption, supporting environmental organizations and making more conscious choices are simple actions that, when added together, can have a big impact. And, above all, we must remember that change begins with awareness. Every time someone looks at one of my photographs and understands the beauty and fragility of the oceans, I feel like we are taking a step in the right direction. The ocean gives us so much: oxygen, food, beauty. It is our duty to protect it. And as I continue to sail and take photographs, I know that my work is not just about whales, but about the very future of the Earth. We still have a chance to save this wonderful world, but we must act now, before it's too late.
When I think about my work, I don't just see it as a profession, but as a mission. Every photograph I take, every story I tell, is an invitation to look at the world with new eyes, to recognize the beauty that surrounds us and to protect it. Whales, with their grace and resilience, have become the symbol of my fight for the oceans. They teach me every day that, even in the face of difficulties, it is worth continuing to fight. They are creatures that represent not only the power of nature, but also its vulnerability.
I carry with me the memories of each expedition: the sunrises over the calm waves, the deep songs that echo through the water, and those magical encounters with the giants of the sea. But I also bring a sense of urgency. The oceans are in danger, and with them the future of our planet. To anyone reading these words, I would like to say: it is not too late. We can still make a difference if we act together. Small daily choices, added together, can generate global change. And, above all, we must not stop telling these stories, because it is through knowledge and awareness that we can inspire others to join the cause. The ocean is the heart of the Earth, and whales are its voice. My job is to amplify that voice, so that it reaches as far as possible.
When I think about my job, I don't just see it as a profession, but as a mission. Every photograph I take, every story I tell, is an invitation to look at the world with new eyes, to recognize the beauty that surrounds us and to protect it.
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