This simple question is not new to me—it arises every time I come across a photograph, one of the few surviving pieces of evidence of someone’s life. A snapshot as testimony, as a witness, as a proof that the story behind the imprint of a person is not merely a product of the writer’s imagination. For a few (or at times, sadly, too few) decades someone existed, cherishing hopes, fighting personal battles, struggling for freedom and integrity, trying to make a difference. And then, they were gone.

Yesterday, in an attempt to put a face to the intriguing story of Annemarie Schwarzenbach whose name I encountered in Lucie Azema’s book Donne in Viaggio (Women on a Journey) I found this: an image of a slender, elegant figure with a Rolleiflex Standard 621 resting on her lap and the punctum of a cigarette lit between her fingers. It is the only portrait in which Annemarie returns the photographer’s (and, by extension, our) gaze—a firm yet delicate exchange, balanced by the rhythmic shadow of the staircase in the background, forming a silent affirmation of her existence.

But the photograph reproduced in short articles on her tragically short life already offers part of the answer. The invaluable creative legacy Annemarie left behind after her untimely death at 34 was nearly erased—her writings and personal documents destroyed by an envious mother who disapproved of her daughter’s libertine lifestyle and antifascist stance, and by the neglect of those entrusted with preserving her work.

Anita Forrer (one of Schwarzenbach’s lovers and the author of the Rolleiflex portrait) and Erika Mann (Thomas Mann’s daughter who Annemarie also shared an intimate friendship with) did not get along well and failed to unite their efforts to safeguard their lover’s letters, travel diaries, and manuscripts. It was only in the 1980s, nearly half a century later, that some of her surviving writings and photographs finally reached the public. In 2017, more than 3,000 images Annemarie took during her extensive journeys in Europe, the USA, Africa (Congo and Morocco), and the East (Turkey, Iran, and Afghanistan) were digitized and made accessible by the Swiss Literary Archives. Her first major photography exhibition in a museum in her home country was held only in 2020.

And yet, in the Rolleiflex portrait taken in Malans in 1938 by 37-year-old Anita, there is no sign of the tragedy and oblivion to come. Though their affair was ending, their friendship carried an optimistic promise—Schwarzenbach moved on (literally, too), setting off on the road again in 1939 with a new travel companion, Swiss adventurer and athlete Ella Maillart. The brightness of her close circle speaks for itself: Erika and Klaus Mann, Berlin actress and crossdresser Ruth Landshoff-Yorck, German stage and costume designer Thea "Mopsa" Sternheim, archaeologist Gertrude Bell—these are just a few of the names. Defending her dissertation at 23, constantly charting new routes for new journeys and journalistic reports, Annemarie was never short of admirers, friends, and lovers. If only her correspondence had not been burned, we might have gained a deeper understanding of the intellectual and emotional impact she had on them.

But even in the absence of those letters, something remains. We still have her collection of Afghan travel essays, All the Roads Are Open, and her novel Death in Persia, described by reviewers as "a collage of the political and the private." More than that, we have the photographs—images that bear silent witness to the existence of remarkable, complex, and unconventional people like Annemarie Schwarzenbach. Photography does not only capture a moment; it resists oblivion, ensuring that those who dared to live differently, who created, traveled, and challenged norms, are not entirely lost to time. It is through these images that their presence lingers, their stories continue to surprise and inspire, and their legacies find their way back to us.

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