The Story Behind Dana Stirling's Butterfly
(This is the story behind the photograph—a glimpse into the moment, the process, and the vision that brought it to life.)
The most powerful self-portraits don’t include people.
Sometimes, it takes something fragile to speak for us. A butterfly, perfectly still. A hand that doesn’t move. A photo that feels like holding your breath. You don’t see a face, but you feel everything she felt. And once you see it, you can’t forget it.
This image wasn’t planned and that’s exactly why it matters.
It started with a small decision: stop the car, pick it up, bring it home. But what followed was something deeper, a quiet moment that captured a year full of fear, waiting, and silence. No studio, no models, no big production. Just instinct, discomfort, and a single frame.
This is the story behind that photo.
Dana Stirling – Butterfly, July 2020
From the series: Why Am I Sad
In the quiet summer of 2020, the world outside felt strange and still. The pandemic had changed everyday life, and Dana Stirling, like many others, was looking for a way to breathe again. One day in early July, she and her husband, Yoav, left the city behind, hoping the open road might offer some relief.
They were driving along a narrow, quiet stretch of road when something small caught their attention in the middle of the pavement. It wasn’t unusual to see animals or insects there, but this time felt different.
“It was sometime in early July 2020, during the pandemic, when we decided to escape the city for a bit—to breathe, to be outdoors, to take photos. While driving down a relatively small road, something caught our eye in the middle of the road. Seeing objects, roadkill, or even the occasional live creature on the road wasn’t unusual. I once spotted a live tarantula crossing, which was remarkable. But this time, we stopped, and when I stepped out to look, I saw it was a butterfly.”
The butterfly lay still, perfectly formed, its wings untouched by wind or wheels. Dana didn’t have a proper case to hold it, only an empty Pringles can. But something about the moment stayed with her, not just the image itself, but the feeling behind it.
“It was perfectly intact yet unmistakably dead. The only container I had on hand was a small Pringles can, so I carefully placed it inside and brought it home. I’ve collected and photographed insects and animals before. I have a jar of bees, another butterfly, a wasp, all in makeshift containers. There was a moment of hesitation: Should I photograph it right there on the road, like I had with other finds? But something didn’t feel right. Instead, I took it home, and on July 30th, 2020, I finally photographed it.”
Weeks passed before Dana felt ready to take the picture. Back in their apartment, she began placing the butterfly in different settings, trying to find a composition that felt honest. She placed it on the windowsill, but something still didn’t sit right. Then she tried holding it.
“I experimented with different compositions—placing the butterfly on the windowsill, then holding it in my hand. The latter felt most compelling, and that image would later inspire other photos in a similar style. The setting was our old apartment, a place I now recall with little fondness. It was not just the backdrop for this image but a space filled with struggle and dark memories of the pandemic, of displacement, of a time when nothing felt like home.”
The apartment, like the photo, carried weight. Its walls had seen long, uncertain days. Holding the butterfly there something so fragile, so still felt strangely powerful. Dana remembers every detail of that moment, especially the discomfort of it.
“When I held the butterfly, I remember feeling an odd discomfort. Butterflies are delicate, almost weightless, yet the act of holding something so fragile felt strangely significant, almost unsettling. I was hyper-aware of its vulnerability, of my own stillness, trying not to move, trying to stay in focus. My husband, Yoav, helped guide me, adjusting my hand placement, making sure I was in the frame. I shot it with my trusty Mamiya RZ 67, using a 110mm lens. I don’t recall the exact settings, but I needed a wide aperture to blur the background, making the shallow depth of field even trickier to manage.”
The photograph that came from that moment is quiet, but full of meaning. Like other works in Stirling’s archive images of dolls in jars, fallen toys it doesn’t show a person, yet it holds something deeply personal.
“Looking at this photo now, alongside others in my body of work, I sometimes think of it as a self-portrait—like the doll in the jar, the tilted toy deer. Because I don’t photograph people, especially not myself, these images become stand-ins. They capture not just objects but emotions, reflections of who I was at that moment—of how I felt in 2020, a time of uncertainty.”
