ES: What was it like moving to London? 

JR: I moved to London when I was in my early 20s. When you’re young, and you’re accepted in a way, it’s amazing. There’s all this art available to you, all these people. But being a young person in London is one thing. Raising a family in London is a whole other. It’s a bit bittersweet. This is where I live and it’s kind of my home, but it’s not. I’ve always felt like I was uprooted, like a plant put in a pot. And I love Lithuania, but it is also not where I live and I’m not used to it anymore either. I guess that duality between the Western world I live in and the inner world of my childhood shows up in my work.

ES: Tell me about Lithuania.

JR: As a child, I spent every summer in the countryside, by the lakes or the Baltic Sea. We lived very closely with nature. I knew the names of plants and trees, which herbs could heal you, which ones to avoid. That knowledge was simply part of everyday life and was passed down through generations. Our culture has deep pagan roots, and although Christianity arrived later, that connection to the natural world has never really disappeared. I think it still influences the way many Lithuanians see life.

At the same time, Lithuania spent decades under Soviet occupation, which inevitably shaped people’s outlook. We were relatively isolated from the rest of the world, and
travel was rare. When independence came, everything began to change. People became more open, more outward-looking, but those kinds of historical experiences don’t disappear overnight. They stay with you, even as the country continues to evolve and heal. 

“Photography has always been emotional for me because it was never simply a profession or a hobby, it was a necessity.” 

ES: You carry Lithuania within you…

JR: It shaped me. And my kids always spend their summers in Lithuania. They are not scared of a frog, or a bee, or getting completely dirty, or going deep in the lake, the mud… They aren’t scared of anything. The older I get, the more I value these things. The smell of the pines. The cold sea. It’s getting stronger. Every time I go there, it’s like I cry blood. I don’t want to leave.

ES: You’ve said before that for you, photography is emotional. 

JR: Photography has always been emotional for me because it was never simply a profession or a hobby, it was a necessity. It became the way I processed difficult experiences and made sense of emotions I couldn’t always express in words. Looking back, I think it gave me a healthier path than many of the other directions I could have taken. It became my medicine.

I don’t separate photography from my life. If I go too long without making something,
I feel restless, like something is missing. Creating keeps me grounded. Not every day produces a photograph I’m happy with, but that’s never really the point. The act of looking, of paying attention, is what matters. Sometimes I photograph because I’m happy, sometimes because I’m grieving, sometimes because I’m searching for something I can’t yet name.

ES: What does being an artist mean to you? 

JR:Being an artist and a photographer is vital to me. It’s life-giving. Creating is about staying connected to myself and, in many ways, preserving my sanity. My artistic practice is different from commercial work. While I I value both, they
fulfil very different needs. Commercial projects offer collaboration, challenge, and the opportunity to create for others, while my personal work gives me complete freedom to explore, experiment, and follow my instincts without compromise. That freedom is essential. The joy of creation can easily be diminished when it becomes solely about fulfilling someone else’s very specific vision, so maintaining a space for independent artistic expression is something I see as fundamental to both my practice and my wellbeing. 

“We live in a world where we’re constantly consuming images, comparing ourselves to others and feeling pressure to keep producing. The most meaningful work is the kind that has meaning to you.” 

ES: Do we overvalue what is commercially viable?

JR: There’s sometimes a focus on external markers of success – who you work with, and the circles you move in. I value those things and the opportunities they can bring, but they’ve never been what motivates me most. What matters to me is creating something that feels true to myself, feeding my soul, building genuine connections, and the things that can’t always be measured.

ES: What have you learned over the years doing what you love?

JR: To stay true to yourself. We live in a world where we’re constantly consuming images, comparing ourselves to others and feeling pressure to keep producing. The most meaningful work is the kind that has meaning to you.

ES: You have been photographing your children since they were young.

JR: I didn’t consciously decide to photograph my kids – there are plenty of wonderful motherhood photographers who do that perfectly well. I just love the look of them. I don’t document their day-to-day, but I do aim to capture a glimpse of who they are, essentially, as people. I want them to see themselves as I see them.

ES: Do they respond to your work?

JR: My son is very into my photography. He has a very sensitive soul and says things like, ‘Mum, I love this picture because the flower looks like a dancer.’ What I really want from making art is for my kids, when they’re older, to look back at the pictures and think their mum actually took some cool photos.

ES: You were taking pictures before you became a mother. Did you change as a person – and as an artist – since having your children? 

JR: I don’t think I’ve changed as an artist – my responsibilities have. The idea of being this photographer-artist has changed. It just became more fun and playful. When my daughter Simone was a baby, we took some pretty funny pictures. It was just the two of us at home and I had so much time. 

“What I really want from making art is for my kids, when they’re older, to look back at the pictures and think their mum actually took some cool photos.” 

ES: How much planning goes into your photography?

JR: Planning is not how my mind works. Everything I choose to shoot is about giving myself permission in the moment. Even if I do plan something, it never works out the way I envision it. It always takes me in a different direction. Even if it’s the same picture over and over – a shadow on the wall – you can always find something new. I never get bored of light and what it gives me.

Like yesterday. I was walking around quite a derelict area in Athens and saw two pigeons together on a balcony. I spent 15 minutes observing them. They reminded me of me and my husband.

ES: This photo you took in Athens, of two pigeons sticking together—you said it reminded you of your relationship with your husband. What is it about your relationship that you see reflected in this image?

JR: When my husband and I first met, we had no safety net to fall back on. In that sense, we have grown up together in many ways. Despite all the challenges it has still been amazing, I think it made us stronger, sharing every stage of life. What mattered was having each other.
That’s probably why I photographed those pigeons. They looked so completely at ease with each other. It didn’t seem to matter where they were or what surrounded them; there was simply this quiet sense of connection.
I know they’re only pigeons, but they genuinely moved me. Once I’d taken the photographs, they flew away, and I felt incredibly lucky to have stumbled across that little moment on a derelict balcony. It reminded me that love and beauty often reveal themselves in the most ordinary places, if we’re paying attention.