The ONA Film Festival once again blended outdoor and sports culture with the seventh art, enriching the already enchanting island of San Servolo, Venice, with a one-of-a-kind showcase. As per tradition, Athleta Magazine joined the festival as a media partner, meeting and witnessing firsthand the creative visions of the event’s most compelling protagonists.

Clément Hudry didn’t bring a film, but rather a unique photographic exhibition that enriched the atmosphere of the lagoon, allowing the Festival audience to immerse themselves in a visual world shaped in the Aravis mountains, and later infused with storytelling, sports culture and street exploration.

We wrap up this special editorial series by shining a light on his lens — and the artistic philosophy that drives it.

You grew up in the Aravis massif — what did that place pass on to you? And how does it still shape your vision of the world and the mountains today?

Clément Hudry: “I didn’t just grow up there; I still live nearby. It’s been my entire life, really. The first thing that place gave me was the gift of being outdoors. I think I started skiing when I was maybe two and a half. I spent twenty winters outside, just enjoying the snow. Later, during the summers, I got into endurance sports—trail running, cycling, that sort of thing. But for me, being outside was just natural. I didn’t realize at the time that it was something special or lucky. It was simply life.

From an artistic point of view, that connection came a bit later. When I first fell in love with photography, it started very casually—with friends, sports. But soon after, I started experimenting with landscape photography. I’d shoot the view from my window or head out into the Aravis, trying different things. Between the ages of 16 and 18, I was really obsessed with it. Technically, I learned a lot then—even though I don’t love the photos from that time, it was such an important phase. I was discovering how to shoot day and night, playing with the natural environment around me. It was a perfect training ground.”

You were a competitive skier and are passionate about endurance sports. What role did sport play in your personal growth? And how was the transition from the athletic world to the artistic one?

CH: “It’s kind of a funny story. As a teenager in the Aravis, I was an alpine skier. But at the time, alpine skiing wasn’t a ‘cool’ sport—freestyle skiing and skateboarding were way trendier. A lot of my friends were really good at freestyle, and I was… terrible. So I’d do my alpine ski training in the morning, and in the afternoons I’d just hang around with my freestyle friends, watching them. One day, I picked up my family’s cheap digital camera and started taking pictures. No one in my family was into photography—so it wasn’t something I was exposed to growing up.

But then, the father of one of my friends gave me one of his old digital cameras. It was a Contax K7. That was the first time I held a ‘real’ camera. I must have been 14 or 15. I spent a whole year just playing with it, pretending I was a real photographer. That’s my first true memory of photography—shooting my friends while they skied or skated, because I couldn’t join in. It was my way to participate.

Getting back to alpine skiing, it was my first real connection to the mountain. It taught me a lot. But I think I was too young to grasp the mental or philosophical side of it at that time. What alpine skiing gave me, though, was a foundation. When I stopped competing—because, to be honest, I was good, but not good enough to go further—I had all the technical skills I needed to explore other types of skiing. That’s when I discovered ski mountaineering.

It’s funny—my home resort, Le Grand-Bornand, isn’t directly in the high alpine. It’s surrounded by smaller peaks. So as a racer, I never once stepped into the ‘real’ wild mountains. But when I stopped racing, around 17 or 18, I put on skins for the first time, and it opened a whole new world. That’s when I truly felt a different connection to the mountains. There was more freedom. More time. No opening or closing hours. You could go at night, at dawn. It was completely different. That’s when the relationship became deeper—more meaningful. More mine.”

You hold a degree in journalism. Does that academic background influence your visual work? Do you feel your artistic and sporting perspective has been shaped by this academic path?

CH: “Honestly, yes. And now, with some distance, I can really see how important that background has been—maybe even more than my early experiences in the mountains. My journalistic mindset influences everything I do. For example, if you look at my Instagram, you’ll see that I rarely post just a single image. I tend to share series—I like to tell stories. I don’t really believe in ‘the perfect shot’ that says it all. Of course, some photographers do manage that, but it feels more like luck than design.

In journalism school, we were trained to tell stories—with words, through writing or radio. Now I just use photography to do the same thing. When I shoot events, like Ironman races or mountain trails, I focus on the narrative. I mix wide-angle shots with close-up details, because to me, there’s so much story in the small things. It’s not even conscious anymore. I can’t take pictures without thinking about the story behind them. It’s just how my brain works now.”

And what about the recent evolutions of your artistic path outside of sports imagery? 

CH: “During the pandemic, everything changed. There were no sports events, no races. That’s when I discovered street photography, almost by accident, through a French photographer named Jonathan Bertin. He was doing YouTube videos—talking about street photographers, older masters. I realized there was a whole other universe of photography I didn’t know about. So this was a revelation. And I also kept building up the idea that photography could be introspective, poetic, even philosophical. I tried shooting in the streets a bit, and I still do sometimes. But more importantly, the last years changed how I see everything—sport, landscape, people. It was a turning point.”

What is the current state of the art of your relationship with photography? And how does your sports background help or play a role in this ongoing process?

CH: “Honestly, I feel very lucky, because I’m deeply passionate about photography—and when you’re passionate, everything becomes easier. I’ve definitely worked a lot on my technique and my approach, but it never felt like work at the time. As I mentioned, after COVID, for about two years, I really threw myself into street photography. I traveled to New York, to India… I had my camera with me constantly. I was obsessed. I wanted to capture everything. Looking back, I realize how much I learned in that period. It was tough, especially at the beginning. Street photography is hard. You take hundreds of shots that feel empty. But slowly, you start to understand—little tricks, patterns, rhythms. In that sense, yes—it was a bit like an athlete’s mindset. 

I was completely immersed. I didn’t have a plan, but I practiced constantly. Even now, when I look at pictures of myself in New York or India, I always had the camera on me. It was nonstop. Now, I’m trying to be a bit more intentional. Back then, it was too much. Too many photos, too much noise in my hard drive. So these days, I try to approach photography a little more like an experienced athlete—not chasing everything, but choosing my moments carefully. I’ll say, “Okay, this month I want to explore this idea,” and I’ll focus just on that. It’s not super strategic, I don’t have a five-year plan, but I trust the flow. I’ve been a professional photographer for about eight years now. And honestly, every time I’ve hit a low point—when things felt quiet or uncertain—something incredible came just after. So, yes, I trust the process more and more.”

Reinvent, surprise, inspire — these are three words you use to describe your artistic approach. Can you expand on what you aim to explore and express through your photography? 

CH: “Let me give you a concrete example. Some of my photos of Mathieu van der Poel were shown at the ONA Festival, and they came from the Cyclocross World Championships. I wasn’t working there. No accreditation. I just went as a spectator, camera in hand, and tried to tell the story of the day through the eyes of the public. I didn’t position myself in the ‘perfect’ professional spots. I wasn’t thinking, Where’s the best angle? Instead, I was responding to what was happening around me—the crowd, the space, the energy. I moved constantly. One loop I was here, the next somewhere totally different. I was playing. That’s the word I’d use: playing with the environment.

Of course, professionally, I also work in more structured contexts. At big events like UTMB, I spend a lot of time on the finish line with dozens of other photographers. And I’ll be honest—that’s not where I feel most creative. It’s tough to make a photo that stands out when 30 people are taking almost the same shot. Sometimes I wish I could say to my client or editor, “Let me try something from over there. Let me follow my instincts.” 

But you can always shoot something different. A great recent example of this idea is a photo recently shot by Courtney White—she’s a photographer I really admire. She posted a shot of Mondo Duplantis that I loved. Instead of going for the usual close-up with a long lens, like everyone else, she pulled out a wide lens and included all the other photographers in the frame. Mondo is right in the middle, but the shot tells so much more. It’s not just about him—it’s about the environment, the moment. That’s what surprises and inspires.”

Do you think having a deep knowledge of the sport you’re photographing is essential to developing that kind of sensitivity? Or can coming in fresh be just as valuable?

CH: “I think both are valid, and both bring something unique. When you really know a sport, you can anticipate. You understand the rhythm, the moments that matter, where to be and when. That gives you an edge. You’re a step ahead of other photographers who don’t have that same awareness. But sometimes, being a complete outsider can be a huge advantage. When you’re unfamiliar, your mind isn’t confined by conventions. You’re not thinking, This is the shot I should be taking. You’re just reacting to what you see, and that can result in fresh, unexpected images.

Take cyclocross, for example. My first major events were just last year—the World Cup in Besançon and the World Championships. I didn’t know the sport well. I’d only seen it on TV. But because of that, everything surprised me—the speed of the riders, the atmosphere, the fans. And I think that sense of wonder, that discovery, comes through in the photos. That said, for complex events like UTMB, experience is incredibly helpful. You need to know the terrain, the pacing, where the athletes will be at what time—even in the middle of the night. So in those cases, deep knowledge is essential.

The challenge is this: you’re only a beginner once. That wide-eyed perspective fades quickly. So I try to preserve that feeling—as much as I can. Even now, when I return to UTMB, which I’ve covered seven or eight times, I go into it trying to see the trails like it’s my first time. Of course, I know them well. But I try to stay open, to be like a kid discovering the mountains again. It’s a tricky balance—being both the expert and the curious newcomer. But I think that’s where the magic is.”

We connected thanks to ONA. In your opinion, what value does a platform like this Festival offer — one that bridges contemporary visual storytelling, outdoor sports, and environmental and social topics?

CH: “Honestly, it was a real honor. This isn’t my everyday life—I’m still relatively early in my international career. So when I received the email saying, We want to exhibit your work in Italy, I was like… Is this real? It was especially meaningful because it wasn’t digital. It was a print exhibition. And in the world we live in now—so digital, so fast—I really value the physical side of photography. Since I got more into street photography, I’ve realized that the images that truly stay with me are the ones I’ve seen printed.

So when it comes to sharing my work, I want to move more in that direction. Not just posting on Instagram or doing collaborations online—which is fine—but aiming for exhibitions, books, magazines like Athleta, physical experiences. I believe they’re much more powerful. And yes, I think sports storytelling can and should reach beyond the sport itself. At its best, photography can touch on identity, place, culture, environment. That’s something I want to explore more—finding ways to tell stories that go deeper, that stay with people.”