Whether through digital channels, print or on exhibit, the impact, influence and reach of the still image has never been greater. But with so many images fighting for our attention, how do photographers make work that most effectively stands out and connects with an audience. In this seven-part series, TIME looks back over the past 12 months to identify some of the ways of seeing—whether conceptually, aesthetically or through dissemination—that have grabbed our attention and been influential in maintaining photography's relevance in an ever shifting environment, media landscape, and culture now ruled by images.
The Contemporary Photo Essay
We live in an age where the volume of photographic output has never been greater. Yet the propensity is for images to be conceived, received digested and regurgitated in an isolated, singular form—and without further context. Against this backdrop, a generation of committed photographers are working passionately to iterate on, and further develop the traditions for long form story telling, and in so doing, draw attention to their subject matter through new powerful, innovative and resourceful ways.
On Aug. 31 this year, the New York Times Magazine published a photo essay that interweaved the images of two Magnum photographers working on each side of the Israeli, Palestinian conflict—Paolo Pellegrin (in Gaza) and Peter van Agtmael (in Israel). The essay was not only a creative and effective way of balancing a delicate and sensitive story, it was also, as Editor-in-Chief Jake Silverstein explained in a note about the project, conceived in part as a reaction to “the prevalence of cellphone cameras and social media [that had] led to many more images of Gaza than in previous iterations of this long-running conflict."
"As powerful as these photos were," he wrote, “the speed and fervor of their dissemination tended to bring them to us isolated from context.” The Times Magazine story was a considered attempt to have Pellegrin and van Agtmael slow things down and in Silversteins words “try to capture a deeper and more narrative sense of the texture of life on the ground." The resultant essay, that intentionally combines two aesthetically different bodies of work emphasizes “that the fates of average Israelis and Palestinians are intertwined.”
Photographer Matt Black has subverted the prevalent philosophy of Instagram for his project The Geography of Poverty. Although using Instagram as one of the primary platforms for the work, Black has maintained a thematic and aesthetic cohesion to produce a dedicated feed—devoid of distraction or interference—that builds image by image, to deliver an investigation on poverty that is essayistic and closer to that of a traditional photo essay. On the website—exclusively dedicated to the project—Black explores the potential of geo-tagging to extend the project and map the images (for this project, Black was selected as TIME's Instagram Photographer of the Year in 2014)
Photographers such as Diana Markosian with her work made in Beslan, Russia and Carolyn Drake in Turkistan have embraced different types of media and photographic approaches--including still life, documentary, portraiture as well as writing and drawing. They have also actively encouraged their subjects to contribute to the artistic process and tell their own stories through notated recollections narratives and artwork, which is at times directly applied to the photographic print. As Drake says of her project Wild Pigeon that documents the lives of the Uyghur people: “I started looking for meaning at the intersection of our views, and find ways to bring the people I was meeting into the creative process. Traveling with a box of prints, a pair of scissors, a container of glue, colored pencils, and a sketchbook, I asked willing collaborators to draw on, re-assemble, and use their own tools on my photographs. I hoped that the new images would bring Uyghur perspectives into the work and facilitate a new kind of dialogue with the people I met, one that was face-to-face and tactile, if mostly without words.”
In Ukraine a generation of young, predominantly European, freelance photographers including Maria Turchenkova, Ross McDonnell and Capucine Granier-Deferre committed themselves to documenting the searing violence and the disquieting consequences of the year-long conflict—building long-term photo essays that contextualize news events through more in-depth and nuanced perspectives.
One of the most important and powerful bodies of work was produced by Daniel Berehulak, who spent more than 14 weeks covering the Ebola outbreak in West Africa. His work, made on assignment for The New York Times, shows that long-term commitment to a story can reap astounding returns. And a powerful continuum of work, can raise awareness and deeply affect its audience.
In an age when we're saturated with an omnivorous barrage of distracting and singular imagery, there is still a role for subtleties embodied within the traditions of long form storytelling. Through innovative, full screen photo-centric web designs and effective digital dissemination, these photo essays are drawing our attention—in different and often more meaningful ways—to important issues that we otherwise would ignore or at best feel we had seen too many times before.
Read Part 1 - Direct to Audience.
Read Part 2 - Documentary Still Life.
Read Part 3 - The Portrait Series.
Read Part 5 - From Stills to Motion.
Phil Bicker is a Senior Photo Editor at TIME
Every Portrait Tells a Lie
Every Portrait Tells a Lie
By Debra Brehmer, Portrait Society gallery director
Every portrait tells a story and that story usually involves some kind of lie.
Here’s one: I am lined up in a tiny faded snapshot from the 1960s in front of a Christmas tree with my brother. Side by side in our pajamas, he is smiling and I am squinting into the lens. The tree looms large and promising behind us.
I remember those picture moments so well — the feeling of being posed and staged, of being complicit in the making of a mostly false vignette. My brother was mean to me, and I didn’t like standing by him and smiling. Seconds before the shutter clicked, he probably said or did something nasty. The father who stood framing the picture was a stern, remote presence in our lives. This interaction between kids, dad and camera was as close as anything came to family intimacy and I knew, even at a young age, that we were participating in a history that was manufactured.
With portraiture, we can never mistake the picture for the thing itself. But we forget.
Now if the staging and shaping of reality, or the “lie” as I call it, were the only subtext of portraiture, it wouldn’t be that interesting of an art form. But it’s deeper than that. Within that moment of control, when the photographer or artist imposes their reality on the picture, there is a more tender concern. The fact that my father even desired to frame a happy familyin front of the Christmas tree was evidence of a hopeful vision. This was the reality he must have desired and wanted to believe in even if daily life didn’t support it. The attempt to create an idealized image contains the imprint of not who we are but who we hope to be. Perhaps every time we try to capture the likeness of a person we are essentially attempting to make contact. Portraiture is the only art form that exists out of a dependency on human exchange and models the struggles and pleasures of human relationships as a subtext to its surface desire to represent.
“Portraiture is a sad art,” the great photographer Richard Avedon once said. “It’s gone but it remains.” He really got it, didn’t he?
I might add that portraiture is also a tender art. It tries to hold onto what can’t be contained, which is life itself and a clear view of it. What we learn from portraiture is that our view of any person including ourselves is often subjective and contingent. The portrait, in the choices the artist makes, alludes to the fact that who we are involves selection, interpretation and chance.
One of the most interesting portrait stories in history is the tale of Picasso’s attempt to paint a commissioned likeness of the writer and art patron Gertrude Stein. Picasso wasn’t the kind of artist who routinely doubted himself or labored over the creative process. But this portrait got the best of him. He couldn’t get it right. The year was 1905 and he made Stein pose for him 90 times, month after month, for over a year. What was he after? Picasso said that the more he looked at Gertrude Stein, the more he lost sight of her. He finally gave up, smeared out the face and retreated to his native Spain for an extended holiday. When he returned to Paris, he confronted the canvas again and abruptly painted her face from memory and declared the picture complete. The resulting face is asymmetrical, distorted and mask like, less Gertrude Stein than the Iberian, African and Roman artifacts to which he had recently been exposed. Picasso’s dilemma with the painting may have stemmed from the weightiness of the task he had shouldered: He knew he had to take the age-old art form, steeped in the conventions of a dusty work ethic, and revitalize it for a changing culture. Picasso’s portraitof Gertrude Stein both embraces tradition and steps out of it. Only by distorting her face could he express a greater truth about Gertrude Stein: the slippery truth of the subjective which he grounds within the larger truth of the universal.
Every portrait that isn’t a hackneyed commercial product illustrates this tug of war between the objective and subjective or between likeness and interpretation.
The greatest portraits ever made were in the Baroque period in the Netherlands where Frans Hals and Rembrandt plied their trade. It has been said that Hals painted when he was drunk. His expressive brush was so loosely held and forcefully applied that his paintings look like the wind blew the pigments into place. Hals didn’t want his portraits to look frozen or dead like so many others of the period. He found a way to keep life on the canvas. Rembrandt was another story. His genius was to allude to the layering of experience and the acretion of identity by building his images up into thick, tactile skins. His portraits make us remember that the years have assembled somewhere inside us and still live there.
Without portraiture, we wouldn’t really know what we thought of ourselves at different stages in history. Portraits are maps of what we privilege and long for in both the material and spiritual worlds. Within their seeming simplicity and directness of purpose are innumerable signifiers of culture’s sneaky hand shaping image and identity without us even realizing it.
Avedon is right: A portrait is always a deceased moment. It’s gone, but remains. A portrait is evidence of our decimation at the same time that it is proof of our need to stop and value as many moments as possible. Picasso did get it right with Gertrude Stein. His painting is not a picture of her likeness it is a picture of her weight, form and mass as an artist. Her large, dark form leans slightly out of the picture plane, toward us, but not enough to interact or interrupt our in-time space. Picasso places her just on the other side of human time. Her space is reflective, contained, and forever. Her image alludes to her material, weighty presence on earth without the burden and superficiality of fleeting likeness.
When looking at portraits, think of this: Every portrait exposes a truth that rides on the inherent lies. Our existence is transitional and subjective and this is the condition that portraiture tries to absolve. Every portrait then is a fight or you could say a prayer that calls out from the most troubled condition of our humanity, our temporality. Portraiture wants what cannot be had: Life to stop without being dead. It’s an art with a built in condition of failure. And that’s why it is so interesting.