There’s an undeniable intangible pull to the past, as Melissa DeWitt so eloquently puts it in her editor’s letter for Hotshoe Issue 213: To Be Young. This particular issue, arriving at a time when my own creative flow has shifted from constant shooting to a more introspective engagement with the medium, filled with hours poring over my “Echoes of the Past” project in Lightroom and losing myself in the tactile beauty of photobooks felt like a perfectly timed invitation to reflection. Like the gentle hum of a familiar melody that unlocks a forgotten memory, this collection immediately resonated with my own ongoing fascination with how our past shapes our present, and how photography, with its inherent characteristic of time, serves as a profound vessel for these elusive truths.

For me, there’s an undeniable beauty woven into art, a reflection of the human spirit, and when I hold a magazine like Hotshoe, the immense effort and passion poured into its very being is almost tactile. The least we, as viewers, can do is to fully immerse ourselves, letting their narratives unfold and truly touch our souls. What often deepens my appreciation even further is delving into the stories behind their creation, the hidden paths and inspirations. This issue, with its deeply personal theme, offers precisely that kind of multi-layered engagement, providing not just extraordinary images but the vulnerable, honest voices of those who made them.

The brilliance of Hotshoe 213 lies in its central theme, “To Be Young.” It’s a subject that encompasses such a vast, often contradictory, emotional landscape for each of us. The editor’s opening question, “What is your first memory?”, immediately sets a deeply personal tone, inviting introspection. As a married father of three, with my own eldest daughter now six years into university life, I find myself constantly caught in the currents of memory – recalling the early days of family life, the rapid growth of children, and the fleeting nature of those precious moments. It’s a bittersweet reality that often finds its way into my own work, particularly as I explore the gravestones of Aberdeen, those silent markers of past lives and untold stories.

The responses from the featured photographers – Matthew Genitempo’s “grandmother’s love” and cold pasta, Claudine Doury’s “walks, daydreams amidst daffodils and hyacinths,” Doug DuBois’s “scratchy warmth of my mother’s wool skirt” – are miniature prose poems in themselves. They are universal in their specificity, stirring your own primal memories. Bill Henson’s cynical but astute observation, “The problem with one’s ‘first memory’ is whether indeed it was yours at all or rather, when you were young, something you’d been told,” adds a layer of philosophical complexity, inviting us to question the very fabric of our earliest recollections. This collective delving into the genesis of memory, through these Authentic & Unvarnished Voices, creates an immediate and visceral connection with the reader.

The follow up question, “When was the first time you remember no longer feeling like a child?”, probes even deeper into the often blurry, sometimes abrupt, transition into adulthood. Raymond Meeks’s response about his son’s birth – “a journey that I began in earnest after learning my wife and I were expecting. I somehow recognised there would be no place to hide, no closet of storage, to conceal my skeletons” – hit me with a gut punch of recognition. As a parent, that sudden, profound shift in responsibility and self awareness is an experience unlike any other. It’s a moment of reckoning, where the carefree child recedes, and the protective, vulnerable adult emerges.

Others, like Jöji Hashiguchi and Mike Brodie, offer a more defiant perspective, claiming they still feel like children. Bill Henson adds a compelling philosophical note about “the relentless eradication of daydreaming” contributing to “the disappearance of childhood in our own century.” This kind of Philosophical & Societal Undercurrent is precisely what elevates Hotshoe beyond a simple showcase of images, it’s a springboard for deeper contemplation on themes of identity, memory, and the very nature of growing up in our modern world. Angela Hill’s admission of “extreme imposter syndrome” and mentally retreating “into a childish interior landscape of running in gardens” is a vulnerable revelation that many, me included, can relate to. It’s this rawness, this honest admission of inner turmoil, which builds trust and rapport with the reader.

The section exploring “How did you become interested in photographing young people?” is particularly illuminating, offering insights into the diverse motivations that drive a photographer’s gaze. Matthew Genitempo’s connection to his own childhood summers in Texas, Doug DuBois’s chance encounter with a group of kids in Ireland, and Judith Black’s pragmatic need to balance motherhood with her artistic pursuit all highlight the myriad paths to a subject.

Jöji Hashiguchi’s rationale – his “strong sense of discomfort in the social environment” of 1980s Japan, leading him to photograph seventeen-year-olds as a cross-section of society, is a fascinating example of a photographer using their art to explore societal undercurrents. His dedication to including everyone who allowed him to take their photograph, “regardless of the final result,” speaks volumes about his ethical approach and desire to capture authentic individual truths. Raymond Meeks’s pursuit of understanding his “own formative years, the coming of age and shaping of masculinity in a rural setting” by photographing young people at a swimming spot is another deeply personal and relatable motivation. It underscores the idea that often, the subjects we are most drawn to are reflections of ourselves, a sentiment that fuels my own exploration of memory and transience in “Echoes of the Past.”

Hannah Modigh’s “The Milky Way,” exploring “the transitional space between childhood and adulthood,” and Angela Hill’s “Edith and Sylvia” which delves into “the complexities of adolescence, exploring shifting identities and emotional turbulence,” exemplify the kind of Focus on Specific, Evocative Images and narratives that define strong photographic storytelling. These aren’t just pretty pictures, they’re windows into deeply felt human experiences.

Beyond the compelling features, Hotshoe 213 consistently delivers on its promise of insightful content. The Crude Metaphors section featuring Jason Lazarus’s NIRVANA project is a stroke of genius. Juxtaposing images with answers to “Who introduced you to the band NIRVANA?” is a brilliant way to explore the cultural touchstones of youth and the idiosyncratic nature of memory. It’s a segment that feels fresh, unexpected, and truly captures the Authentic & Unvarnished Voice that makes the magazine so engaging. It connects with my own love for the stories around the art, the context that often makes a piece truly come alive.

The book reviews section, which Melissa DeWitt praises as featuring “some of the best photobooks I’ve seen this year,” is a treasure trove. Bryan Schutmaat’s Sons of the Living described as “a masterclass in bookmaking,” immediately piques my interest, especially given my Appreciation for Craft & Process. Chris Donovan’s “timely story of Saint John, New Brunswick in Canada where one billionaire family owns, well, almost everything,” speaks to the Philosophical & Societal Undercurrents I actively seek out in photobooks, exploring power dynamics and the human condition. Jason Fulford’s Lots of Lots being “very clever” and Pia-Paulina Guilmoth’s Flowers Drink the River being “ethereal and poetic” further highlight the diverse and thought provoking selections being championed. As someone who reviewed Guilmoth’s book for Stanley/Barker, I can attest to its exquisite nature.

This dedication to highlighting exceptional works, coupled with the detailed insights from the editor, reinforces Hotshoe‘s position as a vital voice in contemporary photography. It’s not merely a collection of images but a vibrant, ongoing conversation about the medium’s power and its place in our lives. This issue, from its deeply personal inquiries into memory to its exploration of the forces shaping young lives, proves that photography remains an unparalleled medium for understanding ourselves and the world around us.

Regards,

Alex