Diving into Ray’s a Laugh: A Reader, edited by Liz Jobey, feels like peeling back the many layers of an extraordinary work that continues to provoke, challenge, and captivate nearly 30 years after its original release. In preparation, I finally read Richard Billingham’s Ray’s a Laugh itself, an oversight I can’t believe I’d let linger this long. And what a revelation it was. The stark intimacy of Billingham’s photographs, paired with their humour, rawness, and sheer unfiltered humanity, hit me harder than I ever expected. It’s an experience that lingers, like a scratch just below the surface.

Originally published in 1996, Ray’s a Laugh thrust an unknown young British artist onto the contemporary art stage with imagery that felt like a gut punch. Its photos were taken inside the claustrophobic, chaotic confines of a Birmingham council flat, the home of Billingham’s alcoholic father, Ray, his mother, Liz, sedentary, occasionally violent and his younger brother, Jason. Far from the detached photojournalism audiences were accustomed to when confronting working-class poverty, this was something else entirely: intimate to the point of discomfort, oppressive yet full of fragile, fractured love.

Ray’s a Laugh: A Reader delves deeply into the story behind this body of work. Through an array of essays, interviews, and reflections, Liz Jobey expertly pieces together the book’s impact and legacy. She traces how these images, initially shot as references for Billingham’s paintings, transformed into one of the most seminal photobooks of modern times. In doing so, she reveals the careful curation and collaborations that shaped its journey. Billingham’s photos might have started as something personal, almost private, but through the influence of editors and gallerists like Michael Collins, Julian Germain, and Paul Graham, they became cultural artefacts, a raw visual language that continues to speak volumes.

Billingham’s photographs are unforgettable, etched into memory not just for their moments but for their entire atmosphere. Take, for instance, the startling image of his dad mid-fall, tumbling towards the ground. It’s a shot so packed with tension and absurdity, it feels like a scene from a dark comedy, but it’s all too real, a moment as fleeting as it is tragic. Then there’s the image of Ray flinching at a cat flying in his direction. You almost want to laugh, but there’s an undercurrent of chaos, of unpredictability which makes you hesitate. These moments encapsulate the heart of Ray’s a Laugh: dark, unvarnished humour tangled with a palpable undercurrent of unease.

The most famous image from the book, of Billingham’s mother Liz sitting at the table doing a jigsaw puzzle, lingers in a different way. Here, the chaos quiets. The cluttered table, the cramped interior, the suffocating closeness, all of it is still there, but there’s a strange calmness, almost a defiance. It’s a moment of solitude that somehow refuses to be entirely peaceful, her head bent down in total focus on something small and contained in a world that otherwise feels boundless and unruly.

Another standout, for me, is the image of Liz standing over Ray in the living room, dressed in a blue jacket, mid-conversation or perhaps an argument as she appears to leave. Ray, sitting on the sofa, looks up at her, caught in a moment that feels so real you can almost hear the words being spoken. It’s a quiet masterpiece of tension and curiosity. What was being said? What does this image signify in the context of their lives? These photographs don’t just show; they provoke, leaving gaps for you to fill in with your own assumptions, your own projections.

This emotional complexity is where Billingham’s work really thrives, and it’s something Ray’s a Laugh: A Reader digs into with nuance. Jobey’s new essay doesn’t just provide context, it adds dimension, pulling back the curtain on how these photographs moved from personal to public, from raw snapshots to curated art. The essays gathered from figures like Charlotte Cotton, Gordon Burn, and Jim Lewis add further layers, drawing from the early reactions to the book when it was released, as well as its evolving legacy in the years since.

What struck me most while reading The Reader was just how polarising Ray’s a Laugh was and stays. For some, Billingham’s work was exploitative, exposing his unsuspecting family to humiliation. For others, it was a revelation, stripping away pretence and artifice to show life as it truly was. And for Billingham himself? His intentions were purely artistic; he wasn’t making a social or political statement. These were reference images, first and foremost, for his paintings though they ended up as much more.

The Reader doesn’t shy away from these tensions. It’s as much a story about art’s construction as it is about the photographs themselves. Through interviews with Billingham and those who helped shape the book, we get a behind-the-scenes look at how Ray’s a Laugh came together and how it has since grown far beyond its origins. There’s something fascinating about seeing how this intensely personal project became a cultural touchstone.

A particularly insightful section comes when Jobey reflects on the politics of dissemination. Who decides which images are worthy of being shared with the world, and how does that process shape their meaning? Billingham’s photographs might have started as private moments, but their transformation into a published book involved countless external voices and decisions. It’s a reminder of the collaborative nature of art, even when the subject feels solitary.

The essays collected in Ray’s a Laugh: A Reader also explore the wider impact of Billingham’s work. Gordon Burn’s writing contextualises it within British art of the ’90s, while Lynn Barber tackles its uneasy balance between voyeurism and humanity. Each essay adds something new, whether it’s a fresh perspective or a deepened understanding of the book’s place in art history.

Ultimately, what makes Ray’s a Laugh and its accompanying Reader so enduring is their ability to walk that tightrope between comedy and tragedy, intimacy and distance. Billingham’s photographs might be raw, even harsh at times, but they’re also full of warmth, love, and a kind of resilience that’s hard to put into words. They show not just the messiness of life but the humanity within it.

Ray’s a Laugh: A Reader is as much about the legacy of that work as it is about the images themselves. It’s a layered, thoughtful exploration of art’s transformative power, how something deeply personal can become profoundly universal. For anyone who, like me, has finally come to Ray’s a Laugh after too long, this Reader is the perfect companion, a way to unpack the context and meaning behind the images, while also appreciating them on their own terms. It’s not just a book; it’s an experience. And for that, it’s absolutely worth your time.

A brilliant book if you like the original photobook.

Regards

Alex