There are some books that enter your life at just the right time. When you’re young, searching, and hungry for something raw and real. Tulsa by Larry Clark was one of those books for me. As a teenager, exploring life by going out, partying, and doing the things that teenagers do, Clark’s work hit like a gut punch. It wasn’t just another photo book; it was an unflinching, immersive look at a world that felt both alien and eerily familiar. Alongside Bruce Davidson’s Subway and a couple of other titles, it was one of the first photography books I ever owned, that copy now long lost to time and house moves but never forgotten.

Recently, I purposefully picked it up again. This was spurred on by Return, a companion piece by Larry Clark published by Stanley Barker, which I am eager to dive into which was delivered today looking amazing, the quality of Stanley Barker books really is up there with the best looking you can get.

Given that Return revisits the themes and imagery of the original, I really felt the need to reconnect with its impact before stepping into the next chapter of Clark’s visual narrative.

Published in 1971, Tulsa was nothing short of revolutionary. Before this, documentary photography had mostly kept an observational distance, capturing social issues from an outsider’s lens. Clark did something radically different; he turned the camera inward, documenting his own life and the lives of his friends with an intimacy that was both gripping and disturbing. He wasn’t a detached photojournalist capturing an unfamiliar subculture; he was in it, living it.

The book’s black-and-white images form a visual diary rather than a traditional documentary sequence. The grainy textures, rough, unpolished compositions, and stark flash-lit scenes all contribute to its visceral impact. This is a world of young men and women immersed in a spiral of drugs, sex, and violence. Playing with guns, shooting up heroin, lying in post-high hazes. Clark’s camera doesn’t shy away from anything. Instead, it pulls you in close, forcing you to confront the grim realities that many would prefer to look away from.

These are not posed or curated photographs. They are fragments of real moments, some beautiful in their vulnerability, others deeply unsettling. A young woman, needle in arm, lost in a heroin daze. A man, half-naked, passed out on a dingy mattress. A close-up of a gun being held casually, almost playfully, as if it’s just another object in their daily existence. The honesty of these images is what makes them so powerful. They are neither glorified nor condemned, just presented as they are.

Then vs. Now: How Tulsa Feels Today

Looking at Tulsa now, decades after I first met it, the images haven’t lost their edge. In fact, they feel even more profound. As a teenager, I was captivated by its rawness, its energy, its rebellion. There was a romanticism to its chaos, a dangerous allure to the idea of living without limits. But revisiting it now, with more years behind me, I see it differently. The recklessness isn’t exciting, it’s tragic. The faces in the photographs aren’t just wild kids having fun; they’re people hurtling towards destruction. The needle marks, the vacant stares, the bruises tell a story that is as much about suffering as it is about freedom.

I have three children now, the eldest graduated last year and now growing up, my other two being a teenager and soon top be teenager so this all adds to how I look on now I imagine.

This shift in perspective is part of what makes Tulsa such an important book. It changes with you. It doesn’t lose its impact, it just impacts you in different ways as time goes on.

The Link to Return

One of the reasons I wanted to revisit Tulsa was because of Return, Clark’s latest publication from Stanley/Barker. The description of Return at once pulled me back into Clark’s world:

“Larry Clark was 16 in 1962 when he and his friends started shooting Valo—a drug store nasal inhaler that contained a tremendous amount of amphetamine.

Clark returned to his hometown of Tulsa at 20 after two years serving in Vietnam. Here he graduated from amphetamines to heroin and upended traditional documentary photography by turning his camera on himself and his social circle, producing a ground-breaking series of raw and intimate photographs chronicling the disintegration of the American dream.”

That final line, chronicling the disintegration of the American dream is exactly what Tulsa does so well. It presents an America that wasn’t often seen in mainstream media at the time: disillusioned, restless, addicted, and violent. It was a radical departure from the post-war idealism that still lingered in the national consciousness.

The connection between the two works is clear but both are intensely personal, both deal with youth in crisis, and both serve as unfiltered documents of a time, place, and mindset. Revisiting Tulsa before delving into Return felt necessary, like retracing old steps before embarking on a new journey.

The Legacy of Tulsa

Since its publication, Tulsa has influenced countless photographers, filmmakers, and artists. Its gritty, immersive style can be seen in everything from Nan Goldin’s intimate portraits and even today its impact lingers in the way contemporary photographers document subcultures from the skateboarding scene which I was part of from 1988 until I was about 21 in 1999 to underground party movements.

Yet, despite its influence, Tulsa stays singular. Its power comes not just from the images themselves but from the context in which they were made. Clark wasn’t an outsider looking in, he was part of the story. That level of immersion is what makes it so raw, so haunting, and so unforgettable.

Tulsa is a book that stays with you. Whether you meet it as a teenager, drawn to its rebellious energy, or later in life, recognising the sadness woven through its frames, its impact doesn’t fade. It’s an unflinching, brutal, and deeply human body of work and one that refuses to be ignored.

Revisiting it now, on the cusp of exploring Return, feels like closing a circle before opening another. Larry Clark’s work is still essential and not only for its revelations about the past but for its haunting resonance in the present.

Regards

Alex