It has been truly heartening to receive such kind messages lately, hearing from so many of you about how my thoughts on photography and photobooks resonate. It’s a wonderful feeling to know that what I pour onto these pages finds a home with you, and it has prompted me to reflect on something fundamental that we all do when engaging with art, how do we truly look?

It’s a question that feels especially pertinent in our fast paced world, where images flash by at dizzying speed, demanding only a fleeting glance and for me who has ADHD it is NOT easy.

I remember a time, early in my own photographic journey, when I approached pictures with a rather hurried curiosity. I would skim through photobooks, perhaps linger on a particularly striking image for a moment, and then move on, eager for the next visual fix. It felt a bit like trying to read a deeply complex novel by simply flipping through its pages, catching snippets of dialogue here and there. But over time, through a good few happy accidents and quiet realisations, I began to learn that photographs, a bit like poems, hold layers of meaning, rhythm, tone, and mood that reveal themselves only when you grant them the courtesy of your full attention.

The first, and perhaps most vital, step in truly looking at a photograph is to approach it with an open heart and a quiet mind. Forget the technical specifications or the photographer’s biography for a moment. Allow yourself to feel that initial, instinctual response. What’s the very first feeling that washes over you? Is it a sense of comfort, a jolt of disquiet, a pang of nostalgia, or a flicker of sheer curiosity? Don’t rush to analyse it, let your body respond before your brain tries to take over and intellectualise everything. This visceral connection is your most authentic entry point into the image, a genuine conversation that begins long before words can form.

Once that first feeling has settled, then you can begin to unpack the photograph’s language, much like dissecting the verses of a poem. Consider the composition, where do your eyes instinctively travel? Is the image balanced in a harmonious way, or perhaps deliberately off kilter, leading your gaze towards a specific point or creating a sense of tension? Think about the light and shadow, what kind of light has the photographer captured? Is it soft and diffused, lending a gentle, almost dreamlike quality, or is it harsh and dramatic, carving out stark contrasts that create a moodiness akin to a stage play? What stories do those deep shadows whisper, or what truths do the bright highlights illuminate?

Then there is the choice of colour or monochrome. If the photograph bursts with colour, does the palette evoke a particular time of year, a certain temperature, or perhaps even a forgotten memory? What emotions do those specific hues stir within you? And if the image is presented in black and white, what has the photographer chosen to emphasise by removing colour? Often, it’s texture, contrast, or the pure form of the subject that comes to the fore, inviting a different kind of contemplation, a focus on the timeless rather than the immediate. Feel the texture and detail within the frame, can you almost sense the gritty surface of an old wall, the smoothness of skin, or the fragility of a dried leaf? These tactile qualities, even when experienced visually, play a profound role in connecting us to the scene. Finally, consider the feeling of stillness or movement, is the moment frozen in a quiet, reflective pause, or does it crackle with an electrifying energy, suggesting a narrative unfolding beyond the frame? Are there symbols or stories hinted at through objects or gestures that carry a deeper, perhaps unspoken, meaning?

When it comes to reading photobooks, the experience deepens even further, transforming from a simple viewing into a curated journey. A photobook is not a collection of disparate images, it is often a carefully constructed essay, a visual album designed to be navigated slowly and with intention. I have a ritual with new photobooks that I find profoundly rewarding. Before I even look at the images, I take a moment to engage with the physicality of the object. I hold the book, feel its weight, run my hand over the cover, and examine the paper quality. Publishers like Stanley/Barker, for instance, often create books that are tactile objects in themselves, meticulously designed to enhance the narrative. Similarly, the meticulous curation seen in Aperture publications or the innovative spirit often found in Hotshoe magazines and the robust, thoughtful productions from Radius Book’s and Lars Müller to the gritty, independent voices from Eastern Front all demonstrate how the craft of the book, the choices made in presentation and binding, is an integral part of the overall experience. This appreciation for the physical artistry is crucial.

Then, I begin my slow exploration, one photograph at a time. I make a conscious effort to linger longer than feels natural with each image, allowing it to fully breathe and reveal itself before moving on. And crucially, I make sure to not read the captions or any accompanying text straight away. That meta data can wait. The first, unfiltered feeling and thought that the image provokes in me is paramount. I might even scribble some raw reactions in my notes, ‘Why does this photo make me uneasy?’ or ‘The lighting in this one feels like that golden hour of a late summer evening.’ It’s about letting my own mind wrestle with the image before being influenced by external explanations.

As I move through the book, I’m always mindful of the sequences. How has the photographer guided my experience from one image to the next? What visual or thematic connections appear? Does the mood subtly shift, or does a narrative arc begin to form? It’s a bit like following a compelling storyline, where each image is a chapter, building towards a greater understanding. And finally, and this is a truly important step, I make it a habit to come back to the same photobook weeks later having read about the photographer, any interviews they have done, watch any videos of the exhibition if there is any. It’s astonishing how different photos will reveal themselves with time, or how your own evolving perspectives might unlock new meanings in images you thought you had already fully grasped and its then at this point I would usually start writing my review for my site.

If you are looking to deepen your connection with photography even further, beyond the simple act of consuming, I encourage you to try describing photos out loud, perhaps to a friend, or by journaling about them. Focus not simply on what they depict, but on how they make you feel.

Compare your reactions to those you read in reviews or essays, or in conversations with others, you’ll begin to see that photography is not a monologue from the artist, but a living, breathing conversation between the work, the creator, and the viewer. Sometimes, pairing your viewing with music, or conversely, the way I prefer with profound silence, can also alter and intensify how you feel about what you see, unlocking different emotional pathways.

Ultimately, and this is perhaps the most liberating thought, do not worry too much about “getting it right” when you look at a photograph or read a photobook. There is no single, correct answer. What truly matters, what forms the deepest connection, is what sticks with you when you close the book and set it aside. It’s the lingering feeling, the sparked thought, the quiet resonance that becomes a part of your own personal tapestry of understanding. That is the true power of photography, and it is a gift waiting for anyone willing to slow down and truly look.

Regards

Alex