What to Write

Hi, I’m Hans Hickerson. I learned photography back in high school, some 50 years ago, and I have continued doing it ever since. I published my first photobook in 1982 and have always wanted to make more. Recently I retired from my day job and now I find myself with the opportunity to continue where I left off. 

Photobooks are like a permanent show, and they are a great way to connect with a larger audience. Unlike a gallery show they are not limited in time and space. They have the potential to carry on your vision indefinitely. Think, for example, of the continuing effect of Robert Frank’s book The Americans. The downside to photography books is that they require a substantial financial investment as well as specialized skills to make, and then you have to go out and sell them.

It’s great when a publisher is willing to take a chance on you, but unless you are well-known and bankable, publishers are unlikely to risk it. That leaves you with the option of self-publishing, which is what I have done. 

If you self-publish, you are likely either an idiot or a genius, although it can take years before you know for sure. In my case I am waiting to see what the verdict will be, but maybe I never will. I want to think that I am not an idiot, but sometimes that’s how I feel. I also wonder if I might not be a mixture of idiot and genius, which would make me an “idius” or a “geniot.”

One of the dilemmas of the photography book genre is language. Photographs are mute, and without language to contextualize them the viewer can easily become lost. Photographers make photographs and are not usually interested in writing, but they do need to articulate their intentions. Some photographers are able to do this well, and when they do they are able to shape the narrative of their work. Think Robert Adams. If we look at one of his photographs and already know what his concerns are it is thanks to his sustained effort to communicate through writing as well as through photographs. 

In a letter to me he wrote, “I sympathize with your desire not to try to say in words what the pictures say, but, as you may have observed in books of mine, I’ve found it impossible to get people to look carefully if I didn’t help potential viewers a little (it doesn’t have to be much, so long as it is about the heart of the matter).”

If you are not interested in communicating other than through your work, you are relinquishing a role in the conversation. Writing about your work can be challenging as well because it forces you to put your cards on the table, state your intentions, and in the process perhaps grapple with your demons, something most of us prefer to avoid.

The other thing with writing about your work is that it can be tricky to find something to say that enhances and complements the images without overpowering them. You don’t want to fall into the trap of explaining too much. Even a simple caption giving the date and place and maybe the title or subject of the photograph can end up defining or otherwise limiting the photograph’s potential resonance. On one hand you want to be clear but on the other you want to allow for the “free play of the signifier.” (Or maybe your goal is subversion and you don’t want to be clear but are looking to create a vague fog of artistic fuzz…)

Aspects of the photobook that typically help direct the viewer include such things as format, sequencing, and layout – these as well as the photographer’s choice of camera, framing, subject, point of view, printing style and so on.

Photobooks vary as to how they use text. At one end of the spectrum there are books organized around a title with almost no other text. A recent example is Nathan Pearce’s High & Lonesome. Other than a short text by a writer the only clues as to what is portrayed are the pictures themselves. But in High & Lonesome they are enough to establish the mood and iconography of a particular place, which we learn (or confirm) is the Midwest from a dedication on the colophon page. We also get that from the written text, plus perhaps we know it from seeing other Nathan Pearce photographs. So in this case the minimal text option works well.

At the other end of the spectrum are books where text dominates and photographs provide background illustrations and act as a counterpoint. Larry Sultan’s Pictures from Home is an example. It wouldn’t be much of a book without the photos, but without the extensive text you would be shipwrecked on an archipelago of images.

Pictures from Home is notable for its omnivorous appetite for photographs of all kinds: formal, fine art pictures but also blurry images from films, snapshots from the family album, corporate publicity photos – anything that fleshes out and helps sustain the story.

After my brief correspondence with Robert Adams, I thought about how to go about packaging my own photos in books. Something I discovered is that if you have a particular subject that the images deal with, then you can just write about that. In my case the subject of a couple of my books has been an experience through time, so here texts function to set up the context and orient the viewer plus comment on the experience. I try to avoid specific readings for individual images other than what is indicated by their place in a chapter or sequence.  Another dilemma is deciding how long a text should be. When does the viewer need to know more, and when does it become TMI?

Like for so many other things in life, you have to begin the journey to see where you will end up.