© Jeff Mermelstein
Choosing What Won’t Come Back
Every time we release a new book, the real question is not how easy it is to get, but how willing we are to choose something that cannot be recovered later. We live in a time where everything feels reversible, always available, endlessly replicable without consequence. We’ve grown used to believing that nothing truly needs to be decided now, because there will always be a later.
A limited-edition photobook breaks this logic. Not because it is better than other objects, but because it introduces a real limit. It exists for a specific period of time, in a finite number of copies, and it demands a position. It cannot be postponed, it cannot be recovered, it cannot be replaced. Either it enters your life now, or it doesn’t. This makes the choice more uncomfortable, but also more honest.
Choosing a book like this does not mean accumulating, nor collecting for status. It means deciding what is worth keeping. It means accepting that some things are not meant for everyone, nor forever, but for those willing to live with them over time. A book is not content to be consumed; it is an object that asks for attention, space, repeated returns. It enters a home, stays on a shelf, and accompanies different years of the same person.
As independent publishers, we work within this responsibility. We do not build objects for immediacy, but for duration. We do not seek maximum circulation, but a deep relationship between those who make the book and those who choose it. Publishing, for us, means accepting that value does not lie in quantity, but in permanence.
In a system that encourages postponing everything, choosing something that will not come back is a countercultural act. Not because it is exclusive, but because it is definitive. And perhaps today, more than ever, we need objects that do not allow us to escape the choice, but force us to make it fully.
Marco Savarese
Editor-in-Chief
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marco Savarese
Marco Savarese is Editor-in-Chief at Eyeshot, the independent publisher he founded in Italy in 2018. He spends most of his year reading portfolios, judging the Open Call, and editing the magazine catalogue. The reading desk is open, and he takes one-to-one Professional Reviews from photographers working seriously on long-term projects.
Who Finishes Your Photograph
NOTE #210. A photo isn’t finished until it survives to where people see it. Paul Strand chose hand photogravure for Photographs of Mexico so the printed copy kept the tonal weight of his prints. Protect the tone to the end, or the worst medium decides for you.
What the Dark Does
NOTE #209. A face lost in shadow reads as underexposed, a defect to fix. Gordon Willis kept Brando’s eyes in the dark in The Godfather and held it against the studio. Before you rescue a shadow, ask what it does; if you can say it, you decided it.
The Place After
NOTE #208. Of a huge event, often only an ordinary place is left. In On This Site (1996) Joel Sternfeld photographed fifty banal American places where violence happened, each with a line of text. Photograph the aftermath, and let the line do the work.
The Photo Made Together
NOTE #206. Street photography teaches you to steal people; there’s another way. In Malick Sidibé’s Bamako studio the youth chose how to be seen. Before you take someone, ask how they’d want to look, and make the photo together.
Write Your Own Rules
NOTE #205. The thing that improves you most isn’t a new camera, it’s a short list of your own faults. Tony Ray-Jones kept a notebook of orders to himself and it shaped Martin Parr. Write your three rules and keep them in your pocket.
Watch the Master Work
NOTE #204. You don’t learn from a master’s finished prints, you learn from watching them work. In 1962 Joel Meyerowitz watched Robert Frank shoot, quit his job that day, and picked up a camera. Watch the body, not the result.
The Work Before the Name
NOTE #203. The worth of a photo and the worth of the byline are two different things. Koudelka shot the 1968 Prague invasion anonymously as ‘P.P.’ and revealed it sixteen years later. Photograph what must be photographed even when no one will know it was you.
The Subject You Run From
NOTE #202. The strongest subject you have is the one you’d rather not photograph. Ishiuchi Miyako went back to Yokosuka, the occupied base town she was taught to fear, and made it her life’s work. Point the camera where it’s uncomfortable.