ยฉ Martin Parr
Judging Others Costs Nothing
When you look at an image made by someone else, you stop looking at it the moment you read who made it. The signature, the caption, the “winner” tag, the “AI” label: every external cue enters before the work and decides for you what you’re about to think. On other people’s work the judgment comes before the reading, it’s fast, final, costs nothing. On your own work the same process never kicks in at the same speed.
A few days ago an account posted a painting presenting it as generated with AI in the style of Monet. The comments started pouring in. Everything floats, there’s no center, the color carries no weight, the brushwork is rough. Long analytical threads, fussy exegesis, dozens of people explaining to Claude Monet how to become Claude Monet. That painting was a real Monet.
The interesting part isn’t the mistake. It’s that thousands of people reacted automatically, accusing the work of lacking humanity without noticing their own reaction was exactly what they were accusing the author of. The label suspends the gaze. The moment “AI” enters the reading, whoever is looking stops looking and starts preparing to dismantle, and from there on they see the prejudice instead of the image.
The photographer who dismisses someone else’s photo in three words (“looks AI”, “no soul”, “weak composition”) finds twenty reasons to defend a shot of their own. That’s the signature of reactive judgment, it lasts a second, asks for no evidence, costs nothing. And right while accusing the other of not thinking, it proves that whoever is commenting isn’t thinking.
Before writing a quick judgment under someone else’s photo, run a simple test. Imagine that photo were yours, published tomorrow under another name. How much time would you give it? How many of the words you’re about to write would hold up under the same scrutiny applied to your own work? If the answer is few or none, the experiment isn’t measuring the image. It’s measuring you.
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 Sidibรฉ’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.