© Meryl Meisler
Less is more
Put it bluntly. Printing a thousand copies of a book that will maybe sell half of them in five years is just an elegant way to fill up warehouses and empty your mind. One of those ideas inherited from last century’s publishing world, when more paper meant more prestige. Not anymore. Today it’s just background noise leading nowhere.
I always smile at this silent shame around small print runs. As if printing a hundred copies were an admission of guilt. A confession of weakness. In reality, it’s the only grown up move in an industry that still pretends volume equals value. For me, for Eyeshot, limitation has always been a strength, not a problem. It’s what makes a book an art object, not a decorative item gathering dust until it gets returned.
The paradox is that this mindset is carried on by photographers, publishers, printers themselves. All convinced that inflating numbers is a sign of strength. When in fact, it just means postponing the inevitable: discounts, clearance sales, copies shipped to bookstores just to say “sold out” even though nothing is actually sold out. Because whatever stays on the shelves will come back. Always. And often in worse condition.
I get the technical fear too: offset punishes small print runs, and high quality digital printing still doesn’t get the respect it deserves. But that’s not a good enough excuse to keep repeating a model that no longer works. Technology changes, habits change, the market changes. What doesn’t change is the stubbornness with which many defend an old, useless, and honestly tired vision.
The truth is that overprinting isn’t ambition. It’s just fear dressed up as professionalism.
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.