ยฉ Michael Robinson Chavez
They exist together only for a moment.
Every quarter we publish six books. Not because they are meant to dialogue with one another, not because they tell the same story, and not because they share a common aesthetic. They travel side by side for a stretch of road, then they part ways. As often happens when traveling, or in cities, intense, temporary encounters that donโt need to become permanent in order to be meaningful.
In publishing, there is an obsession with accumulation. Keeping everything open, everything available, everything constantly present. A catalogue that grows without ever stopping, as if continuity alone were a value. But attention doesnโt work that way. Without an ending, even the gaze grows tired. And a book, even before it is read, asks for time, space, silence.
Itโs the same in photography: if you keep shooting without ever stopping, if you never return to look, if you never close a project, reality turns into noise. An ending is not a loss, itโs an edit. Itโs the gesture that says: I really saw this, I took care of it, and now I can let it go without turning it into an endless archive.
Working in cycles means accepting that things have a beginning and an end. That six projects can exist together only for a precise period of time, without having to remain tied to one another. This isnโt a logic of scarcity, itโs a form of respect, for the work of the authors, for the editorial process, for those who choose to be part of it. And also for us, because it forces us not to publish โjust to publish,โ not to fill the calendar, not to confuse movement with direction.
This cycle will soon come to a close. The pre-orders for these six books are nearing their end, as they always have and always will. Not as a race, but as a natural gesture. Because some things make sense precisely in the moment in which they happen. And then they make room for what comes next.
If you find yourself within this moment, good. If you miss it, itโs not a failure, itโs simply another time, another way of looking. But itโs worth noticing when a chapter is about to close.
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.