“With black and white, you don’t try to make things prettier, make things chic or make things agreeable, no, black and white is authentic… The color stops on the surface. Black and white penetrates the skin: for me, it’s not about beautiful or not beautiful, but about real or not real.” Peter Lindbergh.

Authentic.
I’ve always found it strange to hear of black and white photography as somehow “more real”, closer to the truth than colour. Is it because it forces us to look at a moment in a context that’s suspended from our everyday reality? Or is it cultural, our collective minds moulded by history, and the way black and white film came to represent the grit and turmoil of societal events? We’re a long way from that era, and yet its aesthetic and significance have endured.

I think it’s a mix of both. A kid born today will eventually be shaped by the visual iconography of the 20th century, and its echoes. They’ll eventually experience the timeless nature of an image without colour, and how it strips away and equalizes all at once. This is a language we learn to recognize, as human and universal as a smile or a tear.

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Whenever I feel passion waning, it’s usually black and white photography that rekindles the flame. Funny, isn’t it? I’ve explored colour for years, and yet removing it always feels like coming home. Yesterday I picked-up my X-Pro2, loaded a card and battery, and switched-on my Daido setting. I set the camera to JPEG-only—no return, no safety, no options. I’ve got this roll of Tri-X now—an awfully long roll—and that’s it. 

All I want is to penetrate the skin of this world.