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I’m gripped by doubts lately. Which is nothing out of the ordinary—questioning what we do and how we do it is part of our endless cycle of up, down, all around craziness. I’m pretty sure you know what I mean. This time, the doubts concern a slow but obvious shrinking of my visual horizons. And to be clear, I’m not whining here: I know this is entirely self-imposed. Because I could be brave and go back to the city, to shoot the streets as I’ve always done. I could’ve documented last week’s gathering in support of George Floyd, marching alongside others ready willing and able to voice their outrage, regardless of the danger. God knows I share their views on systemic targeting. But I didn’t. I wrote an article for Photo Life some months (centuries) ago, about the effect of privacy laws on the art of street photography. And I was glad to hear other photographers—from Canada and around the world—say their practice hadn’t necessarily changed that much, despite the tightening of regulations. But I know for a fact that I no longer capture life as I once did; and I know this is due to a subconscious awareness of interdictions. A hundred stories seeping in over time. As a result, my eye has turned more and more to the abstract at the cost of documentation. I’ve never worked as a photojournalist and I’ve always considered photography an interpretation of reality. But when I look back, I see people in my pictures. They’re part of their geometry and they provide layers of meaning. I see a deliberate attempt at capturing human beings in the act of interacting with their surroundings. Most of them clear and identified. A few days ago I glimpsed the headline of a photography magazine post: how to blur the faces of protesters in your pictures. Imagine Koudelka’s Exiles with faces blurred. Or this moment:
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