Welcome to this edition of [book spotlight]. Today, we uncover the layers of 'Advice for Young Artists,' by Alec Soth (published by MACK). We'd love to read your comments below about these insights and ideas behind the artist's work.

Even the most accomplished artists feel like beginners sometimes.

This sentiment is at the heart of Alec Soth’s book Advice for Young Artists, a personal reflection on the creative process.

Drawing from years of experience and his visits to art programs across the United States, Soth offers a rare glimpse into the struggles and joys of making art at any stage of life.

Through photographs, handwritten notes, and candid moments, the book captures the complexity of artmaking—messy, chaotic, and full of discovery.

So, how do you navigate the uncertainty of creating art?

Alec Soth, an iconic photographer known for his poetic storytelling, reminds us that the creative process is not about mastering certainty—it’s about embracing the unknown.

For Soth, every new project begins with questions rather than answers, and it’s in this space of exploration that his most meaningful work takes shape. It’s in this uncertainty, this chaos, where true artistic growth happens.

Advice for Young Artists

Advice for Young Artists is Alec Soth’s personal take on the creative process, blending his years of experience as a photographer with reflections on what it means to make art at any stage of life. The book isn’t a step-by-step guide or a collection of polished lessons; instead, it’s an honest, raw exploration of creativity—its chaos, its joy, and its constant evolution.

Between 2022 and 2024, Soth visited 25 undergraduate art programs across the United States. Along the way, he photographed, listened, and engaged with young artists, using those experiences as a foundation for the book. Through a mix of photographs, Post-it note musings, and fragments of advice, Advice for Young Artists captures the messy, unpredictable nature of making art—and the importance of embracing it.

The images in the book range from carefully staged compositions to spontaneous moments of self-expression, reflecting Soth’s belief in experimentation. Some photos feel grounded in the classroom, while others blur the line between reality and imagination. Throughout, Soth places himself within the narrative—not as a mentor with all the answers, but as a fellow traveler still figuring things out.

Inspired by Walker Evans’s late Polaroids, the book takes an unconventional approach to exploring creativity. It’s not just about the struggles of young artists; it’s also about Soth’s own journey, as someone who’s spent decades making art and still feels like a beginner at times.

Ultimately, Advice for Young Artists is an invitation to step into the chaos, take risks, and find joy in the process. It’s for anyone who has ever felt the thrill of starting something new—or the fear of not knowing where it might lead. Soth’s reflections remind us that art isn’t about perfection; it’s about staying open, curious, and alive to the possibilities. (MACK, Amazon)

You’ve been creating for decades and inspiring so many young artists along the way. How has your understanding of what it means to be an artist evolved over time? - Martin

Hmm. That’s a hard question—it’s a good question, but a hard one. Part of the spirit behind this book is tied to the feeling that, sometimes, I haven’t really learned anything. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that it feels like I’m dealing with the same problems and struggles, over and over again.

That’s not entirely true, of course, but it feels that way sometimes. From the perspective of someone like an intern or a young person, they might think I have all the answers. But the truth is, I almost never do. I have to figure it out, just like everyone else.

I remember going on a road trip with some other Magnum photographers once, and I realized they didn’t know what they were doing either. It hit me—I feel like a fraud sometimes, like I should know the answers, but I don’t. What I’ve learned is that I have to start over each time. I have to learn and figure it out again, every single time.

Just yesterday, a family friend—he’s a realtor—needed some portraits done. He always dog-sits for us, so I agreed. I’d never done realtor portraits before, but I did a good job, and it made me think, Oh, I have learned something over all these years. I’ve picked up technical skills and tricks, and I can apply them to something new.

But when it comes to art and making art? It’s always starting over. - Alec

Is this how you imagined it would be when you started out in photography?

No, not at all. Even now, I’ll think, Okay, I’ve solved this problem, or I’ve published this book, so I’ve figured it out. Then I start something new, and it’s like, Oh no, I have to figure this out all over again. I fool myself into thinking I know what I’m doing—and then realize I don’t.

When I first started, I had no idea it would be like this. On one hand, it’s way better and beyond anything I could have dreamed of. But on the other hand, it’s completely different from what I envisioned.

You mentioned in your video that your high school art teacher influenced your path. What was the turning point when you realized that photography was your medium?

That realization didn’t happen until much later. It’s funny—I always remember that high school art teacher. He took us out for a lesson, and instead of starting with cameras, he handed us a mat board with a window cut out. We just looked at things through it, and I thought that was really great.

We eventually did some actual photography, but it didn’t really interest me at the time. It wasn’t until about five years later that I truly found photography.

The big thing I realized was that I wasn’t a studio artist. That was the fundamental turning point for me—I needed to be out in the world to make work. It didn’t have to be photography. It could have been building a sculpture or something else, but I had to engage with the outside world.

In fact, that’s how it started: I would build sculptures and then photograph them. Even when I was working on Sleeping by the Mississippi, I still thought that way. If I moved furniture or set up a shot a little bit—which is what you’re “not supposed to do” as a documentary photographer—I wasn’t thinking like a documentary photographer. I was thinking like a sculptor.

For some reason, I’ve always needed to go out into the world to make work. That’s how I define what I do. I’m a photographer, but I do other things too. Still, there’s always this need to step outside.

Getting back to what you mentioned about not being “supposed to” do certain things in documentary work—do you see your photography as documentary, fine art, or something entirely your own?

Yeah, I don’t really think of it as documentary work. I guess I see it more as existing on a spectrum. On one end, you have what we call fine art, and on the other, documentary work. Where I fall on that spectrum really depends on the project I’m working on.

For example, Songbook might lean more toward the documentary side, whereas assignments for magazines—working in the realm of journalism—also sit closer to that end. Other projects might fall somewhere in between.

It’s a bit like a writer who might work on fiction one day, nonfiction the next, or even something that blurs the lines between the two. Or think of a filmmaker like Werner Herzog—he moves along the spectrum depending on what he’s doing.

What’s the ratio for a Magnum photographer like you in terms of personal work versus commissioned work?

I’m not sure, honestly. The industry changes so much, and it’s hard to know how other people are navigating it.

The way I think of Magnum is largely as a group of authors rather than a group of journalists. They’re authors, and what they create can fall anywhere on the spectrum—from personal work to more traditional documentary work.

Over the last 30 years or so, I think there’s been more of a focus on personal work, but that’s always been a part of Magnum’s DNA.

Is being part of the cooperative beneficial in terms of getting jobs?

Yeah, it is, but it’s complicated because Magnum is a cooperative. The photographers are the owners, so saying “they give us jobs” feels odd—because we are “they.”

That said, part of Magnum functions as an agency, where agents work to get us assignments. That’s one aspect of it. But there are other parts to what Magnum offers, beyond just commissioned work.

I was thinking in terms of cooperation and interaction—when you joined Magnum, I think it was around 2008, right?

Yeah, I think that’s when I became a full member. I’d been involved before that, but 2008 was when I became a full member.

When you joined, there were already some well-established and renowned photographers in Magnum. And now, you’re in the position of being that photographer for younger members as they join. Is there a tradition of sharing ideas, collaborating, or having something like a think board within the group?

Yeah, definitely. What’s fascinating is how that process repeats itself over time. It’s like the children become the parents, and the parents become the grandparents. Then one day, you wake up and realize, “Oh, I’m one of the elders now.”

I remember when I joined, looking up to people like Alex Webb and others who were heroes of mine. And now, I sometimes see that same dynamic with younger photographers who look at me in that way. It’s funny and humbling at the same time. Time has a way of shifting those roles.

And yes, we do share ideas and collaborate. We regularly brainstorm about different things. Some of it is business-related—discussing agency operations or strategies—but there’s also a creative side. We work on projects together, engage in collaborative efforts, and share ideas in meaningful ways.

Who was your hero back then? Were the people in Magnum the reason you joined? Like, did you want to be in the same cooperative as someone like Martin Parr or Alex Webb?

For me, it wasn’t exactly that. I came from more of a fine art perspective, so I hadn’t been fantasizing about joining Magnum for years. But I found myself in a position where I realized I needed to be a working photographer. Someone suggested Magnum, and while it seemed like a crazy idea, I thought, “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”

Of course, I admired many photographers in Magnum, but I wasn’t dreaming of being a member as a kid. What struck me when I joined was finding myself among people I looked up to as elders—though sometimes they weren’t that much older than me.

Now, I can see that same dynamic with younger photographers. They might look at me as an elder, and it’s an interesting shift. Time has a way of turning things around.

And yes, we regularly collaborate and share ideas. We brainstorm, and while a lot of it is business-focused, there’s also a creative side. We work on projects together and do collaborative work, which is a really valuable part of being in Magnum.

Okay. Do you have something like a Discord server or a Facebook group where members connect informally?

No, it doesn’t really work like that. It’s much more formalized. There are so many different kinds of meetings within Magnum. For example, I’m on the board now. When you first join, you’re more on the periphery, and it’s fun. But later, as you take on more responsibilities—like being on the board—you find yourself in all these meetings.

We also break things down by region and other factors. What’s really inspiring, though, is someone like Susan Meiselas. She’s a hero of mine now and just the most amazing woman.

She’s incredible at connecting with the full generational span within Magnum. She maintains this spirit of openness and newness, which is so rare.

That’s something I really look up to. I can’t be exactly like her, but I want to carry a piece of that into my own work and life. It ties into what I try to do in my projects and my book—keeping my eyes open, staying fresh, and not letting myself get jaded.

Let’s talk about the book. You mentioned (in the video) that this book started as a completely different project. When a project shifts direction midway, how do you decide whether to embrace the change or stay committed to the original vision?

I’ve gotten pretty good at this. One thing I try to do is not talk too much about a new project, so it doesn’t get too solidified. If I start telling people—whether it’s my studio manager, my wife, or anyone else—about this new idea I have, it kind of becomes a real thing. But if I let it just live in my imagination, I feel more free to change it.

Even if I’ve already started making work for it, I try to hold onto that flexibility and stay open. Then, when a shift happens, I try to be really in tune with it. It might sound a little corny, but it’s like a gut feeling—you just feel yourself being drawn in a certain direction, and you follow it.

That’s pretty similar to the way I photograph, too. I go into a project with a mission, but I try to stay open. If something catches my eye or draws me in, I feel compelled to go down that road and see where it leads.

This way of working is pretty unique to photography and projects like this. You couldn’t work like this if you were, say, a big-budget filmmaker—it just wouldn’t be possible. So, I try to create a structure that allows for change. At a certain point, though, the project reaches this place where I just know: “Okay, this is my project now, and I know what I need to do.” There are still some twists and turns, but by then, it’s within a defined space.

Maybe that’s a skill I’ve developed over the years—learning how to trust my intuition and let things evolve.

Does that happen often?

It feels like it happens with every personal project. It’s just not something that can usually happen with assignments or projects where money and other people are involved—it’s really hard to let that kind of change happen in those situations.

But for personal work, that’s part of the thrill. It’s like a treasure hunt. You go down different roads, and that sense of discovery fuels the work.

The book starts with a blank nameplate and the question, Who is this book for? You play with the idea of whether it’s meant for young artists or for yourself. Could you share more about your intentions and feelings while creating this book?

Yeah, I mean, that question—Who is the work for?—is something I think about with any project. Why are you doing this? It’s interesting because within the Magnum context, you meet photographers documenting war or conflict, and sometimes you realize they’re doing it for themselves.

They need to do this thing—they need to go into a war zone or cover that story. And a big part of it is personal. I try to be honest with myself about that, because, yeah, a big chunk of why I make work is for myself.

That said, of course, I want it to reach an audience. I have ambitions for how it’s received and hope people connect with it in certain ways.

I met a guy in New York a while back who really touched me. He was about my age, and he told me that Advice for Young Artists was his favorite book of mine. I’d never heard that before, and I could tell he genuinely meant it. It was clear the book spoke to him, and I thought, Wow, that’s fantastic.

So, while the primary motivation is for myself, I do hope the book resonates with other people too.

In the book, you include Post-it notes with fragments of advice and thoughts that feel unfinished and ironic—like the one that says “patient,” but is left blank. What were you aiming to express with this gesture? And how do irony and humor play a role in your artistic expression?

Well, humor is super important to me. Sometimes the word “irony” feels a bit cold, but humor—that’s how I interact with the world outside of art. It’s a big part of who I am.

One thing that has bothered me about some of my work—like Sleeping by the Mississippi—is how it’s often perceived as having this tone that lacks humor. And that’s fine; I’m happy to make that kind of book. But at the same time, I want to make other kinds of books too.

It’s kind of like filmmakers, right? They can make a serious drama, but then they can also make a comedy—or a drama with comedic elements. Humor is so fundamental to who I am that I want to express it in my work. But it’s not always easy in photography. For whatever reason, photography tends to carry this inherently somber quality. Unless you’re someone like Martin Parr, whose work is very direct in its humor, it can be hard to interject levity.

So, I’m always looking for ways to bring humor into my work. Sometimes that happens photographically, but other times it comes through design or text elements—things like the Post-it notes. The use of flash can also bring a certain quality of humor, and I’ve played with that in the past too.

Well. This might just be my perspective, but when I think about Sleeping by the Mississippi, the cover image—the guy holding the airplane—I wouldn’t necessarily call it funny, but it feels humorous. It made me smile, you know?

Yeah, absolutely. No, no, absolutely. And you know what’s interesting about that picture? It’s obviously my best-known image, and I’ve always been happy that it’s that one because it actually does have some humor and a little bit of levity. It’s serious, but also funny. That’s a relief to me, honestly.

I do think there are elements of humor in Sleeping by the Mississippi. I just think I’ve been able to inject more of it into my later work. Because Sleeping by the Mississippi is what I’m best known for, I tend to get associated with that kind of seriousness—or whatever people perceive it to be.

That’s part of why, with this new project, I had to adjust my approach. I mentioned this in the video, but I started photographing with an 8x10 camera. At some point, I realized there was a risk of the work becoming too sentimental—or even feeling too “holier than thou.”

When I worked on A Pound of Pictures using large format, I didn’t have that issue. The approach I took with that project allowed me to avoid that overly serious or precious tone.

So yeah, humor is really important to me.

What were you aiming to express with this gesture?

With those gestures, yeah. I mean, built into the work was an expression of my own neuroticism in some ways—my own way of thinking, not completing thoughts. I wanted that process to exist in the work. In some of the pictures where I appear, that was one way to do it, but the Post-it notes were another way to kind of add a piece of my consciousness.

Plus, I liked that they were a little confusing. I liked the idea of that. And there was also this design element—the little bursts of color they brought. From a rhythm perspective, those moments act like punctuation in the book. They aren’t photographic, but they shift the flow of the book. I was using them in a lot of different ways, really.

I designed the book myself and worked with MACK to finalize it. While I was creating, I’d constantly be putting things into PDFs, figuring out sequences, trying different strategies. That was part of the process.

You even mentioned you thought about including physical Post-it notes but decided against it, right?

Yeah, exactly. A decision like that is really interesting because it involves a lot of factors. When you’re working with a publisher and a designer, you have to consider things like cost. Including physical Post-it notes would’ve increased the cost of the book, and I didn’t want it to be wildly expensive.

At the same time, I wanted the book to have this tactile quality, but I didn’t want it to become one of those artist books that’s all about opening things up and touching everything. I still wanted the focus to be on looking at the images. So, I was a little wary of that.

In A Pound of Pictures, for instance, there are loose photographs included in the book, and I loved that element. It was physical, but it felt perfect for that project. With the Post-its, I was worried that doing something physical would feel like an inferior version of what we achieved with A Pound of Pictures.

I was talking with your colleague Bieke Depoorter about her book Agata. The pages in it are kind of folded together, and you’re supposed to rip them open. I told her I never did because it felt like I’d be ruining the book. And she said it’s interesting because non-photography people usually have no problem opening the book and looking at all the pictures, but photography people tend to hesitate and don’t want to touch it or destroy it.

Yeah. Of course. Absolutely.

That’s so fascinating. I went through that book with my teenage daughter, and we opened up each page together. She’s not a photographer, so she had no issue with it—it was just part of the experience for her. And it was so effective as a strategy. I loved it too; it really worked for me.

But there’s definitely a danger with something like that, especially when it comes to book collectors. They might avoid opening the pages entirely, and by doing that, they’re not fully understanding the work. That’s such a crucial design decision to make.

And yeah, Bieke Depoorter is a great example of someone who takes creative risks. She’s such a great example of a Magnum photographer who works in different ways. I’ve learned so much from her over the years. She’s younger than me, but she came into Magnum really early, and she’s been here forever now.

She was one of the youngest to join, right?

I don’t think she was the youngest. I think Donovan Wylie was the youngest ever to join, but she was really young when she came in.

I have so much respect for her. She’s truly one of the great ones.

Yeah, I really like her photography. Thinking about her projects, like the one where she slept in different homes and photographed the experience—that was just incredible. How do you even come up with something like that? It’s such a beautiful way of connecting photography with real-world experience.

Anyway, in your book, there’s this theme of escape and a desire for freedom, which you talked about in the video. It also connects to your earlier work, like Broken Manual. How has this theme evolved in your work over time? And do you think young and older artists see freedom differently?

Yes, I do think it changes over time. When you first discover photography—especially if we’re thinking about it in an American context with road trip photography—there’s this romanticized idea of the open road. It’s such a cliché, but that feeling of just heading out and going somewhere is so powerful.

Yeah, like I’ve now been on hundreds of road trips. I’ve gone this way, that way, and the other way. It’s a very different experience now.

My understanding of what freedom means and how it feels has changed over the years. That’s a big part of what I’ve been exploring—how does one access that feeling of freedom again, even when it’s no longer the same as it used to be?

You described the process of creating the book as intuitive and highlighted the importance of rhythm and visual harmony. Can you share how you select and combine photographs? How do you work with color, composition, symbolism, and create a cohesive narrative?

Yeah, I mean, that word—narrative—is a tricky one because it suggests a story with a clear beginning, middle, and end. Photography rarely works that way. It can, but it usually doesn’t. That’s why I often say photography is more like poetry than storytelling.

It’s fragmentary, and so much of it is about rhythm and feeling. When I start conceptualizing a project, I usually imagine it’s going to have the structure of a story. But over time, I have to open myself up to let the project shape itself, to feel through the way it wants to take form.

Even with Sleeping by the Mississippi, the Mississippi River is linear—it runs north to south. So at first, I thought the book should follow that structure exactly. But pretty early on, I realized it didn’t have to be that way. There’s no rule that says it has to be perfectly linear. I could play with that structure, keeping some of that north-to-south idea, but allowing room for improvisation.

With every book, I have to figure out its structure. But it needs to be a structure that’s flexible enough to let me improvise and be musical in how I organize the images.

For Advice for Young Artists, part of the structure came from deciding it needed to be a short book. I knew from the start that it wasn’t going to be long, and that gave me a piece of the framework. From there, I started thinking: How do I want to begin? How do I keep the viewer engaged? How do I want to end it?

The book ends with an interview and a few very self-referential pictures. One of them is a maquette of an exhibition space that includes the pictures from the book, so it becomes very meta at the end. And it starts, as we talked about, with the Post-it and this blocked doorway.

In the middle, I worked on creating disruptions while balancing sequences of portraits, interiors, and still lifes. Some pictures are extremely complex, with lots of color and objects, while others are very simple and almost devoid of color.

A lot of those decisions are almost like musical choices—thinking about rhythm, contrast, and how to keep the flow engaging.

But isn’t this supposed to be your longest book? I mean, you have that advice about including as many pictures as your age, right? So, I figured your latest book would follow that…

No.

Yeah, but that’s not true. That whole idea is kind of bullshit, honestly.

(laughs)

No, no, no. A Pound of Pictures had way more pictures than this book.

So, was that rule something you adapted later, or is it just a joke?

It’s kind of a joke—but it’s a joke with a bit of truth in it. That said, I think I’m moving toward fewer pictures as I go along. For example, I Know How Fiercely Your Heart Is Beating has very few pictures. I don’t remember the exact number, but I’d guess it’s around 40, maybe 35.

No, I don’t really believe in that rule. I actually struggle with books that have too many pictures. That’s just a personal bias I have.

You mentioned feeling like “a teenager for old age” and described the book as complicated because it deals with youthfulness while you yourself don’t feel young. You’ve said, “I’m not old yet, but it’s right there.” Looking back, do you feel like you were able to reconnect with that beginner within through this project?

Yeah, not entirely—not throughout all of it—but I definitely had moments. Moments where I was fully playing, not self-conscious, just laughing, having fun, and experimenting. I was able to touch on those moments, and that really is the goal.

What’s interesting is that I’m in the process of starting something new now, and I’m feeling that sense of real newness and play again. I know I learned things from the last project—things that worked, things that made me feel alive. It’s a feeling that reminds me of being in school, in a studio, just playing and feeling energized.

So yes, I think I did reconnect with that beginner spirit, at least in part. And more importantly, I think I avoided a kind of stagnation that could have crept in. For example, if I had photographed that project with an 8x10 camera and just done nice, polished portraits of art students, it could have felt stagnant. But I dodged that, which is good.

Okay, so this approach does differ from your earlier work.

For sure, yeah. It does, but it’s still related. That’s something I always hope for—that I can change stylistically, but there’s still a connection, a through line between the works.

And is that through line a newfound freedom, or is it more like a return to the simpler joy of photography?

I think it’s the joy. What I’m looking for is that joy—the feeling of discovery, play, and all of that. That’s what it’s all about. It’s like the gold of art-making. So yeah, it’s about finding new ways to tap into that.

Now, whether or not it has value for other people, that’s a whole other question. There are so many factors that determine whether something connects with an audience. But I don’t think it helps me to overly concern myself with that. I have to focus on that pure joy of making and then see what happens.

Okay. And at the end of the book, you ask yourself, What do I really want? How would you answer that question now, after the book’s release?

I think it’s very connected to what we were just talking about. It’s interesting because I told you about the man I met who was deeply affected by the book. Something else happened—my high school art teacher wrote to me. He saw that video, even though I didn’t send it to him, and he was very moved. He sent me a beautiful note, and that was incredibly meaningful to me.

But ultimately, what I really want is to feel that feeling of being fully immersed and excited about making. That’s what I want most of all.

Of course, I want to be an educator, to help others, to acknowledge the people who came before me, and to be a good citizen. But more than anything, I want to play and be immersed in the process.

That’s nice. Has this feeling evolved over time? Do you think it reflects your current stage in photography?

I think it’s my current stage, but I can see how I’ve felt this way at different points too. For example, with Little Brown Mushroom—this thing I’ve had for years—it’s kind of like a sandbox. I’ve always described it as a place to play, to collaborate and experiment with others, but in a way that isn’t about money or traditional work.

So yeah, I think there’s a through line of reconnecting with that pure spirit of making, and I can see it in different parts of my work.

And when I think about giving advice to young artists, the thing I often think is: You have what I want. You have that sense of newness and excitement. That’s the gold. Young artists often want the success, recognition, or acknowledgment that someone like me might have, but the real treasure is what they already have—everything feels new and exciting for them.

What would be your advice to young artists who want to get to where you are?

Well, see, that’s different. My advice is to cherish that thing—that sense of newness. But, as I said in the video, you can’t just tell someone to do that. It’s meaningless advice.

You can’t tell a teenager, Be patient and enjoy your youth. That’s pointless to them—it doesn’t land.

Advice is so full of clichés, and it’s almost useless sometimes. Things like stay true to yourself or be patient, it takes time—those are just words. They don’t mean much.

That’s why I think the best advice is often very specific advice. That’s what I tried to do in the book with some of the absurd suggestions, like having as many pictures in your book as your age. Of course, that’s ridiculous, but it’s specific.

Specific advice is useful. General advice like be patient isn’t very actionable or helpful.

So, something specific—let’s say a young artist asks you how to take better photos. Or, even more specifically, imagine your younger self asking you now: I’m taking photos, but I’m not satisfied with them. I don’t like the quality or how they look, and I’m not where I want to be. What advice would you give me to take better pictures?

Yeah, the funny thing about that question is, it’s why my teaching strategy, when I do workshops, always includes one-on-one time. I need to see what kind of work someone is making and why they’re making it. That’s the only way to give meaningful advice.

Because honestly, “taking a good picture” isn’t that hard. A monkey can take a good picture—it’s not that complicated. What’s hard is taking a picture that has meaning to you. That’s the challenge.

And to do that, you have to figure out what has meaning to you. What’s valuable to you? It becomes almost like a therapy session. To make good work—beyond just “good pictures”—you have to do some kind of internal work.

So yeah, I don’t really have a general answer for how to take a good picture. I don’t even know myself, to this day.

I mean, good work still consists of single pictures, right? So when you get down to that atomic level, the general advice would be to practice—just take 10,000 photos, and over time, you’ll get better.

Yeah, for sure. There’s definitely some truth to that. One of the interesting things about photography, compared to something like being a violinist, is that while it does take time and practice, and you need to understand your tools and develop patience, it’s not as technically demanding in the same way.

That’s one of the reasons I liked photography more than painting when I was younger. With painting, I felt like it would take 10 years of technical training just to become a decent painter—before I could even start thinking about subject matter. Photography lets you move along faster in some ways.

But what’s fascinating about great pictures is how mysterious they are. To me, they’re anomalies. I can do a whole body of work, and hopefully, there’s one great picture in there—or a couple, or a few good ones—that takes on a life of its own, outside of the project.

The number of variables that go into making a great picture is beyond comprehension. It’s not just about the photograph itself but also how it interacts with the world. Take the picture of Charles, the guy with the airplanes, for example. I think it’s a good picture—it’s solid. But then it was used as a poster for the Whitney Biennial, reproduced in the press, and it took on all these different lives. All of that affects how it’s perceived as a photograph.

And how many negatives did you take? Was it just one?

Not many. No, not just one. It’s interesting because there’s actually a horizontal version of that shot. I took maybe three or four frames total. And yeah, one of them is clearly the better one.

But I don’t know—it’s kind of like pop music. There are billions of pop songs, and every once in a while, one becomes the song. And you wonder, is it the song because it’s been played on the radio over and over again? Or is it the song because it really is special? There are so many different reasons something becomes iconic.

A song can be amazing on its own, but it’s also about how it connects with culture at a particular moment. And so much of that is beyond your control.

If I were a musician, I’d be trying to make a great album and then, hopefully, there’d be a couple of great songs that stand out—songs that feel magical. That’s the hope.

But it’s not my ambition to go out and make the greatest picture of all time today. I can’t work that way. I have to focus on creating a project, and then, hopefully, those standout moments happen along the way.

So, when I get to the point where I’ve mastered the technical side and can take solid images, how do I move forward? Some photographers struggle to find their unique style. Is it important to have one? And what advice would you give to those trying to find their style?

One piece of advice I’ve given, and I think it’s useful, is to try lots of different kinds of photography when you’re starting out. Do sports photography, shoot nudes, try nature photography—experiment with all of it. Then, do the inner work. Be really honest with yourself about what you loved doing.

You might admire photographers who do amazing nature photography, but deep down, you might feel most authentically yourself when you’re shooting sports photography, for example. It’s about listening to that feeling and being honest with yourself.

That’s what I meant earlier when I talked about realizing I needed to go out into the world because I’m not a studio artist. I had to listen to that and stay true to it.

As for style—“style” can be a dangerous term. It’s almost like a filter you screw onto your lens.

I think your voice is different from style. Finding your voice is what’s important. Style might emerge naturally as part of your voice, and it might make your work more appealing, but the real focus should be on finding your voice. That’s where the authenticity comes from.

Do you think the danger of having a style is that it starts limiting you—either in what you photograph or how you edit? Let’s say I take a picture in a certain style and become known for it, but then I take a picture that feels completely different. Has it ever happened to you where you’ve taken a picture and thought, This looks like a Martin Parr photograph, I can’t publish it?

Absolutely. Yeah, for sure.

When I was starting out, my big goal was to feel free. I wanted to create a structure where I could photograph anything—landscapes, still lifes, portraits, all of it. And I did that. But even then, I found myself boxed in by other things, like the fact that I was shooting with a large-format camera or that I was known for photographing in America.

Suddenly, those things became constraints. It was like, “Okay, this is what I’m known for, so this is what I’m supposed to do.”

But eventually, I just thought, Well, whatever. I felt more stressed about it when I was starting out, especially with my second book, Niagara, which followed a similar approach to my first. After that, I started trying to liberate myself from those constraints.

That’s not to say I don’t love working with a large-format camera in America—I do. But I also want to feel free to work in other ways.

For example, Songbook was shot entirely digitally.

In Advice for Young Artists, there’s the “self-portrait“ of the girl holding the cable release.

Advice for Young Artists is aggressively digital. It’s sharper than sharp, and I wanted to fully lean into that.

When we’re talking about freedom and creativity—there are no rules. As an artist, you’re free. You can do whatever you want. Whether people respond to it, that’s another question. But you are free.

For my personal work, I try to find that freedom while also doing what I genuinely want to do. I’m not pursuing freedom for the sake of freedom—I want to make the work that feels meaningful to me.

Is that advice for young artists? Maybe. But again, it feels like shallow advice, like saying “stay true to yourself.” It’s not super helpful.

You’ve also started including yourself in some of your shots. When you mention analogies, it reminds me of Quentin Tarantino always including himself in his films. Is that something you think you’ll continue doing in your future projects?

I don’t know. I’ve done it before—I appear in A Pound of Pictures and in Niagara in a sneaky way. It’s not something I intentionally plan to do, but…

I think what I’m interested in is my presence in the work, even if I’m not physically in the shot. It’s about acknowledging that somehow.

I often think about that Robert Frank picture of his hotel window in Butte, Montana. You don’t see his reflection in the glass or anything, but you feel his presence in the photograph. Or you could think of Koudelka holding out the watch—it’s the same kind of acknowledgment of self within the image.

Yeah, that’s actually just a few hundred meters from my place.

That’s so funny! Yeah, exactly. But that picture—that’s the presence of the author. If I were a writer doing nonfiction, I’d probably acknowledge my presence in the story. I’d say, “Today, I interviewed so-and-so,” or something like that. I’d feel comfortable working that way.

So, even if I’m not visually present in a photograph, I want the viewer to know that I’m acknowledging my own presence.

Yeah, and it’s funny about that picture because, as you probably know, he said it wasn’t even supposed to be a “picture-picture.” He was just time-framing the shoot, taking a shot when things were happening, like a reference picture, right?

Exactly! So, apply that idea to our earlier conversation about what makes a great picture. That’s one of the legendary photographs of all time, and yet, it was just a reference picture.

And then you think about anonymous photographs—so many of the greatest news pictures of all time were never meant to be iconic. Take something like the Abu Ghraib photographs (Abu Ghraib torture and prisoner abuse - Wikipedia). They weren’t intended to be “great” pictures.

But context changes everything. That’s what makes photography so fascinating.

Yeah, and Josef Koudelka is a great example of freedom in photography, right? His life seems to revolve entirely around photography. He’s dedicated everything to it.

Sure, yeah, absolutely.

He structured his life around it in that way. And he’s such an interesting figure for a lot of reasons.

First, he’s made so many incredible pictures. How would you ever teach someone to make pictures that great? I don’t know—you can’t. He’s just an extraordinary talent.

But then, later in his career, he felt free to take panoramic pictures and work in a completely different way. He essentially abandoned his earlier style. A lot of people weren’t satisfied by that shift, but that’s what he needed to do.

And I admire him greatly for it.

Okay, perfect. Thank you so much—this was fun. I really appreciate your time.

There you go. Alright, thanks so much.

Your insights were fascinating, and I think readers will really connect with them. Thank you again, and I hope we can talk again sometime! - Martin

Absolutely. Take care. - Alec

To discover more about this intriguing body of work and how you can acquire your own copy, you can find and purchase the book here. (MACK, Amazon)

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