The Illusion of the Photograph

When images lack words

source: personal archives, 2021.

An image is never innocent. Behind the apparent spontaneity of a snapshot taken on the fly, ideas and cultural views build themselves and become widespread. When traveling, as our eyes linger on a sunset, the majesty of a mountain peak, a particular scene of life, or those monuments immortalised countless times before us, it is worth asking: why are we always gazing at the same horizons? Why this frustrating tendency to photograph the world in such a similar way? And above all, what effect does this have on our perception and understanding of reality?

Having photographed here and there for several years, I often find myself revisiting the saying: "A picture is worth a thousand words." Unlike text or speech, which unfold sequentially, an image imposes simultaneity—an entire scene captured in a single glance. Yet, far from the illusion of instant comprehension that they suggest, visual forms—and photography in particular, whether journalistic, travel-related, or otherwise—often simplify and standardize their subject. They create a normative visual language, where stereotypes are repeated and shape our perception of the world far more than they reveal it.

This is why "travel photos" are often a source of great disillusionment. In Bali, a temple perched in the middle of a mountain lake. Its image, widely spread across social media and travel guides, promised a secluded place, bathed in silence, ideal for contemplation. While spending a few weeks on the island, I decided one day to hop into a bus and head there. Upon arriving in the nearby village, a long line was already winding toward the lake’s edge. Souvenir stalls and refreshment stands had sprung up along the shore. And by the water, it wasn’t hard to spot the exact viewpoint from which those famous photos had been taken—a crowd had gathered, arms stretched out, trying to recreate that now-iconic image. Looking through my own camera, I didn’t just see the temple. There were the usual kiosks, paddle boat rentals, and constant movement of the crowd—everything carefully cropped out of the promotional photos.

These illusions are not limited to exotic landscapes or distant temples. They also exist in the very heart of cities we believe we know before ever setting foot in them. I remember my first steps in New York, ten years ago. I had already been there, a thousand times, in my mind—through films, novels, or in those photography books I would flip through from time to time. And so, walking through the city for the first time, a strange sensation settled in: an disorienting familiarity. I recognised streets, facades, entire perspectives that seemed to rise straight from my memory. And yet, I knew so little about what the city really was, about the people who lived there and shaped it. In the end, I only kept a handful of photos from that trip, and today, they seem entirely unremarkable.

"Photography is a trap," Nicolas Bouvier once said. "It is a means of fixation, of capture. But it only ever grasps appearances. What escapes the image is movement, sensation, the depth of what is happening." He added that sometimes, one must learn to forget the camera, to surrender to the moment instead of seeking to possess it. And it is true—while photography has the power to preserve, it does not always do justice to the depth of an experience, to its emotional and sensory essence.

When I look back at my old travel photos, a strange mix of emotions surfaces—melancholy, joy, nostalgia, sometimes even a hint of sadness. Perhaps because an image, in itself, has the power to evoke something deeply real. But more than anything, I believe it is because it reconnects me to moments I lived fully, in their raw intensity. That being said, photography, beyond this intimate resonance, can also be a powerful tool—a way to tell stories, to bear witness, to document the world, provided we learn to handle it with great care.

This is why, in my view, the greatest challenge for a photographer, regardless of their subject, is to resist the obvious. What strikes at first glance, what instantly fascinates or repels, holds a near-instinctive attraction, making us believe we can grasp the essence of something in a single frame. But these are often emotional shortcuts, powerful tools of manipulation, that trap us in simplistic visions. And if this is true even for what surrounds us in everyday life, imagine the impact when it comes to unfamiliar places. Repeatedly seeing the same images, the same photographic conventions, we begin to believe they educate us and reveal some truth about a place, a moment, or even a people. And when we finally find ourselves in that long-imagined setting, we catch ourselves looking for it, hoping it will align with the picture in our minds.

Many photographers have told me that the only images truly worth capturing—and even more so, worth sharing—are those that challenge us, that raise more questions than they provide answers, that leave us unsettled. The ones that push us beyond the superficial, beyond the immediate sensation, forcing us to consider the subject more deeply. Perhaps a successful image is one that compels us to seek out elsewhere the answers to the questions it poses.

A place never has a single reality. It shifts, it eludes us. No image can fully capture its essence. It is always a fragment, a viewpoint from a specific angle, filtered through the subjectivity of the photographer—who, entangled in their own biases, must work hard not to be their prisoner. But though photography is an inherently subjective act, it can serve as a gateway, a spark for learning, an invitation to pay closer attention to certain visible truths.

For crowds are quick to adjust. What once fascinated them becomes mundane, then invisible. Like the advertisements that clutter every inch of our physical and digital spaces, what first caught the eye soon fades into the background. What does not make us think, does not force us to engage, is quickly forgotten.

Sometimes, my camera rises almost instinctively, drawn to something that, in the moment, seems beautiful or interesting. But when I rediscover these images weeks, even months later, I often realize I failed to look beyond the obvious—that I merely captured, without truly seeing. And so, most of these photos will likely remain buried in my archives, forgotten. Over time, though, I am learning to hold back, to resist the urge to shoot. I pause when I sense that this image has already been taken a thousand times before, as if it were erasing itself even before it existed. And instead, I pull out my notebook to write a few lines.

References:

• Nicolas Bouvier, L’oeil du voyageur, 2001

• Jean-Christophe Bailly, L’instant et son ombre, 2008

• Les articles de L’image sociale, Le carnet de recherches d'André Gunthert