What is a photographic essay?  Photography is a form of communication, and for me the greater communication comes about through the form of the photographic essay. Many photographers focus on producing the ‘single image’, raising the expectation of those who view to seek out the dramatic image, the ‘decisive moment’. However, the work in this book is not just an ensemble of individual images, each looking for their own dramatic impact.  As Eugene Richards said, ‘I have always been a little afraid of the “iconic” image where everything is settled and final’.

The photographic essay provides a direct contribution to an understanding of the world, and in doing so it incorporates a relationship to history, to society, and – inevitably in our society – divisions of wealth and class. Unfortunately this approach has become marginalised in the world of photography, as Clive Dilnot clearly points out: ‘Collectively, photography today is probably less intelligent about its capacities in dealing with the world than at any time in its history’.

The photographic essay allows for restoration of the balance in which photography becomes once again a genuinely political reflection of the world in which we live.  It makes visible those who are rendered invisible, most often portrayed as victims, and stereotyped as “the poor”.  It brings into focus their culture, identity and everyday lives.  At the same time, it respects those who do not wish to be made visible in a public work like this.

It can only tell so much, of course.  A photograph is only a glimpse, a sentence. It is impossible to portray fully the scope of people’s lives, their own words, their ideas, their expressions, their gestures, and actions. But the photographic essay assembles these brief glimpses, these sentences, to form a more complete story.

I have always been concerned with the disjuncture between my experiences as the photographer, and what I can actually convey photographically. The camera cannot record or directly represent what the eye sees or the mind thinks.

The photographer probes for the innermost. The lens sees only the surface. (Philipe Halsman)

My intention is for the visual to aid in this process of conveying the fuller story.  It is not to use the camera to display poverty, nor to stare at it with a pitying eye, as is so often done. I want the viewer to see the people I photograph as they are – dignified, strong, vibrant, full of humanity – and consequently for us to try and understand this a little, and eventually to  know more, to share in that humanity, and – most importantly – to be drawn into solidarity with them.

I hope my images start from solidarity and lead me from there to a sense of involvement, a growing understanding and familiarisation with the people whose lives I photograph.  Having spent time amongst the Berber people, I want to convey a clear recognition of their dignity and strength, their proud defiance even.  They are certainly not passive victims.

In all of this, there is a contradiction between the beauty of the landscape, the people, the world, and the harshness of lives, injustice and exploitation. Although this may or may not be obviously apparent in my photographs, it is part of my view of the world, and therefore inevitably reflected in them.  A photographer can express such a view, partly by observing the small beauties and consequently, and in parallel, hopes in a deeply unequal world.

It is within such bleakness that beauty is found, an encounter often sudden and fleeting. Perhaps this is why it moves us and we grasp it through our camera lens. In this way the 'aesthetic moment' can offer us hope, a determination, a sense of resistance, a sense of solidarity even greater, being much more than part of a photographic process, but part of a shared existence including those who are the subject of our work.

Some might say that beauty is simply something to be admired and cannot therefore stir us into action.  Why can't it stir us into action?  Does ‘aestheticised’ mean anaesthetised, implying that such images can have no political content?

I have always believed that photographers hold in their hands a unique medium for reflecting reality and that the camera should preserve a kind of notariel fidelity, always in a specific aesthetic direction. (Nicolas Muller)

In a sense, photography is observed life, and what varies is the direction of observation, our experience and what we as viewers bring into play.  That is not to say that I present my work objectively.  There is no objectivity in photography.  Everyone has a 'point of view' – literally.  But the product of the photographer does not lie beyond ideology.

All of this shapes my practice as a photographer.  I am not a photographer who roams ‘camera in pocket’, looking to jump at the moment when a picture of seeming visual impact appears in the viewfinder.  My photographs are born of observation, patience, reflection; a view of the everyday, but informed by a complex combination of other influences and experiences – artistic, political and lived.  The task is to remain open and responsive to the work of others in a constant process of learning, seeing work that is significant and inspiring, seeing photography that is based on a philosophy, a view of the world, that strikes a chord with me.  Without this, without ideas, it's not possible for me to photograph.  

I admire those photographers whose work is highly personal, who express themselves using a visual language that is both lyrical and political, and at the same time identifies and displays the reality of the world; those who have an ability to look at their subjects and, in doing so, open up a space which allows a second thought, a change of perspective for the viewer, so that both photographer and viewer appreciate that there are other ways of seeing and showing and questioning.     

Of course, photography is more than just the ‘philosophy’.  There is also the physicality – the eye and the camera, bright light and deep shadow, the stones on the path, the folds in the cloth, and the lines across the face.  And in this too, lies the ambiguity of the simple and the complex; the simplicity of the image focused through the mind and the eye; and the complexity of feeling, the opening up of what lies beneath the surface or beyond the frame.

A photo is a small voice at best, but sometimes, just sometimes, one photograph or a group of them can lure our senses into awareness. (W. Eugene Smith)

I do not see myself simply as a landscape photographer, although many of my photographs are taken as I pass through the landscape.  Within it are the places, the people, the history, the narrative – the essence of the photographic essay. And within the landscape there is always a human presence. People leave traces in many forms – the kasbah, the marabout, the watchtower, the sheepfold. No person passes without casting their shadow. Just as we shape the landscape, so we are shaped by it. For landscape is more than just the space.  It is not the ‘passive object of our gaze’ but a participant; not the fixed scene, but an interaction. Landscape is a feeling, a sense, an atmosphere, giving form to thought, and maybe moving us to seek out an image even though it will not be enough.

After a long acquaintance with these places, an increasing familiarity, and hopefully a greater understanding, it has led not to an absolute knowledge, but only on to a further inquiry, an urge for more observation and greater discovery. It is a desire to wander in all senses, with and without the camera, to see and to photograph, carrying a portfolio of images in the mind and on the film. They travel together, a combined history of what the photographer sees and creates.

I recognise that my relationship with people and place in Morocco is not simple. I do not live the experience of a nomad who trails with his flock and all his worldly belongings for many days from the high mountain pastures to the summer grazing lands; nor of a woman bent double under the burden of firewood or animal feed bundled together expertly in her shawl; nor of a man who climbs the steep mountain path in his tadjellabit n tgrst (winter djellaba), head bowed in the teeth of the wind, stopping in its lee to light a fire, boil tea and give warmth to his frozen muscles. I am a photographer: taking photographs of these things is both a point of contact and a barrier. It can bring me closer and yet still separate me from them. I do not claim to speak for them, nor to make judgements of their lives: only to show what I have seen – what they have allowed me to see –of themselves and of their land.

We must take greater care than ever not to allow ourselves to be separated from the real world and from humanity. (Henri Cartier-Bresson)

I hope that those who look at this photographic essay will immerse themselves, not just glance and, finding no evident drama, move on.  Perhaps the photographer can transform in some way what the viewer sees, inspiring a dialogue with their own experiences; and as part of that dialogue, to complete or expand the photograph, going beyond its confines to become part of the creative process. What I try to do is to create a body of work, a photographic essay, that is informed by my concerns, my view of the world, not to guide the viewer towards the ‘correct interpretation’ of these images. Perhaps the only reaction I wish to avoid is indifference.

Photographic work, no matter how powerful, cannot change the world.  But it can open up a mind, raise consciousness to another level. Photography can liberate our thought and our vision.