Hydra + Fotografía Archives

Photobook Conversations #4

Valentina Abenavoli

Photobook Conversations is edited by Ana Casas Broda (Hydra + Fotografía), Anshika Varma (Offset Projects) and Duncan Wooldridge (Manchester Metropolitan University). Sitting alongside the earlier Writer Conversations (1000 Words, 2023), edited by Lucy Soutter and Duncan Wooldridge, and Curator Conversations (1000 Words, 2021), edited by Tim Clark, it completes the series exploring the ways our understanding and experience of photography is mediated through exhibitions, writing and publishing.

Valentina Abenavoli | Photobook Conversations #4 | 19 Dec 2024

Valentina Abenavoli is an editor, book designer and visual artist working at the intersection of photography, video, sound and text. She has led intensive workshops on photo editing and bookmaking internationally. In 2012, she co-founded Akina, an independent publishing house producing challenging photobooks by emerging photographers. Her first photobook, Anaesthesia, was released in 2016, followed by her second book, The Harvest, in 2017. Both are part of an ongoing trilogy investigating the subjects of empathy and evil. Recently, she co-founded Neighbour, an alternative art space in Trivandrum, India, focusing on exhibitions, publishing and collaborations.

What were the encounters which started your relationship with photobooks?

When it comes to books, there’s neither a clear beginning nor an end. It’s an ongoing, evolving relationship. It wasn’t a sudden spark or love at first sight. Rather, it grew slowly, rooted in childhood, in stories, in diaries filled to the margins, in old family albums like entire encyclopaedias of strangers. Something deeper stirred within me, drawing my mind toward far-off places and revealing the beauty in life’s most ordinary details – all recorded and preserved in printed form. Books have always been the proof of lives lived. They offer a suspended moment in time, a refuge from reality, an open invitation to step into an extraordinary “other” world.

When I think of my life before working at Akina, I recall a fascination for photobooks that was raw and unshaped – an early, unrefined intuition that supported an imaginative approach without prior knowledge, in its mad and vast simplicity. I would pick up a book because of its cover or title, without knowing what to expect with each turning page. As I learned the narrative structures and rhythm of sequences, I took my sweet time with each book, and some stories, in all their complexities, would linger in my mind for a long time, unfolding in multiple serendipities and nocturnal epiphanies. It was a real pull, a magnetic one, that had been the primary subject of my thoughts for many years. That blissful ignorance is what I now miss deeply.

Many years ago, while still studying, I worked at a book fair in Torino, Italy, in a rather simple role. I was responsible for handing out microphones to writers and publishers as they took the stage. In between talks, I would slip away to wander the stalls with Federico Clavarino, who, years later, would become one of the artists Akina collaborated with. Together, we flipped through the works of Italian photographers like Letizia Battaglia, Luigi Ghirri and Mimmo Jodice. At times, we kept an eye on the clock to avoid missing the next talk, but then one of us would inevitably get lost in the spell of books – the weight, the texture, the world of a stranger offered to you as the most intimate shared space. These books were far too expensive for me, so I filched a few. It’s a good story to mark the beginning of my relationship with photobooks. There was a desire to understand the realm of these visual storytellers, using the book form to express and communicate something invaluable – an expensive magic.

In the same city, around the same time, I would often spend hours among the dust-coated wooden shelves of La Bussola, a local bookstore selling old, preloved and out-of-print titles. These books waited for someone – anyone – to come along and rescue them from the anonymity to which they were relegated. Sometimes, I think many survived years under the indifferent dust of the bookshop only to gather a new layer of dust on someone’s shelf at home. The gesture of taking a forgotten, preloved book that could be reintroduced to someone’s life, where it might one day be opened again, its pages turned by another’s hands. There was a kind of timelessness to it, a quiet, slow resistance to finitude, defying the rules of a fast-paced market, where books need to be sold out within the same year of release. The photobook selection was scarce and mostly generic, but some obscure gems I still own today were found there, on a corner shelf labelled ‘fotografia’.

When this fascination for photobooks found me, beyond the coffee table books of famous photographers whose names I never learned, there was a growing urge for independence in photography – a push against the establishment, a need to create something outside the mainstream. From the underground up. I see now the sense of rebellion that led me to want to be part of that movement of zine makers and cheaply produced books filled with loud content and honest rawness. I started collaborating with a literary agency, learning editing, publishing and marketing. But I think it wasn’t enough to simply work with books. I wanted to create the book object itself, from scratch: the design, the choice of size, paper, sequence and text. A book is more than just a collection of images or words – it has the intrinsic quality of being made by many hands, collectively contributing to different stages of creation, production and dissemination. I wanted to be part of that effort to create vessels of beauty and change.

It is an everlasting joy and a never-ending pain, my relationship with photobooks. It has its roots in intuition and surely changed my life when it began, but I haven’t yet figured out how much I’ve changed in relation to them. It used to be all I could talk about – books, books, books – and I still do, even though Akina no longer publishes, and I no longer stand on stages, advocating for space and support to experiment with new ways of expanding the market beyond its bubble. I’m just quieter and more specific about it now, which seems to go well with age.

What is your process for arriving at decisions about books and the projects that you undertake?

As a publisher, I was once drawn to photographic projects that required courage, often tackling controversial or thought-provoking subjects. I was keen to engage with works that had the potential to spark conversations, provoke complex social dialogue, or explore political and existential themes. If the visual narrative was compelling enough, I believed that words weren’t necessary in the book. But both the market and I have changed since then. What excites me most today are projects that embrace interdisciplinary approaches, where photography is one part of a larger composition – often working alongside text, illustrations or video stills. In this context, the book itself becomes a form that embodies connections between disparate elements. Each spread follows the next, creating both linear and non-linear relationships between subjects, objects, actions, places and time. These parallel narratives, and the potential meanings they carry, are familiar to us and can be part of a larger scope, like a symbiotic root-like system of interconnections.

The concept of the “third image” created by the juxtaposition of two images placed side-by-side is that inexplicable mental image that words cannot express, yet it’s something we all understand and discuss when reading, teaching or analysing photobooks. Being by contrast or by accumulation, this is a catalyst for endless possibilities and effects. It reflects a state of being mutually dependent, not only in the natural world but across different disciplines as well. It speaks to the emotions we give and receive, the long-term use of knowledge, and the process of unlearning in order to learn again. It really highlights humanity’s complex relationship with both the known and the unknown. And in this sense, the more we look at the world in an interrelated way, the more we can deepen our sensitivity to various subjects and towards each other.

There is a clear need to bridge the gap between art practices and academic research, as both fields can benefit from each other’s insights. We are too accustomed to thinking, working and acting within the photography niche, but by doing so, we often tend to congratulate each other’s results without truly challenging the way photography can serve as a carrier of meaning. If we are curious about humanity, we would only benefit from collaboration, which allows us to better contextualise knowledge beyond specific areas of study.

We often formulate projects based on our imagination and speculation, and I am deeply fascinated by this potential, by the process itself. I like to linger in the urgency of ideas that provoke thought with no immediate purpose other than offering alternative perspectives. I like the aftermath of creation, when the work becomes at the service of an audience to be dissected, interpreted, carried forward in any iteration possible.

Over the years, I’ve come to realise that a new model of the art world is needed, one that challenges the individualist culture of authorship and creative production. I prefer to engage in works that are rooted in collective experience and that are participatory. This is where my interest in collaborative authorship began – where books and exhibitions are the result of dialogues, negotiations and exchange, and where there’s a certain acknowledgement of the new forms projects have taken, emerging from a shared creative responsibility of multiple voices. Artists, writers, designers, curators and editors add layers of meaning, context and interpretation of the work, making it a complex and dynamic entity beyond the purely artistic expression. It is within this space of mutual influence, where roles and responsibilities intersect, where I find the greatest creative potential to break down the hierarchies in the art world and maybe create a more sustainable model for all.

I think moving to Kerala, India, and working primarily with artists and institutions from the Global South for the past five years, has given me a different perspective on what collective narratives can achieve. This shift from the individual to the collective requires rethinking agency itself, recognising that personal stories are always entangled with larger social, political and economic forces. It means moving beyond isolated experiences to examine the structures that shape them. There’s a need to decolonise our understanding of stories and power, and I believe this will always shape my collaborations moving forward.

How do you like to work with people?

Meaningful conversations are the foundation of how I work with artists. I believe that truly listening to someone’s story is essential in my role as both editor and designer. I like to be convinced, questioned and challenged. Serving the potential of the work, bringing forth everything that is yet to be said or seen. This requires not just a deep understanding but also a healthy mix of empathy, respect and imagination to translate these works into book form.

Trust is built by being open to each other’s vulnerabilities. There was a time when conversations with artists were so visceral and emotional that hours would pass without eating or sleeping, leaving my mind on fire. I’ve only recently learned the importance of saying “no” and setting boundaries. I experienced complete burnout once, and it took me two years of healing and rest to be able to absorb what an artist wanted to share and to help them navigate the book form again.

Now, I’m much more selective about the projects I take on. Becoming a mother gave me a new perspective. The urgency I once felt to engage with every intriguing project has shifted. Now, I weigh not only the potential impact of a project but also how it aligns with my current priorities – mental health being one of them. There’s still a bounce of ideas and shared vulnerabilities, but it’s a slower, more considered process.

How do you balance choices between working with highly specific materials or processes, and the desire for access?

My practice began with a clear focus on balancing specific materials and processes with accessibility. In 2012, we at Akina started printing and binding handmade books at home, inspired by zine culture as a revolutionary, accessible way to spread ideas. Without funds for offset printing, we explored new approaches to both content and form, collaborating with emerging photographers. We managed to get trial machines twice, and published four zines and two books in editions of 100 to 200 copies each, paying only for the paper. London, at the time, was alive with creativity, and we had the support and courage to leave stable jobs for counterculture.

Over the years, we produced handmade books in two editions – a standard and a collectible edition – at prices people could afford (£8 to £12 for the standard edition, £35 to £50 for the collectible). All the books sold out within a very short time, leaving us often with a backlog of production and long nights spent surrounded by obscure vinyl records, managing humidity in perpetually damp London and stacks of paper covering every inch of our space.

The idea was to meet the needs of both collectors and those who wanted to be part of the community but couldn’t usually afford expensive books. It was our way of addressing the divide we saw in the photobook market, where books either became collectible and expensive or were inaccessible to many artists and readers. It was also the proof that limitations – being money or materials – can really help creativity to strive, instead of containing it.

Large companies reach broader audiences with offset printing, lowering costs and benefiting from wide distribution while producing high-quality books. However, I never worked with distributors, and staying independent and sustainable was challenging. Eventually, we decided to shift to offset printing as demand grew, but in doing so, the books seemed to lose their intrinsic value of being unique. That was when it stopped being fun and transformed into something more rigid – a business governed by profitability frameworks. Although I partnered with a visionary printer in Istanbul, Ufuk Sahin, known for his ability to challenge the impossible, creativity can become subject to the pressure of meeting market demands. This leaves less room for failure when the investment is too high. I don’t have the answers. Ultimately, I closed my publishing house after eight years and many books produced.

What do you think is the significance of the shift towards the book as an object?

It’s the tactile experience, the quiet moment of slowly unfolding someone else’s work in a sentimental manner. In a world that’s increasingly digital and ephemeral, the book is an anchor, a testament, an act of resistance. When one begins to notice how a book feels, and makes a ritual out of it – picking it up, running the fingers over the cover, that first crack of the spine, the smell of the ink on the paper, the whole experience of reading becomes an encounter with its own physicality. It slows you down, draws you into its pace, and invites you to stay for a while. The book becomes a place, almost, one that you inhabit for a time. And what a profound, enduring form of communication it becomes – tangible, intimate and moving – capable of being disseminated while resisting the passage of time.

Anaesthesia, the work I am most attached to, asked to be a book from the very beginning. It emerged from a profound personal struggle, fuelled by anger at the Western bias of empathy towards the Middle East – a bias that has perpetuated the dehumanisation of certain populations, shaping cultural narratives and influencing perceptions for decades. The choice to work on a book – densely black in its form – was the most visceral reaction to a world of violence and indifference. In exploring how reality is documented, shaped and presented to us, the book poses a fundamental question: if we’ve been overwhelmed by images of horror and war, becoming numb to the suffering of others, how will we choose to respond? Through the way the images and words are placed in the book, I wanted to invite others to feel, to pay attention, and to have radical positions towards humanity. Now, one year into the ongoing genocide in Palestine, on the verge of a much larger escalation, we are still bearing witness to our collective history, we are still challenging the false narratives. That book is a small testimony.

What is the place of language and writing in a book of photographs?

I’ve always loved the freedom that lingers at the edges of the image, outside of the frame. It is where the reader is really able to imagine. When words are offered, language becomes at once illuminating and restraining. The writing evokes what is not immediately visible. It guides, suggests, hints and eventually offers a way to begin, without ever telling you how to end. But also, words can impose. They can point to specific narratives, excluding, in part, the infinite possibilities of imagination. On the other hand, words that are not descriptive, and that generate abstract meanings, can create a beautiful tension, where text and image subvert each other’s autonomy, pulling in opposite directions – one towards specificity, the other toward openness.

An intellectual controversy that has accompanied photography since the beginning is whether it can be defined as a form of language. I’ve often thought it is reductive to classify it this way, and I believe its unreliability as a form of language is one of the reasons why contemporary photography often relies on archetypal symbols, such as an isolated house in a bare landscape or hands holding something (or each other). These are simplistic, symbolic representations used to convey meanings of relationships, of belonging, of loss or identity, but they are not arranged in a systematic structure, which leaves them open to a certain simple interpretation without offering the precision of language. Many might disagree and argue that this approach opens up the ambiguity of photography for viewers who lack visual literacy. Words allow for precise and systematic communication, yet they also leave room for ambiguity due to the absence of a precise visual representation. On the other hand, when images are overly symbolic, they offer a clear visual representation but lose the ambiguity inherent to the photographic medium. I am looking at that isolated house, and I cannot imagine another type of house, which, in itself, reduces the interpretative imagination.

I believe the only way to resolve this dilemma – and to elevate the photobook market to the same level of prominence as written books – is to make visual literacy a common subject, continuously and at every age, in every educational institution. To be more mindful about the current world as it is represented in images. Because art asks for a dual engagement: a visual one and an intellectual one. And too often it leaves out those less familiar with the other “language”.

Who have been the models or templates for your own activities?

In many parts of my life, I can trace exactly where it all began – the contexts in which I gathered each facet of the person I’ve become, the moments when decisions were made, who stood by me, and who drifted away. It’s like a vivid map made of memory lanes and sentimental journeys, and I cherish every turning point, each past version of myself. There is a series of consequential events, and connected people, that have led me here, now, in Trivandrum, with my partner Joe and our son Eli.

It was 2015 when I met Sohrab Hura in Arles for the first time. He is not only an incredibly talented and considerate artist but also a reliable friend who has this unique ability to connect like-minded people. With a short and precise email, he introduced me to the wonders of Nayantara Gurung Kakshapati, the founding director of photo.circle, Photo Kathmandu and Nepal Picture Library. It took a year and a half before I could finally meet her in Kathmandu, and we spent a full week in one of the most immersive and life-changing workshops I’ve ever run. I have pictures of the students editing at 4am, with book cover cloths wrapped around our heads like veils. After that week, we began calling each other “mama”. I believe it was love from the start, but also the joy of finding that our complementary skills allowed us to create something powerful together.

Nayantara’s work is about the transformative power of visual storytelling – not just as art but as a force for social change. Together, with a growing team who feel more like family to each other and to me, she’s shown how photography and visual media can empower communities to reclaim their own stories. These aren’t just acts of creativity, but acts of rebellion against dominant narratives. What makes their approach special is that it’s about building systems that nurture relationships and spark long-lasting dialogue. It challenges the status quo, drawing from indigenous knowledge to reframe ideas of inclusivity and equity, using art, ecology and political stands as collective tools for change.

In 2018, during my artist residency for Photo Kathmandu, I stayed at a guesthouse in Durbar Square in Patan. Every morning, the temple bells would wake me at 5:30am, and from my window, I’d watch people of all ages and backgrounds interacting with the exhibition The Public Life of Women. It was surreal – people staring, reading, commenting on archival images of women who made history, all before dawn. It’s unimaginable to have such public engagement in the West at that hour, let alone one that addresses themes of gender and society. It made me question who we create art for and why.

I find myself thinking often about the present – about what role I have in our community, and how deeply Nayantara and the photo.circle family have inspired me. My mind drifts to Neighbour, the space Joe and I are about to open here in Trivandrum. It feels like the necessary next step, an extension of everything I’ve learned and believed in as an artist, a publisher, a designer, an educator and as a witness to current times. Neighbour is the combination of books, art and coffee, basically what makes my everyday. It is a reflection of our hope to engage with the world through the act of gathering, of being present with one another. I hope we can become a catalyst for change – however small that might be at first in our neighbourhood – where conversations can have that imaginative narrative, and books and art can push boundaries, challenge perceptions and ask difficult questions.♦

Further interviews in the Photobook Conversations series can be read here

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Photobook Conversations is edited by Ana Casas Broda (Hydra + Fotografía), Anshika Varma (Offset Projects) and Duncan Wooldridge (Manchester Metropolitan University). Sitting alongside the earlier Writer Conversations (1000 Words, 2023), edited by Lucy Soutter and Duncan Wooldridge, and Curator Conversations (1000 Words, 2021), edited by Tim Clark, it completes the series exploring the ways our understanding and experience of photography is mediated through exhibitions, writing and publishing.

Images:

1-Valentina Abenavoli © Joe Paul Cyriac

2-Yusuf Sevincli, Oculus (Galerist and Galerie des Filles du Calvaire, 2018)

3-The Public Life of Women: A Feminist Memory Project (Nepal Picture Library, 2023)

4-Sayed Asif Mahmud, Marta Colburn and Jessica Olney, Bittersweet, A Story of Food and Yemen (Medina Publishing, 2024)

1000 Words favourites

• Renée Mussai on exhibitions as sites of dialogue, critique, and activism.

• Roxana Marcoci navigates curatorial practice in the digital age.

• Tanvi Mishra reviews Felipe Romero Beltrán’s Dialect.

• Discover London’s top five photography galleries.

• Tim Clark in conversation with Hayward Gallery’s Ralph Rugoff on Hiroshi Sugimoto.

• Academic rigour and essayistic freedom as told by Taous R. Dahmani.

Photobook Conversations #3

Miguel Del Castillo

Miguel Del Castillo | Photobook Conversations #3 | 21 Nov 2024

Miguel Del Castillo is a writer, translator, editor and curator. He was born in Rio de Janeiro and lives in São Paulo, Brazil. Named one of the best young Brazilian novelists by Granta, he is the author of Restinga (Companhia das Letras, 2015) and Cancun (Companhia das Letras, 2019). He coordinates the Photography Library at Instituto Moreira Salles (IMS) in São Paulo and was formerly Editor at Cosac Naify and ZUM magazine’s website. Del Castillo previously published an online column on photobooks and is now pursuing an MA in Literary Theory at the University of São Paulo.

What were the encounters which started your relationship with photobooks?

I began my career at Cosac Naify, an art and literary publishing house, where I started as an intern before being hired as an Assistant Editor for children’s books. After a few years, I also began assisting with architecture and art books, as well as handling image rights. Eventually, I had the opportunity to become a full editor, overseeing both architecture and photography books. I had the opportunity to work on books by notable Brazilian artists such as Bob Wolfenson, who, in Belvedere (2013), explored a series quite different from his renowned work in fashion, focusing instead on photographs of decaying tourist spaces. With Vicente de Mello, I collaborated on Parallaxis (2014), which brought together several of his series. Our aim was to create something that felt less like a catalogue and more like a photobook – a reflection of his life and artistic journey. I also worked on Contrastes Simultâneos (2014) by Walter Carvalho, whose photographs in the book closely echo his acclaimed work as a cinematographer.

At this stage, my studies in architecture, combined with my interest in photography and experience with art books, played a crucial role. Additionally, my work with children’s books honed my sense of sequencing, and my ability to handle image-text relationships and page transitions which are vital in photobook editing. In fact, I believe photobook studies could benefit significantly from the theory and criticism that surrounds children’s books. Following my experience in publishing, I was invited to join Instituto Moreira Salles (IMS), which was then developing a new museum in São Paulo. I was tasked with leading the Photography Library, building its collection from the ground up, and developing public programs centered around photobooks.

To kick off the collection, we first established our priorities: the primary focus would be Brazilian photography, followed by Latin American, and then international works. Our aim was to gather as many photo-publications as possible from Brazil, while being more selective with foreign acquisitions. We already had some books that were purchased for curatorial research, as well as the Stefania Bril collection – around 1,000 books which demonstrate her important role as an articulator of the photographic circuit in the country, with an eye in tune with the international production of her time (the 1970s and 80s). From there, we formed institutional partnerships, established contacts with national publishers to acquire more books, and purchased several private collections from key Brazilian figures, giving us a solid foundation to build on.

What is your process for arriving at decisions about books and the projects that you undertake?

I strive to think beyond a niche, especially when developing public programmes around photobooks. In São Paulo, there are many specific initiatives that are valid and interesting, but I aim to foster interest among a broader audience. At the IMS library, we have a dedicated space for photobook exhibitions, and I curate selections that appeal to the general public. For example, at our opening in 2017, I presented an exhibition titled São Paulo in the Photographic Book: 1954–2017, which aimed to highlight, through books, the city’s inequalities and rapid, ongoing transformations. Subsequent displays have included a focus on books about military dictatorships in South American.

Previously, at the publishing house, I was fortunate to work closely with in-house graphic designers. This setup is somewhat rare, especially in Brazil, where the editorial team is typically fixed, and graphic work – like covers or the entire design – is usually outsourced to external collaborators. Having graphic designers integrated into the team from the very start of a project was a real advantage. We were able to discuss ideas from the initial concept phase, make adjustments throughout the process, and refine every detail all the way to the final product. This close and continuous collaboration between the designers and the editorial team was a powerful catalyst for the book-making process. The ability to brainstorm, revisit decisions and fine-tune both the visual and editorial elements together made the creative process much more dynamic and cohesive. It allowed for a seamless exchange of ideas, resulting in books that were more thoughtfully crafted from both an editorial and design perspective.

What is the public for a photobook? Who do you think of as your audience?

Being a non-librarian heading a library has significantly shaped how I approach this question. I greatly benefit from my team (including librarians), who offer valuable perspectives on book culture and knowledge sharing. First, what does it mean to create a library dedicated to photography, with photobooks at its core? For us, it means expanding a specific audience and democratising access to photobooks. We achieve this not only by having quality books available but also by fostering an open, welcoming space without membership cards or access restrictions – some visitors even come to work on their own projects. We provide direct access to shelves and promote talks, study groups, book exhibitions and thematic selections.

As editors, we may not always consider how to distribute our books through libraries. Early in the IMS library’s journey, artist Rosângela Rennó gave a lecture in which she said something that has since become our guiding principle: “Photobooks are how we’ll explain what photography was to future generations. We must fill libraries with them; they cannot be confined to private collections.” When I talk to editors now, I try to convey this idea. It doesn’t have to be our library, but it could be their local library or the museum library near their home. To condense this into one sentence: I believe the audience for photobooks is still quite limited, but libraries offer a powerful way to broaden it.

How important is it for photobooks to reach other continents?

I believe it’s essential for the general public to have access to books from diverse places and cultures, as much as possible. At the IMS library, our priority is Brazilian books – we aim to collect everything published locally to preserve our photobook culture. However, we also include foreign books in our collection. When we started, we acquired private collections built between the 1980s and 2000s. Only later did we realise that most of the foreign books were from North America and Europe, as those were the main references and the ones available for purchase here. In response, we made a concerted effort to acquire more books from Latin American, African and Asian authors for our archive. This required active research and engaging in discussions with scholars and researchers who specialised in these regions. We also had to recognise that, even today, many voices from outside North America and Europe are still being published by presses within these continents. Acquiring books published locally in places like Africa, for instance, remains a particular challenge due to issues such as limited distribution channels and prohibitive shipping costs. Navigating these barriers has been an ongoing effort, but it’s essential for ensuring that our collection has the broadest representation of voices.

I can’t speak directly for authors regarding how it impacts them when their books are recognised or showcased abroad, but personally, if I were to publish a photobook, I’d love to know that it was being seen in a library in Mexico, Japan or elsewhere in the world.

What do you think is the significance of the shift towards the book as an object?

There is something in this idea that started to bother me, especially while establishing the library at IMS and developing our access policies. While it is indeed important to recognise the photobook as a three-dimensional object with unique qualities, I’ve found that this perspective can sometimes lead to treating it as an untouchable work of art. At IMS, we decided to keep most of our books accessible on open shelves for the public to browse. Just because a book might cost $300 from an online reseller (due to multiple speculative reasons), it doesn’t mean it should be kept away from users.

If one of the main ideas behind creating a photobook is to provide a more accessible experience than a traditional reproduction, then it doesn’t make sense to publish it only to confine it under a glass dome, where people can see only the open spread or, at best, view a video of it. Of course, there are exceptions for older, more fragile books that require special handling or artist books produced as unique editions. But in general, I advocate against the unnecessary sanctification of photobooks. Books are meant to be touched, seen and flipped through; they should be accessible for people to engage with and share.

What is the place of language and writing in a book of photographs?

As a writer myself, I have a particular appreciation for books that balance writing and images, where both elements complement, provoke or even contradict each other. I’m not referring to photobooks that include a preface or postface (although those can be valuable), but rather to books where text and images are intertwined more deeply, such as El infarto del alma (1994) by Chilean photographer Paz Errázuriz and writer Diamela Eltit, or the Brazilian classic Paranoia (1963) by poet Roberto Piva and photographer/graphic designer Wesley Duke Lee. Contemporary examples also abound, with specific categories even created for this kind of work, such as in the Arles Book Awards.

Maureen Bisilliat, an English-Brazilian photographer, offers a compelling approach with her series of books that pair extracts from renowned Brazilian writers (like Guimarães Rosa, Jorge Amado and Adélia Prado) with her own photographs, creating new narratives she terms ‘photographic equivalences’. She challenges the cliché that “a picture is worth a thousand words” by asserting that her photographs are only complete when paired with text. I once curated an exhibition about this aspect of Maureen’s work, which I called Writing with Images and Seeing with Words, a quote of her own. This perspective adds a rich layer to the discussion of photo-text books.

I also believe there’s much to learn from children’s book theory in this context. For instance, Sophie van der Linden’s Lire l’album (2006) notes that: ‘In picture books, texts and images sometimes ignore each other, contradict each other… But they cannot be compartmentalised or separated completely. Present together in a single space, that of the double page, they are apprehended by the same gaze and necessarily relate to each other from a formal point of view. It is therefore a question of appreciating the occupation of space by these two languages, their own characteristics, their arrangements, the effects of resonance or contrast… Considering that, at the formal level alone, there are already countless implications in terms of narrative and discourse.’

Who have been the models or templates for your own activities?

Before the opening of our library in 2017, I extensively researched various art and photography libraries around the world for inspiration. The first ICP Library was definitely one of them. I was also particularly intrigued by Stiftung Sitterwerk’s advanced system for digitally emulating book shelves, which uses a robotic scanner to recreate book spines side-by-side. Although such a system could be valuable for remote users, what I learned from their effort was the importance of allowing visitors to physically interact with shelves, and that’s exactly how we decided to approach our own library policy. There’s something uniquely rewarding about browsing freely and stumbling upon a book you weren’t specifically looking for alongside one you were. We also drew from independent initiatives like TURMA in Argentina, which has developed a library and a space for courses and activities, as well as other Latin American institutions such as Mexico’s Centro de la Imagen and Uruguay’s Centro de la Fotografía (CdF), with whom we continue to stay in touch.

In terms of publishers, Steidl has been a key partner from the beginning. Gerhard Steidl’s significant impact on photography publications since the 1990s is well recognised. He also decided to collaborate with us to host the first Steidl Library, which includes a complete set of his publications generously donated to us.

What’s currently on your desk?

I have the privilege of working in a room adjacent to the library, which means that each time I go to the bathroom, I cross a long corridor lined with tall bookshelves filled with photography books! This constant visual presence is quite stimulating.

Recently, I’ve had two Brazilian photobooks on my bedside table. One is Sete Quedas by Shirlene Linny and Júlio Cesar Cardoso (2020), an in-depth visual investigation into the story of a brutal kidnapping and murder of an ambassador during Brazil’s military dictatorship. The other is República das Bananas (2021), a strange and brilliant fiction created by Shinji Nagabe. Additionally, I had been frequently revisiting Entre (1974) by Polish-Brazilian photographer Stefania Bril, as I have been working on her major exhibition, entitled Stefania Bril: Desobediência pelo afeto [Disobedience through Affection].♦

Further interviews in the Photobook Conversations series can be read here

Images:

1-Miguel Del Castillo © Carolina Ribiero

2>3-Stefania Bril, Entre (Self-published, 1974)

4-Photography Library at Instituto Moreira Salles (IMS), São Paulo © Pedro Vannucchi

1000 Words favourites

• Renée Mussai on exhibitions as sites of dialogue, critique, and activism.

• Roxana Marcoci navigates curatorial practice in the digital age.

• Tanvi Mishra reviews Felipe Romero Beltrán’s Dialect.

• Discover London’s top five photography galleries.

• Tim Clark in conversation with Hayward Gallery’s Ralph Rugoff on Hiroshi Sugimoto.

• Academic rigour and essayistic freedom as told by Taous R. Dahmani.

Photobook Conversations #2

Aneta Kowalczyk

Aneta Kowalczyk | Photobook Conversations #2 | 11 Nov 2024

Aneta Kowalczyk is a self-taught photo editor, book designer and art director at BLOW UP PRESS. The books she has designed have won several awards, including the European Design Award (2024), POY81 Pictures of the Year International (2024), Polish Graphic Design Awards (2019, 2022), Prix Bob Calle du livre d’artiste (2023), International Photography Awards (2018, 2019, 2020, 2021) and Maribor Photobook Award (2020). She also been shortlisted for Les Rencontres d’Arles Book Award (2022, 2024), Lucie Photo Book Award (2022) and PHotoESPAÑA (2018, 2019, 2020, 2023, 2024).

What were the encounters which started your relationship with photobooks?

In my case, it was a natural development. Everything started with the first publication we produced within BLOW UP PRESS. This was an online monthly magazine dedicated to documentary photography, doc! photo magazine. It was a real lesson for me as all my previous design projects were related to corporate identity. Making the magazine, being in a strict time regime, taught me to organise my working system. It was something that was very useful when switching to paper. From the beginning, we wanted our magazine to focus on photographs, to let them talk, with as little distraction as possible. We wanted to have all pictures visible in full, even if they were on spreads, and we wanted the magazine to be a clear statement. With all this in mind, I had to learn how to make it happen.

As I didn’t like how some photo magazines were designed, I followed the approach of the architecture and fashion magazines. I cannot provide any titles here, but they all represented the highest printing quality, and they paid a lot of attention to the images. They were not afraid of big white spaces on the page, nor were they afraid of placing the images on different parts of page and in different sizes to let them breathe and give them a proper visual flow. And what is also very important is that they used bindings and papers borrowed from books, not from regular magazines. Much easier for me to list is some photobooks or books containing photographs that inspired me: The Irreversible (2013) by Maciek Nabrdalik, Karl Lagerfeld’s book about nothing but which is amazing as an object, The Little Black Jacket (2012), and then two books by Japanese artists that are simply masterpieces for me: The Restoration Will (2017) by Mayumi Suzuki and Silent Histories (2015) by Kazuma Obara. And finally, Parasomnia (2011) by Viviane Sassen. You can discover some of their solutions and ideas in our magazine as well as in our books.

Seeing them, or experiencing them, I started to feel the need to create something more durable than a magazine, something that would stay a bit longer, a book. It was necessary for me to free myself from the magazine routine or the magazine-like style of working. I wanted to explore multi-layered and long-term projects, and to create books that go beyond just presenting imagery and text. And then, by the end of 2017, five years after the first issue of doc! photo magazine was uploaded on our website, I designed my first photobook – 9 Gates of No Return (2017) by Agata Grzybowska, which became a driving force for further books.

I’m still learning. It’s not that you stop at one moment. If you do, you risk that you will get into a routine and then all your projects will look the same. For me, the most refreshing moment when thinking about books and what they can look like, how they can be constructed and from which materials, not necessarily papers, came when visiting Ivorypress’ collection of art books. If you happen to be in Madrid, you should go there. This one visit may change a lot.

What is your process for arriving at decisions about books and the projects that you undertake?

At BLOW UP PRESS, we have a motto which goes: “When the story matters.” And that is the most important factor for me when deciding whether to undertake a project or not. I must feel the project, I must be touched by the story. It must resonate with me and my emotions. Then I try to understand the artist’s intentions, motivations and thinking. It takes a lot of time to enter into somebody’s mind, but it is necessary to understand all aspects of the project to transfer its complexity into a book. And I definitely like to be challenged. I don’t have any specific topic I am looking for. I prefer multilayered, long-term projects; really going into the details, exploring the story in all possible ways, where I can see that the artist dedicated themself to making it.

The rest is a journey meandering through the project. All my decisions are dictated by the story, whether we are talking about the paper, book format, length or layout. The book must mirror the project and not simply insert it into some readymade graphic template. The design should somehow be invisible, not to be more important than the story it provides. Each decision taken by the designer must be based on the project and how to make it sound its best, so that the final reader will be impacted, or hopefully floored, by it.

How important is it for photobooks to reach other continents?

Photobooks use the most communicative language of the world: images. Thanks to this, they can be easily understood in any place in the world. Therefore, reaching other continents should be something natural. The bigger audience of the book, the better it is for the story, its reach. Not to mention the artist, publisher and designer, of course. Imagine you live in Australia. It’s a big country but contrary to its size, the photobook market is relatively small. So, if you want your story to reach as many readers as possible, if you want your project to be a game changer, you must go beyond some limitations, including geographical ones. It was also the case for BLOW UP PRESS. We come from Poland which has a population of 40 million people, with a visual culture that is in an early stage in the direct aftermath of Communist time and a lack of proper visual education at schools. If we were to count on our domestic market only, we would have been out of business years ago. As a result, we stopped making separate Polish language editions of our books as we would just lose the money on them. Besides, the English language is becoming more and more popular in Poland, so we reach our audience here anyway.

What do you think is the significance of the shift towards the book as an object?

At BLOW UP PRESS, we often say we do not make photobooks but art objects. For us, each book is another galaxy with all its own secrets, dark and bright sides. Today, when you visit any photobook fair or bookstore, you will see many books coming from different publishers and artists that look exactly the same, created with the same templates I already mentioned. For me, the photobook’s visual qualities summon experience and emotions and it is exactly this what I’m trying to reflect in my projects.

When I think about the book as an object, the only word that comes to my mind is experience. The reader should experience the book the same way the artist experienced the project. The role of the designer is to transform the artist’s feelings into material form. And this materiality refers to everything, from the papers, through to printing techniques, the interactivity of the book in terms of inserts or any hidden content, up to the final book format and cover.

Let me illustrate this with an example. Recently, BLOW UP PRESS released the book Eternal U (2023) by Hubert Humka that covers the topic of passing, the life and death cycle, eternality. It consists of photographs of British forests existing as natural burial places. The artist came to me saying: “I don’t want to have just a nice book with photographs of forest, I want an artbook. Do whatever you want with my photographs.” It would be very easy to destroy such a fragile project using shiny coated paper or having a traditional approach to layout. In order to translate the artist’s ideas into the final book, I decided to use recycled papers only, to emboss the entire text instead of printing it, and to create negatives from some of the photographs to reflect the cycle of life and death. I wanted readers to be lost in the forest, and so all photographs are printed full bleed. Thanks to embossing, the readers can also experience the bark of a tree if they touch the back side of the page. All this matters for this project and for this book. And all of this makes this book an object to experience. When a friend showed this book to his students, he told them: “Watch with your hands.” So, as you can see, it is something more than just seeing and contemplating images. You must also feel them, physically. This makes the book a desired object to come back to, to collect, to think about in terms of the story it provides and to experience. Yes, it will cost more than a regular photobook, but it is worth making the additional effort.

What is the place of language and writing in a book of photographs?

They say that good pictures will defend themselves and in most cases it’s true. But sometimes it is necessary to give them proper context so they can be read in the way the artist intends them to be seen, regardless of the place and the time. There are many examples of images that were misunderstood when they first emerged, or which outraged the public, and today we admire them. And vice versa. If we give them proper context made through writing, we feel more secure that they will be read in the way were made. Times change, our understanding the world change as well, so does the reception of images. The same refers to photobooks which consist or may consist of such images.

Language in the photobook is also important. It’s the same as with your question about reaching other continents. The more popular, universal or globally known the language you use in the book, the better for the book. As I said, at BLOW UP PRESS, we publish books in English as it is the most widely learned second language in the world, but in some books, we also introduce other languages especially when the project has significant meaning for the local community and/or the artist. What really matters here is to make sure that the text within the book does not overtake the meaning of photographs. We should remember that in photobooks, the story is presented through images, not through the text. The text here is always supplementary to the images. Not the other way around.

Who have been the models or templates for your own activities?

I am a self-taught photo editor and designer. So everything I know, I have learned from my own mistakes and obstinacy! However, there are two artists I would like to mention. The first is the designer Ania Nałęcka-Milach, it’s thanks to her that I felt in love with photobooks. I am always impressed by her projects and how open she is to share her expertise with other designers. The second person is the amazing Yumi Goto. It’s incredible how she can lead artists and their projects from the idea to the final object. They don’t know this, but these two women shaped me as a conscious photobook designer.

What would make a better photobook ecosystem?

There is a lot that could be done to make it better. Proper visual education in schools and better state support for photobook publishers and sellers for starters. Also, a greater assertiveness among publishers to not be afraid to refuse publications when they see that the project is weak. Not all projects merit the book format, let’s be honest. Some projects work much better in shorter form and others should never leave the drawer of the artist. We should all be more aware and conscious of qualities and the need for particular projects to provide readers with good books. They deserve this and we owe it to them.

What’s currently on your desk?

A few projects such as the book by Polish artist Weronika Gęsicka titled Encyclopædia. In it, manipulated stock photographs and AI generated images illustrate false entries she tracked down in different dictionaries, lexicons and encyclopedias. Weronika comments on a contemporary world attacked by fake news that threatens the credibility of media and our freedom. It is another project that adheres to the ethos of BLOW UP PRESS, as fake news is now one of the biggest tools used to manipulate our opinions and minds. It is a very important topic and working on this has been a privilege for me as through this book I can also mark my position on the phenomenon of information disorder. ♦

Further interviews in the Photobook Conversations series can be read here

Images:

2-Near Dark from Weronika Gęsicka: Encyclopædia, published by BLOW UP PRESS and Jednostka Gallery (November 2024)

3-Théophile Fogeys Sr from Weronika Gęsicka: Encyclopædia, published by BLOW UP PRESS and Jednostka Gallery (November 2024)

4-Jungftak from Weronika Gęsicka: Encyclopædia, published by BLOW UP PRESS and Jednostka Gallery (November 2024)

1000 Words favourites

• Renée Mussai on exhibitions as sites of dialogue, critique, and activism.

• Roxana Marcoci navigates curatorial practice in the digital age.

• Tanvi Mishra reviews Felipe Romero Beltrán’s Dialect.

• Discover London’s top five photography galleries.

• Tim Clark in conversation with Hayward Gallery’s Ralph Rugoff on Hiroshi Sugimoto.

• Academic rigour and essayistic freedom as told by Taous R. Dahmani.

Photobook Conversations #1

Hans Gremmen

Hans Gremmen | Photobook Conversations #1 | 24 Oct 2024

Hans Gremmen is a graphic designer based in Amsterdam, The Netherlands. He works in the field of photography, architecture and fine art and has designed over 300 books. He has won various awards for his experimental designs, among them a Golden Medal in the Best Book Design from all over the World competition. In 2008, he founded Fw:Books, a publishing house with a focus on photography-related projects. Together with Roma Publications, he recently founded ENTER ENTER, a project space in the centre of Amsterdam which explores the boundaries of the book.

What were the encounters which started your relationship with photobooks?

It began when some friends from art school from the photography department wanted to make a collective zine about their work. They asked me to be involved to work on that. I really liked their invitation, and because it was a zine, I also felt lots of freedom to come up with way too many ideas. Those zines evolved later into magazines, and after that into books. However, the feeling of freedom and experimentation continued through all the other publications. Equally, an idea that you work on with friends never changes. It is an ideal, because most of my collaborations start with mailing people who I haven’t met before, but sometimes we end up working several years on a project, which creates an intense and special relationship. These collaborations can only exist when there is no hierarchy. We both have to keep an open mind for each other’s ideas. This means both to move out of your comfort zone. That way, new things can happen, and are created.

How do you balance choices between working with highly specific materials or processes, and the desire for access?

Perfection is fine conceptually, but it should never be the goal. In fact, I think perfect books are very boring. A book should have an edge, some friction. I mean that a book should have some level of desire to make you uncomfortable, because in that way a viewer has to bring something to the book. You are going to be sharper, more present when looking at the work. Perfection lets the viewer be lazy.

It is also not too complicated. Friction can occur when there is a blank page, or when there is an image of a tree in an edit full of portraits. It shakes the viewer, and keeps them on point. And this aspect makes you aware that we are making and looking at a book, not a machine. A book should follow some rules, but also shouldn’t be afraid to break those rules too. For me, this is one of the most important aspects in editing. Further, a book is also made within the restrictions of an industry. If a quote from a printer is high, that is a signal for me that the puzzle is not yet solved. For me, this is an indication that the system of printing and binding is not working for me, but against me. I always try to use the system in the best ways possible. This often means that productions are economically healthy, and in general means a best use of paper, technique and production process.

I like to work within the limitations and restrictions the industry gives me, even if I like to question the restrictions from time to time. I also like to create within reasonable budgets to prevent the creation of expensive books. We aim for our books to be affordable and accessible for (art) students. When we were in art school ourselves, books were an important part of our inspiration and research. And Fw:Books also started as a group of students making books, so we feel very connected to that audience, and therefore making books accessible for them is always important.

How important is it for photobooks to reach other continents?

The idea of borders, and – in a larger context – continents doesn’t really exist in books, I think. We work with people from all over the world, with different views and backgrounds. There is always common ground. The other side of this story is that I think our books should be available for everybody. If you take something, you also have to give something.

What do you think is the significance of the shift towards the book as an object?

Often people come to me saying: “I worked for years on this body of work and want to make a book to finalise the project”. That is a wrong view on what a book is. A book is a beginning, not an end. Also, the relation between photography and books is very unique. There is no such thing as “original” photography. Photography is always a reproduction. Whether it is a C-print on the wall or printed in a book, both are as original. This perspective means a book is a work of art, not a random container of work. The only way for the photobook to survive is if it stops to exist as a genre.

How do you attempt to address sustainability in publishing?

We try to keep our print runs as precise as possible, and when in doubt, we keep it on the lower side. This saves on transport, paper, storage and other costs. It’s a very small gesture, but the idea behind it is to try to be critical towards what we are making. However it is always a dilemma, and a “catch 22” situation. For instance, we wrap our books in plastic. It’s not that we like plastic, but if we don’t do it, we get books back often because they are damaged. That would be creating extra shipping, handling and waste. It is always a matter of pros and cons. We have explored, for this specific issue, the use of biologically disposable plastics, but these are not yet good enough to seriously consider. I have hopes this will evolve in the very near future.

What would make a better photobook ecosystem?

If you mean the “photobook ecosystem” as “photobook world”, then life is too short to think in boxes. Books can have texts, photography, drawings, clippings, art, theory, questions, answers, perspectives, microcosmos, expanding universes, confusion, fiction, facts. Books are books. The photobook should get out of its own self-imposed golden cage and join the other animals in the zoo!

If you mean “photobook ecosystem” as an “ecosystem”, in the environmental sense, I don’t think it is my place to make general remarks or suggestions about this, because I think people should be able to make whatever they want, and however they want.

Who have been the models or templates for your own activities?

Second-hand bookstores. The great thing about these places is that you can browse through books, without a fixed plan. You have to take it as it comes. The books are sometimes organised by genre, but often not really. It is nice to just look at what you come across. Also, it is good to realise that books have a life after the first buyer. Every now and then, I come across a book I was involved in, and makes me very happy to see it there, not thrown away, but patiently waiting for the next person to pick it up, to enjoy it.

What’s currently on your desk?

A never-ending “To-Do List”.♦

Further interviews in the Photobook Conversations series can be read here

Images:

2-Read Books, Buy Books, Buy Local campaign: Hans Gremmen and Idea Books

1000 Words favourites

• Renée Mussai on exhibitions as sites of dialogue, critique, and activism.

• Roxana Marcoci navigates curatorial practice in the digital age.

• Tanvi Mishra reviews Felipe Romero Beltrán’s Dialect.

• Discover London’s top five photography galleries.

• Tim Clark in conversation with Hayward Gallery’s Ralph Rugoff on Hiroshi Sugimoto.

• Academic rigour and essayistic freedom as told by Taous R. Dahmani.