Photography as Testimony: Why Images Still Matter

We live in a world flooded with photographs. Billions taken, shared, and forgotten—daily. And yet, I remain convinced that photography is one of the most powerful and deeply human acts we have.

Because when it’s done with intention, photography is testimony. It holds within it not just what was seen, but what was felt. It freezes a moment—not in time, but in meaning. That meaning can be cultural, historical, emotional. And sometimes, it can shift the course of things.

A photograph as a form of witnessing

There is a kind of ethical weight to the photograph. When a camera is raised to the eye, something happens: a line is drawn between the observer and the world. What we choose to photograph—and how—is an act of attention, of care. It says: this matters.

Some of the most enduring images of the 20th century—Dorothea Lange’s Migrant Mother, Nick Ut’s Napalm Girl, or Kevin Carter’s controversial Sudan famine photo—continue to echo across generations. Not because they are perfectly composed, but because they are irrefutable testimonies. They hold us accountable. They don't let us look away.

Even in the quieter corners of life—family albums, portraits of strangers, the texture of a place we once called home—photographs become carriers of memory. They tell stories we would otherwise forget.

Beyond beauty: image as cultural memory

Photography is often reduced to aesthetics today. The perfect light, the perfect face, the perfect frame. But the image is more than a surface. It’s a vessel.

In my own work—especially in the maritime and coastal worlds I document—I’m drawn not to what’s flawless, but to what’s alive: the rust patterns on a boat’s hull, the broken symmetry of fishing gear, the movement of tide over stone. These are not just images of things; they are fragments of stories, of work and weather, of craft and place. They hold cultural memory, encoded in texture and form.

And as these coastal worlds change—due to climate, politics, or generational shifts—photography becomes an act of preservation. A silent but potent record. A visual archive of what might otherwise disappear.

Against the tide of disposability

Today, images are consumed faster than they’re made. The act of photography has become so casual, so omnipresent, that the very meaning of the photograph risks dilution. But I believe there is still a place for the photograph that remembers. That stands for something. That doesn't vanish after twenty-four hours.

To photograph with purpose is to slow down. To listen with the eyes. To create something that might outlive the scroll.

Photography still matters. But it’s up to us—those who photograph, those who look—to make it matter. To remember that a photograph is not just an object. It's a trace. A statement. A fragment of truth, passed on.

And in a world where reality itself feels increasingly negotiable, bearing witness might just be one of the most radical things we can do.