The Ethics of Nearness

 In photography, proximity is power. To be close to another person, with a lens and with intention, is to be entrusted with the dignity of their image. But what do we owe the people who let us see them?

Nan Goldin's work is often cited as raw and revolutionary. Her camera did not flinch in the face of addiction, intimacy, or death. But her permission came not through contracts or distance; it came through relationship. Her friends were her subjects, her subjects were her friends. The work was not made about them, but with them.

And yet, in a time when everyone is visible and few are truly seen, there is a danger in mistaking access for understanding. We can all photograph the weary, the overlooked, the surreal. But without mutuality and care, the camera becomes a scalpel, not a bridge.

To photograph ethically is to ask: Am I bearing witness, or just collecting contrast?

My own work is rooted in this question. I am drawn to ordinary moments: a man in his workshop, a child in festival dress, a woman waiting outside a church. I photograph slowly, not to avoid action, but to honor presence. Many of the people I photograph are known to me or known through someone I trust. Others are strangers, but I meet them with the same quiet question: Is this ours to share?

I am not interested in extracting vulnerability. I am interested in seeing what endures. A family gesture. A rusted hinge. A look that says, this is who we are, not just how we look.

If photography is a form of seeing, then ethical photography is a form of recognition. It is not spectacle. It is not rescue. It is relationship.

And that, for me, is enough.

Still, I am fascinated by the friction in the work of photographers like Tatsuo Suzuki. His street portraits are sharp, fast, and confrontational. Sometimes jarring, always electric. Where I seek stillness, he captures impact. His photos do not ask for permission; they demand presence. Though I do not adopt his aggressive approach, I respect his fearless sincerity. What draws me is not his method, but his commitment to the now—to truth over politeness, to unfiltered contact. His work reminds me that even discomfort can be a form of honesty, and that tension, when approached with clarity, can be as revealing as calm.