Let the Work Speak

[ Gallery Show :: Fujifilm X100V ]

In today’s world, where personal platforms and public opinions intertwine daily, it often feels natural, and even expected, for artists to express their views. However, for many photographers, the strength of their work lies not in declarations but in observation. Unless political expression is central to your creative voice, sharing personal beliefs, especially on divisive topics—can do more harm than good. It can shift the focus away from your art, alienate your audience, and lead to unintended consequences that extend far beyond a single post or newsletter.

Photography is a universal language with the power to unify, reflect, and invite others to see through your eyes. When a photographer shares strong political views unrelated to their work, particularly through channels meant to celebrate the craft, it alters the dynamic. The viewer is no longer connecting solely with the image; they are instead asked, willingly or not, to engage with the artist’s ideology.

This isn’t just a hypothetical scenario. I once subscribed to a newsletter from a photographer whose work I liked and had purchased. However, one issue took a sharp turn away from photography and into a personal celebration of a transgender friend who had won a Woman of the Year award. He also expressed his support for transgender women in general, framing it as a feminist victory.

As a biological woman who has faced numerous gender-based challenges, such as pay inequity, limited opportunities, and subtle biases, this struck a deep, painful chord with me. I have always believed in opening doors for girls and women, claiming spaces that have historically excluded us. To be told that biological males can claim womanhood and receive recognition intended to uplift women felt like yet another loss in a long series of hard-won battles. It’s hard not to wonder: is there anything left for women that won’t be redefined, repackaged, or taken away?

This is not about denying anyone’s dignity or experience. It is about understanding the context and consequences of transforming an artistic space into a political one. I subscribed to that newsletter for insights into photography, not for personal politics. Instead, I found myself hurt and disoriented by a message that dismissed something fundamental to my identity as a woman. I unsubscribed, not because I disagreed, but because I felt unseen in a space where I once felt welcomed.

That experience illustrates why artists must consider the purpose of their platform. When you introduce politics that are not already part of your work, you risk losing people, not because they lack compassion or curiosity, but because they didn’t come to you for that kind of confrontation. They came for connection.

Some photographers are activists at heart. Their work documents protests, reveals injustices, or gives a voice to marginalized communities. If this describes you, then your political perspective belongs front and center. Your audience expects and values it because it is inseparable from the images you create. However, if your work exists outside of politics—such as landscapes, portraits, or conceptual explorations—it’s wise to let your art speak for itself.

In an age where opinions travel quickly and silence is sometimes mistaken for complicity, it can feel risky not to speak up. However, silence, in this context, is not erasure. It’s focus. It involves respecting your audience’s diverse backgrounds and viewpoints. It’s about trusting your work to lead the conversation and recognizing that sometimes, that’s enough.

For artists who wish to invite people in rather than push them away, it’s worth asking: Am I sharing this because it’s part of my work, or because I feel pressured to declare something? If it’s not the former, it may be better left unsaid.

[ Fanatic In Our Fabric :: Gallery Showing  ]

While I believe a photographer’s work should, in most cases, speak for itself, there are times when silence feels dishonest, when the image must speak because words fall short. One such moment for me came after the Pulse nightclub tragedy on June 12, 2016, in Orlando.

Like so many others, I was heartbroken by the senseless violence and the targeted loss of life within the LGBTQ+ community. The pain was immediate, personal, and unrelenting. In that space of grief, I turned to what I know best: image-making. The piece titled Fanatic in Our Fabric was created the day after the tragedy and later exhibited on a large canvas at the Tallahassee Airport as part of a gallery show.

The image, a close-up of a scarf and small glass elements, is a meditation on the threads that bind our society, and the fanaticism that can hide within them. I didn’t set out to make a political statement. I set out to understand, to process, to grieve. And in doing so, I found the work could hold what words could not. I still feel fear when I look at this piece. That fear is what drove me to create it.

This, to me, is the rare and rightful place for politics or current events in art: not as an agenda, but as a response, not as a declaration, but as a need. When the subject demands to be addressed through the lens, then yes, let it be. But when it doesn’t, let the work speak.