A jaundiced eye
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In 2024, researchers at the University of Bristol released a study which showed Australian police have become world leaders in arresting environmental protesters, and that almost every state in the country has doubled down on restrictive protest laws.[1] This is telling of many things, but in particular it is telling of the state’s desire to quell political dissent, vocalisation and visibility. Living under this kind of state ire breeds an oedemic condition when we already are subjected to a world of conflicting realities, narrative spin and unfiltered imagery via both traditional media and social media. With this swelling of consternation as we’re bombarded by catastrophe around every corner, yet the right to demonstrate against it being actively diminished, are we on track to become desensitised to the ‘protest’ image?
Even with smartphones filming every perceivable inch of a protest, footage usually remains within predisposed online echo chambers, contributing to deeper political divisions despite events technically receiving more coverage as citizen media creation becomes easier. A complete democratisation of narrative as almost everyone can access high-quality video cameras, a stark contrast to previous generations where only news companies and hobbyists could afford these devices.[2] But does this increased coverage equal increased change and revolt? Despite the critique, I also find myself asking these questions about my own work as a photojournalist. I’ve long held the belief that anyone who truly believes their photos can ‘change the world’ is delusional but perhaps I have become desensitised too, by iPhone or eyeball, who knows. To be a photojournalist is to witness and to translate unexplainable realities or atrocities for an audience. Is the oversaturation of coverage and the ‘raw’ approach to documenting catastrophe too disturbing? Or perhaps not disturbing enough?
Whilst the photojournalist has the ability to reveal a ‘reality’—interweaving the journalistic information with the artistic form to allow us to see multiple facets of the event.[3] In an era of the algorithmic-lens and an attention-economy, does an image’s indexical ‘importance’ matter if it is not deemed compelling?[4] Afterall, why create ‘important’ images when you can simply create a compelling one on Midjourney – a generative AI program known for creating hyper-realistic images.
The program was recently used by Belgian photojournalist, Carl De Keyzer to create (or generate) his controversial series, Putin’s Dream. De Keyzer, who’s probably most well-known for his work Zona, documenting the harsh and violent life within Siberian prison camps, described the new artificially generated work as “a kind of statement against fake news”.[5] The images were met with overwhelming criticism, seen by many as a departure from his actual photographic work – his own photo agency, Magnum, even refusing to place them in their own archives. [6]
The controversy around Putin’s Dream alludes too the persuasion of there still being some recognition left in the ‘important’ image, but only amongst those within the photojournalistic sphere. In no way is this a critique of the photojournalists risking their lives to take these images, it is a more critique of the eyeballs that are too glazed over to see them. At times I ‘glaze over’ too – it’s a defence mechanism to comprehend and to continue living in such violent times, both physically and online.
Perhaps the shift towards ‘compelling’ images is due to us being preternaturally inundated by overwhelming, horrific imagery that cannot logically be explained - contributing to a hollowing-out of rationality within the discourse of photojournalism, and media more broadly.
The front page and a double full page spread of The Herald Sun the day after 2024’s Defend Land Forces protest, highlights the duplicitous role images (with respect to context) play in pushing the ‘compelling’ image. Depicting how “vile protesters attacked police horses and bloodied officers after they “copped the brunt of protesters’ anger”.[7] As an attendee that day, I witnessed horrendous acts by law enforcement and was arrested after being mistaken for a protester. After an intense morning of photographing violent altercations between police and protester alike, most of the action had been contained to Spencer Street Bridge. The main concourse connecting the CBD to Melbourne Convention & Exhibition Centre (MCEC), the site of Australia’s largest defence and weapons expo – and the target of the thousands of protesters that morning.
I became boxed in, in front of a line of police and behind a horse in a fog of tear-gas. Realising I had now become estranged from the block of protesters, I start walking parallel to the advancing police, the last thing I remember was looking down the Yarra River before an officer yelled something along the lines of “grab him!”, and I was pulled violently through a cacophony of riot shields. As I tried to protect my camera, I was pushed face first onto the bitumen; most likely avoiding a broken nose or losing my front teeth by the full-face gas mask which cracked under the force. My camera was still firmly in my hands whilst officers handcuffed me, so between shouts of “stop resisting!” and an officer who drove his knee into my spine, I managed to take a few pictures of the arresting officers. The force from the officer’s knee basically caused me to slide along the ground, causing grazes and cuts to the left-side of my face. After I explained to the detectives, I was a journalist and gave them all my details, I was released, given a Move on Notice. This meant if I returned to the protest or surrounding area, I would be re-arrested and charged.
A friend from Sudan was amazed to find out the photos were taken in Melbourne – “I didn’t think Australia was like that,” she said to me over text. It felt like I had sort of become the story, a spectacle to be given sympathy. It made me think, perhaps if I hadn’t been a journalist, would an event like this radicalise me? A trauma so compelling that it could fuel a career of revolt. Purely by accident and against my will, I had gone from the passive observer to this engaged participant sitting on the cusp of an irrevocable transition between modalities.