Articles from Alex Coghe

Street photography has become so codified that much of it now looks like photographers photographing other photographs. That sentence might sound unfair, perhaps even provocative. After all, we are living through a golden age of technical accessibility. Cameras have never been better, books are everywhere, and great work from every continent is just a swipe away. Knowledge that once took decades to acquire is now available in a 20-minute YouTube video. In the first years of the 2000s, we did not have anywhere near the access to information that we have today.

What photographing Jennifer Hermoso taught me about editorial photography, trust, and why magazine covers still matter.

Magazine covers still matter.

That may sound almost old-fashioned in a time dominated by feeds, algorithms, and endlessly scrolling images that disappear seconds after being seen. Yet the magazine cover remains a strange exception. It still carries weight, it still feels curated rather than accidental, and perhaps most importantly, it still says something about the image selected to represent an entire story.

Every few months the same narrative comes back: "The camera industry is dying." It sounds clean, dramatic, and easy to share. But the camera industry isn't really dying. It already lost 90% of its market and learned how to call it "stability." 

Photography, despite what the internet has spent the last fifteen years trying to convince you, is not about photography. It is about life. Photography is simply what happens when life collides with awareness. The camera is not the source. It is the witness.

Acapulco at night feels less like a city and more like a stage set designed by a casino architect having a mild nervous breakdown. Palm trees multiply in every direction. Floodlights blast the sand with the subtlety of a prison yard. Massive hotels rise from the coastline pretending time still moves the way it did decades ago, as if glamour could survive indefinitely through architecture and denial alone.

The first mistake people make when photographing Día de Muertos is thinking they already understand it.

Photography has always occupied a curious position. It can be art, journalism, testimony, or obsession. But before any of that, it is memory made visible. And nowhere does that become more apparent than in the family photograph.

There is a particular kind of psychological illness that affects photographers after enough years behind a camera.

You feel it, or you don't. There's no middle ground. 

You know, there is a difference between a good photograph and one that stays. Not louder, not more dramatic, not even technically better. Just… harder to forget.

I realized at some point that most of the photographs I was making came from leaving too early — not physically, but mentally.

There's a particular kind of photographer who becomes visibly uncomfortable the moment Juergen Teller enters the conversation. You know the type. They can explain sensor readout speeds like nuclear engineers. They spend three weeks comparing corner sharpness at 400%. They speak about cameras the way Formula 1 mechanics speak about engines. Their hard drives are graveyards of technically flawless emptiness.

There are photographs that seem to exist entirely on their surface.

There is a kind of photography that pretends to be neutral. Flat surfaces, clean lines, ordinary spaces. Nothing dramatic, nothing loud, nothing that asks to be looked at twice. It's often dismissed as cold, detached, even empty. But that reading is too easy. What we call indifference is rarely indifference. It is a position.

Hunter S. Thompson is certainly one of my references — not because he ever cared about photography, but because he understood something most photographers avoid.

There's a strange misconception in street photography: that more is more. More chaos. More layers. More subjects. More "decisive moments."

Let's get this out of the way: this is not nostalgia.

There, I said it. Not bad. Not incompetent. Not untalented. Boring. And boring is far worse.

In photography, style is often discussed in terms of subject matter, color, or composition. Certainly important aspects to consider, but much less frequently do we talk about something equally decisive: focal length. Yet if you look closely at the history of urban landscape photography, focal length reveals itself as a kind of quiet grammar.

There's a sentence that keeps coming back in photography circles: street photography is dead.

Look around any expanding city today. Warehouses rise where fields stood five years ago. Housing developments stretch toward dry hills. Highways carve through fragile terrain. Data centers replace factories. The landscape is no longer something we visit. It is something we continuously build, erase, and rebuild. It is progress, they say.

Portraiture did not begin with photography. It began with control. Long before the camera, someone was already deciding how a face should be seen, remembered, and fixed in time. The portrait has always been an act of authority. Photography didn't change that; it just made the act faster and more invisible.