Last week, the world of photography lost one of its greats: Sebastião Ribeiro Salgado (1944–2025). Like many others, I was in awe of the man—his presence, his character, and his remarkable body of work.
When I heard of his passing, one particular photograph of his immediately came to mind, a single image that left a powerful and lasting impression on me. That moment led me to reflect on other photographs that have had a similar impact over the years.
As a personal tribute to Sebastião, I would like to share five images that have deeply moved and inspired me.
1. Sebastião Salgado
Serra Pelada, Goldmine in Brazil (1986)
I cannot recall when or where I first saw this image, but I remember clearly that my initial reaction was one of disbelief. My first association was with Bruegel’s Tower of Babel. Over time, the image had a profound effect on me, prompting me to learn more about the man behind it—Sebastião Salgado—his life, and his body of work.
In one of his interviews, Salgado recalled the days he spent at the mine, specifically noting that it relied entirely on manual labor, with no machines involved. The complete absence of technology is strikingly evident in the image and likely explains why it evoked such a strong connection to biblical times for me.
What I found most compelling was its sense of timelessness. In landscape photography, it is often possible to erase any trace of human presence, leaving behind a vision of nature as we might imagine it on the day of creation. Capturing that essence is something I now strive for in my own photography.
2. Eugene Smith
Like Salgado, Eugene Smith (1918 – 1978) lived and breathed photography and eventually succumbed years later to health issues incurred in the line of his work.
Tomoko Uemura being bathed by her mother, 1971.
emura lived in Minamata, Kumamoto Prefecture, Japan, and suffered from Minamata disease, a neurological condition caused by severe environmental pollution. The photograph of him is a masterful example of chiaroscuro lighting—reminiscent of Rembrandt—but what struck me most was the emotional intimacy of the scene and the compassionate expression on Uemura’s mother’s face. The connection to Michelangelo’s Pietà was immediate and unavoidable; I cannot view one without thinking of the other.
While documenting the environmental disaster in Minamata, photographer W. Eugene Smith was assaulted by employees of the Chisso chemical company. The injuries he sustained likely contributed to the stroke he suffered three years later. It’s remarkable to consider the level of trust he must have earned to be allowed access to such a deeply private moment—especially as a foreign man working in Japan, a culture known for its strong boundaries around personal space and privacy.
For me, the lesson was clear. I’ve come to realize long ago that I lack the kind of interpersonal skills necessary for that kind of documentary work. It is an unfortunate realization because I very much enjoy the genre, but it cannot be helped. As a result, I’ve accepted that my place is likely elsewhere in the photographic world.
3. Ansel Adams
Ansel Adams (1902 – 1984). Neither he, nor the iconic photo below need an introduction.
Clearing Winter Storm, Yosemity 1942
In 2002, during the 100-year anniversary exhibition in Chicago, I had the good fortune to see a 40 by 50 inch (101 by 127 cm) print in person. Like most people, I had seen the image many times before—but never at this scale. The experience left a lasting impression and a clear realization: size does matter.
At such dimensions, the photograph can’t be fully absorbed in a single glance. The viewer’s eye is compelled to roam across the image, and in doing so, becomes drawn into its depth and detail. Unfortunately, in today’s world, photography is often consumed on small phone or computer screens, where engagement with the image tends to remain superficial.
That exhibition fundamentally changed how I think about photography. Since then, the large-format print has become my goal—the final form in which I believe a photograph can truly be experienced.
4. Daido Muriyama
I came to know Daido Muriyama (1938) through his 2004 exhibit in Cologne. At the center of the exhibit was a large size print of his
Stray dog in Misawa, Aomori Prefecture, Japan in 1971
Moriyama’s use of high contrast, heavy grain, and other so-called “imperfections” resonated with me immediately—they perfectly captured the raw, menacing essence of a street dog. His approach stood in stark contrast to that of Ansel Adams. To me, Adams was above all a crafts man; his three-volume series—The Camera, The Negative, and The Print—remains a lasting testament to his pursuit of technical perfection.
Moriyama, on the other hand, embraced the opposite philosophy. His entire body of work is a celebration of imperfection. As I delved deeper into his photography, I found myself drawn into the world of Japanese aesthetics, particularly the concept of wabi-sabi—a philosophy that finds beauty in imperfection, simplicity, and transience.
This outlook stands in sharp contrast to the Western ideal of creating perfect, enduring works of art. My personal takeaway was the idea of experimenting with imperfection, and that journey began for me with cyanotype photography. The cyanotype process is inherently unpredictable, subject to variations in light, chemistry, and chance. For that reason, I find it an ideal medium for embracing imperfection and releasing the need to control every aspect of the process from beginning to end.
5. David Hockney
David Hockney (born 1937) is an artist who, for a time, chose to use the camera instead of the brush. He captured the essence of this shift best himself when he said that he uses a camera like a brush. Each photograph, like a brushstroke, contributes to the creation of a larger, composite image.
He referred to these works as joiners, while others have described the style as photo cubism—a fitting term, given the fragmented yet cohesive way these images capture time, space, and perspective.
Pearl Blossom Highway (1986)
Once again, the aesthetic intent resonated with me instantly. I saw it as a powerful way to overcome some of photography’s inherent limitations—such as fixed time, location, and perspective. Even more compelling was the fact that the image could not be fully understood in a single glance. The viewer’s eye is almost compelled to explore the image piece by piece, actively reassembling it in their mind.
Another advantage is the freedom of composition: the layout doesn’t need to conform to a traditional rectangular frame. Instead, it can be designed with complete creative freedom. The possibilities were immediately apparent, and I was excited to experiment with the technique myself.
In a way, I see this as a different kind of homage to Salgado. Rather than recounting his biography, exhibitions, or awards, I’ve chosen a more personal approach—placing him alongside others who have deeply influenced my own way of seeing.
RIP