“It’s emotionally exhausting giving a fuck,” photographer Nick Brandt says in this interview. Indeed, the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’ has been passed down generation to generation for a reason. However, we can’t give up, especially at a time when genocide, climate change, displacement, and inequality are ever-present — in the news, on social media, on daily conversations.
To shed a light on some of the most troubled communities in the world, Nick Brandt started the series The Day May Break five years ago, and has already published four chapters that raise awareness on water scarcity, the alarming rise of sea levels, and the dwindling of biodiversity in countries like Bolivia, Kenya, and Zimbabwe. “I wanted the series to be photographed around the world, in countries where people were among those who are the least responsible for climate change but among the most vulnerable,” he comments.
Now, he’s presenting The Echo of Our Voices, the fourth installment of the series, where he portrays Syrian refugees in Jordan, regarded as the second most water-scarce country on the planet. With cinematic composition and lighting, Brandt blurs the line between photojournalism, documentary, and fine art, an approach that makes his work stand out and helps it convey the message across audiences. Today, we sit down with him to talk about social justice, the power of art, and staying grounded.
Hey Nick, thanks for speaking with us. What are some of your earliest memories related to photography?
Hi, Arnau. I had my own basic darkroom when I was a kid, and was already in love with early 20th century pictorialism — early Steichen, etc. To this day, it remains among my favourite work, and I think that the soft charcoal-y tones and shapes show their influence on me in the first two chapters of The Day May Break, with the soft light and shapes in the fog.
You started the series The Day May Break back in 2020. What was your goal back then? Did you always conceive it as an ongoing series divided by chapters, or has this changed over time?
Good question, Arnau. I knew that I wanted the series to be photographed around the world, in countries where people were among those who are the least responsible for climate change but among the most vulnerable. Initially, I did assume that I would continue to photograph people and animals together within the same frame in different countries.
However, I like to create each new project in a state of (a good kind of) fear. And after Chapter Two in Bolivia, I realised I wanted and needed to push myself again. The concept for Sink / Rise, Chapter Three, underwater in Fiji, naturally developed out of my wanting to address rising sea levels. I am in love with diving but had never photographed underwater, so I was stimulated by the challenge. In Chapter Four, logically going from an abundance of water to barely any at all in the Jordanian desert intrigued me, plus I was keen to address the political as well as climate consequences leading to human displacement.
However, I like to create each new project in a state of (a good kind of) fear. And after Chapter Two in Bolivia, I realised I wanted and needed to push myself again. The concept for Sink / Rise, Chapter Three, underwater in Fiji, naturally developed out of my wanting to address rising sea levels. I am in love with diving but had never photographed underwater, so I was stimulated by the challenge. In Chapter Four, logically going from an abundance of water to barely any at all in the Jordanian desert intrigued me, plus I was keen to address the political as well as climate consequences leading to human displacement.
The first chapter was photographed in Zimbabwe and Kenya. What brought you there in the first place?
Honestly, during the first year of Covid, Kenya was one of the few countries I could get into, so I went there. Plus, I have photographed over many years there and know it very well. So it was a good place to test a proof of concept. Then Zimbabwe opened just as we finished in Kenya.
Your photographs are beautifully staged and thought out. How do you balance planning vs improvising?
Thank you, Arnau. Another good question. For me, the most important part of the planning process is having the right people (and animals) to photograph. For want of a better word, the ‘casting.’ If you have compelling faces of people and animals that have been impacted by climate change, then the photographs should hopefully be innately more interesting.
But once I have my subjects set, then, yes, it’s all about improvising for me. I embrace the unexpected during shoots. Serendipity and accidents are far more interesting than anything I might pre-script. For me, it is like a kind of photographic jazz: each person (and animal) is a musical note, if you will. And you work with them to see if, sometimes out of nowhere, a visual melody forms that somehow indefinably moves you.
I could describe something that happened by accident for the better in every single photograph in this book. This is not revelatory stuff. It’s what everyone who creates goes through. It’s just how much you decide to embrace the problems and accidents.
But once I have my subjects set, then, yes, it’s all about improvising for me. I embrace the unexpected during shoots. Serendipity and accidents are far more interesting than anything I might pre-script. For me, it is like a kind of photographic jazz: each person (and animal) is a musical note, if you will. And you work with them to see if, sometimes out of nowhere, a visual melody forms that somehow indefinably moves you.
I could describe something that happened by accident for the better in every single photograph in this book. This is not revelatory stuff. It’s what everyone who creates goes through. It’s just how much you decide to embrace the problems and accidents.
You’ve recently presented the fourth chapter in the series, The Echo of Our Voices, where you portray Syrian refugees who fled to Jordan ten years ago and are continuously displaced. What led you to focus on this issue this time?
Again, I had addressed rising sea levels as a result of climate change in Sink / Rise, the previous chapter, and since so much about climate change relates to a drying world, it made sense to me conceptually to go to a place where there is an ever-increasing absence of water.
Jordan is regarded as the second most water-scarce country on the planet. And a statistic I read that is also shocking: according to the United Nations, Jordan’s supply of fresh water per person has plummeted ninety-seven per cent since the start of the 21st century. So I wanted to find a way to express the impact of a desiccating world on vulnerable people.
Jordan is regarded as the second most water-scarce country on the planet. And a statistic I read that is also shocking: according to the United Nations, Jordan’s supply of fresh water per person has plummeted ninety-seven per cent since the start of the 21st century. So I wanted to find a way to express the impact of a desiccating world on vulnerable people.
I’d like to know how you got familiar with the subjects in the pictures. Were you in touch with NGOs, other institutions, or…?
In each country, I employ one to three researchers in the months before I arrive to find local people whose lives have been dramatically impacted by climate change. Some are climate change refugees, having lost their homes, land, or livelihood.
In Jordan, I spent the first two weeks travelling around meeting many of the Syrian families at their mobile tents. Having fled the war in Syria in the years 2013-15, they were now living lives of continuous displacement due to climate change, forced to move up to several times a year, moving their tents to where there is available agricultural work to wherever there has been sufficient rainfall to enable crops to grow. It’s a cycle with no end in sight while they live in Jordan. They themselves all see how dramatic the changes have been over the last decade, their lives so compromised by the dramatically diminished winter rains. As they said, water is life. And life is getting harder.
In Jordan, I spent the first two weeks travelling around meeting many of the Syrian families at their mobile tents. Having fled the war in Syria in the years 2013-15, they were now living lives of continuous displacement due to climate change, forced to move up to several times a year, moving their tents to where there is available agricultural work to wherever there has been sufficient rainfall to enable crops to grow. It’s a cycle with no end in sight while they live in Jordan. They themselves all see how dramatic the changes have been over the last decade, their lives so compromised by the dramatically diminished winter rains. As they said, water is life. And life is getting harder.
When you’re portraying these people, what is the environment like? Are they happy to share their stories? Perhaps they’re self-conscious at first? I guess they’re not used to posing in front of a camera.
Yes, they are very willing to share their stories. They stay with us for a minimum of six days, some a lot longer, and, at the end of each shoot, we interview key people. Invariably, we hear the same very moving thing: “Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for hearing us.”
Another advantage of having them stay with us for a number of days is that they begin to understand what we are doing. I invite them to look at photos at the end of each session, so that it increasingly becomes a collaborative process over the days they are with us. This was especially the case with The Echo of Our Voices.
Another advantage of having them stay with us for a number of days is that they begin to understand what we are doing. I invite them to look at photos at the end of each session, so that it increasingly becomes a collaborative process over the days they are with us. This was especially the case with The Echo of Our Voices.
In Sink / Rise, the third chapter in the series, you focused on Pacific islanders, whose lives and cultures are threatened due to the alarming rise of the ocean levels. To visualise this, you photographed them underwater, which I’m sure was extremely difficult and demanding. Could you tell us more about that?
Yes, it was very difficult. I wanted it to appear as if what we were seeing was the most normal thing in the world. But only a small number of the local people were able to do that, and those that could just got better and better at looking natural with each passing day. Of course, a lot of concealed weights to keep them and the furniture down on the ocean bed were also utilised.
The first two chapters of The Day May Break series featured more animals, while the last two are more focused on the people. How so?
Simply the nature of the concepts. Of course, climate change will also have an apocalyptic impact on ocean life. The higher temperatures are going to cause acidification of the oceans to a degree not seen in more than fifty million years. This oxygen depletion and acidification will result in the death of everything from most of the world’s coral reefs to a massive loss of sea ice. And with the loss of sea ice will go many wondrous creatures that rely on it for their continued existence — polar bears and walruses, seals and penguins, to name just a few. However, my focus for this chapter was on humans and the consequences for them. And in The Echo of Our Voices, it was all about the people — there are very few animals in that environment.
Your style blurs the line between documentary and editorial/fine art. It sheds a light on some of today’s most pressing issues, but it does so with impeccable composition, lighting, etc. Could you expand a bit on that approach?
Thank you again, Arnau. I appreciate that. Listen, it’s just the way my brain works. I’ve realised that, generally, I feel more kinship to photojournalists than fine art photographers because we so often share the same socio-political-environmental concerns. But I also, from a creative impulse perspective, like to create imagery myself to express my concerns about these subjects.
I also feel that there is so much documentary and editorial photography that transcends into fine art through its sheer power of expression and aesthetic. So I’m reluctant to pigeonhole any work into a genre of sorts, really.
I also feel that there is so much documentary and editorial photography that transcends into fine art through its sheer power of expression and aesthetic. So I’m reluctant to pigeonhole any work into a genre of sorts, really.
Your work allows you to travel to incredible destinations and faraway countries; however, you go there to unearth their daily struggles, problems, and concerns. As a curiosity, do you ever travel just for fun and curiosity, and try to disconnect from the place’s harsh reality? Or you can’t switch off your brain like that?
So many great questions that I have never been asked before. Being in nature at home and trips to scuba dive help me disconnect. But yes, I find it very hard to switch off.
Even more, after dealing with such harsh issues (displaced people and refugees, climate change, injustice, etc.), how do you stay grounded and mentally healthy?
Ah, Arnau, what makes you think that I am mentally healthy? I think my wife would say I am not. And she probably has a point. On the plus side, I live in nature, surrounded by calm and beauty, with multiple moments of joy every day from the birds I see, just as one example. So that helps.
But the barrage of bad news about the state of the planet — I have a very hard time blocking that out. Basically, it’s emotionally exhausting giving a fuck. This is why the phrase exists: Ignorance is bliss. But as the famous quote by Edmund Burke goes: “All that is necessary for evil to occur is for good men to do nothing.” So I live by my line: It’s better to be angry and active than angry and passive.
But the barrage of bad news about the state of the planet — I have a very hard time blocking that out. Basically, it’s emotionally exhausting giving a fuck. This is why the phrase exists: Ignorance is bliss. But as the famous quote by Edmund Burke goes: “All that is necessary for evil to occur is for good men to do nothing.” So I live by my line: It’s better to be angry and active than angry and passive.
I remember watching Civil War by Alex Garland, where Kirsten Dunst plays the role of a photojournalist. She sort of mentors a young girl like she once was, and one of the lessons she teaches her is to try to alienate herself from the things she’s portraying (war, death, injustice, etc.). Do you think it’s necessary for those of you who take pictures of the darkest corners of reality to try to disconnect somehow when you’re working?
Great question again. So when I am NOT photographing, I am in a state of constant anguish at what is happening in the world. And, of course, it is what motivates my concepts, but when I am in the middle of a shoot, I am one hundred per cent purpose driven and focused on trying to create an image that tells the story that I want to tell. I think that photojournalists who are working in horrifying conditions, with tragedy happening all around them –which I am not– also become completely laser-focused on getting the right shot. Think of the extraordinary photojournalists like James Nachtwey, Paolo Pellegrin, etc. The list is long.
Are you working already in the fifth chapter? Can you give us any hints?
I wish. But this year, I am busy simply trying to get the hell out of the dystopia that the United States has become under Trump and his team of goons. It’s where I have lived almost my whole adult life. We are trying to move to Portugal — to a more calm, sane, democratic European way of life.
