It’s almost certain we’ve lived through the golden age of street photography. A flag has been planted on the peak and no one living today is climbing that mountain to retrieve it. Or are they?
To borrow the words of Hunter S. Thompson: “If you look with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark,that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”
And those observers will say the golden age was better. Pure. Cleaner. Original. Perhaps they are right to say so.
It was a time when men wore hats and cameras took one frame at a time. Our cities were awash with hand-painted signs and kids playing games on the road. People dressed smartly.
In discussions around influence, street photographers of today will normally rattle off names in a reverential tone: Cartier-Bresson. Winogrand. Mark. Frank. Arbus. Levitt. The old gods.
They saw things others didn’t see and showed us the way. We’ve bought their good books and studied them. And we recite their verses still today when doing our own work.
But here’s the truth: they didn’t become great because people missed the past. They didn’t succeed because someone longed for “the good old days”.
They succeeded because they worked. Relentlessly. They went out into the world, time and again, camera in hand, eyes open.
And crucially, they had a champion.
His name was John Szarkowski – curator of photography at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Szarkowski didn’t just display their work, he framed it for the world, contextualised it, argued for it and elevated it.
He shaped the narrative around street photography and defined its place as a serious art form. Without him, many of the names we venerate today might have remained unknown, underappreciated, or lost to time.
It’s easy to forget that greatness doesn’t emerge in a vacuum. It requires effort, yes, but also visibility. Platform. Advocacy.
Is the 21st century crying out for a new Szarkowski?
So while we rightly honour the greats, let’s not romanticise their path as something mystical or dependent on some lost era. Their world was no more magical than ours. It was just different.
Time has passed. The streets are not the same.
Let me rephrase. The streets are all the same. They’re not as they were but what has replaced them is the scourge of dull uniformity. The centres of most western cities are clones of some distant original, pockmarked with chain-store signage and cookie-cutter shops.
But we must accept that life has moved on. And waiting for it to look like 1954 again is no way to live.
The golden age is not the problem. Nostalgia is.
As photographers, we do need to document this time. Even what seems unimportant. The new streets may be visually dull but they’re ours.
And the photographers we revere, most long dead, of course deserve their place in the pantheon of greats. Their hall of fame status is secured.
But here is my question: who from this century – this year even – will be inducted into the honour rolls of the future?
Who taking photographs on the streets now is lacing their boots to climb that mountain?
In order that we move the genre forward and not be defined by the past, who doing work now will be considered god-like to the next generations?
Are their names known to us now? Or are they still emerging?
And when I call them “gods”, let me be clear: it’s not worship, it’s inspiration.
I’ll admit, “god” is a loaded term but sometimes we do need a little mythology to push us forward.
So let the golden age rest. It served us well. But it’s done.
The work is here, now. Go out and make it.
And don’t forget that the best of them broke rules too.
