Do Photo Books Still Matter?

For years, I saw the photo book as the natural destination for my projects. The final form. A kind of trophy that said: this is finished.

But now I’m not so sure.

Maybe it’s the collector in me—I’ve bought plenty over the years, especially nature and landscape books. They used to feel important. When I first got into it, I remember chasing after early Michael Kenna titles that were already out of print. That lit a fire. If something was unavailable, I had to have it. So I started buying every “interesting” new release as a kind of insurance policy—just in case it sold out and became one of those books I’d regret not owning. It sounds ridiculous now, but that’s how collector logic works.

These days, I don’t care as much. If I stumble across a black and white wildlife book or something that really grabs me, sure, I might still pick it up. But if I’m honest, most of them barely get more than a polite flip-through before going on the shelf. I tell myself I’ll sit down with them properly. That rarely happens.

And when I do, it’s often the same thing: too many photos. Too much repetition. Even from the masters. The best work loses its edge, buried in a sea of filler. Instead of feeling moved, I feel nothing.

It’s the same idea I wrote about yesterday: I’d rather see ten strong images in a tight set than drown in a bloated sequence. Less is more—especially when it’s curated with intent.

What I truly love is experiencing work in exhibitions. Large prints. Fewer images. A rhythm. A reason. That’s where the story comes through. I don’t live in a city with world-class galleries around every corner, but we do have the fantastic The PhotoGallery nearby—and we’re lucky to get invited to openings with artist talks. Earlier this year, we had a great evening there with Tim Flach, who gave a presentation of his work. Got to exchange a few thoughts with him afterward. Great guy. I like his art—it’s a very distinct style—even if it’s not something I’d personally do.

But most of the time, when something compelling comes up, we have to travel. Next up is seeing Michael Kenna. We’ll fly across the continent for it. Always worth it.

And then there’s the practical side: photo books just don’t sell like they used to. Unless you’re a household name or backed by a big publisher with a marketing machine behind it, it’s a tough game. Many books don’t even recoup their production costs. Some end up heavily discounted, or just disappear. That reality changes how I think about the effort involved. It’s a massive investment of time, money, and energy—and for what? To move a couple hundred copies, maybe a thousand in a year or two if you’re lucky? In my day-to-day business, a thousand orders shipped is a slow day.

So here I am, looking through my own archive, wondering: do I even want to make a photo book?

If I do, it might be a retrospective—images from across different projects, pulled together over time. But even that feels undefined right now. Maybe the work needs to sit longer. Maybe the idea of a book will come naturally, when it’s ready. Maybe in 10 or 20 years, photo books will see a revival—just like LP records did. A new generation might think it’s cool to flip through a paper book to “watch” photographs.

What I’ve realized is this: not every project needs to end up between covers. Not every story belongs in a book.

And maybe the audience isn’t there in the same way anymore. People swipe, scroll, move on. A book only makes sense if it matters—if it demands to exist.

So maybe it’s digital galleries. Maybe it’s limited-edition prints in a box. Or a pop-up show in a quiet corner of the world. Or maybe… it’s nothing. Just the work, waiting. Unhurried.

How do you feel about it? Are photo books still part of the dream—or has the dream changed?