Show, don’t tell
This is one of those photographs that does exactly what I want an image to do: it asks questions.
Who is this man?
Why is he here, in this particular room?
What’s the story behind the cabinet of china, the clock, the chair, the accumulation of objects that feel anything but random?
At first glance, it looks like a quiet portrait of a man at home. Calm. Grounded. Slightly timeless. But the longer you sit with it, the more it resists being reduced to that.
And that’s where show, don’t tell really earns its keep.
What the photograph doesn’t immediately reveal is that the real story here isn’t primarily about the man at all — it’s about the house. More specifically, about the people who lived here before him. The previous inhabitants were an infamous aristocratic family who rose to notoriety during the war. Their lives, actions, and contradictions have been pored over ever since, and their legacy still hangs in the rooms they once occupied.
The man you see here now is a leading authority on that family.
Suddenly, the image shifts.
The objects stop being background detail and start to feel like evidence. The clock isn’t just decorative; it becomes a reminder of time passing, and time being studied. The cabinet of china feels curated rather than incidental. The room itself reads less like a living space and more like an archive you can sit inside. A place where history hasn’t been cleared away, but quietly lived alongside.
None of that is explained in the frame. And that’s the point.
The photograph doesn’t announce expert, historian, or authority. It doesn’t tell you that this man understands the house more deeply than almost anyone else alive. Instead, it allows you to sense that something is going on beneath the surface. That this is a place layered with meaning. That the person sitting here belongs to the story, but isn’t trying to dominate it.
Visually, the image does the heavy lifting. The man is positioned comfortably but not centrally dominant. The room is allowed to speak. The light — soft, directional, and unhurried — feels appropriate for a space concerned with reflection rather than performance. Nothing has been stripped back or neutralised for the sake of clarity, because clarity isn’t the goal. Curiosity is.
This is why I believe so strongly in letting images imply rather than explain. If I’d photographed him against a plain background, the story would have vanished. You’d know who he was only if I told you. Here, you feel that there’s more to discover before a single word is read.
That’s the difference between showing and telling.
A good image doesn’t deliver the conclusion — it opens the door. It invites questions rather than answers them. And when a photograph makes you want to know more — about the person, the place, the history embedded in the walls — it’s already doing editorial work before the article has even begun.
This picture doesn’t explain the story.
It begs for it.
