TO DAY I USED A FUJIFILM GFX100RF AND IT OVERHEATED
Beyond the Greyscale: Why We Still Reach for Monochrome
In an era where our sensors capture billions of colours with clinical precision, the enduring allure of black and white photography remains one of the great paradoxes of the craft. Many practitioners argue that stripping away colour reveals the "truth" of an image—that by removing the distraction of hue, we are forced to confront the fundamental architecture of a scene: the interplay of light, shadow, texture, and form.
Proponents of the monochromatic aesthetic often claim that it invites a deeper, more contemplative engagement from the viewer. Without the sensory overload of a vibrant palette, the eye is guided by composition, lead lines, and tonal contrast. It is, they suggest, a more "abstracted" version of reality, lending a sense of timelessness that colour often fails to achieve.
However, for those of us who lived through the mid-twentieth century, this romanticised view can feel somewhat detached from the lived experience. Born in 1950, I grew up in a world where the monochrome medium was not an aesthetic choice—it was the pervasive, inescapable reality of our visual environment. For many, the transition to colour was not merely a technological advancement; it was a long-awaited release from the grey, often dull, visual monotony of the post-war years.
Today, while I acknowledge the technical prowess required to master light and shadow in a B&W frame, I find myself firmly in the camp that treasures the vibrancy of the modern world. Colour provides context, emotion, and a sense of "now." It defines the modern urban landscape I spend my days documenting, from the rich hues of industrial steel to the subtle shifts in natural light across Dublin’s historic façades.
Perhaps the preference for black and white is a luxury of those who did not have to live in it. For those of us who remember when the world truly was grey, colour is not just a feature—it is the very essence of life as we have come to know it.
In an era where our sensors capture billions of colours with clinical precision, the enduring allure of black and white photography remains one of the great paradoxes of the craft. Many practitioners argue that stripping away colour reveals the "truth" of an image—that by removing the distraction of hue, we are forced to confront the fundamental architecture of a scene: the interplay of light, shadow, texture, and form.
Proponents of the monochromatic aesthetic often claim that it invites a deeper, more contemplative engagement from the viewer. Without the sensory overload of a vibrant palette, the eye is guided by composition, lead lines, and tonal contrast. It is, they suggest, a more "abstracted" version of reality, lending a sense of timelessness that colour often fails to achieve.
However, for those of us who lived through the mid-twentieth century, this romanticised view can feel somewhat detached from the lived experience. Born in 1950, I grew up in a world where the monochrome medium was not an aesthetic choice—it was the pervasive, inescapable reality of our visual environment. For many, the transition to colour was not merely a technological advancement; it was a long-awaited release from the grey, often dull, visual monotony of the post-war years.
Today, while I acknowledge the technical prowess required to master light and shadow in a B&W frame, I find myself firmly in the camp that treasures the vibrancy of the modern world. Colour provides context, emotion, and a sense of "now." It defines the modern urban landscape I spend my days documenting, from the rich hues of industrial steel to the subtle shifts in natural light across Dublin’s historic façades.
Perhaps the preference for black and white is a luxury of those who did not have to live in it. For those of us who remember when the world truly was grey, colour is not just a feature—it is the very essence of life as we have come to know it.
MONOCHROME TEMPLEBAR