There is poetry to good street photography. Single frames hold the same power as a single syllable of a strong poem or haiku. Nothing extra or extraneous holds the viewer back. These images are rare, difficult to make, and require copious time to watch and wait for the decisive moment. Even the most fortunate (and hardworking) photographers can hope for just a handful of these images each year. I respect anyone talented enough to capture such an image.

But even as I hold respect for powerful single images, ultimately, a set of disconnected images leaves me wanting more. Random images, on their own, do not tell a story. And as they say in entertainment, business, marketing, and personal communication: Story is king. 

Moving from scattered, street-style frames to narrative photography is a natural evolution—but that doesn’t mean it happens on its own. Moving from the one to the coherent many requires changing the way we photograph.

My shift from photojournalism to documentary photography

My initial foray into photography was in photojournalism. My goal was to become a war photographer. I had only a superficial understanding of war photography, but that was my original, uninformed intention. All of that changed when I got shot at while covering a story during the final year of my studies. One minute, I was standing and taking pictures; the next, I was cowering behind a car as incoming rounds pinged off the sheet metal around me. I didn’t take a single photograph.

My photography up to that point had been the photojournalistic equivalent of street photography. Single images about a wide assortment of people, places, and things. But when the gunfire ended and the scene around me returned to normal, my question was: How could this have happened?

At that very moment, I realized I didn’t want to be a photojournalist. I wanted to be a documentary photographer. My primary interest was not in the shooting itself, standing amidst single, whizzing bullets. I was much more interested in the scope of interconnected systemic failures that could have led to such an event. 

From single shots to complex narratives

In this case, family structures, gun control, law enforcement, the legal system, and socioeconomic policies all combined to precipitate this singular moment. I was not driven to capture only the what; I was compelled to understand the how and the why. Such a complex story could not be explained in a single image. It required far more. I changed my focus to becoming a documentary photographer, that is, someone working on long-form projects who would deliver photographic essays comprised of dozens of photographs (and often, accompanying text).

There was a casual freedom in street photography. I might have been tied to a place with my street-style imagery, but there was no deeper narrative or overarching theme. There were the “Streets of Paris,” or the “Streets of New York,” but that was the extent. This feeling of only going surface level disappeared when I began working in the documentary tradition. Telling stories with images required me to create pictures that weren’t necessarily aesthetically beautiful, but were informational and could help the reader delve deeper, then transition from one chapter of the story to the next.

The range of what I needed to photograph expanded dramatically. Suddenly, I needed to make portraits, urban landscapes, intimate close-quarters, fly-on-the-wall style, wide-angle reportage, and details of everything around me. Transitioning to documentary work showed me how little I knew about photography and how little I knew about telling stories with my camera.

I continued to do newspaper assignments, which helped keep my single-picture story skills honed and ready to deploy at any moment. But my passion was spent working on longer-form projects, tackling more complex issues. Two years after switching to documentary photography, I still felt something was missing. I improved as a photographer, editor, and storyteller, but I continued to present my work with a single page of color transparencies. Editors required a loupe and a light table to see my imagery, and I was continually surprised how many did not have these essential tools.

How the photography book changed my approach

Enter the photography book. A fellow photographer purchased a computer and the first generation of desktop inkjet printers. We began designing our work into spreads like we saw in our favorite magazines. We placed the spreads on the floor and walked around them, attempting to determine the correct sequencing. Eventually, we laminated and bound the spreads into small books. This experience changed my photographic life.

Making a photo book was instrumental in helping me become a better documentary photographer because it showed me precisely what I had and didn’t have with my story. As I built the book, I saw glaring holes in my narrative. I saw strong beginnings and weak endings. I saw muddled middle passages where a viewer could easily get lost. The books showed me the importance of writing, typography, and page design.

Very soon, every project or assignment I did was completed in book form. Over three hundred photo books later, I’m still doing the same thing. My time limitations are quite different now, and I no longer do assignments, but I always self-assign the task of encapsulating a shoot by putting it in print. Almost all of my publications are created in Blurb BookWright or the Blurb plugin for Adobe InDesign. Even small shoots end up as softcover trade books or magazines. Occasionally, when I have the time to produce a more complete project, I will create a hardcover photo book or even a layflat book like I did with my recent trip to Antarctica. (Take a peek at Dan’s book here.) 

Today, when people ask me what kind of photography I do, regardless of what my primary focus is at the time, my answer is always: I’m a documentary photographer. Once you decide to study the world in detail, there is no turning back, no way to turn off the heightened sense of curiosity and observation. 

Despite this ode to the tradition of documentary, I do believe that all photography is good photography. Whether you decide to focus your life on portraiture, landscapes, street, or documentary photography, the important part is the practice, patience, and the will to put your stamp on whatever story you are attempting to tell. 

An older colleague told me, “As a photographer, you will live in one year what the average person lives in ten.” I am lucky enough to say from experience that this statement is true. Viewing the world through a square or rectangle brings an intimacy and insight into your surroundings that few will ever know. Embrace this privilege and see where it takes you.

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Dan Milnor is a professional photographer and Blurb’s creative ambassador. He shares his photography and bookmaking expertise here every single month. Are you ready to turn your photography into a photo book? Join us at Blurb.