Photography isn't what you think it is. Most of us look at a picture and see a captured moment, a slice of time frozen forever. We think the camera is a tool that records reality. But if you’ve spent any time with the work of Ariella Aïsha Azoulay, you know that’s basically a lie. Or, at the very least, a very dangerous half-truth.
Azoulay, a professor at Brown University and a powerhouse in visual culture, has spent years tearing down our assumptions about the "decisive moment." She argues that the shutter click isn't the end of the story. It's actually just the beginning of a messy, ongoing relationship between the photographer, the subject, and you—the person looking at it.
The images discussed by Azoulay—ranging from colonial archives in North Africa to the 1948 catastrophe in Palestine—aren't just historical artifacts. They are active sites of struggle. When you look at an old black-and-white photo of a refugee or a soldier, you aren't just a spectator. You’re a participant in a "civil contract."
What Most People Get Wrong About Photography
We’re taught to believe that the photographer has all the power. They hold the camera, they frame the shot, and they press the button. In this view, the person being photographed is just an object. They’re "taken."
Azoulay says that’s nonsense.
In her seminal book, The Civil Contract of Photography, she argues that photography is an encounter. It’s an event that never really stops happening. Even if the photographer was a colonial officer and the subject was a prisoner, the image itself creates a space where the subject can still "speak" to us today.
Basically, the camera creates a new kind of citizenship. It’s a citizenship that doesn't care about borders or passports. When an image is made, a contract is signed between everyone involved. This contract says that we have a duty to look at the image and recognize the person in it as a fellow human being with rights, even if the state says they don't have any.
It's a radical way of thinking. It shifts the focus from "What does this photo show?" to "What is this photo doing right now?"
The Archive is a Ghost Story
Have you ever walked through a museum and felt like something was missing? Azoulay talks a lot about "potential history." This is the idea that the history we have—the one written in textbooks and stored in national archives—is just one version of what happened. It’s usually the version written by the winners.
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The images discussed by Azoulay are often pulled from these very archives. But she doesn't look at them the way a traditional historian might. She looks for the gaps. She looks for the moments where the person in the photo is resisting the camera’s gaze.
Think about the photos of the Nakba—the 1948 displacement of Palestinians. Many of these images were taken by Israeli military photographers or Red Cross workers. They often show people as victims, as masses of bodies, or as "problems" to be managed.
Azoulay argues that we need to "unlearn" these images. We have to look past the caption. If a caption says "Refugees waiting for food," we need to look at the way they are standing, the way they are looking back at the lens, and the world they are trying to carry with them. We are looking for the history that could have been—the one where these people weren't displaced.
It's about "un-documenting" the document.
Why "Watching" is Better Than "Looking"
There’s a nuance here that’s easy to miss. Azoulay distinguishes between "looking" at a photo and "watching" a photo.
- Looking is passive. You see the colors, the shapes, the subject. You say, "Oh, that’s a nice photo of a sunset," or "That’s a sad photo of a war."
- Watching is active. It’s like watching a film or a play. You understand that there is a duration to the image. You realize that things happened before the shutter clicked and things happened after.
When you "watch" a photo, you are acknowledging the labor, the coercion, the consent, or the lack thereof that went into making it. You start to ask: Who wasn't allowed to be in this frame? What was the photographer’s relationship to the person they were shooting?
She’s particularly critical of the way we use "human rights" photography. You know the ones—the glossy photos of starving children used to raise money for NGOs. Azoulay suggests that these images often reinforce the very power structures they claim to fight. They turn the subject into a spectacle. By "watching" these images instead of just "looking" at them, we start to see the systemic issues that put the person in that position in the first place.
The Problem with the "Decisive Moment"
Henri Cartier-Bresson famously coined the term "the decisive moment." It’s the idea that there is one perfect instant where everything aligns—the light, the composition, the action—and the photographer captures the "essence" of reality.
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Azoulay thinks this is kind of a myth.
By focusing on that one "perfect" moment, we ignore the ongoing violence or the ongoing life of the person in the photo. We treat the image as a closed loop. But for the people in the images discussed by Azoulay, that moment wasn't "decisive"—it was just one second in a long life of struggle or joy.
She wants us to break the frame. She wants us to imagine what happened five minutes after the photo was taken. Where did that woman go? What happened to the house in the background? This approach turns photography from a tool of "capture" into a tool of "connection."
How to Unlearn Imperialism Through Your Camera Roll
So, how do we actually apply this? It sounds very academic, but it’s actually pretty practical.
We live in an age where we are constantly bombarded by images. Our phones are full of them. Social media is an endless stream of visual data. Most of it is filtered, curated, and designed to make us feel a certain way.
Azoulay’s work encourages us to be suspicious of the "official" story. This applies to news photos of protests, historical photos in textbooks, and even our own family albums.
- Check the power dynamic. When you see a photo of a marginalized group, ask who took it. Was it someone from the community, or an outsider "documenting" them?
- Look for the "non-event." History focuses on the big explosions and the famous leaders. Azoulay is interested in the everyday stuff—the chores, the conversations, the waiting. These are the moments where life actually happens.
- Refuse the "victim" narrative. If a photo is trying to make you feel pity, ask yourself what else is there. Look for the dignity, the anger, or the mundane details that humanize the subject beyond their suffering.
- Acknowledge your role. You aren't just an observer. By looking at a photo, you are part of its history. What are you doing with that power? Are you just consuming it, or are you recognizing the "civil contract"?
The Violence of the Archive
Azoulay’s recent work, like Potential History: Unlearning Imperialism, goes even deeper. She argues that the very act of archiving—collecting objects and images from around the world and putting them in boxes—is an act of imperial violence.
Museums and archives decide what is worth saving and what is "trash." They decide how things are labeled. When we look at images discussed by Azoulay from colonial eras, we are often seeing people who were forced to be there.
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She tells us that we have to be "disobedient" toward the archive. We shouldn't accept the labels they give us. If a photo is labeled "Insurgent," we should ask if that person was actually a freedom fighter. If a photo is labeled "Unknown Woman," we should think about why her name was erased and what it would mean to give it back to her.
Actionable Insights: How to Look at Images Differently
Honestly, it’s about slowing down. We swipe through life. Azoulay wants us to stop.
If you want to engage with photography the way she does, try these steps next time you’re in a gallery or even just scrolling through a news site:
- Read the caption, then ignore it. See what the image tells you before the "expert" tells you what to think.
- Imagine the edges. Visualize what was standing just outside the frame. Was there a soldier with a gun? A mother waiting for her child? A beautiful tree?
- Seek out "the strike." Azoulay talks about the "photographer’s strike"—the idea that sometimes the best thing a photographer can do is refuse to take the photo. If an image feels exploitative, acknowledge that feeling.
- Use photos as a bridge, not a wall. Don't let a photo be the thing that separates "us" from "them." Use it as a way to find common ground in the "civil contract."
The world is full of images that want to tell us who is a citizen and who is an "illegal," who is a hero and who is a villain. Ariella Aïsha Azoulay reminds us that the camera doesn't have the final word. We do.
By refusing to see photography as a finished product, we open up the possibility of a different kind of history. A history that isn't just about what happened, but about what we can still make happen today. It’s about recognizing that every person in every photo—no matter how old or how far away—is someone we are still responsible to.
Next Steps for the Visual Detective:
Start by revisiting your own family archives or a local historical collection. Look for the people in the background. Look for the photos that feel "wrong" or "uncomfortable." Instead of turning away, stay with them. Try to reconstruct the "event of photography" that took place. Ask yourself what rights the people in those photos are still claiming from you. This practice of "unlearning" isn't just an academic exercise; it's a way of reclaiming a more honest and human connection to the world around us.