Interview Series: Visual Witnessing, Documentary Practice and Public Memory | Interviewer: Tugba Bahar

Ed Kashi’s journey, spanning over four decades, is far more than a professional record of witnessing; it is the manifestation of a profound reverence for the world’s diverse cultures and an unshakeable belief in storytelling’s capacity to heal our shared reality.
While maintaining a ‘front-row seat’ to the most intimate and shattering moments of the human condition, Kashi has navigated the world with a camera that serves as a silent guide into the heart of different civilizations, currently arriving at the most refined
harvest of his career. Having created a philosophical rupture in documentary photography with his theory of the ‘Abandoned Moment’which honors the chaotic flow of life and intuitive surrender over Henri Cartier-Bresson’s rationalist ‘Decisive
Moment’the artist is currently safeguarding his legacy as a ‘gardener of memory,’ entrusting his vast 45-year analog and digital archive to the Briscoe Center. Even as he defends the moral credibility of photography against the rising ‘digital noise’ of artificial
intelligence, he observes the very lands where he was censored in 1991 with a transformative maturity, now returning as a distinguished jury member. This conversation is a profound search for human truth, navigating from haptic memory to
the ethical boundaries of ‘advocacy journalism,’ and from the political weight of silence in the Middle East to the realization of hope as a radical necessity.
You have entrusted your 45-year archive to the Briscoe Center with the meticulous care of a ‘gardener of memory.’ Following this monumental handover, where do you perceive yourself within the narrative, and what is your current ‘inner climate’? Does this feel like a final farewell to a chapter, or a new beginning, unburdened and liberated?
By donating the main elements of my archive, I’ve accomplished a few important things all at once. I am freed up physically from my archive, especially in this more digital and remote working environment we find ourselves in today. It provides a
secure resting place form my legacy, so gives me a certain peace of mind. My work is now accessible to researchers, educators, media, students, etc, so it confirms the reason I do this work, to illuminate and capture moments in time and history. Finally, this act is like a puncuation mark in my life and in my work. I can feel secure that up to this point my work has meaning and a place, yet I can continue to create and contribute to that legacy.

In an era where AI relentlessly perfects the visual, could the ‘errors’ and randomness inherent in your ‘Abandoned Moment’ philosophy be the most ontologically reliable elementsof a photograph? Is defending the ‘mistake’ a form of philosophical resistance against digital forgery?
That is an interesting idea, but that’s not my intention with Abandoned Moments. It’s really about the freeform experience of making images when you’re not in control of the moment. I will say that with AI and digital manipulation, authentic images will gain more power and importance.

In “The Game of Life,” your choice to ‘paint’ digital images with physical baseball materials (pine tar, sunflower seeds, etc.) suggests a haptic search for roots within an assimilated identity. Do you find that the clarity of memory resides in these physical residues rather than in the precision of pixels?
The Game of Life was my attempt to mix physical elements, photographs and ephemera to explore my relationship to fatherhood, the loss of a father, the importance of baseball as a binding source for myself and my son, and the acceptance of being an immigrant. I did not grow up thinking of myself as an immigrant. Baseball was my babysitter. I grew up in the physical World as a human and as a young photographer, working in the darkroom, etc. This project was a chance to combine both worlds into a deeply personal statement.
Within your ideal of candid intimacy, does the mere presence of the camera eventually force the subject into a ‘performance’ of naturalness? How do you remain certain that your presence as an observer has not fundamentally transformed the essence of the scene?
It is impossible for my presence to not transform a situation, but with candid intimacy, my goal is to create images that leave the viewer feeling like they are there but my camera is not. I’ve found that some people do perform and some are shy and almost
avoid the camera. Some of that comes down to individual personalities, the context and cultural mores.
While documenting the process of aging, how do you frame the tension between the deformation of the body and the continuity of the soul? In iconic frames like the final moments of Maxine Peters, can photography truly capture a sense of ‘timelessness’ while overcoming the physical toll of time?
I learned early on in that project that I would need to find a visual language that avoided the decay and sadness of growing old. I also accepted that the wrinkles of an aging body could be beautiful, and like Maxine’s last moments, death could be a
beautiful moment, especially when surrounded by loved ones and in a secure and dignified manner.

Through your work with Talking Eyes Media, do you ever encounter a dilemma of aesthetics: can a photograph being ‘too beautiful’ diminish the raw power of the tragedy it depicts? Does aesthetic perfection risk trapping the viewer in a state of
passive admiration rather than mobilizing them toward action?
This question has been raised many times in the past, especially in the context of photojournalism’s coverage of conflict and human tragedy. This conversation has definitely created change in the profession, forcing many practitioners to search for new ways to tell these kinds of stories and shed light on these difficult issues. For myself, I always look to preserve the dignity of the people I photograph, while showing their situation in a truthful and impactful way. The larger concern now is the sheer volüme of imagery that people are seeing, plus the violent imagery that we now accept and take for granted in popular culture. I am constantly amazing at how much violence we see in streaming shows and mainstream movies. Are we getting inured
and numb? At least with still images you are forced to look, dwell, think, read a caption to gain more context, and ultimately allow the brain to focus more acutely.

For 45 years, you have witnessed the world’s darkest corners and deepest trajedies from a ‘front-row seat.’ Does such proximity to suffering eventually create a kind of ‘visual callousness,’ or does every release of the shutter touch the wound as if for the
first time? After all you have seen, is maintaining hope for humanity a vision you choose, or a necessity you are bound to?
I remain hopeful about humanity, but these days it’s getting harder to hold onto this more positive view. As I continue to make images and tell visual stories, I hold onto my values and goals; to tell human stories without hiding from the tough issues, while
also showing the resilience, dignity and power of people and organizations to do better. I see it more as solutions journalism, or advocacy storytelling.
What does it feel like to transition from being a censored witness in Diyarbakır in 1991 to a jury member evaluating Turkey’s visual landscape in 2025? How do you interpret being on the side of the ‘selector’ today, when you were once pursuing a
reality that was forbidden to even be recorded?
If you live and work long enough, you get to see how dramatically certain places, issues and relationships can change. In relation specifically to Turkey, it’s a government and culture that continues to demonize and discriminate against it’s
Kurdish minority. What makes Turkey so important and truly one of the most amazing places on earth, is it’s not just one thing. Turkish people represent a wide range of political views, progressive and inclusive sentiments and a highly educated class of
people.

How do you interpret the widespread silence within the art world regarding contemporary Middle Eastern conflicts? As an ‘advocacy journalist’ with roots in Baghdad, does ‘witnessing’ begin for you at the moral boundary where the luxury of
neutrality ends? Is silence, for an artist, ultimately a desertion of truth?
Having roots in the Middle East but growing up as an American, it has been my work that has brought me to these places of my ancestors and forced me to recognize my heritage and look at the present situation there. It’s a complex place where too many
people are prisoners of their own histories. I am thankful my father came to America, so I could grow up without that baggage. In terms of the situation more specifically in Gaza and Israel, there is no logic or reasoning for what has happened and it’s hard to
imagine Israel rehabiliting it’s standing in the world anytime soon. Having worked in Israel and Palestine close to 20 times since 1991, I have also found it difficult to continue to find hope or understand how to tell this story. The cruelty and growing
hatred. The dehumaniziation of the “other” has only served the extremists on both sides. As a photojournalist, I try to remain neutral in my public stance, which is a paramount ethical value to maintain. As an artist, there is more freedom to express
personal opinions in both your work and your public stance. Having said that, I remain appalled by the actions of Israel and also of Hamas. As I stated in 1996, working on my project about messianic jewish settlers in the West Bank, both the settlers and
Hamas are obstacles to peace. I hold that view now more then ever.
Much like the defiant boy soaring over the bonfire on your book’s cover, what do tens of thousands of frames whisper to you today? Has this ‘living dossier’ brought you to a state of final peace, or has it propelled you into a deeper curiosity fueled by the
‘abandoned’ energy of uncertainty?
I search for inner peace on a Daily basis and it’s a struggle that I know I’ll carry with me until the end. Isn’t it a natural part of being human? My experiences and the images and stories I’ve created bring a kind of inner peace, yet they are a constant
reminder of the hard work we must all do to try to make our World a better place.


















