The ethics of street photography

The ethics of street photography have long been questioned. I’ve often been asked at galleries, “don’t you think it’s exploitative to take pictures of someone in need?” Or, “doesn’t it make you feel yucky to build a career off of people who may be battling addiction or in the midst of a mental breakdown?” 

Is it not just as yucky for wildlife photographers to take a photo of the gazelle without warning it of the tiger sitting right behind it? 

Or the photo of a bombed child weeping as blood runs down their face? Those photos win awards. Mine are berated by the virtue signallers of the world. 

Once while I was being interviewed the woman asked me, rather unprofessionally I may add, “Do you see the irony in the fact that this mansion we’re sitting in has been built off the backs of unknowing subjects who can’t afford any type of roof over their head?” 

Five bedrooms and four baths is scarcely a mansion. 

“Don’t you find your field of photography rather cowardly?” 

The interview had ended there, with an author's note of: Matthew Mondeau ceased answering questions at this point in the interview but still kindly offered me a copy of his newest book at my departure. It should be acknowledged that this book has been condemned by multiple advocacy groups for the unhoused and features photos of undisclosed subjects. 

Gotcha journalism. That’s a truly cowardly field. 

However, every so often, when I find myself crouched beside a foul smelling puddle or tucked between a crooked line of stinking trash cans, I think about that question. 

Would a coward put himself in the midst of drug dealings to show the public the gritty reality? Would a coward introduce the stuffy gallery patrons to the stark nudity that the community under Lincoln bridge has become known for? 

I put myself in dangerous situations everyday to raise awareness of the issues homeless people in our city contend with. My work makes an impact. My two published photo books, My Life as an Alley Cat and The Underworld have both cracked the best sellers list. 

Shifting my leather shoes away from the greasy wrappers that litter the sidewalk, I shift my focus to my work. Best not to let myself get distracted by my uneducated critics. 

I watch the subject of my fledgling third book teeter down the sidewalk, hands twisting the fabric of his trench coat that hangs too far past his wrists. His battered sneakers make an irritating squelch as he drags his feet across a slice of wet cardboard. 

I’ve been documenting him for some time now. Kermit, I call him in my head, for the high pitched wail he occasionally lets out from the confines of his alley down 12th Avenue. 

One of his legs drags lamely behind him as he walks, a gnarled toenail sticking out of the flapping toe of his right sneaker. His neck occasionally jerks in a violent twitch towards his right shoulder, perhaps a memory of an acid trip or PTSD from a wartorn tour. The camera shutter closes around a picture of his crooked neck, tilted in a way that suggests an inclination towards the methadone clinic across the street. I feel there’s a strong chance that this picture will serve as the cover. 

Kermit continues down the sidewalk and I watch couples cross the street when they spot him walking their way, people look up from the screens of their phones and can’t stop the cringing expression that plays across their face at the sight of his grimy face. The dirt nestled into the deep set lines of his face, mementos from rough years on the street. 

My phone buzzes against my thigh from inside my pocket and I lower my camera away from Kermit’s hunched posture. An email from my editor glows on the screen, the subject line exclaiming: my office in twenty minutes- about the book 

I take another look at the back of Kermit’s head, the liver spots visible in the areas where his hair has refused to keep growing. Greasy strings of white hair hang from arbitrary spots on his head, swaying side to side with his abnormal gait. He rounds the corner and I lose sight of him, but I know him well enough now to expect that he’ll be outside Dopi’s Dumplings, where they throw out the unused dough for the week in disposable tupperwares perched carefully atop the closed dumpsters. 

With a sigh, I tuck my camera back into the bag at my side and stand up, becoming an active participant in the world again as opposed to an observer. 

From the window of the Uber, I watch the city change from the gritty, crime-saturated streets of downtown, to the ritzy balconies and boutique stores of the uptown. 

In the familiar building of my editor, the gentle swoosh of the elevator as it carries me up fifty floors, has a necessary soothing effect on me. I’m able to set aside the harsh words of my uneducated critics within this comfortingly small metal box. 

Lydia escorts me into her office and we settle into our respective seats across from each other. She slides me the rough copy of my newest book, glossy pages crudely stapled together with the captions on accompanying fluorescent sticky notes. I lay a hand over the top page, admiring my work and the hours I’ve spent with Kermit. A singular sheet of paper is passed across the table as I’m reminiscing. 

“The publishers are dropping the book.” 

I feel my smile literally drop from my face and my stomach twist into an unpleasant knot. Lydia sounds as if she’s speaking to me from miles away. 

“They think the pictures are…disturbing.”

“They’re candid.”

“The picture with the man’s, er, private area was a particular note the publishers mentioned.” She taps the memo in front of me and I force my eyes to focus on the typed words. 

We regret to inform you that we at Collins Publishing can no longer proceed with the publication of the working title book, “Dumspter Diver: a life in pictures” due to the explicit and potentially controversial content included, such as-

I shove the paper away from me without reading the rest, watch it drift down to the floor beside my chair. I look expectantly at Lydia, eyebrows raised in an expression that I’m hoping conveys the thought, what idiots, am I right? But she only shrugs, opens her hands with palms facing the ceiling. 

“There’s not much we can do, Matthew.” 

My jaw creaks as I struggle to refrain myself from saying something I might regret. Finally, with a pop of my compressed knuckles, I slam the door behind me and walk out of the building. 

In a daze, I find myself back downtown, shambling down the sidewalk with the typed words of the memo swimming behind my eyes. The rough copy of my now dead book hangs loosely from my limp grip, pink sticky notes detaching themselves and falling to the concrete. I leave my words behind me, Subject rejoices over a few coins dropped into his hat, and, Subject in front of Dopi’s Dumplings awaiting leftover dough. Ironically, that one floats away mere feet from the mentioned establishment. 

I find Kermit sitting against the damp wall of an alley, legs stuck out straight in front of him, slumped over a container of noodles. I wrinkle my nose at the sight, thinking of the composition of the photo, how good it would look blown up in a gallery. My grip tightens around the glossy drafts of my work. I can’t give up yet. My work is too important. Too revolutionary. 

“Hey,” I kick at Kermit’s battered shoes with my own carefully cared for loafers. “Get up. I need you to advocate for me.”