Documentary photography has historically been associated with the idea of truth. Since its origins, it has been credited with the ability to record the world as it is, to offer a faithful testimony of events, and to function as visual proof of reality.
This trust in its supposed objectivity has made documentary photography a central tool for journalism, history, anthropology, and collective memory. However, the notion of documentary photography as objective testimony is, at the very least, problematic. Not because photography deliberately lies, but because absolute objectivity is an illusion that ignores the very nature of the photographic act.
Speaking of objectivity in photography implies assuming that the camera is a neutral device, capable of recording reality without mediation. This idea is supported by the mechanical character of the medium: light strikes a photosensitive surface and leaves a direct trace of the external world. Unlike drawing or painting, where the hand of the author is visible, photography appears to dispense with interpretation. Yet this technical reading forgets something fundamental: the camera does not operate on its own. There is always someone behind it making decisions.
Every documentary photograph is the result of a choice. Choosing to photograph one event and not another already implies a position. Choosing the moment, the framing, the distance, the point of view, the light, even the moment of publication, directly conditions the meaning of the image. Photography can record fragments of reality, but never reality in its entirety. The testimony it offers is necessarily partial.
The myth of objectivity became firmly established in the twentieth century, when documentary photography emerged as a key instrument for narrating conflicts, social transformations, and historical events. Images of war, poverty, migration, or humanitarian crises were assumed to be irrefutable evidence. “This happened,” the photograph seemed to say. And at a basic level, that was true. Something was there, in front of the camera. But that “something” does not exhaust the meaning of the event.
Documentary photography does not only show, it also constructs. By isolating an instant from the continuous flow of reality, it turns it into a symbol. Through repetition in the media, books, or exhibitions, the image fixes a visual narrative that eventually replaces the complexity of the original event. Over time, the photograph ceases to be a specific testimony and comes to represent a general idea: war, poverty, injustice. In that process, objectivity dissolves.
Moreover, the documentary photographer is not a neutral observer. Their presence modifies the context. The camera introduces an inevitable tension. The people being photographed know they are being observed and, consciously or unconsciously, they react. The scene changes. Even in the most discreet situations, the photographer’s gaze selects what deserves to be shown and what does not. There is no innocent gaze.
This does not invalidate documentary photography, but it does require a reassessment of its status. Rather than objective testimony, documentary photography is a situated testimony. It is shaped by the culture, ideology, sensibility, and ethics of the person who produces it. It is also shaped by material conditions of production: who finances the project, for which medium it is made, and which audience it addresses. All of these variables influence the final image.
The idea of objectivity has also historically served to grant authority to certain visual narratives. Presenting an image as “documentary” has been a way to legitimize a discourse and neutralize criticism. If photography is objective, then there is nothing to question. However, this supposed neutrality has at times been used to reinforce stereotypes, justify policies, or simplify complex realities.
A clear example is the representation of marginalized communities. For decades, documentary photography portrayed poverty from an external, often paternalistic gaze. The images functioned as proof of a situation, but rarely offered context or a voice to the subjects themselves. The testimony was visually powerful, but socially limited. In this case, objectivity concealed a power relationship.
In recent decades, this conception has been widely challenged. Photographers, theorists, and viewers have increasingly recognized that every documentary image is an interpretation. Not a fiction, but not an absolute truth either. This awareness has given rise to more reflexive practices, in which the photographer acknowledges their position and makes their involvement in the narrative visible.
Contemporary documentary photography tends to incorporate doubt as part of its language. Rather than asserting, it questions. Rather than closing meaning, it opens it. It moves away from the gesture of “showing reality” to explore how that reality is visually constructed. In this sense, abandoning objectivity as an ideal does not represent a loss, but a critical gain.
It is also important to consider the role of the viewer. Photography does not exist in isolation. Its meaning is completed in the gaze of the observer. Each viewer interprets the image from their own cultural, political, and emotional context. What is clear testimony for one person may be ambiguous or even manipulative for another. Objectivity, understood as a fixed and immutable meaning, cannot withstand this plurality of readings.
The digital era has intensified these tensions. The ease with which images can be produced, edited, and circulated has further eroded the idea of photography as unquestionable proof. Manipulation is no longer a technical exception, but a constant possibility. But the problem does not lie only in digital editing. Even an unaltered photograph is charged with subjective decisions. Technology did not create the lack of objectivity; it simply made it more visible.
Against this background, insisting on documentary photography as objective testimony appears anachronistic. Not because photography has lost its connection to reality, but because that connection was never as simple as it was once believed. The strength of documentary photography lies not in its objectivity, but in its capacity to generate awareness, debate, and reflection. Its value is found in its power as a tool for interpretation, not as a neutral mirror.
This implies a greater ethical responsibility. If documentary photography is not objective, then the photographer cannot hide behind supposed neutrality. They must assume the consequences of their gaze. They must ask themselves what they show, how they show it, and with what effects. Honesty does not consist in denying subjectivity, but in acknowledging it.
Likewise, the viewer must adopt an active attitude. To read a documentary photograph means going beyond what is visible. It means questioning context, what remains outside the frame, and the conditions under which the image was produced. Only in this way can photography function as a true space of knowledge rather than a closed assertion.
Ultimately, documentary photography does not need to be objective to be valuable. Its power lies precisely in its ambiguity, in its ability to condense reality and gaze into a single image. Understood not as definitive proof but as a meaningful fragment, documentary photography remains a fundamental tool for thinking about the contemporary world.
Accepting that documentary photography is not objective testimony does not weaken it. On the contrary, it frees the medium from an impossible burden and places it in a more honest and fertile territory: that of critical interpretation of reality.
