I respect newspapers, but the reality is that magazine

When Mary Ellen Mark declared, “I respect newspapers, but the reality is that magazine ‘photojournalism’ is finished. They want illustrations, Photoshopped pictures of movie stars,” she was not merely lamenting the decline of a profession. She was sounding a trumpet for truth in an age where appearances eclipse reality, where the light of authenticity is dimmed by the glitter of illusion. Her words are not of bitterness but of mourning for an art once sacred — the art of capturing life as it is, unadorned and unvarnished, bearing witness to humanity’s joys and sorrows alike.

The meaning of her words lies in the contrast between photojournalism and spectacle. True photojournalism is the unflinching eye, the lens that records war’s brutality, poverty’s weight, or the fleeting tenderness of an ordinary life. It is not staged, nor polished, but raw and real. Yet the magazines she speaks of had turned from this noble calling to a pursuit of fantasy — Photoshopped idols, crafted perfection, carefully posed illusions. In this shift, the mirror held up to society cracked, and the truth was replaced by entertainment.

The origin of this lament belongs to Mark’s own life. As one of the most fearless documentary photographers of her generation, she immersed herself in the streets, the institutions, the forgotten corners of the world. Her images of homeless youth, of patients in mental hospitals, of communities unseen by the mainstream, stood as pillars of what photojournalism was meant to be — not decoration, but revelation. To see her cry that the art was “finished” is to feel the grief of one who fought long for truth, only to see the world turn its gaze elsewhere.

History echoes her sentiment. When the great war correspondents of the twentieth century, such as Robert Capa, risked their lives on battlefields, they did so to deliver images untainted by manipulation. His famous words, “If your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough,” embodied the very spirit of photojournalism. Yet as time passed, the appetite for reality waned, replaced by the hunger for glamour, for escapism. Just as the Romans traded the stern debates of the Republic for the spectacles of the arena, so too has modern media shifted from truth to entertainment.

The lesson is clear: without truth, society drifts into illusion. If our images are not real, then our understanding of ourselves, our struggles, and our world becomes distorted. To surrender photojournalism for celebrity gloss is to turn away from the suffering and triumphs that define humanity. The eye that once held the powerful accountable, that once gave voice to the voiceless, is dimmed when it is trained only on carefully Photoshopped stars.

Practical actions must rise from this warning. Seek out sources of truth. Support those newspapers and independent journalists who still carry the banner of authenticity. As individuals, cherish unvarnished images — family photos unedited, moments captured as they are, without polish. Teach the young that beauty lies not in airbrushed perfection, but in honesty. Only then can the spirit of photojournalism, though declared finished by Mark, find resurrection in new forms and new generations.

Thus, Mary Ellen Mark’s words remain as both elegy and call to arms. She speaks with sorrow for a dying art, but her grief is also instruction: if we value reality, we must defend it. Let her voice remind us that truth, though fragile, is the most powerful image of all. And may we, like her, choose the authentic over the artificial, the real over the imagined, so that the lens of history may remain clear and unbroken.