I think photographers are too polite. There is not enough anger

Host: The gallery smelled of chemicals, coffee, and ghosts.
On its white walls, frames hung in perfect order, a choreography of stillness pretending to be control. Some photos were too perfect — smiles balanced, shadows symmetrical, meaning sterilized. Others — rare and raw — looked like wounds that refused to heal, still bleeding light.

A single lamp flickered above the center table, where prints lay scattered — faces half-developed, eyes blurred in movement. A cold winter night pressed against the windows, and somewhere outside, a siren wailed like the world complaining about its own reflection.

Jack stood behind the table, sleeves rolled, darkroom stains on his hands, his eyes sharp and tired — the kind of eyes that had seen too much to stay quiet. Jeeny leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching him study one photo over and over — a young boy mid-laugh, his joy caught and dissected by the camera.

Jeeny: quietly “Duane Michals once said — ‘I think photographers are too polite. There is not enough anger in photography; it’s pretty much trivialized.’”

Jack: without looking up “He’s right. We’ve turned truth into wallpaper.”

Jeeny: “Or into Instagram filters.”

Jack: finally glancing at her, half-grinning “Exactly. Everyone’s so busy trying to make life pretty they forgot it’s supposed to hurt a little.”

Host: The light above them buzzed, threatening to go out. The shadows in the room grew deeper, like the photographs themselves were listening — waiting for someone to tell the truth.

Jeeny: “You sound angry.”

Jack: “I am. You should be too.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because we’ve lost the nerve to look. We take pictures of sunsets and smiles, but we avert our eyes from hospitals, hunger, grief. We celebrate aesthetics over honesty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe people are just tired of sadness.”

Jack: sharply “No. They’re scared of empathy. Sadness demands we care. Pretty demands nothing.”

Host: He picked up another photo — a portrait of an old woman sitting by a window, her hands wrinkled, her eyes full of weather. He turned it in the light, watching how the shadow cut her face in half.

Jack: “Michals wasn’t talking about rage for rage’s sake. He meant passion. Moral outrage. The kind of fire that makes you say, ‘No, I won’t look away.’”

Jeeny: “So anger’s the fuel?”

Jack: “Anger’s the beginning. Compassion’s the destination.”

Host: The wind outside hit the glass, the gallery lights trembling faintly. Jeeny walked closer, her reflection merging with the photograph of the old woman — the young face overlapping the old, two times in one truth.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Maybe politeness is the enemy of art.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Now you’re speaking my language.”

Jeeny: “Politeness edits emotion. It asks for permission before it feels. And real art doesn’t ask permission.”

Jack: “Exactly. Real art offends before it heals.”

Host: He reached for another photo, this one raw — a street scene: a protest mid-motion, a policeman’s arm raised, a mother clutching her child in the foreground. The image was blurred, but the emotion was sharp enough to wound.

Jack: “You see this? This is life. Messy. Angry. Real. But show it to a gallery and they’ll tell you it’s ‘too political.’ As if living isn’t political.”

Jeeny: “People want art that decorates, not art that disturbs.”

Jack: “Then they don’t want art. They want anesthesia.”

Host: The word hung in the air — heavy, true, irreversible. The lamp buzzed louder, the filament flickering like a pulse struggling to stay alive.

Jeeny: softly “You think photography used to be better?”

Jack: “No. I think photographers used to be braver. They didn’t hide behind aesthetics. They went where it hurt.”

Jeeny: “Like war photographers?”

Jack: “Yes — but not just battlefields. The courage to photograph loneliness, injustice, hypocrisy. Even beauty — when it’s inconvenient. That’s what Michals meant. Anger isn’t destruction. It’s resistance.”

Host: Jeeny reached across the table, picking up one of the prints — a blurred cityscape at night. The rain streaks across it looked like veins, or tears. She turned it slowly, her voice thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know, anger can come from love too.”

Jack: looking up, eyes narrowing in curiosity “Go on.”

Jeeny: “You don’t get angry unless you care. Unless you see something sacred being cheapened. Maybe Michals was talking about that kind of anger — the kind that refuses to let beauty be meaningless.”

Jack: “So, the anger is love defending itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The heart saying, ‘You don’t get to trivialize this.’”

Host: The room quieted, the city noise fading beneath the hum of the lamp. Jack’s shoulders softened, his hands resting on the table, palms open now.

Jack: “You ever wonder what happens when we lose that kind of anger?”

Jeeny: “We start calling comfort truth.”

Jack: smiling sadly “And truth — she’s not polite, is she?”

Jeeny: “No. Truth never apologizes for showing up uninvited.”

Host: Jack took a deep breath, picked up his camera, and checked the film inside. The click of the shutter broke the silence — a small sound, sharp and honest.

Jeeny watched him, her expression softer now.

Jeeny: “You still believe in the photograph, don’t you?”

Jack: “Always. The camera doesn’t lie — the photographer does. And I’m done lying.”

Jeeny: “Then show them something real.”

Jack: nodding slowly “I will. Even if they look away.”

Host: He turned toward the window, the rain now streaming down the glass, each droplet catching the streetlight — a thousand little frames of fleeting truth.

Jeeny: quietly “Duane Michals was right. Photography lost its teeth when it stopped biting back.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time to give it teeth again.”

Host: The camera lingered on them — two silhouettes in a room full of captured moments, light flickering across their faces. The photos around them seemed to vibrate, alive again, demanding attention.

Because Duane Michals was right —
art without emotion is decoration,
and photography without anger is silence.

Politeness edits truth.
Anger — when born from care — reveals it.

The artist’s job is not to flatter the world,
but to confront it.

And as Jack raised his camera once more,
the flash illuminated Jeeny’s face — half in shadow, half in light —
proof that the truth worth capturing
is rarely ever polite.