There are photographers who chase glory, and then there are those who chase truth. Martin Parr belonged firmly to the second group. His truth was not the polished truth of studio lights or red carpets. It was the unvarnished truth of a crowded beach, a noisy fairground, a dripping ice cream and a person caught in a moment they never intended to preserve. For more than four decades Parr observed the world with the eye of a sceptic and the heart of a comedian. And in doing so he created some of the most unforgettable images of modern life.
The story is told that in 1997 he took a photograph of a woman on a beach, her head thrown back in laughter while her sunglasses reflected a perfect red glare. It was not a flattering portrait. Yet it was strangely beautiful in the way a sudden gust of wind on a hot day can be beautiful. Parr recognised that life is neither symmetrical nor graceful. It is absurd and colourful and often unbearably ordinary. This is what he spent his life capturing.
He grew up in Surrey at a time when England was still getting used to its fading empire. The countryside was gentle and polite. Many would have settled into that comfort. Parr looked at it as one might look at a tired curtain that needed to be drawn open. His camera became his window into the clutter and chaos beneath that polite surface. When he later turned his gaze towards working class towns and seaside resorts he found an England already struggling to understand itself. And he photographed it with such candour that critics accused him of mockery. Those who truly understood him knew the opposite was true. He laughed at the world only after laughing at himself.
Parr’s colours became his signature. They were loud, almost impolite. A plate of food looked radioactive. A hat looked like a misplaced joke. People looked unaware of their own quirks. But beneath the bold colours lay a gentler message. Parr was saying, quietly and often lovingly, that this is who we are. We are awkward and vain. We hold on to cheap souvenirs. We dress badly. We pretend we are happier than we are. And yet we are all worthy of being seen.
His fascination with India deserves special mention. India with its dust, heat, festivals and contradictions welcomed him like an old eccentric uncle. He found the country both overwhelming and irresistible. The crowds pleased him because they gave him endless stories. The rituals intrigued him because they mixed devotion with noise. Once he wandered through Kumbh Mela, clicking away at sadhus and pilgrims with an enthusiasm usually reserved for playgrounds. Another time he followed the life of the Indian middle class with equal interest. To him India was not exotic. It was simply an honest stage on which human behaviour performed without inhibition.
Parr’s books grew in number and sometimes in boldness. His photographs of global tourism made many uncomfortable. His work on food confused critics who believed meals should be treated with reverence. Parr continued unfazed. If the world felt uneasy, he felt he had done his job. A photographer’s task is not to massage egos. It is to reveal the truth that hides in plain sight.
He also became a teacher of sorts. Young photographers flocked to his workshops, hoping to borrow a little of his fearlessness. He never pretended that photography was noble. He said often that it was a craft like any other, improved through repetition and sharpened through observation. What mattered was patience. One had to stand long enough at a street corner to notice the small absurdities that others missed.
With time he became a respected figure in the international photography community. Exhibitions travelled across continents. Magazines devoted entire issues to his work. Even those who criticised him earlier grudgingly accepted that he had captured something essential about the modern world. That world, after all, had only become more chaotic, more colourful and more confused. Parr had seen this coming long before others.
In his passing we lose not merely a photographer but a restless observer of the human circus. He held up a mirror to society and did not apologise when the reflection looked a little ridiculous. If anything, he encouraged us to laugh, then look again and perhaps understand ourselves a little better. That was his gift. He made the ordinary extraordinary by paying attention to it.
And in an age drowning in curated perfection, that may be the rarest gift of all.
