By Terry Tinkess, Editor-in-Chief

MORRISBURG, ON – I have heard photography described in many ways, as a hobby, an interest, a pleasant diversion, food for the soul. In some ways, each of these are accurate, at least as far as they go, but photography is much more.

At its core, photography has always been about more than aesthetics. It reaches beyond the play of light and shadow or the pursuit of technical perfection to where its true power lies: In the ability to preserve moments that would otherwise slip silently into the past. As the world seems to be shifting at a breakneck pace socially, environmentally, and politically, the role of the photographer has never been more important. We are the witnesses, the record keepers, the ones who press the shutter at the intersection of time and truth. We capture what happened, what is happening, what is about to happen.

Some would say the world around us is unravelling, faster sometimes than we can understand. Landscapes are being reshaped by climate change, communities transformed by technology and migration, and traditions eroded by the relentless march of modernization. What once might have been remembered through word of mouth or written record is now too easily lost, sometimes intentionally. The photographer stands as a kind of last defence against forgetfulness, armed not with weapons or words, but with the quiet insistence of observation.

Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky describes his feelings for some of his work. “I wish my images could be pleasant, but they are not. They are of a world changing so fast, and not necessarily for the better.” His work documenting industrial landscapes and environmental transformation reveals both the scale of human impact and the fragility of the natural world.

Burtynsky’s words remind us that while the act of photographing change can be at times uncomfortable, it is necessary. To turn away from what is happening would be to surrender the historical record to silence.

Henri Cartier-Bresson, often called the father of modern photojournalism, described photography in this way: “To me, photography is the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event.” That idea, the “decisive moment” underlines photography’s dual role as the creation of art and as a collector of evidence. Every image captured, whether in the chaos of a protest or the stillness of a rural morning, becomes a piece of history that future generations can study, question, and, hopefully, learn from.

As Canadian portraitist Yousuf Karsh observed, “Within every man and woman a secret is hidden, and as a photographer it is my task to reveal it if I can.” Karsh’s portraits of world leaders and artists did more than document appearance; they revealed character, a human layer of history that statistics can never convey. His belief in the power of authenticity speaks to a truth that transcends time: the photograph is not merely a likeness but a record of spirit and presence.

The camera, you see, has the power to hold people accountable. It reminds us that something, once seen, cannot easily be unseen.

Freeman Patterson, one of Canadas most influential photographic educators, offered another layer to this understanding: “The camera always points both ways,” said Patterson. “In expressing the subject, you also express yourself” Every photograph, then, is both documentation and reflection, an act of witnessing that reveals as much about the photographer as it does about the world they capture.

As we move deeper into uncertain times, photography remains one of the most accessible and powerful tools for truth-telling. Whether you are a professional photojournalist on assignment or an amateur documenting your community, the act of photographing is, in essence, an act of preservation. It is saying, this is what happened, and it mattered.

The camera compels attention. It reminds us that history is not just something that happens far away or long ago, it is happening now, all around us, every day.

In pressing the shutter, we aren’t just taking pictures. We are leaving behind a visual testimony of who we were, what we saw, and how we felt. In doing so, we help ensure that when future generations look back, they will find more than statistics or anecdotal stories. They will find images, tiny fragments of light and time, that say, with quiet certainty: We were there, and this is what we saw.