The Day May Break: Nick Brandt on Absence, Presence, and Hope

In The Echo of Our Voices (Skira Editore, September 2025), renowned photographer Nick Brandt ventures further into his critical global series, The Day May Break. Following impactful chapters set in Kenya, Zimbabwe, Bolivia, and Fiji, this new installment captures the stark realities of displaced Syrian families in Jordan’s Wadi Rum, a region plagued by severe water scarcity. Brandt’s compelling imagery presents these families as “human islands,” symbolizing resilience amidst an inhospitable environment, while also representing the tragic irony of those who bear the brunt of climate change yet contributed least to its causes.

Throughout my engagement with Nick’s artistry over the years, I have been consistently impressed by his talent for evocatively intertwining themes of allegory and testimony, grief and dignity, while preserving the humanity at the core of his images. In this latest chapter, the interplay between absence and presence, loss and resilience, strikes a particularly poignant note. My discussions with Nick span various topics including the aesthetic value of imagery, ethics of representation, and the responsibilities artists face amidst the interconnected crises of war, displacement, and climate change.

I. Art, Ethics, and Aesthetics

The theoretical discourse regarding the interplay of beauty and suffering in art has long been a subject of debate, prompting discussions from influential figures like Susan Sontag to Linda Linfield. On one hand, the aestheticization of pain can be problematic, yet others suggest that beauty can deepen ethical engagement. In your perspective, how do you view beauty’s role in art addressing crises?

That’s a significant question, Alessia. I believe it’s a delicate balance.

Initially addressing your inquiry based on my practice, I do not consciously hunt for beauty in my photographs. Instead, elements like fog, soft light, sculptural representations of “human islands,” the desert, and my choice of black-and-white photography naturally contribute to an aesthetic quality that emerges in the work.

While my images may not depict direct crises, they are intimate portraits of individuals and animals enduring trauma. The sense of calm present in these photographs stems, I believe, from a need to find something emotionally anchorable amid chaos. The escalating bleakness of our world makes me seek calm and beauty as a sort of spiritual comfort amidst turmoil—a hypothesis I may need to explore further with my therapist.

Furthermore, as highlighted in Chapters One, Two, and Four, the subjects—whether families in Kenya, Zimbabwe, or now the Syrians in Jordan—all grapple with life-altering adversities brought about by climate change.

This notional beauty within my work emerges as a method of seeking solace amid the chaos—a reaction to a world steeped in darkness. I hope viewers recognize that I present these subjects with utmost respect and dignity.

By contrast, I also ponder whether the aesthetic allure of certain crisis images can serve to attract viewers. Such intrigue may engage audiences on a deeper emotional level, potentially moving them for the better—something that varies case by case.

As I observe your collection, it’s apparent that your works oscillate between testimony and dreamlike qualities. Do you view your photographs as evidence, allegory, or both?

I’d like to believe that each chapter transcends both interpretations. In Chapters One and Two of The Day May Break, the fog—partially veiling the animals—serves as a symbolic representation of the fragile natural world that is retreating from our sight.

For instance, in Chapter Three titled SINK / RISE, the image of children photographed underwater on a makeshift seesaw in Fiji resonates with the theme of lost childhood amidst looming uncertainty.

For me, the image of Onnie and Keanan striving to play whilst submerged reflects a profound loss—not just of their childhood, but of innocence overshadowed by uncertainty.

One might interpret Keanan’s downward posture as one burdened by responsibility, while Onnie, gazing upward, embodies a flicker of hope tempered by anxiety regarding their unpredictable future.

II. Time, Metaphor, and Presence

Temporal dimensions, spanning previous losses, present survival, and impending crises, weave throughout The Day May Break. The concept of “human islands” in The Echo of Our Voices prompts reflections on potential futures. How do you navigate time within your work? Are your images elegies, warnings, or seeds of upcoming possibilities?

I strive for my works to represent all of the above. They are elegies for lives irreparably damaged and destroyed, harbingers of what lies ahead, and by virtue of these subjects’ survival, seeds of potential futures.

Regarding your insightful description of layered temporality, I find it resonates. Regarding Chapter Three, the depiction of Fijian individuals portrayed underwater paints a troubling picture of a possible future—one that hints at a pre-apocalyptic state.

Amidst this, the inevitable impermanence of life and deepening instability on our planet serves as a crucial element of contemplation.

The overarching title of your series, The Day May Break, evokes a duality—suggesting fracture and collapse, yet also the prospect of a new dawn. Having completed four chapters spanning distinct global narratives, how do you interpret that “break” today? Do you still perceive potential signs of dawn?

Indeed, the pervasive darkness surrounds us. The notion of “breaking” conflates the earth-shattering with the emerging dawn—currently, the former often overshadows the latter.

Recalling a remarkable phrase, “Pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will,” I find that I can only envision our future with impending dread and anxiety. Yet, I hold onto the belief that hope and courage should persist. The heartbeat within me resists surrender, as it is crucial to engage and fight for hope’s possibility amidst despair.