Huck

Humanity has never stopped moving. From the moment we first launched ourselves onto two legs, reaching out beyond our evolutionary cradle in the horn of Africa, our history has been marked by ceaseless travel. As a species, we have spread to the fart

I was born in Marysville, California, 1951. Back then, they would have said I was an over-active child… but I think we have more clinical names for that now! I didn’t particularly do well in school or tests, though I always excelled in art and visual

In my childhood home, there was an old black-and-white photograph that used to hang in the hallway. It was a family portrait – of my grandparents, my great uncles and my mother as a three-year-old, all posing in a photographer’s studio. At the time,

I got my first BMX when I was 10. Nowadays, BMXing and skateboarding is cool, but back then we were outcasts – you’d get beat up just for being different. When I was a kid, home was Newmains, a working-class, ex-mining town about 20 miles southeast o

My love for photography comes from my grandfather. He was captain of a ship in World War II and came back quite clearly traumatised. He used to shout at everyone in the family, but he’d also take pictures of us all, using a waist-level box camera. I

I remember coming across Ernest Cole’s book, House of Bondage, when I was in high school. At the time, I was familiar with a lot of black photographers – but not black South African ones. So when I learned of his work, I was immediately inspired. The

Two years ago I walked to the hospital for a routine check-up and was told that I had been having contractions all afternoon without knowing. They told me that the baby was on his way, over a month early, and immediately prepped me for an emergency c

I’ve always craved a challenge. I’ve spent a lot of my life seeking out adventures and new experiences. Even when I was young, growing up outside Chicago, we would ride our bikes anywhere we wanted. There were creeks and forests that you could disapp

If I could pinpoint the moment photography became more significant in my life, it would be when my mother was diagnosed with an illness. I was in my last year of high school, and I had also just discovered that my parents had separated. I felt that m

I came of age in some of the darkest years of apartheid. Coming from a moderately liberal family – my parents were in fact both German Jewish refugees who fled the Holocaust – I grew up with a sense that I had unearned white privilege. Like many whit

People have questioned my validity in the photo industry. I guess that comes with the territory of getting an A1 feature for your first New York Times assignment, but also for being a young, black, female photographer. There is definitely some resist

Earlier this fall I decided to take the long way back to my hotel and wandered through the Christian neighbourhood of Erbil in northern Iraq. I cut down a quiet side street lined with small houses and stopped in front of a concrete, sand-coloured bui

When I look at the images Cristina Garcia Rodero’s makes, I see a synergy in our work. I believe it’s because we both like to spend time with people. We enjoy the union one creates with others through the process of photography – there’s a similar en

I grew up in a house of secrets. Every family has a story. You grow up with your version of it, but as an adult that narrative shifts beneath your feet as more facts are revealed. When I was 27, my mother told me she was a mail-order bride. She didn’

I don’t remember my first photographs. There were never really any signs I wanted to be a photographer – I didn’t even know what one was as a child. I was born in Tokyo and raised in Shizuoka and Kanagawa Prefecture, the eldest son alongside my two b