A Print is the Final Photograph

Andrew Lakeside

Most people think a photograph is done when it’s edited, when it looks just right on a screen. I don’t.

For me, an image isn’t real until it’s printed—until it leaves the digital ether and takes up space in the world. A print has weight. Texture. Presence. It absorbs light instead of emitting it. A screen is ephemeral, glowing for as long as the pixels hold their charge. A print, though—it lingers. It can be held, turned over, examined. It can be lost, found, smudged, and worn at the edges from too much handling.

I have spent years—decades, really—chasing the depth and gravity that only black and white photography can give. The way silver or ink settles into paper. The way light and shadow carve a face, revealing something of the sitter but also something of the viewer. A great portrait doesn’t just show someone; it asks something of you.

That’s why I print. Not for permanence, but for meaning.

Photography isn’t just about capturing a moment—it’s about considering it. A print slows you down. It asks you to look again, to feel the weight of time, to recognize that every photograph is both a document and an interpretation. Susan Sontag said that photographs “certify experience,” but I think printing a photograph is what truly gives it life. It’s the final act of seeing.

When was the last time you printed a photograph? Not a quick 4x6 from a drugstore, but a real, deliberate print? Held an image in your hands? Saw how it changed? Saw how you changed?