Sergio Larraín’s Letter to His Nephew: A Photography Lesson in the Age of AI

In 1982, the renowned Chilean photographer Sergio Larraín wrote a heartfelt letter to his nephew, Sebastián Donoso, who was just beginning his journey into the world of photography. In this letter, Larraín shared his profound insights into the essence of photography, emphasizing the importance of personal experience, patience, and the quest for authenticity.

Why go out to photograph when I can generate an image with AI?

This question takes on even greater significance in 2024, a time when artificial intelligence (AI) and tools capable of creating realistic images without leaving home are rapidly gaining prominence. However, Larraín’s response, written decades earlier, remains as relevant as ever: photography is not just about producing images; it’s about capturing a moment, an emotion, and a personal experience.

Rediscovering the Love for Authenticity

In a world oversaturated with images—where copying and artificiality are commonplace—Larraín’s letter invites us to reflect on the value of traditional photography. His message urges a return to the essentials, to the pursuit of beauty in the everyday, the imperfect, and the real.

Sergio Larraín’s letter is an invitation to rediscover the magic of photography. In a world dominated by technology, he reminds us that the essence of this art lies in personal experience, authenticity, and the search for beauty in the ordinary.

Are You Ready to Fall Back in Love with Photography?

Wednesday.
The first thing you need is a camera that you love, one that you feel comfortable with, because it’s all about being content with the tool in your hands. The camera is essential for any craftsperson, and it should be the bare minimum—just what’s necessary, nothing more. Second, get an enlarger that suits you, the simplest and best one possible (for 35mm, the smallest model made by LEITZ is ideal, and it will last you a lifetime).

Once you get home, you develop, make prints, and start looking at what you’ve “caught”—all the fish. You tape them to the wall with scotch tape, print them in postcard size, and keep looking at them. Then, you start playing with L-shaped frames, searching for cuts and learning how to compose. You learn about geometry, framing everything perfectly with those L-shaped tools, then enlarging what you’ve framed and leaving it on the wall. This way, you keep observing. When it becomes clear to you that a photo is bad, throw it straight into the trash. Move your best shots a little higher on the wall. In the end, save only the good ones—nothing more (keeping the mediocre will keep you stuck in mediocrity). Only the best should be saved at the top; everything else should be discarded because you carry everything you retain in your psyche.

You keep living peacefully—draw a little, go for walks, and never force yourself to go out and take photos. Forcing it kills the poetry; the life within photography becomes sick. It’s like forcing love or friendship—it just doesn’t work. When the inspiration is born again, you can set off on another trip, another wander: perhaps to Puerto Aguirre, or ride a horse down the Baker River to the glaciers from Aysén. Valparaíso is always a wonder—it’s about losing yourself in the magic, wandering the hills and streets for days, sleeping in a sleeping bag somewhere at night, completely immersed in reality. It’s like swimming underwater—nothing distracts you, nothing conventional touches you. You let yourself be carried by your slow-moving sandals, as if you were a little tipsy from the joy of observing, humming to yourself. You photograph what appears with more care this time, because you’ve learned a bit about composing and framing. Now, you do it with the camera, filling your cart with “fish,” and then you return home. You learn about focus, aperture, depth of field, saturation, shutter speed, and so on. You start to play with the camera’s possibilities and gather poetry—yours and others’. Take everything good you find, including from others. Create a collection of optimal things—a little museum in a folder.

Follow what pleases you, and nothing else. Don’t trust anything more than your own taste—you are life, and life chooses what it loves. If you don’t like something, don’t look at it—it’s useless. You are the only criterion, but learn from everyone else. As you keep learning, when you have a truly good photo, enlarge it. Create a small exhibition or a little book, and have it bound. By doing this, you’ll establish a foundation. When you show your work, you’ll figure out what it is by seeing how others respond. Making an exhibition is like giving something to eat; it’s good for others to see something made with effort and care. It’s not about showing off—it’s healthy for everyone, and it’s good for you because it helps you keep track of your progress.

Well, with this, you have enough to get started. There’s a lot of wandering—sitting under a tree somewhere. It’s about walking alone through the universe. You begin to see again, and the conventional world places a veil in front of you. You need to step out from behind that veil during the time you’re practicing photography

Time to Begin

This is enough to get you started. A lot of it is wandering—sitting under a tree somewhere. It’s about walking alone through the universe. You start seeing again, and the conventional world places a veil over you. You need to escape that veil while you’re in the period of photography.

Larraín’s letter continues to be a timeless guide for photographers, even in today’s AI-driven era. It’s a reminder that the soul of photography lies in personal experience, authenticity, and the beauty of seeing the world with fresh eyes.

FAQs

1. What is the essence of Sergio Larraín’s letter?
Larraín’s letter emphasizes the importance of authenticity, personal experience, and patience in the art of photography, as opposed to simply generating images.

2. How does Larraín’s philosophy contrast with AI-generated imagery?
Larraín’s philosophy focuses on capturing real moments and emotions, while AI-generated imagery lacks the depth of personal experience and human interaction with the environment.

3. What advice does Larraín offer to beginner photographers?
He suggests starting with a camera you love, practicing patience, and learning through trial and error by analyzing and refining your work.

4. How relevant is Larraín’s advice in today’s technology-driven world?
His advice is timeless. Even in the age of AI, the essence of photography—authenticity and capturing genuine moments—remains irreplaceable.

5. What’s the most important lesson from Larraín’s letter?
The most important lesson is to trust your instincts, embrace the process of learning, and focus on authenticity and personal vision rather than perfection.