"When you are younger, the camera is like a friend and you can go places and feel like you're with someone, like you have a companion"
About this Quote
Youth turns the camera into a social alibi: a piece of gear that doubles as a passport and a chaperone. Annie Leibovitz frames it less as a tool for making images than as a relationship you lean on. That’s the sly emotional truth inside her line: the camera doesn’t just record your life; it authorizes you to enter other people’s lives and to justify your own curiosity. You’re not lurking, you’re working. You’re not alone, you’re “with” the camera.
The intent is disarmingly personal, almost tender, but it carries a professional backstory. Leibovitz came up shooting Rolling Stone in the 1970s, embedded in scenes where access was everything and self-possession had to be learned on the fly. In that context, the camera becomes a kind of credential you can hold in front of yourself when you don’t yet have confidence, money, or status. It’s a shield and a ticket at once.
The subtext: companionship isn’t only about comfort, it’s about permission. A young photographer can approach strangers, cross thresholds, take risks, because the camera gives purpose to what might otherwise feel like trespass. There’s also a quiet melancholy here. Calling the camera a friend hints at the trade-off: you can substitute looking for belonging, proximity for intimacy. Leibovitz isn’t romanticizing innocence; she’s naming the way art-making can start as self-protection, then harden into identity. The “friend” is real, but it’s also a rehearsal for becoming the person who no longer needs one.
The intent is disarmingly personal, almost tender, but it carries a professional backstory. Leibovitz came up shooting Rolling Stone in the 1970s, embedded in scenes where access was everything and self-possession had to be learned on the fly. In that context, the camera becomes a kind of credential you can hold in front of yourself when you don’t yet have confidence, money, or status. It’s a shield and a ticket at once.
The subtext: companionship isn’t only about comfort, it’s about permission. A young photographer can approach strangers, cross thresholds, take risks, because the camera gives purpose to what might otherwise feel like trespass. There’s also a quiet melancholy here. Calling the camera a friend hints at the trade-off: you can substitute looking for belonging, proximity for intimacy. Leibovitz isn’t romanticizing innocence; she’s naming the way art-making can start as self-protection, then harden into identity. The “friend” is real, but it’s also a rehearsal for becoming the person who no longer needs one.
Quote Details
| Topic | Friendship |
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