Editor’s note: I just got some more background info on the making of the book. So, it turns out this has always been the intended size (as designed in totality by Chris) and that Steidl actually did print it one point, but the estate rejected the printing for it being overly muddy, which is really compelling. It was printed at a time during a period of mourning and if I read between the lines, sounds like it was peeled off the press quickly to simply get it finished.

Farewells are often uneven. One never knows if there will be a return or a drift from when one sees a friend or family member last to the point in which they see or hear from them no more. Time increases the chance that the last farewell is indeed the ultimate. I am reminded of this whenever I pick up Skinningrove, the last book by Chris Killip that has been sitting on the corner of my desk for some time now, gathering polite dust. The reason that I have not reviewed it until now is not that I don’t think it’s great; it is. Killip’s photographs are slightly tricky for me to look at. Not all of them, of course, but specific images are so blatantly close to the bone that I have trouble contemplating how a British man making photographs in a place that I have never been or even considered can get under my skin so surgically to pull at the loose chords of my heart. Writing that last half-sentence would generally make me gag with contempt for myself and the sentimentality attached to it. Still, with Killip’s work, I find it very hard to express, in human terms, how else his images affect me, particularly the photograph of Simon Coultas being taken to sea for the first time since his father, David, drowned from 1984. This photograph is in the pantheon of essential photographic images for me. If I had an imaginary photographic museum, this image would be displayed on a prominent wall to suggest the reverence for which I believe it is due.

When I grow upI want to live near the seaCrab claws and bottles of rumThat’s what I’ll haveStaring at a seashellWaiting for it to embrace me -FR.

Sometimes, living near the sea has different plans for us. Sometimes, it is impossible to forgive the soil from which we are born, the proximity to our labors, and the general condition of being. Loss dictates much of how our life plays out. Chris Killip’s photograph can never be outdone in terms of pure pathos. No hug will be big enough for that young man, no trinkets given, no words spoken will erase what the sea has taken from him, and I feel as though I would typically be trespassing in looking at this child, who is a man my age now if the sea hasn’t also claimed him. He would be a decade older than his father when he drowned. How did his life pan out? I am unusually aware of Simon. Very few single photographs nurture my desire to know more about the person inside the frame. I think of people in pictures as interesting, fecund with detail and possibility, but they do not often come with a back story that sinks into the nape of the neck like the heft from a heavy, sweaty axe.

Chris Killip’s Skinningrove is not contained in this one photograph, nor is his career confined to Skinningrove. As a master of something we might describe as a British social documentary, Killip’s career is littered with accolades and impressive books such as In Flagrante and The Station, amongst others. Still, the body of work, Skinningrove, has an almost mythical status. It was published in a magazine/newspaper format in 2018 and was dropped in all the mailboxes of the Skinningrove village. Other than that, several images from the work hold an iconic status both in the artist’s oeuvre and the medium’s history. Bever taking in the early morning sun and crabs, people, and dogs are often seen as shining examples of Killip’s work. There are others, but these images vie for significant contributions to the medium. What is excellent about this iteration of the work is seeing many of the supporting pictures come to life in the book.

Having waited through Steidl’s improbable release schedule, who had the book before Stanley/Barker, a build-up of sizable proportions has been escalated with this release. As with all things Steidl, there has been a long delay in printing the book. From the whispers amongst the pines, there is word that Steidl’s unorthodox decision of when to print a book is hard to pin down. Steidl remains a superb printer, though I watch with some sadness as the number of extraordinary contributions to the photobook medium gets thinner and thinner over the years. We do not need another Robert Frank title simply because someone will buy it. We do not need iterative versions of books already published. We do not need another bird book from Jim Dine.

We need fresh material or a more sincere addition to the cannon than currently offered. There is a huge missed opportunity currently at Steidl to take on significant projects that would continue the reign the company once had from the early 2000s-the early 2010s. This is where it would behoove Steidl to find a new, younger version of Michael Mack, whose tenure at Steidl produced some of the finest books before departing to start his own, now overshadowing imprint, MACK. As is the case with one-man shows, I suspect not much will change at Steidl. I’m not even sure a legacy or continuation has been thought through. As is the case with one-man shows, it is hard to fathom what a complete handover would look like, as I suspect most of the business lives inside that man’s head.

In critical response, I would have liked to see a slightly larger, slightly darker-printed Skinningrove. This book version is printed by EBS in Verona (no slouches), but in critical response I would liked to have seen something slightly closer to the the size and printing of In Flagrante Two with Skinningrove though I realize that Killip designed this to his liking. It is a simple subjectivity that I think would have made the work more monumental, but perhaps that was not Killip’s desire. Bigger in the case of work like this is decision and Killip lived amongst the grove, so perhaps his idea was one of intimacy.

Rachel and Greg have been working hard, published some excellent legacy titles, and spotlighted a group of artists from the Eastern seaboard, particularly women. When this title came under their tenure, I felt slightly proud that they managed to get the book. It will travel, and not having to see it hit the remainder tables, as many Steidl titles eventually do, will be great. There is something about the publishers being British that also makes sense here. I feel the past years since Brexit kicked in have made certain commercial activities like publishing difficult for British publishers, and with more eyes looking toward the continent for publishing with less strenuous headaches associated with distribution, customs, etc., it is great to see a title like Skinningrove remain native.

As for the book, what remains heavy for me in the pictures is still there but surrounded by something much brighter. Looking in on Bever, Simon, and their associates as they mend nets, push boats to shore, or ponder the seafront in the book opens the world within up like a community. Personalities develop. We see the town’s size and begin to understand its shape more and more. This is Killip’s gift, along with the decisions made to produce the book in this manner, namely that in the tradition of the documentary, however elusive that is, is an ability to hint, if not declare a whole story, and the hinting is the best part. Forming an atmosphere where we can draw some assertions to the place and people is how projects like this develop in the viewer’s mind, and nothing is absolute. We are reminded that we have names and situations outlined in small titles on the pages along the way. They are only vaguely descriptive, allowing viewers to project and draw their narratives.

To be clear, the publication of this book is another in a series of ungovernably brilliant books by Killip. Stanley/Barker has done a fine job and will be treasured on many shelves over the coming years. It is a book that I will look at, but not often, preferring to savor my interactions with it over finding solace in over-study. It is a book that takes time and a series of photographs that have, at their very heart, an extreme form of empathy that passes as documentary. Still, I can’t think it might just be the furthest thing from it, loaded with subjective dissonance and a close rapport, making any objective qualifications nearly impossible. I hope that you know about the work and do not need my recommendation to pick it up, but with that said, this book has my highest recommendation.