A BIT OF A PREAMBLE.

In a time when images are everywhere - instant, sharp, and endlessly repeatable - what does it mean to make an image that quietly invites attention?

Photogravure doesn’t demand to be seen. It doesn’t shout its meaning. It’s an echo rather than a declaration. The viewer is invited not to decode or react, but to dwell - to sit with the image and allow it to unfold in time.

This is the beginning of a collection of notes on photogravure. Not as a process guide or a historical timeline, but as a conversation about what it feels like to make and experience these prints. About what this medium allows, and why that is of interest to me.

Photogravure occupies a unique space. Between photography and printmaking. It’s photography, yes, but softened and filtered through a tactile, handmade process. It doesn’t live in the same world as high-gloss digital photos or the cold, surgical sharpness of inkjet prints.

It’s something slower. Something quieter.

The process itself encourages interpretation. The image, once precise, begins to dissolve: softened by the grain of an aquatint screen, warmed by the ink, held in the gentle pressure of the press. By the time a photogravure print emerges, it’s no longer a document - it’s an invitation. Less about what happened, more about how it felt.

In that sense, photogravure resists the expectations of photography as evidence. It favours the visually poetic over the factual. The suggestive over the explicit. The hand, the gesture, the imperfection - these become integral to the process, not incidental.

This series of notes explores how photogravure blurs boundaries: between photograph and print, craft and concept, past and present. And how its ambiguity isn’t a flaw - but the point.

If you’ve ever stood before a print and felt something you couldn’t quite name - something soft, slow, and deep - you’ve already felt what photogravure can do.