In “The Echo of Our Voices” (Skira Editore, September 2025), Nick Brandt continues his powerful global series, The Day May Break. This fourth chapter, shot in Jordan’s Wadi Rum—one of the driest regions on Earth—follows earlier installments in Kenya, Zimbabwe, Bolivia, and Fiji. Here, Brandt depicts displaced Syrian families as “human islands,” symbols of endurance in a harsh environment and reminders of those who bear the brunt of climate change despite contributing least to it.
I’ve admired Nick’s work for years, always moved by how he blends allegory with testimony, sorrow with dignity, while keeping the focus on the people and animals in his images. In this new chapter, the interplay between absence and presence, loss and resilience, feels particularly striking. Our discussion explores beauty and ethics, time and metaphor, the ethics of representation, and the role of artists addressing the overlap of war, displacement, and climate crisis.
Art, Ethics, and Aesthetics
There’s an ongoing debate, from Sontag to Linfield, about whether beauty in images of suffering risks making pain seem aesthetic or if it can actually deepen our ethical response. I believe ethics and aesthetics are intertwined, and beauty can be deeply ethical. What’s your view on beauty’s role in art that deals with crisis?
That’s a key question, Alessia, and it’s a delicate balance.
Speaking about my own work, I’m not intentionally seeking beauty in my photos. But the elements I use—fog, soft light, underwater subjects, the sculptural “human islands,” the desert, black and white—all contribute to an aesthetic beauty, perhaps unavoidably.
These images aren’t direct depictions of crisis; they’re portraits of people and animals who have endured trauma.
Regarding any beauty in my photos, I think it’s tied to the calmness they convey. For me, it’s a way to find something to hold onto emotionally amid the world’s darkness and chaos. I see the world as increasingly bleak, and that sense of calm and beauty in the photos acts like a spiritual balm. I should ask my therapist if she agrees with that idea.
Of course, the people and animals in Chapters One, Two, and Four have all suffered due to climate change. I hope viewers see them portrayed with respect and dignity, and I know the subjects themselves feel that way.
When considering other photographers’ beautiful images of crisis, the question is whether that beauty draws viewers in, intrigues them, and ultimately moves them. It really depends on the case.
Your series often feels like it shifts between testimony and dream. Do you see your photographs as evidence, allegory, or something in between?
I’d like to think each chapter is all of those. In The Day May Break, Chapters One and Two, the fog partially obscuring the animals symbolizes the natural world we once knew rapidly vanishing.Consider one photograph from “SINK / RISE, Chapter Three,” featuring Onnie and Keanan. It was taken underwater in Fiji, with the pair on a homemade seesaw. For me, this image evokes a sense of loss for these children’s future. Instead of the innocence we associate with childhood, there’s an ominous feeling.
In the photo, Keanan, the boy, has his head down, using his weight to lift Onnie toward the surface, toward the light and land. She looks upward, facing the future with a tentative hope, yet tinged with anxiety about what lies ahead.
Across “The Day May Break,” time is layered—past loss, present survival, and a looming crisis in the future. In “The Echo of Our Voices,” the concept of “human islands” in Wadi Rum seems to prefigure the future. How do you approach temporality in your work? Are your images elegies, warnings, or seeds of possible futures?
I believe they are all of these. They mourn the damage to lives and the planet, warn of what’s to come, and, because the subjects are survivors, they also represent seeds of future possibility.
Your description of layered time is spot on. In “SINK / RISE,” the underwater scenes with Fijian people, portrayed as if it were normal, suggest a future that hasn’t yet arrived—a kind of pre-apocalypse. The increasing instability of life on Earth, which alarms many of us, is a key element here.
The metaphor of “human islands” is both visual and conceptual. How do you balance metaphor with the reality of the landscapes you photograph? Do you worry that metaphor might obscure as much as it reveals?
I tend to worry about many things, but when I’m creating, I rely on instinct. I don’t think about how others might interpret the images; I’m expressing my concerns about environmental injustice. If others see it too, that’s great, but I don’t dwell on their potential responses during the creative process—it would drive me crazy.
In my earlier work, animals symbolized a vanishing natural world. In “The Echo of Our Voices,” displaced families occupy that space of loss. How do you see the interplay between absence—of home, habitat, certainty—and presence—of human dignity, resilience, and witness—evolving in your series?
My work is shaped by how I feel at the time. As the world seems to grow darker each year, by the end of 2023, I felt a need for a shift in energy in “The Echo of Our Voices.” Presence—a stronger sense of connection and resilience in an increasingly troubled world—became more important. Fortunately, the Syrian families I photographed embodied this perfectly.
There was something about the Syrian families that deeply resonated with me. Having fled the war in Syria between 2013 and 2015, they now face ongoing displacement due to climate change, moving their tents multiple times a year to find areas with enough rainfall for crops and temporary survival.Their employment is a cycle with no end in sight while they remain in Jordan. They all witness the dramatic changes over the past decade, their lives deeply affected by the sharp decline in winter rains. As they put it, water is life, and life is becoming harder.
These individuals have lost everything—their homes, way of life, communities, and land. Now, all they have is each other. This has given them strength and unity in the face of adversity. There is a grace and humility about them that likely helped them connect more with the project’s principles.
Ben and his father Viti, Fiji, 2023. From Sink/Rise: The Day May Break, Chapter Three © Nick Brandt
III. Human Agency and Ethics of Representation
When working with displaced families, choreography and staging naturally come into play. How do you ensure your subjects have agency and are co-authors in their representation, not just passive subjects?
This is crucial. I invited about seven families at a time to stay with us in the desert for six-day weeks, as I prefer to take time experimenting with how to photograph people. I’m not the type of photographer who can capture a compelling portrait in 20 minutes—I envy those who can. It takes me time to get to know someone and figure out how best to photograph them. After each session, the families would step down from the boxes and come over to review some frames through the viewfinder. This way, they understood how they were being portrayed and, over time, contributed more to how they presented themselves.
I believe they saw that they were being photographed with dignity and respect. I hope I have served them well.
Petero by Cliff, Fiji, 2023. From Sink/Rise: The Day May Break, Chapter Three © Nick Brandt
IV. Crisis and Responsibility
The Echo of Our Voices sits at the intersection of war, displacement, and climate breakdown—crises that overlap and intensify each other. How do you balance these dynamics in your work without diminishing any of them?
As you mentioned, it’s a nexus of war, displacement, and climate breakdown. I photograph portraits instinctively, aiming to express what moves me urgently. The balance comes later, in selecting images. Ultimately, these are portraits of the human condition. Even The Cave, a panoramic frieze-like image with 28 Syrian refugees in a desert cave, is a portrait to me.
Women with Sleeping Children, Jordan 2024. From The Echo of Our Voices: The Day May Break, Chapter Four © Nick Brandt
When viewers stand before your photographs, what do you hope they experience? Beyond empathy, do you aim to provoke responsibility, action, or even discomfort?
Ideally, all of the above. If the work can inspire responsibility and action, that’s a significant achievement, though I don’t know how much impact it has. For me, it’s about doing what I do and being even a small part of change, enlightenment, and awareness—that’s what matters.
Ftaim and Family, Jordan, 2024. From The Echo of Our Voices: The Day May Break, Chapter Four © Nick Brandt
But for the images to have a deep impact, viewers need to see them in person—thank you for mentioning that. Viewing them small on a phone is a lost cause. The work is about the expressions on people’s faces, which are best seen in prints or, to some extent, in the large-format book.
Returning to responsibility and action, I’ve been discussing something more lately: the need to be good ancestors, to tread lightly on the planet, and to consider the environmental impact of our actions.For future generations, for the billions of humans, animals, and trees we will never meet.
Zaina, Laila and Haroub, Jordan 2024
From The Echo of Our Voices: The Day May Break, Chapter Four
© Nick Brandt
V. Silence, Echo, and Legacy
The title The Echo of Our Voices implies something that reverberates—heard but distant, both present and absent. What part do silence and the unspoken play in your images? What do you leave to the imagination, and why?
The trauma these people have experienced happens off-camera. Their homes destroyed in another country, their labor in others’ fields, their struggles as refugees—all remain unseen. What you see is their simple presence, their connection. Yet, I hope it’s clear that their strength in being on these islands makes them a kind of life raft in a harsh world.
So yes, I prefer to leave much to the viewer’s imagination. I choose not to photograph families working in the fields, for instance.
And as I’ve said before, I’m also searching for a sense of calm within the chaos—a way to stay sane.
The Cave, Jordan 2024
From The Echo of Our Voices: The Day May Break, Chapter Four
© Nick Brandt
The series is called The Day May Break. Does “break” mean a fracture, a collapse, or a dawn? Now that you’ve finished four chapters—in Kenya/Zimbabwe, Bolivia, Fiji, and Jordan—what does that break mean to you today? And do you still see any signs of dawn?
It does feel like things are getting darker and darker, doesn’t it? The idea of the day breaking—as in the earth shattering—seems to be overpowering the other meaning of daybreak as a new dawn.
But if I may share one of my favorite quotes: “Pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will.”
In my mind, when I look at the path humanity is on, I can only feel exhausted pessimism and anxiety about our future. But as long as my heart beats, it refuses to give up. It beats with the belief—clichéd as it may be—that it’s always important to keep fighting. Our desire and will can overcome a great deal as long as hope and possibility remain.
Majed and Mariam in Moonlight, Jordan, 2024
From The Echo of Our Voices: The Day May Break, Chapter Four
© Nick Brandt
Talking with Nick reminded me that his work is never just about catastrophe. Across four chapters and continents, The Day May Break has become a meditation on our fragile present and threatened future—a work that is at once an elegy, a warning, and a fragile promise. The Echo of Our Voices deepens this path, focusing more on human resilience in the face of loss and the echoes of stories that must be heard.
Nick Brandt photographing The Day May Break, Chapter One, Zimbabwe, 2020
This autumn, the work will be on display at the Hangar Art Center in Brussels, giving viewers the chance to experience these images on the scale they deserve—prints that reveal every detail of expression and gesture. What stays with me most is Nick’s insistence that while the day may break as fracture and collapse, it can also break as dawn. His images remind us that we still have the ability—and the responsibility—to be better ancestors, to hold onto hope, and to keep fighting.
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about Nick Brandts The Day May Break
General Thematic Questions
Q What is The Day May Break about
A Its a global photography project by Nick Brandt that portrays people and animals affected by environmental destruction and climate change exploring themes of loss survival and shared vulnerability
Q What is the main message or theme of the series
A The core theme is the interconnectedness of all life It shows that humans and animals are equally victims of the climate crisis sharing a common fate and a fragile existence on a damaged planet
Q Why is it called The Day May Break
A The title suggests a world on the verge of a breakdowna day that may shatter due to ecological collapse It evokes a feeling of a precarious pivotal moment in time
About the Art Technique
Q How did Nick Brandt create these photos
A He photographed people and animals in the same frame on the same set The animals are rescues living in sanctuaries and conservancies and the people are individuals who have been displaced or impacted by climate change
Q Why do the photos look so hazy and dreamlike
A Brandt uses a special effect often artificial fog or mist to create a unified ethereal atmosphere This visual haze symbolizes the blurred line between the present and a potential bleak future and it connects all the subjects within the frame
Q Are the animals in the photos wild
A No A crucial part of the project is that all the animals are rescues that can no longer survive in the wild They are cared for by sanctuaries making the photos ethically produced
Q Where were the photographs taken
A The project was shot in multiple chapters across different continents including locations in Kenya Zimbabwe Bolivia and the United States highlighting that this is a global issue
Deeper Meaning Interpretation
Q What is Nick Brandt trying to say by putting people and animals together
A He is breaking down the barrier between human and animal worlds By showing them sharing the same space and the same plight he emphasizes that we are all in this together facing a common existential threat