In Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag asks the reader to think about how our engagement with a photograph affects our understanding of suffering and war. In this insightful essay, Sontag evaluates the use of images and the role of photography in representing atrocity, how the interpretation of images is heavily influenced by context, and the effect that these representations have on us - the privileged that live removed from the Other’s pain. In doing so, Sontag addresses three major questions concerning photography and atrocity: What is unique about photography and representation? Why do we look at pictures of atrocities? And how does the act of seeing those images influence us? Sontag offers important thoughts on these questions and challenges how the reader interprets his or her own relationship to images, while at the same time challenging the postmodernist perspective on representation and reality and her earlier work on the anesthetizing effect of images.

According to Sontag, photography, which came into its own capturing images of World War I, possesses an inherent tension between objectivity and subjectivity. The problem with this tension is that it is not always acknowledged. Photographs are more easily accepted as fact, even though truth cannot be established without context or an understanding of the perspective of the photographer and interpretation lies so much with the identity of the viewer. As Sontag writes, “it is always the image that someone chose; to photograph is to frame, and to frame is to exclude” (Sontag 46). She remarks: “A photograph is supposed not to evoke but to show. That is why photographs, unlike handmade images, can count as evidence. But evidence of what?” (47). In the case of the Crimean War, for instance, in 1885 Roger Fenton was sent by the British government to counteract the written reports which portrayed the war in a negative way. Fenton brought back images that made the war seem as if it were a “dignified all-male group outing” by including posed pictures of soldiers in the Crimea, making sure not to photograph the dead, maimed, or ill (50). The “evidence” Fenton created was clearly not representative of the situation in the Crimea.

Photographs also inhabit the space between art and documentation, further adding to the tension between objectivity and subjectivity in photography. Documentation is perceived as objective, whereas art is allowed subjectivity and may include the perspective of the artist. When something appears to have the look of the photographer’s involvement, as is the case when the photograph is particularly beautiful, the veracity of the picture is compromised in the viewer’s eyes. When the images look less artistic they are thought to be less manipulative, and “less likely to arouse facile compassion or identification” (27). Therefore, there has been a trend developing in war photography to make shots look more amateur, gritty, real. Sontag notes: “Transforming is what art does, but photography that bears witness to the calamitous and the reprehensible is much criticized if it seems ‘aesthetic’; that is, too much like art” (76). This sense of the inauthenticity of the beautiful speaks to our expectations of the photography of atrocity. According to Sontag, when people view atrocity they want the weight of witnessing without artistry, which is considered to be disingenuous.

Taking a step back from the process of photography to the interpretation of the image adds another layer to the relationship between the evidentiary guise of the photograph and the subjective interpretation of its meaning. Sontag discusses the importance of context for viewing a photograph by first focusing on the identity of the viewer, then the added narrative of writers or editors, and finally the space in which the photograph is presented. In order to clarify the importance of the identity of the viewer, Sontag focuses on Virginia Woolf’s response to a letter sent by a male lawyer inquiring as to how “we” should prevent war. In Woolf’s reply, she places much emphasis in identifying who “we” is, highlighting the fact that every experience of the world is filtered by the lens of identity. Sontag builds on this by describing interpretations of various pictures of murdered children. She notes that the picture of a dead child, mutilated by a tank round in Gaza, for instance, would be to a Palestinian first of all a picture of a Palestinian child murdered by Israeli ordnance. She remarks that “to the militant, identity is everything,” explaining how one’s identity greatly influences the meaning derived from an image (10). The intention of the photographer becomes irrelevant to determining the meaning of the photograph, since it “will have its own career, blown by the whims and loyalties of the diverse communities that have use for it” (39).

That which frames and showcases a picture, captions and physical space, also shapes the interpretation of it. Captions create context for a photograph, without which it is difficult to determine what the photograph is about, especially if it is a snapshot from something in the distant past. An interesting example of this is the controversy surrounding the pictures taken of the pogrom in Tarnopol during WWII, described by Mark Weber in "Fraud Exposed in Defamatory German Exhibition." These photographs were shown in a German exhibit as evidence that German Wehrmacht troops, not just SS soldiers, perpetrated murder against Jews and others. Many of the pictures, however, came from Soviet-era Russian sources, and after further analysis by historians the images were found to have been mislabeled. The photographs actually showed the victims of Soviet and non-German forces. As Sontag notes, “all photographs wait to be explained or falsified by their captions” (10).

The understanding of photographs is also influenced by where the image is displayed. A picture in a newspaper surrounded by text reads very differently than one placed next to a Diet Coke add in the glossy pages of a magazine. Additionally, Sontag thinks that in contemporary society, there are few contemplative spaces where the gravity of images of atrocity can be felt, if it could ever be truly felt. When these photographs are hung in a gallery they become art, merely stations along a stroll in a social setting. In a book they hold the attention of the viewer longer, but eventually the book is closed and the emotion elicited by the photograph disappears. On television, “image-glut keeps attention light, mobile, relatively indifferent to content” (106). Sontag leaves the reader contemplating the fleetingness of feeling derived from someone else’s pain, offering no apparent solution to the problem other than suggesting narrative should accompany all photographs.

In addition to examining how atrocity is interpreted through photographs, Sontag addresses the question of why people continue to be fascinated by pictures of atrocity. She comes up with two possibilities – one is that photographs are used to remember atrocity and the other is that there is a side of human nature that derives pleasure from seeing other’s pain. To return to the example of the German exhibition of war crimes, supporters of the exhibit claimed that it gave voice to the victims of the Nazi regime and would allow the German people to confront their past in order that none forget it. Photographs are essential for remembering past events, since “to remember is, more and more, not to recall a story but to be able to call up a picture” (89). The scarcity of photographs of the genocide of the Herero or the Rape of Nanking, for example, may have contributed to the relative lack of attention they receive in comparison to the Jewish Holocaust or the Vietnam War. “The problem,” however, “is not that people remember through photographs, but that they remember only the photographs” (89). Sontag’s conviction that there is amnesia regarding events without pictures is not entirely convincing at this point, since certain important speeches or events that occurred before photography was invented are still remembered. However, the importance of photographs cannot be denied, especially as society moves ever further away from having significant un-photographed events as a result of the diffusion and affordability of technology. As noted by Walter Benjamin, history decays into images, not stories.

It is not just a few iconic images of atrocity, however, that make it into the mainstream. Instead, especially if one has access to the Internet, one has the opportunity to look at endless pictures of suffering. The proliferation of images of pain and the reality that people are drawn to them have to do with the less savory side of why we continue to look at photographs of atrocities – the fascination with the suffering of others. Edmund Burke, political theorists, may have been correct when he stated, “I am convinced we have a degree of delight, and that no small one, in the real misfortunes and pains of others” (97). Viewing contemporary pictures of violence could be justified by the fact that they could shock someone into taking action to stop the abuse. For example, even though journalist and Darfur expert Nicholas Kristof has suggested images of victims of genocide are “genocide porn,” an idea shared by Sontag, he still uses them in presentations because he feels they are powerful enough to cause people to act. He also adds the important element of context and narrative, justifying the use of the photographs.

Photographs of past events don’t carry that same obligation. Sontag posits that the only people that should look at photographs are those who could learn from them or stop the atrocity. “The rest of us are voyeurs, whether or not we mean to be” (42). This voyeuristic element is especially prominent in old photographs of victims of genocide. In the case of the Cambodian genocide, for instance, many of the victims were photographed before they were killed. The identity of the photographer is known, but the subjects are nameless, and they live on always as anonymous victims. In a way, viewing these pictures without attempting to identify the victims or do anything proactive with the impressions derived from the viewing could be considered to be re-victimizing those who suffered at the hands of the genocidaires.

After considering possible explanations of how and why we view photographs depicting suffering, the inevitable question is, what effect does this have on us? Sontag addresses two main ideas about the proliferation of images of suffering – othering and compassion fatigue. Sontag introduces the idea of the Other immediately, the title of her work is, after all, Regarding the Pain of Others. It is not our own pain we witness through photography, but the pain of someone else in another place, far removed from our safe space. We, as in “everyone who has never experienced anything like what they went through,” cannot understand the pain of the Other (125). Even though the intention of the photographer was probably to humanize the victims, the extreme nature of the atrocity prohibits the viewers from identifying themselves in the subjects of the picture. If we identify too much, perhaps we would open up the frightful possibility that it could happen to us.

The legacy of colonialism and its history of othering also live on in the photography of atrocity.

The more remote or exotic the place, the more likely we are to have full frontal views of the dead and dying…. These sights carry a double message. They show a suffering that is outrageous, unjust, and should be repaired. They confirm that this is the sort of thing which happens in that place. The ubiquity of those photographs, and those horrors, cannot help but nourish belief in the inevitability of tragedy in the benighted or backward – that is, poor – parts of the world. (70-71)

In certain instances it has also been shown that powerful, Western nations are much faster to react to pictures of suffering when the victims are perceived as more similar to their own citizens. This is part of the history of humanitarian intervention that still hasn’t completely faded into the past. For example, when one compares the action taken after the iconic picture of the starving Bosnian man in a Serb death camp to the inaction taken after photographs taken in Darfur, the difference is noticeable. The legacy of othering, in combination with the violence in the picture, can thus dissuade viewers from identifying with the victims, and promote a sense of otherness. It is important to note, however, that this does not always have to be the case; there was action taken in Yugoslavia as a result of a picture.

The sense of distance from the victims relates to the second idea about the effect of the plentitude of images of atrocity – numbness and compassion fatigue. In Sontag’s earlier book On Photography, she made the argument that the images of violence had the effect of anesthetizing the conscience to violence, leading to inaction and torpor. In a drastically different take on the matter, Sontag critiques the postmodernists view on reality and grapples with the idea of compassion fatigue. Sontag primarily targets Guy Debord and Jean Beaudrillard in her criticism of the intellectual’s position on photography and representation. She writes:

Reports of the death of reality – like the death of reason, the death of the intellectual, the death of serious literature – seem to have been accepted without much reflection by many who are attempting to understand what feels wrong, or empty, or idiotically triumphant in contemporary politics and culture. (110)

Sontag claims that accepting the death of reality universalizes the experiences of a “small, educated population living in the rich part of the world, where news has been converted into entertainment” (110). Adopting such cynicism about media’s sincerity diminishes the experiences of those actually suffering the atrocities, since it assumes that everyone is a spectator. She notes that it assumes there is no real suffering in the world, only representations. In actuality suffering still exists, and the many victims “do not have the luxury of patronizing reality” (111).

Sontag further takes up issue with the idea that the diffusion of violence has desensitized the viewing audience to the point of indifference. Instead of numbness leading to inaction, Sontag posits that lack of action could be the result of fear or of the frustration of being unable to affect change. The viewer has not lost his or her sense of humanity. People don’t “turn off” because of indifference resulting from the hypersaturation of images of violence. They disengage because “war, any war, doesn’t seem as if it can be stopped [which makes]…people … less responsive to the horrors” (101). Compassion fatigue, according to Sontag, does not exist; it is the frustration with helplessness that causes fatigue.

The final notes Sontag leaves the reader with is that we, those removed from the suffering, just don’t get it. This simple idea is a fitting conclusion to her essay, which focuses so much on the viewer’s diminished ability to connect with the subject of a photograph – the result of the nature of interpretation and photography and the inability to respond to what we see in a picture. We can only regard the pain of others; we cannot understand it. Nevertheless, the photograph of atrocity still has an important role to play in promoting action. The fact that a picture can evoke strong emotions in individuals is important. The elicited emotions can only be maintained by effective action, however, and this requires the cooperation and compassion of individuals with power. This action is crucial in deriving something positive from these images. As Sontag states so eloquently: “Compassion is an unstable emotion. It needs to be translated into action, or it withers” (101).

Works Cited/Consulted
Sontag, Susan. Regarding the Pain of Others. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003.

Weber, Mark. "Fraud Exposed in Defamatory German Exhibition," The Journal of Historical Review, volume 18 no. 5/6 (September/December 1999), 6-11.