CRITICAL PHOTOJOURNALISM

Lisa Krantz, Assistant Professor, University of Montana, Missoula, is a former fellow at the Nieman Foundation for Journalism, Harvard and an Ochberg Fellow with the Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma. She was part of The Washington Post team awarded the 2024 Pulitzer Prize in National Reporting for their series “American Icon,” on the best selling rifle in the United States. Before receiving her Ph.D. from University of Missouri Journalism School and moving into academia, Krantz spent 24 years as a newspaper photographer, most recently at the San Antonio Express-News (TX) and continues to photograph for news organizations globally. The two-time Pulitzer Prize finalist in Feature Photography, Krantz’ work has received multiple awards from the Pictures of the Year International, World Press Photo, Best of Photojournalism, among others.

The interview was lightly edited for clarity and length.

LK: I’d like to talk first about my experience working with Hector Garcia. Hector wanted to tell his story because he knew he had an important story to tell, and he wanted people to understand how he wound up in the situation that he was in—600 lbs and unable to walk more than a few feet because he had carried so much weight for so long that it had destroyed the cartilage in both of his knees. He needed to lose weight. He had a doctor who had committed to doing knee replacements for him if he lost 300 pounds. And so I followed him through the process. 

I worked on the story on and off for about four years. For most of the time we spent together, he was doing really well. He was losing weight and reaching his goals. It was a very positive story—documenting his journey as he stepped back into his life. I had this dream ending of him getting his own apartment, because he lived with his parents, and getting a girlfriend—living the life that he had dreamed of but had never experienced. 

Unfortunately, the story took a dark turn. The second knee replacement did not go well and he wound up having to have two more surgeries on that knee. There was enormous pain and he was not able to be as active as he had been when he was losing the weight—before the surgery. He grew very depressed, and started gaining weight again. All of his hope was wrapped up in these knee replacements, which he felt would give him a new life and the ability to do all the things he dreamed of. He was never the same after the second surgery. 

I started getting extremely worried that he was not going to survive. He was having breathing issues again. At the same time, my editors were as interested. It wasn't that they were not supportive. They would give me time to work on the story over the years if I needed time to go to surgeries, to exercise with him or for his birthday—but it wasn't the news of the day.

And I had to let go of this dream of a success story for Hector. We had to run it, we owed it to Hector and I didn’t know if he was going to make it. So, it became a realistic story on the horrible cycle of obesity, especially in South Texas. I mean, how many people lose weight and keep it off forever? Not that many. He had struggled since he was five-years-old, as did his whole family. 

We set a date to publish the story, and I was finishing up writing it and the multimedia component. A good friend from Dallas came down to help me finish editing the video and she really wanted to meet Hector. She also had struggled with her weight for years. We went over to his house and hung out with him for a couple of hours—laughing, talking about reality TV and connecting. Then we went back to my house to finish editing. I didn’t even make any photos.

His mom called me a couple of hours later and said that he had died. 

When he had his first knee surgery and was going to be under anesthesia, he knew he might have a problem and had written letters to everyone in his life, to all his family members. He put them in a manila envelope and asked me to hold on to them. I hung onto them for a while, and then eventually I gave them back to him. After he died, I told his mom about the envelope, which she eventually found. The letters were still there, and there was a letter to me. And the last line of it was, “Finish the story and let it be a cautionary tale, one that might prevent a repeat of the tragedy that was my life.” 

JW: Lisa, this story must have taken a huge toll on you. You were, and still are, super close to the family. They even consider you a member of their family.

LK: Yes. You know, people kind of adopt us when we spend that much time with them, especially in their intimate spaces. That's pretty common when you spend years with people. They call you family. They say, “You're part of our family. We love you.” That's what they say and we say it back. 

One of the hardest things for me was feeling guilty that the story didn’t get published earlier. Of course, losing Hector was absolutely awful. He was a beautiful soul that wouldn't have hurt anything or anyone, and yet a lot of people hurt him. I felt like I'd totally failed him and his family. I have apologized to his family many times over, and they never blamed me in any way, or had any problem with the timing of the story publication—or at least they never told me they did. His mom said she felt that I had just been with him and that it was his time to go. Other family members said that if he hadn’t died, the story might not have had the same effect as it did on so many people—that it wouldn't have gone as far and the people wouldn't have had the same reaction. They all said that he would have been so happy that what he needed to say reached so many people.  I'd much rather have him alive and have no no story about him. But I can’t turn back time.

JW: I remember that you were working on a number of longer-term stories that were also very difficult—all around the same time, Lisa?

LK: There were certainly plenty of other stories that I was working on at the same time, I mean both assigned and ones that I had chosen to work on. There was Rowan’s story… He was a little boy who struggled with Shwachman-Diamond syndrome, a disorder that affected his bone marrow, leaving him allergic to almost everything. He had to be fed through a tube in his stomach, and kids with Shwachman-Diamond syndrome are not expected to live into their teens. Their only real hope for survival past their teens is getting a successful bone marrow transplant. Rowan embraced life, despite spending a third of his life in a hospital.

I learned about him through his mom’s blog and I connected with them through a mutual friend and Facebook. At first, I thought I would follow him from March through his bone marrow transfer that summer and whatever followed. The transfer was going to be at Seattle Children's, which was not going to be easy for me to go back and forth. He also didn't have a perfect bone marrow match. So, I started photographing the family and followed them to Seattle for an appointment at the hospital. The hospital gave me little access—that was a nightmare and could be a whole chapter in and of itself for your book! He had a stem cell transplant from his mom and I followed them through that, but his body rejected the transplant. 

They tried the procedure again with his dad, and so I went. But while I was on my way to Seattle, Rowan’s mom, Carrie, texted me that he was going into the pediatric intensive care unit because he was deteriorating. I arrived and drove straight from the airport to the hospital. Rowan said, “Hi,” and then went to sleep. I never really saw him awake again. He had the second stem cell transplant and I photographed the procedure minimally because the hospital gave me almost no access. But he never really woke up after that.  

After Rowan died, I could not look at the photos. Of course, here I was again—writing the story, doing the video and the audio, which is fine, but a lot of work. Author’s note:  This story was a Pulitzer Prize Finalist in Feature Photography

Rowan’s story was spread out because he actually didn't live in San Antonio. He lived in New Braunfels, about an hour from my house, so I wouldn't see him as often as I would have liked. I always felt that pull of “Am I missing things?” And I had awful trouble getting hospital access. And like Hector, I had this dream ending photo of him attending school for the first time after the marrow transplant was a success. But that did not happen…

And then there was a mass shooting at a church near San Antonio, about 30 miles from San Antonio, at First Baptist Church of Sutherland Springs. I was deep in the production of Rowan’s story, and not really doing anything else. I knew that I couldn’t dive into that level of trauma. A lot of kids were killed—26 people were killed. For a month, I stayed away and other staff photographers went. Then a reporter got the go ahead from a family to do an interview and the photo director asked me if I would go with them to make the photos for the interview. I jokingly say that they tricked me, because they knew that once they got me there that I would stay, and I did.

I was in awe of how the people from Sutherland Springs were able to move forward. I think it was because they were this tight knit church family, they supported each other and they embraced each other in the aftermath of this tragedy. And so, in a way, I felt like it was really healing for me to be around them and seeing how they dealt with their grief. I wanted our readers to see how they were coping. But what I didn't see coming was the negative impact on me of hearing the details of a mass shooting—what happened inside the church—over and over and over for more than a year.

Listening to the details of all the things that happened inside that church during the shooting pushed me over the edge, for the lack of a better term. And also, no matter what, even if it was the most beautiful moment I had ever photographed, I was there because something horrific had happened to these people. It's always right there on the surface. I always told them that I wished I had met them for any other reason. It was such a traumatic story—not my story—but I was still hearing it over and over, and as an empathetic, sensitive person, you feel it.

JW: So when you say you were pushed over an edge, what does that mean? 

LK: The cumulative impact of working on so many traumatic stories and never taking a break.

JW: And not having anybody who was trauma-informed to support you. You would go from one difficult story to the next, to the next… Having editors notice and provide resources for us has not traditionally been part of the newsroom culture, has it?

LK: Exactly. Especially when you and I were deep into this work—it was the opposite culture. The last thing that we would do, as women, is show that we were emotional, sensitive, empathetic beings, because then we were already seen as less-than by some. We were seen as not as capable as men and we were considered more “emotional.” Why would that impact our work in a negative way? I mean, who came up with that narrative, right?

I found that as time went on, I couldn't get away from stories of a traumatic nature. I wasn't choosing them anymore. I was being assigned to them. And as our staff shrunk, there was no one else to do them most of the time—or to do them long term. For many people, it’s not their natural way of working—long term stories. Most prefer daily assignments, sports, and features. So I just kept getting assigned the harder stories, and the minute it would end, the photo director would come to me with a new one. I found that I was becoming overly emotional at times and would be crying as I was photographing. I felt like I was rubbed completely raw. Some people build a shell. They’re rock hard, but I was breaking down. I couldn’t build a wall. Some people become detached and compartmentalize. The opposite happened for me and my emotions were very much on the surface. I couldn't push them down, even to just get through the assignment. I felt like I couldn't really get away from it.

It wasn’t until my time with the Nieman fellowship that I had emotional space—with no long term story on the horizon. And while I was there formulating my idea to work on and would try to talk about the church shooting, I would get really emotional. I had a hard time talking about it.

JW: You are describing classic post-traumatic stress symptoms. The shooting must have been your tipping point. You've been working for many years covering very intense, emotional and intimate stories about people who have been significantly traumatized for various reasons. This is important work, and it needs to go on. However, as you have said, it can take a deep toll on everyone involved. Do you have advice for those reading this interview around what you have learned in your 25 years in the field and also from your research that you can share? 

LK: People told me early on that I was going to burn out. And I did. It took me a lot longer than most thought, like a solid 20 years. But eventually it did happen. So, what I can say is no matter what you do, you have to take breaks from work, especially if you are covering something really traumatic, or you witness something really traumatic. 

Editors really need to check in with their photographers. It's so simple, and I don't know if everyone might respond to it, but all I know is that it would have been really helpful for me if someone asked, “Are you okay?” It's the simplest sentence you could have. “Are you okay?” “How can I help you?” They also need to do self-checks and be conscious of when they need some time away from looking at difficult images or managing intense assignments.

JW: How have your experiences as a photojournalist influenced your research?

LK: The experience that was the biggest instrument for my research is my time in Sutherland Springs, because that gave me a look at how we're viewed as journalists when we cover people going through a traumatic event. My past experiences, say, with Rowan and his family and Hector and his family, were formed from meeting with them, talking about what we wanted to do, why they wanted to share their stories and were both very deliberate undertakings. They felt they had an important story to share with our readers. They were more like collaborators, in terms of sharing their stories. 

On the other hand, when journalists cover traumatic events like a mass shooting, there's often not the time or ability to create these relationships beforehand and have those kinds of conversations, especially around terms of consent—meaning whether or not the people we are photographing even want to share their stories, nevermind weigh in on how they want to share them. 

And let’s be honest, journalists are not always reporting from a trauma-informed perspective. So, I wanted to learn much more about trauma, and its impact on the people that we are photographing and filming, interviewing, that are experiencing the trauma-how trauma psychologically and physiologically impacts them, how the brain processes trauma, how the brain experiences trauma and then ways to inform our approach so we can do the best reporting possible while at the same time, making every effort to minimize harm.

I do think that journalists don't have malicious intent as they go about their work. But in the chaos of something like a mass shooting, or a breaking news situation, that intent can get very easily lost in the chaos of so many people not knowing what's going on. There’s the potential for inaccurate reporting and for photographing people who don't want to be photographed while they experience the worst moments of their lives. We have to learn how to navigate all of that ethically. I wanted to dig into that a lot more.

JW: There's also such pressure on photographers coming from our photo desks to get the photo, which, I think, pushes people to cause harm. I have been on both sides of that coin as a photojournalist and as a photo editor. 

LK: Yes. And let's say we, the photographers and the videographers, decide together that we're all going to stay back and give people room—because a lot of times what you hear is “cameras in our face; cameras in our face; we don't want cameras in our face; cameras on our faces. So, some of us may stay back and photograph with longer lenses. But other people push forward, so then we go forward. Then we come closer and become more intrusive, potentially. There’s just so much pressure. I also feel that there is a competition for getting the “best photograph" and being “first” that we feel on other assignments and it just tips over into assignments like these. Everyone's emotions are heightened; everyone’s adrenaline is pumping and things tend to happen in these kinds of situations. And then there is a lot of pressure from the photo desk and our editors who are looking at the wire photos and asking why we don’t have this photo or that photo.