Book Report: Lynsey Addario It’s What I Do: A Photographer’s Life of Love and War

 Book Report: It’s What I Do: A Photographer’s Life of Love and War 

By Ashlie Slocum

Introduction

Photojournalism is often described as a profession that blends artistic vision with public responsibility, but few memoirs reveal this balance as clearly as Lynsey Addario’s It’s What I Do: A Photographer’s Life of Love and War. Through her accounts of conflict, displacement, loss, and resilience, Addario not only documents world events but also reflects on what it means to dedicate one’s life to bearing witness. Her memoir provides valuable insight into the ethical and emotional complexities of photographing human suffering, and it challenges readers to consider the sacrifices required to pursue truth through images. This report examines the anecdotes, technical choices, and philosophical commitments that shape Addario’s work, and reflects on how her story informed my own practice in photojournalism this term.

Body

One of the most compelling anecdotes in the memoir occurs when Addario secretly photographs Afghan women under Taliban rule. Working in a society where photography—especially of women—was strictly banned, she navigates extreme tension and risk simply to document everyday lives that were otherwise invisible. This scene stands out not only for its suspense but also for the way it illustrates Addario’s defining qualities: empathy, persistence, and an unwavering commitment to representing those whose stories are rarely told. The moment reveals how her career is built on a willingness to cross boundaries, both geographic and cultural, in pursuit of truth.

Addario’s photographic style is distinguished by her emotional proximity to her subjects and her instinct for human-centered storytelling. While many conflict photographers prioritize action, explosions, or battlefield drama, Addario focuses on the quieter, deeply personal moments that reveal the long-term effects of war. Her use of natural light, intimate framing, and long periods of observation allows her to capture authenticity rather than spectacle. For example, her images of families in Darfur and Afghanistan rely less on dramatic movement and more on the subtle gestures—hands, eyes, body language—that communicate grief and resilience. This commitment to intimacy sets her apart from photographers who maintain distance for safety or neutrality; Addario chooses closeness, and that closeness defines her work.

Her memoir also raises important questions about duty and personal risk. While some readers may view her return to conflict zones—even after injuries or kidnapping—as irrational, Addario demonstrates that her choices are guided by a strong moral framework. She writes, “I do what I do because I believe photography is the strongest tool we have to influence change,” a quote that underscores her belief in the political and humanitarian significance of documentation. Though I cannot imagine taking equivalent physical risks, I relate to her sense of purpose and her desire to use photography as a form of advocacy. Her story helped me reflect on how visual media can shift public understanding and encourage empathy, even when produced far from war zones.

Throughout this term, I applied several lessons from Addario’s memoir to my own photojournalism projects. Her emphasis on patience—observing a scene before lifting the camera—changed the pace of my shooting. I found myself waiting for meaningful interactions, natural expressions, and thoughtful compositions rather than reacting impulsively. Additionally, her use of available light encouraged me to study shadows and highlights more intentionally, allowing my images to feel more grounded and human. While my assignments took place in safe, controlled environments rather than conflict zones, Addario’s techniques still improved the depth and emotional clarity of my work.

My favorite examples of Addario’s photography appear in the sections documenting Afghanistan and Libya (insert page numbers from your edition). Among these, her maternity ward photograph remains especially impactful. The image communicates vulnerability, hope, and the universality of motherhood, all while situating the viewer inside a setting shaped by conflict. The photograph’s strength lies in its quietness and its ability to transform a single moment into a broader reflection on survival.

Another resonant quote from the memoir reads, “The camera was my shield, but it was also my bridge.” This line encapsulates her dual relationship to the violence she documents: photography provides protection, but it also creates connection. The memoir is filled with similar passages that illuminate her inner conflict—balancing fear with obligation, distance with empathy, and personal sacrifice with global awareness.

Conclusion

Lynsey Addario’s It’s What I Do is more than a memoir about war photography; it is a meditation on responsibility, compassion, and the human cost of global conflict. Her commitment to documenting stories that would otherwise remain unseen demonstrates the profound impact visual journalism can have on public consciousness. Addario’s narrative broadened my understanding of the technical, ethical, and emotional challenges that photojournalists face, and it offered practical guidance that strengthened my own work this term. I would strongly recommend this book to students of journalism, photography, global studies, or anyone interested in understanding how images shape the way we view the world. It is both an inspiring and sobering reminder of the power—and the price—of telling the truth.