Photographer David Těšínský: “I’m not photographing the hardest story of my life – I’m living it.” What have people on the margins of society taught him about happiness?
You’ve travelled through war zones, ghettos and communities that nobody normally visits. What is the one thing you’ve learnt from people on the margins of society, and what do we – who live in safety – lack most?
Probably the ability to recognise what really matters. When you have almost nothing, paradoxically you often know much more clearly who you love, who you trust and why you get up in the morning. We have safety, food, the internet, a thousand possibilities – and yet we still manage to be unhappy because someone hasn’t replied to a message or we’ve got three fewer ‘likes’.
And one more thing: people aren’t just their labels. A drug addict isn’t just a drug addict. A sex worker isn’t just a sex worker. A person living in a slum isn’t just a ‘poor soul from the slums’. Behind every label lies a completely normal human world.
You nearly died of an overdose in San Francisco. How does a person change when they literally look death in the eye, and why are you only speaking openly about it now?
Death doesn’t give you some sort of magical diploma in wisdom. You don’t wake up the next day as the Buddha. But it does shift your priorities.
I didn’t talk about it for a long time because I didn’t want it to turn into some sort of ‘cool’ legend about a photographer who travels the world, takes drugs and survives. There’s nothing cool about that. It was destruction, and I could quite simply have not made it.
I’m able to talk about it today precisely because I no longer need to pretend that certain parts of my life didn’t exist. They’re as much a part of me as exhibitions, wars, photography or those 91 countries. A person isn’t just their best Instagram post.
What did your experience of addiction and a near-fatal overdose teach you, and what would you say to someone who thinks their situation is hopeless today?
I’d just like to clarify one thing here – I never saw myself as someone suffering from addiction. For me, it was more about anxiety, some personal traumas, hyperactivity, the need to switch off my mind, and at the same time my lifelong tendency to experiment and test boundaries. At a certain stage, drugs were part of all that, and sometimes also a way of giving myself a break for a while. And once, in San Francisco, it ended up bringing me very close to death.
That’s precisely why I don’t like simplistic labels. There can be a much more complex story behind a person’s destructive behaviour than it appears from the outside.
And to someone who feels today that their situation is hopeless, I wouldn’t spout any motivational rubbish like ‘everything will be fine’. Nobody knows that. I’d say: ‘hopeless’ is sometimes just a word for a place from which we can’t yet see a way forward.
If, at certain moments in my life, someone had shown me photographs of the things I’d one day do, the places I’d go, the people I’d meet, or told me I’d have a daughter whom I’d love more than my own life, I probably wouldn’t have believed them.
So hang in there for one more day. And then another. Until a door appears somewhere that you can’t see today.
From the satirical series *Life Is Good*. Nashville, TennesseePhoto: David Těšínský / se svolením
How did you find your way out of it? What specifically helped you find your bearings again?
I don’t know if I’d even say ‘got back’. Back to where?
In my view, life isn’t a video game where you mess up, press ‘restart’ and go back to your last save point. Some things were simply part of a certain period in my life – experimenting, testing my own limits, trying to switch off, finding relief from anxiety, whilst at the same time needing to experience things intensely all the time.
Photography has always given me direction. Movement. People. Curiosity. Work. The need to create something and my almost pathological inability to accept that something isn’t possible.
What’s more, photography allowed me to step out of my own head for a while. Suddenly, I could step into the life of a complete stranger, get to know them for a few days or months, and realise that my own problems aren’t the whole universe.
And today I have another compass, one that’s far stronger than photography: my daughter Johanka. When you have someone you love more than your own comfort, ego or fear, a whole host of things suddenly take on a completely different perspective.
You say that a photograph which is just a photograph is useless. So what must a photograph have to be worthwhile, and can the same be said of a life that we ‘merely live’?
A photograph must have something behind it. A story, a relationship, a question, a conflict, an emotion, an absurdity. Something that continues beyond its four corners.
There are billions of technically perfect photographs today. And with AI, there’ll be trillions. I’m not particularly interested in that. I’m interested in why that photograph was taken and what happened a second before and a second after.
And life is probably much the same. I don’t just want to exist between birth and death, trying not to get too badly scraped up along the way. Since I’m here, I want to see something, create something, love someone, fight for something – and occasionally get properly burnt too.
You’ve photographed women fighting on the front line in Donbas, as well as people living in daily fear of war. What surprised you most about them – something you wouldn’t have expected?
Normality.
You arrive in a war zone expecting constant drama. But the people there are still drinking coffee, flirting, laughing at daft jokes, smoking cigarettes, sorting out their relationships. And then, a few kilometres away, someone’s shooting.
In my view, this is one of the most absurd things about war. Life refuses to stop. People can adapt to almost anything, which is both wonderful and terrifying.
In Iran, you captured revolutionary youth; in Cuba, transgender women living double lives. What do all these people have in common, even though their stories seem completely different?
They want the right to be themselves.
That’s something I’ve come across everywhere – in Iran, Cuba, Pakistan, Belarus, America and here at home. The settings are different, the religions are different, the politics are different, but people still want to love whoever they choose, look however they want, say what they think, and not be humiliated or punished for it.
Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been more interested in individual people than in states, ideologies and flags.
How do you manage to gain the trust of people who have no reason to trust a foreigner with a camera?
By first ceasing to be a stranger with a camera.
I might not even take my camera out for several hours. I eat with them, drink with them, listen to them, wander around the city with them, wait. Sometimes I become part of the situation. That’s why I like the term ‘gonzo photography’ – I don’t pretend to be an invisible lens without a personality.
Trust can’t be photographed. It has to happen first. And then, perhaps, a photograph will emerge.
Tomáš Pik, who suffers from Friedreich’s ataxia and receives sexual assistance. Love is my religionPhoto: David Těšínský / se svolením
Has reality in the field ever forced you to rethink your own preconceptions? Can you describe a specific moment?
All the time. Otherwise, I’d probably be doing this job badly.
I often arrive with some preconceived idea shaped by the media, documentaries or my own imagination, and within the first few days I realise that reality is far less straightforward. This has happened to me with religious communities, drug addicts, gang members, and even in countries that we in Europe tend to reduce to a single political issue.
That’s precisely why I go there. If I already knew the answer before setting off, I might as well stay at home and make the pictures up.
What has photographing extreme poverty or armed conflicts taught you about gratitude and about the things people take for granted in a safe environment?
That a huge proportion of our problems only arise once we have the luxury of dealing with them.
I’m not saying that the problems faced by people in Europe aren’t real. Emotional pain is real even in a beautiful flat. But I’ve seen people worrying about whether they’ll have anything to eat tomorrow, whether someone will shoot their child, or whether they can even exist in public as they are.
Ever since then, I’ve tried not to forget that an ordinary, peaceful day is actually quite a luxury.
You describe your photographs as ‘a weapon against xenophobia and stereotypes’. Do you believe that a single photograph can really change someone’s mind?
A single photograph probably won’t completely change someone’s mind. But it can create a small crack in it.
When you’ve spent your whole life hearing ‘they’re like that’ and then you see a specific person in a specific, intimate situation, suddenly ‘they’ have a face.
In my view, a photograph doesn’t have to convince someone. It’s enough if it makes them doubt, for a few seconds, something they were previously 100 per cent convinced of. That’s quite a powerful thing in itself.
How much of your work is down to luck and chance, and how much to systematic preparation?
Preparation gets you to the right place. Chance gives you the photograph there.
I can spend weeks looking for contacts, researching a subject, sorting out visas, transport and people. But the best things often happen the moment the plan stops working.
Chance is a brilliant co-author. You just have to be prepared enough to recognise it when it comes along.
Is there an ethical line that you, as a photographer, would never cross, even if it meant getting a better shot?
Yes. A photograph isn’t more important than the person in it.
I don’t want to ruin someone’s life just to get a great shot or win an award. With sensitive subjects, you always have to consider what publishing the photograph might do to that person.
A documentary photographer has enormous power: they can show someone to the world in a completely different light to how they really are. And with that power comes responsibility. Photographing a person doesn’t mean you own their story.
Having seen so many different lives all over the world – what do you think is the true meaning of life?
Love. Creativity. Curiosity. And having something or someone worth fighting for.
In the past, I’d probably have said mainly freedom, travel and intensity. Today, my daughter plays a much bigger part in that.
I’ve travelled to 91 countries; I’ve been in wars, slums, amongst gangs, drug addicts, religious extremists and people living completely on the fringes of society. And in the end, you realise that one of the most powerful reasons for living might be a little girl about a metre tall, who calls you ‘Dad’ and wants you to build a bunker with her.
There are some things in life that a child doesn’t get automatically just because she’s supposed to. And when it comes to her happiness, safety, love and a happy childhood, I’ll fight for them for as long as it takes. When you know you’re on the side of something good, giving up simply isn’t an option.
Sometimes people throw a spanner in the works. Sometimes there’s manipulation, slander or people who have more energy for destroying others’ lives than for building their own. People who create nothing themselves, but all the more try to smear those who do. You can defend yourself against that too. And when you’re fighting for something you truly care about and believe in, sometimes it’s worth investing absolutely everything in it.
The ‘Rap is Our Faith’ Project. ChicagoPhoto: David Těšínský / se svolením
What are the three things that make people happy, regardless of whether they live in Prague or in a slum in India?
Love, a sense of belonging, and the freedom to be yourself.
Money can eliminate a great deal of suffering, so I don’t like the romanticisation of poverty. Poverty is neither beautiful nor liberating. But money on its own cannot create a relationship, trust or the feeling that your existence matters to someone.
I’ve seen this practically everywhere.
What would you say to someone who’s afraid to step out of their comfort zone because ‘what if something goes wrong’?
That something will go wrong.
It’s almost certain.
The question isn’t how to arrange a life in which nothing goes wrong. The question is whether you want to one day realise that you’ve made most of your decisions based on what you were afraid of.
An incredible number of things have gone wrong for me. Some quite badly. But the most interesting parts of my life have emerged precisely beyond the point where I had everything under control.
How do you cope with fear when you’re heading into a war zone or a dangerous area? Can fear be ‘trained’ away?
Fear doesn’t go away. And someone who isn’t afraid at all might be more of an idiot than a hero in a dangerous environment.
But you can learn to distinguish between the fear that warns you and the fear that simply paralyses you. Experience adjusts your perspective a little.
And, paradoxically, I now know that some of the toughest battles don’t look like war at all. You don’t have a bulletproof vest, nothing is exploding around you, and yet you’re fighting for something far more important than your own photograph. Perhaps for someone you love.
What advice would you give to someone who feels their current life lacks meaning but doesn’t know how to change it?
Don’t go looking for the ‘meaning of life’ straight away. That’s a huge task.
Just find something small that really interests them, and take one concrete step towards it. Go somewhere. Create something. Give someone a call. Help someone. Start something they might be absolutely rubbish at. Now. Or tomorrow, if need be.
In my view, we often don’t find meaning by thinking about it. We create it through what we do.
You mentioned that you expect ‘intelligent robots to shoot us all’ – how seriously do you mean that, and what exactly are you afraid of when it comes to artificial intelligence?
Well, about 23 per cent. The rest is my optimism.
AI fascinates me. At the same time, it strikes me as absurd that humanity has spent several thousand years dreaming of creating intelligence greater than our own, and now that we might be starting to succeed, we say: great, let’s give it access to absolutely everything.
At the moment, however, I’m less afraid of the Terminator than of a world in which we can no longer distinguish reality from perfectly crafted fiction. As a documentary photographer, I rely on real people and real moments. If a photograph ceases to be at least some kind of proof that something actually happened in front of the lens, it will change the entire language of photography.
But perhaps in ten years’ time, a robot will be taking my photograph at an exhibition and I’ll be explaining to it that I didn’t mean it that way, and that it doesn’t need to overdo it straight away – it should just chill out.
Where are you heading next, and why there in particular?
Back to Israel again, where I’m having my first exhibition in Jerusalem as part of the Jerusalem Biennale. The photographs were taken during my previous residency in Jerusalem over Hanukkah 2025. This time, I won’t be able to visit Ramallah as I have in the past.
Generally speaking, though, I’ve stopped collecting countries. Ninety-one is a nice number, but I never wanted to be the sort of person who competes with a map. What matters much more to me is the reason why I’m going somewhere. If the most compelling story is twenty kilometres from Pardubice, I’d rather spend a month there than a week in some exotic country just so I can tick it off my list.
What story would you still like to tell, but haven’t managed to yet?
The older I get, the less I look for ‘the most extreme subject in the world’. I’m starting to be fascinated by things that seem completely ordinary until you get up close to them.
At the moment, for example, I’m experimenting with my iPhone and taking photos of teenagers in their natural surroundings. After all the wars, gangs, slums and underground communities, I find it fascinating to realise that an alien world can also be the generation of people standing right in front of you on the street.
And I’m still waiting for a story that will surprise me so much that I’ll be willing to scrap all my other plans for it. Because, as it happens, I haven’t usually come up with the best ones myself. They’ve found me.
The shortest and tallest men in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. From the ‘Life is good’ seriesPhoto: David Těšínský / se svolením
If you had to sum up for your future grandchildren what life ‘travelling amongst other people’s stories’ has taught you, what would you say to them in a single sentence?
Don’t be afraid to be different, love wholeheartedly, and don’t blindly believe the labels people stick on others. And don’t automatically believe something just because several people say the same thing — especially when they come from the same circle, the same family, or form a club of disillusioned or simply foolish fans united by their hostility towards one person. The number of voices is not proof of the truth.
And when you know you’re fighting for something truly good, don’t give up just because the fight is taking longer than you expected.
Is there a question that nobody has ever asked you, but which you’d like to answer?
Perhaps: Which story was the hardest of them all?
And just a few years ago, I’d have looked for the answer somewhere amongst war, drugs, violence, gangs, or people I’d seen living in conditions we can scarcely imagine here.
Today, I’d give a different answer.
I’m not photographing the hardest story of my life. I’m right in the middle of it.
It’s the story of a father who wants to be as much a part of his daughter’s life as possible and do everything he can to ensure she grows up happy, loved, and who will one day know that her dad never stopped fighting for her to have the life she deserves – and for which she is clearly happy.
I’ve travelled to 91 countries and on several occasions I thought I’d found myself in a situation that would break me. But life has a strange sense of humour. In the end, it can present you with your toughest test right at home.
And at the same time, it gives you the best reason to overcome it.
Because some battles aren’t fought so that you can win.
You fight them so that one day your child won’t have to.
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Where can you find more of David Těšínský’s work?
A large part of his long-term stories from around the world can be found in his photography book DIFFERENT BEAUTY – 240 pages, approximately 140 photographs and 13 stories. 1kg of stories.
Instagram: @tesinskydavid
Website:
https://www.tesinskyphoto.com/
The book DIFFERENT BEAUTY / JINÁ KRÁSA:
https://tesinskyphoto.com/different-beauty/
David TěšínskýPhoto: Karolína Balcárková / se svolením
