The Men We Pass By
There’s a famous film called No Country for Old Men, its title borrowed from the opening line of W. B. Yeats' poem Sailing to Byzantium. Whether intentionally or not, that phrase has often returned to me while walking with a camera. It describes a world captivated by youth, speed and consumption, where those who have lived the longest can become almost invisible.
One of the greatest pleasures of observational photography is searching for expression, emotion and the quiet stories written across people's faces. Over time, I found myself repeatedly drawn to one particular group of subjects: older men. They often appear solitary, self-contained and, at times, disconnected from the world moving around them.
Whether this is simply part of growing older or something unique to this generation, I cannot say. It may well be equally true of women, but that is a different story for another day. I have little interest in comparisons. As Marcus Aurelius reminds us, "The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts." Looking for comparison rarely helps us understand one another.
Perhaps I noticed these men because I am slowly becoming one myself—or at least an apprentice. They are the elder statesmen of our communities: men who have accumulated decades of experience, triumph, disappointment, humour and wisdom. Yet many now seem to stand quietly on the margins of a society that increasingly measures worth by what we produce, consume or purchase. The rise of Men's Sheds and similar initiatives says much about the human need for purpose, companionship and belonging.
Marcus Aurelius wrote, "What we do now echoes in eternity." Although he was an emperor, he believed that a person's value lay not in status or possessions, but in character and the way they treated others. Modern life often celebrates achievement, yet quietly overlooks those whose greatest contributions have already been made. We inherit the freedoms, opportunities and comforts we enjoy today because generations before us quietly built them.
Whenever I travel with my camera, I try to talk to people. It has become one of the most rewarding parts of photography. Across Europe I've shared conversations in English, broken English, gestures and smiles, and I've learned that once these gentlemen begin to trust you, the stories are remarkable. They have lived through wars, hardship, changing societies, technological revolutions and personal victories that deserve to be heard.
A photograph captures only a fraction of a second, but within that moment can lie an entire lifetime. My hope is that these portraits encourage us to pause long enough to see people, not simply pass them. Trust me you will miss them when they are gone.
The photographs in this collection are some of my favourite encounters with what I believe is an often overlooked generation. They are not intended to evoke pity, but recognition—an acknowledgement that age is not something to be hidden from, but a destination we are all travelling towards, if fortune allows.
If this collection has a message, it is simply this: if you have an older neighbour, friend or relative, stop and talk. They usually have the time. They almost always have the stories. And if we fail to listen, we risk losing not only their voices, but a part of ourselves.
As Marcus Aurelius wrote, "Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one." Sometimes being one begins with something as simple as sharing a conversation.
You can access the collection of images here https://www.milesandframes.uk/gallery-1
Sailing to Byzantium
By W. B. Yeats
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
