This text grew out of experience and observation. For some, it may turn out to be self-deception; for others, a means of self-support. It is neither a manifesto nor a study, but a subjective attempt to describe a phenomenon that is difficult to capture. To most, it will seem dangerous or destructive, but for some it may become a form of support.
The text consists of two parts — analysis and real examples. It does not claim to be complete: the phenomenon under consideration is unstable, temporary, and perhaps does not even exist as a whole. Yet it casts a shadow. The only question is whether its contours can be fixed.
Authorship here is not important. The text can be read without a signature: it was born from a concrete experience but does not belong to a single person.
Under conditions of radical institutional normalization, the author turns into a function of the system: mastering strategies of self-presentation, adapting language to institutional standards, submitting to the rules of integration. Success is measured by the degree of inclusion, and visibility becomes the main currency. This is not just the loss of distinctions — the field itself begins to produce authors already suited for predictable and manageable forms. An industry of coordinated gestures arises, where creativity becomes derivative of sociability, manageability, and the ability to self-format.
Against this backdrop, the figure we conventionally call the autonomous author is not a romantic gesture or a conscious pose, but the result of structural misalignment. We use this term not as a category but as a working label for a particular position. It emerges where participation proves impossible — for ethical, psychological, biographical, or aesthetic reasons. It is not a choice against, but a choice outside. Not a declaration, but a way not to stop. Often this vector takes shape long before reflection — as a rejection of the environment, a refusal of language, an intuitive disagreement with the very logic of presentation. And only later can it be recognized as a trajectory.
This is not the same as marginality or professional failure. The autonomous author may be invisible — but not passive. He works — not for success, but out of inner necessity. His autonomy is not a refusal of labor but a way to survive in conditions where coupling with the system is destructive. Unlike withdrawal or dropout, it presupposes continuity: of rhythm, gesture, language. It is not an escape from the world, but the creation of one’s own form of presence — without illusions, but with intent.
This is not about heroization. Autonomy provides no advantages, opens no opportunities, guarantees no clarity. It can be destructive — if it closes in on itself, if it lacks exchange, if it relies only on refusal rather than inner necessity or connection with others. And yet it retains a potential — not for career growth or inclusion, but for preserving integrity. At this point, autonomy coincides with honesty. Not as an ethical stance, but as the impossibility of any other way.
We consider photography as a field where the conflict between inner necessity and visibility, between isolation and legitimacy, is especially acute. This does not exclude intersections with other art forms, but they touch only adjacent zones.
Autonomy is not a neutral space. It requires refusal: of comfort, predictability, simulated recognition. It is based on inner motivation, independent of reaction. It requires endurance — but not heroism. Discipline — but without calculation. Agreement to labor that will not be understood, accepted, or noticed. And it is precisely in this zone that another logic begins to take shape: not of career but of labor; not of result but of trajectory; not of stage but of presence. Thus, a form of authorship is shaped in which the boundary between life and practice disappears.
This text does not claim universality. It grew out of experience: of observation, attempts, failures, long work. It does not propose a model — it records a trajectory. We consider the autonomous author as a figure that emerged at the intersection of engineering necessity, ethical intransigence, and philosophical uncertainty. We do not formulate a strategy. This is an attempt to clarify what autonomy in art may be and what tensions it carries.
We begin with an attempt to fix this logic. Not as a method, not as a manifesto, but as a map of movement to the side — toward where honesty is possible without presupposing recognition.
The institutional path is a normative construct that offers the author a predictable trajectory of movement. It structures the field through verification procedures: schools, workshops, portfolio reviews, competitions, grants, publications. Each of these forms not only provides an opportunity — it also formalizes the next step. A sense of route emerges: the author moves from initial invisibility to professional recognition, passes stages, "grows," and transitions into another status. This is a route not along an inner vector, but along a pre-marked scheme. And precisely for that reason it seems reasonable, acceptable, and "realistic."
Photography is particularly susceptible to this logic: as a medium in which the visual result can be quickly assessed, where presentation and judgment are compressed. From the first steps — through a school, an online course, an application for a residency or participation in a group — the author encounters a set of norms presented as neutral: visual literacy, clarity of theme, declared position, accompanying text. Behind them hides a disciplinary framework: the work must be "worked through," "readable," "confident." These categories sound impartial, but in reality they mean: interpretable, compatible, non-provocative.
This route does not conclude itself. After basic education comes advanced training. After a workshop — a portfolio review. After the first exhibition — participation in a fair. Next — a biennial, lectures, entry into a collection, publication in an international magazine, a mentorship programme, inclusion in an institutional database, an invitation to a jury. What forms is not a trajectory of growth but a mechanism of endless ascent. Steps legitimize what came before, but each next step makes the previous one "still insufficient." Ambition functions as the engine: the author is constantly "almost ready," "almost recognized," "almost in the right place."
Sometimes that feeling changes: a "yes" arrives. The author gets a grant, a teaching position, visibility, recognition. But this "yes" is more often related not to the work's deep robustness but to the fact that everything "worked": the dossier, the theme, the visual language, the format. This is the "yes" of institutional success. It can bring resources, joy, support. But it almost always requires continuation: now one must hold one's place, confirm, not disappear. Which means — continuing to move in the same rhythm, with the same investments.
One of the main entry points into the system is education. Often it begins as a gesture of searching: the author lacks language, support, an environment. Courses, master’s programmes, schools, summer intensives — they seem like safe ways to "understand what to do next." In the first months this indeed works: rhythm, structure, a quasi-dialogue appear. But at the same time the first phase of investment begins: not just of time, but of money. Almost every course requires expenditure — and these expenditures are perceived as an investment in future stability.
This investment does not stop. After one programme — another. After the first experience — the desire to refine language, to deepen, to enter a "real school." As a result the author spends several years on consecutive steps: basic education, an international masterclass, an experimental laboratory, participation in lectures, paid programmes of individual support. Each of these forms offers resources, but also creates obligations: if you invested — you must return with results. An economic logic arises inside the creative practice: "I cannot afford to just take photographs, I must recoup these years." And to recoup — in recognizable institutional forms: a project, a series, a publication, selection.
This cycle of investment does not end with education. The next stage is teaching. It becomes a desirable continuation of the path: a sign of consolidation, a "return" on investment, a symbol of professional recognition. But in reality it rarely becomes an endpoint. Teaching turns the author into a bearer of norms. He begins not only to teach but to transmit: how to submit, how to formulate, how to "be ready for selection." And even if he resists this, the structure of the course demands it: participants expect clarity, concreteness, orientation. Thus a cycle of self-replication is launched. What once seemed a personal experience becomes a model for others — not as a path but as a programme.
Ambition plays a paradoxical role here. It begins as motivation: to find a form, to consolidate, to gain stability. But in the process it becomes a system of coordination. The author can no longer exit the cycle: too much has been invested, he has gone too far, the trajectory is too visible. And there appears a fear: if I turn away, I will lose everything. I will lose the language of teaching. I will lose the network. I will lose reputation. Thus the internal route is replaced by the logic of return: if I have invested in this path — it must work.
At some point the boundary between work and participation disappears. The author can no longer tell where his own interest ends and conformity begins. Everything becomes a "project": even doubt, even failure, even refusal. Everything must be named, explained, presented. Thus education and teaching, meant to support the work, substitute for it. Instead of moving inward — movement follows the system. Instead of pause — a cycle. Instead of risk — discipline. The author continues the path — but now in the logic of the institution, not in the logic of his own labour.
Institutions, unlike the solitary author, exist in dense economic and political dependency. They rely on budgets, founders, sponsors, administrative partnerships, image and ideological strategies. Their field of manoeuvre is limited: one cannot show "anything," one cannot support "anyone." Even the most progressive platforms are forced to act within bounds — expandable, perhaps, but still bounds. Therefore, at the core of institutional support there is always a filter: visual, linguistic, thematic, behavioural. It is not always articulated, but it always operates.
This leads to the formation of a certain visual and rhetorical form that proves most "compatible." Such a form is legible, accessible, engaged, safe. It requires a thesis, context, annotation, visual organization. Works that do not fit this framework — too slow, ambiguous, particular — find themselves outside the field of consideration. Even if formally present, they do not pass selection, they do not become part of the agenda. Over time authors develop an intuition about what a "project" must be like to be noticed. That intuition turns into an internal editor.
Thus what can be called catalogue-ness is formed. This is not about a PDF or a booklet, but about alignment with the institutional rhythm: a clear title, a formulated theme, an organized structure, an appropriate set of problems. Works begin to be created with an eye toward integrability — not toward depth, but toward form. Photography loses its quality as a process — and becomes a format. Its logic starts to belong not to the author but to the supposed curator, editor, community. The author may not realise it — but at the level of themes, visual choices, language he is already operating within an external code.
Financial and status dependence cements this mechanism. A supported project must be presented. An exhibition — staged. A series — completed. A publication — comprehensible. Deviations from this order are not forbidden, but neither are they supported. An invisible zone of admissibility emerges. Within it the author, even preserving inner tension, grows accustomed to institutional behaviour: what "works," what "fits," what "does not provoke objection." The system does not teach by decree but by rewarding predictability.
The institutional path is not false. It really provides resources, can support work. But it is not neutral. It forms the figure of the author as the bearer of a certain form: legitimised, legible, reproducible. In this sense it not only structures the field — it constructs the subject. Its themes, rhythms, way of speaking. And the deeper the author integrates, the harder it becomes to distinguish his voice from the adapted one. Even if the gaze, thought and gesture remain — they are already embedded in a familiar form, pre-edited to the logic of the scene.
And yet it is important to ask: what remains? Is it possible to preserve not only a position but language on this route? Can one go through the institutional path and not disappear into it? Sometimes — yes. Sometimes an author manages to keep the tension: an internal point of dissent, the capacity for silence, for pause, for refusal. But such cases are rare and demand the nearly impossible: double listening, double time, double loyalty — to oneself and to the field. More often the path of integration leaves visible work — but erases the source. It may enter an archive, a collection, a retrospective — but already as "recognised," not as living. The body of work is preserved, but its nerve is reduced. It becomes compatible — and therefore dissolvable.
From the institutional point of view this is considered success. The work remains. The author is secured. The name enters history. But from the inside — it often feels different. As if everything turned out well, but something left. What — is not always clear. Perhaps doubt. Perhaps risk. Perhaps the very question — why did one start. Herein lies the primary ambiguity of the path: it provides a way of existence, but may take away the very necessity to exist. Leaving a result, it deprives it of the tension that made it alive.
The institutional path is not a fiction. It is real: it structures the field, provides resources, and organises presentation. It produces stable modes of address — the project, the publication, the exhibition, the archive. But these forms carry a systemic transformation: work embedded in the institutional rhythm becomes readable, accessible, compatible. It is preserved — but no longer as necessity, not as an inner edge, but as an agreed result. What disappears is not the image — what disappears is the tension. The gesture becomes an artifact. Instead of genuine contact — compatibility. Instead of risk — stability. Instead of authorship — an adapted intonation.
And for many this seems sufficient. The work is read, recognised, remains. Yet here the main question arises: what was it all for? If that which cannot be explained, justified, or structured disappears — is there anything left at all that would have made it worth starting?
The hybrid path appears as a compromise: the possibility of remaining oneself while being inside the system. The author agrees to participate but keeps a distance; accepts support without dissolving in it; adapts, believing they control the process. This position of "in-between" — simultaneously inside and aside — seems realistic, mature, flexible. And precisely for that reason it becomes the most dangerous.
The main threat lies in the illusion of control. The author is convinced that they can preserve the core by only slightly adjusting external parameters. That one can refine the text without touching the gesture. Enter into dialogue with the field — without truly entering it. Participate — without allowing oneself to be changed. But in practice every inclusion acts otherwise: the chain of adaptations begins to rewrite the inner structure. A fear of "overdoing it" arises, a desire to be understood, inscribed, not to lose contact. Gradually the author begins to edit not only the text, but also the image. Not only the rhythm — but also the intonation. Not because they are forced — but because they strive to be heard.
Hybridity turns into a new standard: the author still feels "special," but already speaks in an agreed language. In photography this manifests as a series with a "personal" theme, formatted according to an institutional template: understandable, polished, accompanied by annotation. The visual language seems preserved — but its chaos is ordered; its ambivalence reduced to a thesis; its doubt absorbed by the logic of presentation. The work remains "authorial" only formally — but with less and less risk. Less and less of that which resists explanation. Less and less of the impossible.
In many cases adaptation occurs so softly that the author does not notice the moment of shift. Only recently they could work from within — in the language of their own density, with doubt as intonation. But with the arrival of the first response — a grant, a publication, a series of approvals — they begin more and more often to look at their images not from within, but from the outside. The angle of perception changes: now readability, relevance, clarity matter. They do not feel direct pressure — but intuitively adjust the frame. As if next to them stands an invisible interlocutor on whom admission depends. And the longer this correction continues, the farther they drift from their original motivation. Not because they betrayed themselves — but because they wanted too much to be heard.
At the beginning, uncertainty was perceived as a sign of authenticity: the author may not have known exactly what they were saying, but they knew why they were doing it. They did not hurry to formulate, but held onto inner necessity. Doubt was not perceived as weakness — rather, as a source of tension. It set the rhythm without requiring a thesis. In this state it was still possible to work — without explanations. Over time, this uncertainty is displaced by formal confidence. Everything is clear: how to name the work, how to edit it, how to present and describe it. A structure arises: formalized, justified, "matured." But along with it disappears what made the work alive. Doubt, left without a language, is replaced by the rhetoric of "confident statement." Now one must speak clearly, logically, intelligibly. Uncertainty is perceived as unprofessionalism.
The visual language follows this shift. Images become "readable": with a set theme, a constructed sequence, predictable montage. The author themselves begins to perceive photography as a set of solutions — not as a gesture. Not because they are disappointed, but because they have learned. Learned not to see — but to format. Not to search — but to design. Not to endure ambiguity — but to eliminate it in advance. They may continue to speak of "complexity," "polysemy," "personal optics" — but their visual language is already leveled: predictable, legible, compatible.
At this stage a special form of simulation arises — the simulation of criticality. The author still speaks of the boundaries of the system, of their position "at the intersection," of the difficulty of "remaining oneself." They may call this "positioning," "reflection," "working with the field." But in fact — they are already fully embedded. Their critique has been assimilated. Their uncertainty institutionalized. Their otherness has become confirmation of the scene’s flexibility. They no longer create tension — they reproduce it. And it is not about dishonesty. They are sincere. They truly remember what it was like — before inclusion. But the intonation they retain no longer disrupts order — it supports it.
Thus the hybrid author becomes the system’s ideal instrument. Not opposition. Not a radical. Not one who has refused — but a participant capable of voicing doubt from within. This is not betrayal. This is the price of survival in a field where the only alternative is complete disappearance. They produce a sense of depth, but destroy nothing. They become proof of openness: "we have space for marginal, unstable, sensitive." They demonstrate that it is possible to "preserve oneself" within the structure. That the system is not rigid, but flexible, inclusive. And in this lies their function. They do not notice this, because they sincerely believe they are holding onto themselves. And it is precisely this honesty that makes them especially convincing — not for themselves, but for the scene. They confirm that adaptation does not necessarily mean loss. That compromise is also a form of honesty. And this is their institutional role.
Within all of this there is also a material level. The hybrid path rarely forms in a theoretical vacuum — it is rooted in necessity. Work requires expenditure. Participation provides connections. Teaching pays the rent. Applications — give a chance for funding. The author adapts not for recognition, but to have the possibility to continue. This is not a strategy — but a way to remain inside the field. Compromise becomes a way to stay. But at the same time — a way to endlessly postpone the moment of honest refusal.
Over time the hybrid author consolidates within the system. They are invited to juries, lectures, mentorship programmes. They become part of the infrastructure: curating, selecting, teaching. This brings resources, a sense of stability — but also creates a network of invisible obligations. They can no longer afford to exit: too much is tied to their embeddedness. Their presence itself becomes proof that the path is possible. Precisely for this reason they increasingly become defenders of the system. Not from naivety — from entanglement. From fear that outside lies only emptiness. At a certain point exit becomes not just difficult — it disappears as a possibility. A point of no return appears: it is no longer possible to go back to the beginning. And there is nowhere to go aside.
But another outcome is also possible — no less destructive. The author may never "enter." They completed education, submit applications, participate, try — but remain invisible. The system does not reject them, but does not accept them either. At first this provokes a desire to "improve" the work. Then — irritation accumulates. Then — pain appears. They continue to send signals, but the response grows weaker. Or a false response comes — minor showings, empty dialogues, promising reassurances of "next time." All this keeps them in orbit — but intensifies burnout. The system becomes ever more alien, but they cannot detach. Not because they hope — but because they no longer have any other language.
In such cases what occurs is not refusal, but a break. Not conscious autonomy — but a falling out. The labour continues, but already without addressee, without hope. Silence becomes not a choice, but a symptom. Projects remain unfinished. Connections with others thin out. The inner critic drowns out intuition. All that was alive loses density. And even if experience remains — it no longer finds form. Sometimes this stretches for years. Sometimes it ends with complete disappearance. Not as protest. But as delayed destruction.
This does not mean that any adaptation leads to loss. Sometimes it is necessary — to preserve at least part of the language. Sometimes — it is a tactic of survival. But here lies the danger of the hybrid path: it easily turns into a system of postponements. The author convinces themselves that just a little longer — and they will become free. That the compromise is temporary. That participation is an instrument. But the institution forms not only context, but rhythm, and intonation. It imperceptibly rewrites the very structure of labour. And at a certain point adaptation ceases to be a choice — and becomes the norm. To distinguish this shift is nearly impossible. And here lies the greatest risk: not in submission, but in erasure of the difference between the gesture and its imitation.
Autonomy begins with a refusal of external dependence — but it does not end there. Ceasing participation in institutional structures is not enough. For the work to continue without support, visibility, or feedback, the author must restructure not only the labour itself but their entire everyday life. This is not about liberation, but about creating conditions under which the work remains possible. This recalibration covers everything: regime, finances, space, rhythm, communication, perception of time.
Every support previously provided by the system — deadlines, requirements, regular feedback — must now be replaced by internal mechanisms. The author finds themselves inside an unstable environment where each day requires renewed decisions: what is permissible, what destroys, what preserves focus. These decisions are not universal — they are mobile. Resistance to the everyday ceases to be a pose and becomes a daily necessity. Not because the everyday is an enemy, but because within it everything that makes labour possible disappears unnoticed.
Work does not tolerate random rhythm, constant deviations, chaos. Even a few days of distraction can collapse what was gathered over weeks. Autonomy demands protection — from loud impressions, empty conversations, painful stories, meaningless fuss. None of these are vices. But any one of them can prove destructive. The balance is fragile. In the absence of external structure, even a single event can stop everything.
Therefore the author begins to regulate the environment. They limit the number of contacts, control their schedule, change everyday habits. They refuse meetings, trips, invitations. This is not an expression of closedness, but a way to remain in labour when nothing external helps. Every distracting impulse is a potential breakdown. Every disruption — a threat to the form that has taken months to build.
Over time a system of restrictions forms around the labour. Not as declaration, but as the only possible stability. The author adjusts their regime: they know exactly how much deviation they can allow themselves without falling out. They adjust their budget: they understand what the possibility to work costs, and what expenses it rests upon. They track types of communication: what destroys, and what helps. This knowledge is not theoretical. It is the result of losses.
Restrictions appear not out of principle, but of necessity. Their source is observation of losses. If not reduced — it will scatter. If not renounced — attention will vanish. If not stopped — the form will collapse. Everything becomes a matter of calculation: when to wake up, how much to spend, with whom to speak, what to avoid. Not because they became an ascetic — but because too much can disrupt the fragile inner balance. And the work is all that still gives meaning.
The deeper they enter this regime, the sharper the misalignment with the external world. Most people live otherwise, speak otherwise, perceive labour otherwise, understand success differently. Almost no one can understand why they live this way. Parents think they have refused a "normal life." Friends think they have closed themselves off. Colleagues assume they have disappeared. They have nothing to reply — because they have no goal except one: to continue. And continuation is not a goal. It is — the impossibility of stopping.
From this pressure detachment arises. Not from arrogance, but from the need to protect oneself. They stop answering questions — because each of them knocks them out of focus. They stop comparing — any comparison turns out not in their favour. They stop explaining — because they cannot find a language. This is not a pose. This is — a form of isolation necessary to preserve access to labour.
At times they feel: even a simple meeting is a threat. Even a fleeting conversation — a risk. They still live among people, but construct an invisible membrane. Not to wall themselves off — but not to be crushed by others’ tempos, logics, expectations. This is not a choice. This is — a system of filtration without which it is impossible to preserve concentration in conditions where external structures no longer support.
It is impossible to once build an autonomous rhythm and keep it forever. Everything collapses. Breakdowns happen periodically: attention is lost, motivation disappears, physical or emotional exhaustion arrives. Everything built over weeks can scatter in one day — or from one collision with the external. In such moments it seems: it’s over. It was a dead end. Ahead — nothing.
But it is precisely in such periods that autonomy reveals itself most deeply. Not as a system, but as a residual movement. The author does not know why they return, but they return. Without confidence. Without calculation. Without a plan. Simply because everything else is even less possible. This is not a volitional act. It is a gesture that cannot be stopped. It may have no meaning — but it exists.
Over time the author learns to live with this instability. Breakdowns become part of the rhythm. Uncertainty — part of the language. Dissatisfaction with oneself — part of the method. They no longer strive to be precise, confident, clear. They simply continue. Because they know: this is the only way to preserve coherence. Even if the work is weak. Even if no one will see it. Even if it loses meaning — even for themselves.
They do not deny recognition. They simply cannot build upon it. It does not form their practice, does not become a goal. Not because they are "above it." But because it is too unpredictable to serve as support. If recognition happens — they will accept it. If someone sees — they will not reject. But their movement comes not from expectation. But from the impossibility of otherwise.
This is autonomy. Not as freedom. But as a preserved possibility to continue, despite everything. Not as protection from the world, but as a form of concentration. Not as a solution, but as a daily assembly — out of what has survived. And even if everything collapses again — tomorrow they will have to begin anew.
Autonomy does not begin with refusal and is not established by a single decision. It cannot be chosen — unless there is something inside capable of sustaining that choice. Such a foundation forms long before one becomes conscious of oneself as an author: sometimes in childhood, sometimes from trauma, sometimes through the experience of mismatch. But always — from an inner structure that cannot be imposed from outside. It does not guarantee autonomy. But without it, autonomy is impossible.
This is not about personality type in a clinical sense. Rather — about a particular structure of sensitivity, in which even the most ordinary — an adult’s glance, a casual injustice, an inexplicable exclusion — is registered as something that does not pass. These experiences may be fragmented, without context, unformed. But over time they accumulate into an implicit logic of distrust. And if that distrust is not suppressed, if it is allowed to remain, it becomes the first form of differentiation. Not yet rational — but already defining a vector.
For some, it is linked to early observation. To attention toward details no one discusses: domestic scenes, recurring intonations, omissions. There is not yet aesthetics, position, or gesture — only an acute intolerance to falseness. Later this becomes an aesthetic criterion. But at first — it is simply the inability to pretend not to see.
Often at the base lies trauma. Not necessarily sharp. Sometimes — a chain of losses, a sense of uselessness, extreme vulnerability, absence of protection. Or, conversely — excessive responsibility: a child early placed in the role of an adult, witnessing breakdowns, absorbed by someone else’s silence. These are not exceptional destinies — but almost always outside the scenario. A person with such experience learns not to believe words, not to expect help, not to rely on structure. They create their own ways to hold on. And it is precisely these that may later become supports for an autonomous practice.
It is important to emphasize: these traits are not the cause of autonomy. There is no universal set of events that "produce" an autonomous author. What we speak of are inclinations that, under certain external circumstances — social, political, biographical — may take form. What leads one to withdrawal leads another to integration.
Yet in many autonomous practices a distinct line can be traced: early experience of loss or rejection forms a persistent distrust of the violence of the norm. This rarely manifests in open conflict. More often — in a rejection of clarity, a suspicion toward prescribed routes, a withdrawal from the language of success. Over time this distrust becomes a filter: aesthetic, ethical, organizational. And if in youth it appears as a deficiency, in maturity it becomes an inner support.
Such a structure does not create an artist — and even less an autonomous author. It may lead anywhere. But it sets a predisposition: to solitude, to attention, to inner precision, to suspicion of form. It is neither a gift nor a calling — it is a way of being. If to it is added minimal contact with language, with image, with rhythm — the first coincidence arises. The feeling that one can speak — even without being understood.
Even if the inner structure defines non-coincidence, by itself it does not lead to autonomy. Another capacity is needed: to withstand ambiguity. To live through doubt — not as failure, but as medium. Not to strive for clarity. Not to demand immediate explanation. And not to consider absence of result — as evidence of defeat.
For many, this is unbearable. Absence of response — devalues the labour. Uncertainty — is considered immaturity. Pause — evokes anxiety. But in autonomous logic all this becomes the norm. Not because one is "above it." But because there is no other resource. One cannot act otherwise. One’s configuration is not project-based, but processual. It does not require a conclusion — it requires rhythm.
This is not heroism. And not psychological endurance. It is another distribution of attention and motivation. Without centre, without finale, without viewer. Sometimes — only repetition. Sometimes — silence. Sometimes — labour that seems meaningless. One works because in this movement everything else is preserved. Because stopping is destructive.
A person inclined toward autonomy almost always has a background line. Invisible, without form, without goal. It may not lead to result — but it continues. Sometimes as stubbornness. Sometimes as an attempt to preserve oneself. Sometimes as guilt. The cessation of this process equals the loss of foundation. And therefore — is impossible.
But even with all preconditions, autonomy may not occur. Non-coincidence, sensitivity, even deep disagreement with the system — do not always lead to exit. One continues to participate. Adjusts. Adapts. Not because one is weak. But because one lacks even the minimal resource to endure autonomy.
For a shift to happen, many circumstances must coincide. Sometimes — collapse: loss, illness, exile. Sometimes — minimal support: housing, a partner, a reserve of time. Sometimes — an external shock: political catastrophe, disappearance of the scene, personal limit. Almost always — not an event, but a breakdown: the old form collapses, and the new one has not yet formed.
Autonomy rarely arises as choice. More often — as the impossibility of continuing as before. There is no longer an answer. No longer a resource. No longer a structure. Only the necessity to preserve coherence, not to vanish. And here one thing becomes especially important: at least some support. A small inheritance. An old skill. Or simply — silence.
This transition almost never appears heroic. It happens quietly. Without formulation. Without decision. Simply, at some point, one does not return.
Autonomy brings no wholeness. Provides no confidence. Guarantees no meaning. But it creates a gap in which one can still remain oneself, when everything else is destructive. It is not a strategy. It is a form of continuation.
Externally such a figure may be indistinguishable. One lives, works, responds. Sometimes — not different at all. But there is a zone where no one enters. Neither friends, nor family, nor colleagues. Not because one is closed. But because that zone — cannot be shared. There, it is not speech — but attention. Not result — but coherence. Not communication — but concentration.
Even those who know the person do not know what they are doing. Their work — if it exists — is not shown. They do not hide it. There is simply nothing yet to present. Or no reason. But they see. Note. Listen. They recognize where form loses density. Where voice ceases to be personal. Where intonation has become a copy. They have no hope. But neither have they illusion.
This is not tragedy. It is the price. For the possibility to speak — without looking back. Even if the language is not yet formed. Even if no one listens. Even if everything — is in silence. They continue. Not because they know why. But because otherwise — everything will disappear.
Thus the figure outside takes shape. Not as pose. Not as impulse. But as result: of early tension, stubbornness, solitude, decisions without guarantee. It is not a path. It is a remainder. And if it remains — one can begin. Even out of nothing.
Autonomy does not come instantly. Frequent attempts to "retreat into silence" often turn out to be short intervals — pauses, respites, experiments — which by their nature do not transform either everyday life or the system of priorities. Such short periods may last for months or a year or two; their outcomes are easy to classify: return to the institution (for economic or pragmatic reasons), refusal of one’s own authorial activity or its replacement by another (for example, a shift into an adjacent field or a complete departure from art), and finally, transition to autonomy as a more stable mode. The first outcome — return — often looks like the illusion of autonomy: an outwardly visible refusal that does not grow into an actual restructuring of life, and practical necessity brings the author back into former schemes. The second — refusal or change of activity — is more common among younger authors or those whose resources are depleted. The third — transition to autonomy — is rare and requires a long time to take root.
To establish autonomy requires a horizon of several years. Only at this scale does one’s own language form, a "second life" take shape, and the capacity to do without institutional support appear. The five-year mark can be considered the minimal "unit of time": after it becomes clear whether autonomy is a stable form or a temporary gesture.
After that, different trajectories are possible. For some, autonomy lasts decades and turns into a steady rhythm built into biography. For others, it stretches across a lifetime and becomes destiny — not voluntary in the full sense, but the result of incompatibility with the institution or absence of the possibility to return. In that case autonomy fixes isolation and becomes not a phase, but a final outcome.
The reasons for transition to an autonomous mode vary. Among them: privilege (availability of resources and a "safety cushion"), distrust toward institutions, burnout and stagnation after initial success, socio-political pressure, personal circumstances. Often it is the first small success within the rules of the game that becomes the catalyst: it exposes the mechanisms of selection and distribution of attention, and then the choice of autonomy becomes a way to refuse further compromises.
Autonomy remains a dynamic state. Returns and repeated cycles are possible, but each time they require re-entering the phase of formation. Therefore autonomy cannot be reduced to short experiments; it is measured in years and decades and always needs time to reveal its depth and to test the author’s endurance.
The economic model of the autonomous author is initially incompatible with stable scenarios. This is not an exception but the rule: lack of income from the main practice, unpaid labour, impossibility to convert work into financial stability. Any attempt to construct a model of "self-sufficiency" almost immediately encounters a contradiction: either one must adapt the form of labour to the market, or reject the market — and fall out of the flow of resources. Economic instability here is not a side effect but one of the conditions of the autonomous path.
In institutional logic the author is included in a system of compensations: grants, scholarships, residencies, commissions, sales. Even at minimal sums this normalizes an expectation — labour can be rewarded, result noticed, status confirmed. In the autonomous model this does not exist. The author works without calculation for response and cannot rely on mechanisms of return. Their labour is invisible, unpresentable, unsellable. It seems to be absent from the system of circulation. Nevertheless, it continues — despite the lack of financial feedback.
For many autonomous authors survival is tied to a model of "second life": external paid labour unrelated to the main practice, and internal, invisible, unpaid work. The official biography is fiction. The real activity — without weekends or vacations. Over time this scheme forms a special economy: the maximum of energy goes to the "second life," even though it drains strength from the main one. This leads to chronic exhaustion, but the alternative is the disappearance of work.
Yet the very model of double existence is extremely unstable. There is no unified schedule, standard rhythm, or steady scenario. Periods of side jobs, freelance, seasonal employment, physical labour are mixed. Someone tries 2/2 shifts — and burns out. Someone turns to freelancing — and ends up in a mode of constant readiness for sale, adaptation, attention to expectations. Someone works in summer or winter to free the spring. Everything is mobile: format, intensity, the possibility to retain focus. Sometimes rhythm can be held for several months — then everything collapses, and the cycle begins anew.
Ideally — work that requires no cognitive effort. Physical, repetitive, with minimal interactions. But even such labour exhausts over time: the body tires, falls ill, demands recovery. And again — there is no universal solution. Only trial, failure, rollback, recovery. All that can be done is to build one’s own tactic. Remember what once helped. Repeat. Endure. Return. Thus a minimal economic structure takes shape, within which work is still possible — not for the scene, but for oneself.
At times, teaching seems like a way out — especially in an adjacent or applied field: managing archives, working with files, creating a website, scanning, colour correction. Seemingly without conflict: not authorship, but skill. Yet even here a shift occurs. Teaching requires clarity, language, role. Over time it acts as a delayed poison: you more often find yourself in the position of explaining rather than seeking. Processes that need uncertainty begin to fix prematurely. You lose doubt not because you understood — but because you learned to speak. And if your own work is not yet finished, the temptation arises to replace inner tension with a stable position. Teaching becomes not a support — but a leak.
This vulnerability is amplified by social expectations. Outside institutional support and the market system the author finds themselves in a "zone of distrust": their labour is not recognized as professional or socially significant. It is perceived as a hobby, a failure, a personal whim. The absence of income is seen as defeat — in the eyes of family, of peers, of society. This undermines not only financial but also psychological stability.
In the long term a paradoxical model takes shape: the practice is economically impossible — and yet it continues. Not from strength, not from heroism, not from stubbornness. But from an inner agreement: the work is more important than comfort, recognition, stability. Not because one chooses suffering — but because any adaptation destroys the very possibility of continuation. Hence the price of autonomy is not only social invisibility but chronic instability, an endless economic winter.
Compensation strategies vary. Some minimize needs: live in cheap places, eat simply, reject excess. Some rely on occasional help — often destructive. Some create parallel forms: cooperatives, exchange, barter, samizdat. Some establish direct contact with a few viewers. But even these attempts do not make the path stable — they only postpone the breaking point. The economy of the autonomous author is not about growth, not about balance, but about survival. There is no profit here — only the possibility to continue.
There is another dimension: the economy of time. Autonomous labour is not divided into phases, does not fit into deadlines, has no completion. It continues even in pause. Even when physical work is impossible, the inner process continues: returning, re-examining, maintaining coherence. This requires resource — and therefore is perceived as idleness. But in truth — it is work inseparable from being.
In recent years a new instrument has appeared — neural networks and AI. They do not solve the problem of autonomy, but in specific tasks — code, printing, layout, technical text — they can lighten the load, accelerate, reduce loss. Their main quality is unobtrusiveness: they demand no status, no biography, form no scene. The author remains in shadow and receives an answer. This is not a solution. But it reduces wear. And if autonomy requires total expenditure, any economy of attention is already a form of support. Yet it is important to understand: no technology cancels the primary problem — structural poverty. If the very form of labour is incompatible with economic logic, no AI will make it "sustainable."
That is why institutional trajectories here are not only unattainable — they become incompatible. Where the system offers stages (education → residency → publication), the autonomous path presupposes neither phase, nor scene, nor outcome. Economically — it is failure. But if external criteria are removed, something else becomes visible: this is a path where meaning lies not in recognition, but in continuity. It may remain invisible for decades — but it does not disappear.
Therefore the question of autonomy is always also a question of economy. Not how to earn, but how not to collapse. How to assemble rhythm without relying on response. How to keep an archive when there is no viewer. How to live when nothing exists except work. Not a strategy. Not a feat. But an engineering of existence — built around a single task: not to disappear.
Autonomy requires not only rhythm, but an environment. Not only motivation, but infrastructure. Not only ethics, but engineering. At a certain stage it becomes clear: if a practice is not embedded in a system, it must be maintained from within. Not once, but daily. Not abstractly, but materially. This means: not depending on licenses. Having an archive that can be opened. Working with files that will still read in ten years. Printing when access to print shops disappears. Rebuilding the system if one of its supports collapses. This is not a strategy of independence. It is a technical necessity for survival.
The autonomous author is not a mythical figure of a solitary master of all trades. But over time they acquire a minimum sufficient to sustain the practice. They do not aim to build an externally complete production infrastructure. Their goal is functionality. Tools, formats, media, protocols, interfaces — all are subordinated to a single task: not to depend on external failure. Even if unspoken, their choices are almost always dictated by this consideration. Therefore, to speak of a technical portrait means to describe not knowledge, but a built structure of decisions that grows out of the condition of autonomy.
This chapter speaks primarily about photography as a practice. Many of the described principles and constraints can be extended to other forms of labour — but not automatically. Photography presupposes a specific technical infrastructure: archive, optics, format, medium, processing, storage. It is here that technical logic becomes especially important — not as an aesthetic, but as an infrastructure on which the possibility of continuation depends.
Autonomous practice does not require high technology. It requires reproducibility. The formats the author works with are generally resistant to wear. They rarely use expensive equipment. They try not to depend on cloud services, subscriptions, unstable platforms. Everything that might stop working without internet, updates, or account access is perceived as a vulnerability. Even if their tools look outdated from the outside, in reality they serve a single purpose: to function independently of external infrastructure.
This logic does not form immediately. At first the author may, like everyone, use what is simplest. But with experience comes understanding: every complication is a potential point of failure. Too-new technology, unstable formats, specific software, one-sided dependencies — all make the practice fragile. Therefore, choices gradually shift — not toward novelty, but toward what can be maintained without external intervention. If equipment breaks, one must be able to repair it. If a file stops opening, one must find a way to restore, recode, or at least fix its contents. Sometimes through a backup, sometimes through third-party software. It is not always possible, but the attempt is mandatory.
Sometimes the choice of tool is dictated not by conviction, but by circumstance. Used cameras, old lenses, second-hand drives — all allow costs to be reduced, provide a reserve in case of breakdown, avoid dependence on a single device. Sometimes equipment is alternated to prevent the dulling of perception. Sometimes the same camera is used for decades — if it is reliable. There is no total stagnation, but neither is there constant renewal: rebuilding is always stress, always temporary loss.
This manifests most sharply in analogue practice. Film, development, hand printing — all require materials, chemicals, equipment. Price increases, shortages, import bans — all threaten the very possibility of continuation. Transitioning to a new system can be painful. Not because the author is "behind," but because the new demands time, attention, relearning. And above all — it may feel like a forced shift that breaks internal logic.
Cloud services may be used — but only as non-critical storage: for duplication, temporary access, quick copies. The main archive remains offline. Not out of principle, but caution. Because losing control over even one link can destroy the whole chain — leading to failure, loss, or total halt.
The autonomous author has no external system of support. No assistants, managers, or institutional aid. Therefore everything that is usually delegated remains internal. Sorting, editing, selection, storage, description, maintaining the archive — all happens manually. This is not a choice — it is a condition. That is why internal order becomes not convenience, but a way to preserve control over time and attention.
Files are named not for the viewer, but for oneself. Folders are structured not for neatness, but to enable return — in a week, in a year. The structure of the archive can be very simple — for example, chronological, which is not always convenient but allows reliance on memory. At the same time it makes the archive readable even for an external "archaeologist." Sometimes there is a parallel selection — digital or paper, intuitive, incomplete, changing in form. It may be chaotic or highly precise — depending on the author’s temperament. In any case, everything must be accessible and reproducible — even after years.
The visual archive is not a showcase, but a mechanism of thought. It must be at hand. Not to show, but to see, to return, to doubt, to compare. Many images are printed in a single copy — to be spread out, put away, reread. Some are kept in drawers, folders, stacks — not because it’s convenient, but because it’s easier to concentrate that way. The workspace is not a studio, but a zone where attention can be held. A space without obligation. Order — not ideal, but functional. An architecture assembled around rhythm, not beneath it.
Even in the technical field, autonomy does not mean refusal of new tools. But each one undergoes compatibility testing. The main requirement — operation without dependence. If a tool requires constant connection to a server, a payment model, identity verification, it is almost always excluded. The author seeks not new possibilities, but stability. Not flexibility — but durability. Even when using digital tools, they are subordinated to one principle: they can be maintained, replaced, reproduced. Without service. Without APIs. Without subscription.
Among tools one often finds those discarded by others: open-source, old versions, offline editors, manual methods of working with colour, typography, code. Sometimes for reasons of economy. More often out of principle. Because every tie to external access is a point of risk. Even if such refusal looks anachronistic, it gives the most important thing: the ability to continue when everything collapses.
The same applies to new tools — including neural networks. They are used when they help to offload the technical side: to structure, translate, write code, verify, prepare text, assemble commentary. All this is not about creativity but about support. They function as an invisible layer: not participating in expression, but saving energy. In this sense, AI is not a threat but a functional instrument — if it does not intervene in authorship. Does not speak in your voice. Does not offer one. It merely simplifies what has always been costly: layout, translation, archiving, systematization.
Even so, caution remains. The new is not rejected, but tested especially rigorously. The balance between cost, quality, labour, and maintaining control is a continuous internal tension. Almost every decision is a compromise. Sometimes convenience must be sacrificed, sometimes quality. The question is not about refusing to update. The question is about not destroying the structure of labour, not losing footing, not dissolving in a chain of unstable improvements.
The technical portrait is not a list of skills. It is an internal logic by which the entire support system is built. Everything that appears within it serves one task: not to interrupt rhythm. Not to depend on help. Not to wait. Not to explain. To remain able to continue — even if no one sees and nothing seems to happen.
Each autonomous author assembles their own scheme: imperfect, shifting, mobile. Some build an archive from prints. Some use the simplest automation tools — often borrowed or adapted. Some set up home printing. Some work for years in one format — not because it is ideal, but because it eliminates excess variables. None of these strategies are perfect. But all follow one logic: to preserve a form of labour that is not serviced from outside. And in this lies the essence of engineering — to build a system in which it is possible to move further. Not to chase speed. Not to improve for improvement’s sake. But to preserve the ability to move in one’s own rhythm — with attention, without loss of ground.
The infrastructure of the autonomous author is rarely complete. It is not a studio or a lab. More often — a combination of inexpensive, often outdated devices bought second-hand or acquired by chance. It is not an ideal system, but a survival system: a technical structure assembled from what is available, sustained not by excess but by rationalization.
In the technical practice of the autonomous author there is no aesthetic. There is rhythm. There is discipline. There is silence. And if at some moment nothing works — they seek not an upgrade, but a bypass. Not a better solution, but a durable one. Because the main task is not comfort. It is continuity.
In photography — one of the most institutionally regulated forms of visual expression — communicative requirements become especially strict: it is not enough to work; one must also be able to accompany one’s work with speech. And it is precisely here that communicability turns not just into a trait but into a condition of admission. The author must be accessible. Explainable. Compatible. Their work must “speak” — and they themselves are obliged to sustain that speaking.
This requirement may not be articulated directly — but it is built into the field itself. A grant application, participation in an exhibition, inclusion in a publication — all presuppose a clear annotation, an explanation, a formulation. The work must not only be realized, but also translated: into understandable words, clear theses, an institutionally acceptable form. And it is precisely here that exclusion occurs. Not because the work is insufficient — but because it cannot be translated into a compatible register.
This applies not only to institutions, but also to horizontal communities. Even where there is no jury, a cultural filter operates. One must be “in the loop,” “in the flow,” “in the field.” One must know how to respond, to engage, to maintain dialogue. If the author does not speak — they disappear. Their practice is not perceived as silent — it is perceived as absent. Their statement appears unfinished. Their silence — as a communication failure.
In this context, communicability becomes not just a social trait but a professional obligation. The ability to stay in touch begins to replace the ability to work. Maintaining contact becomes more important than maintaining process. Explaining — more important than creating. Formulating — more important than seeing. This creates a special form of pressure: the author is increasingly forced not to work, but to talk about work. Not to move in depth, but to present process. Not to hold intonation, but to produce narrative.
Gradually this changes the very structure of labour. Work adjusts itself to the possibility of articulation. Series are built to be presentable. Themes are formulated in advance. Projects are structured in stages. The visual language aligns itself with narrative logic. Ambivalence disappears. Doubt fades. Instead of visual thinking arises visual messaging. Instead of expression — presentation. Instead of autonomy — integration.
For the autonomous author, this becomes a point of pressure. Their mode of existence does not presuppose constant translation into speech. They work at a level where intonation resists explanation. Where a gesture does not turn into a thesis. Where result is inseparable from process. And precisely this makes them inaudible. They have no way to make contact without destroying the structure of labour. They can be understood — only if they adapt. But adaptation destroys the very fabric of their work.
Thus they increasingly find themselves aside. Not because they “failed,” but because they did not enter. Did not submit. Did not format. Did not present. Their work may be profound — but it is not accompanied by proper speech. Their silence is not perceived as a choice. It is read as a gap. Their dissent — as a shortcoming. Their refusal — as disappearance.
This leads to a special form of disappearance. The author works — but no one knows about it. They create — but do not present. They produce — but do not confirm. They may have a website — but not as a communication tool, rather as a separate archive. There is no selling résumé, no list of achievements — more often an intermediate articulation, not expecting response. No biography. No announcements. Even if they make books — they do not call them “projects.” Even if they photograph daily — they do not publish. Even if they have an archive — it resists exhibition. This is not strategy. It is protection. Because every act of exposure demands form. And form demands concession.
In this logic, communicability is not just a quality but a threat. Because it acts as a mechanism of adaptation. The author learns to speak — and imperceptibly changes content. Learns to explain — and adjusts the gesture. Learns to conform — and loses the voice. This happens not out of a desire for recognition, but from the need to stay connected. Not to disappear. Not to be forgotten. Yet precisely here lies the trap: by preserving contact, the author may lose form. By maintaining communication — lose motivation.
Some try to separate these roles. Create a second account. Write under a pseudonym. Lead a parallel biography. But in the long run this almost always leads to exhaustion. Because to maintain autonomy and communicability as parallel vectors means to hide the essential all the time. To divide attention. To constantly decide what to leave and what to show. In the end, what disappears is not communication — but the very necessity to work.
In the future, perhaps, new forms of interaction will emerge — those that do not require speech. Or tools that do not disrupt intonation. Unobtrusive AI interfaces capable of translating the archive into form without intervening in expression. Or environments where silence will not be perceived as a deficit. But for now — an author unwilling to speak remains unheard. Not because they do not exist. But because they are not represented.
That is why communicability becomes a hidden filter. Unofficial — yet decisive. It determines not only access to resources, but the very possibility of being perceived. The author who fails this filter disappears not as a person, but as a figure. They remain — but outside visibility. Their work exists — but it is not counted as work. Their practice continues — but it is not recognized as a practice. Their voice sounds — but no one listens.
And this is one of the most painful forms of disappearance. Because it happens not through error, but through mismatch. Not through weakness, but through refusal. Not through silence, but through the impossibility of speaking otherwise. And in this lies one of the deepest threats to autonomy: to remain unheard not because nothing was said — but because the form in which it was expressed was not recognized as permissible. Because the absence of narrative is treated as its failure. Because silence is not acknowledged as a form of expression. Because in institutional logic there is no way to distinguish silence from emptiness.
In the contemporary field of visual expression, text ceases to be an instrument of clarification — and becomes a means of standardizing perception. It no longer accompanies the work, but defines its interpretation. It no longer refines, but directs. It no longer opens, but closes. Even in cases of a “supportive” commentary, text almost always functions as a narrowing: it filters out possible readings, turning ambivalence into thesis, intonation into statement, image into message.
This happens even when the words belong to the author. Sometimes — especially then. Because, aware of the weak spots in their own work, the author tries to insure it with words: to protect it, to hint at how it should be perceived, to indicate a vector. It seems logical — but it destroys the main thing: the autonomy of the image. Where photography could have remained fluid, unfinished, uncertain — a structure appears. Where silence could have persisted — speech intrudes. Where gesture could have remained — narrative is formed.
Particularly dangerous is the textual form that has become obligatory: the annotation, the accompanying description, the explanatory note. It not only accompanies the image — it becomes its filter. Work without verbal accompaniment is perceived as unfinished. Therefore — as unqualified. The author who avoids formulation is excluded from circulation. Not because their work lacks meaning, but because they have not given that meaning an articulated form. Have not explained. Have not attached a description. Have not aligned.
Thus arises a paradox: the stronger and more saturated the visual work, the greater the temptation to supply it with text — so as not to “lose” the viewer. But it is precisely this text that begins to work against it. It directs, fixes, replaces. The viewer no longer looks — they read. They no longer interpret — they follow instructions. The image becomes illustration. Its ambiguity is devalued.
For the autonomous author this is especially critical. Their work is built on internal connections, on half-tones, on the inexpressible. It often exists on the edge of visibility — and thus is vulnerable. Even an honest comment can become an intervention. Even a restrained note — a deformation. Even if the text is addressed “to oneself” — it still alters perception. It restructures the logic of seeing. It subordinates the image to narrative.
Some authors try to escape this pressure: they completely renounce words. Provide no descriptions. Write no commentary. Do not accompany their work with speech. This is a gesture of resistance — yet it too is interpreted. It too gets translated: as a stance, as a provocation, as a concept. Even silence becomes discursive. Even refusal — a statement.
Others choose camouflage: they write “neutral” phrases, create fictitious annotations, avoid meaning-saturated language. This is a tactic — but it still operates within the system. Even a diffuse language continues to organize. Even a weak text points. Even apparent emptiness directs.
The problem is not the text itself. The problem lies in its coerciveness. In the necessity to translate visual practice into verbal form in order to be admitted. In the fact that without text the work is deemed inadequate. That silence is perceived as omission. That the absence of annotation is treated as failure.
In this logic, it is not only the image that is lost — the viewer disappears as well. Because a viewer not given a ready-made reading is forced to look. Forced to be present. Forced to participate. Their interpretation is not checked against the author’s thesis. They chart their own route. This is precisely what makes them necessary. Where there is no text, the viewer ceases to be a consumer. They become a participant. Where there is no instruction — genuine contact emerges.
The autonomous author does not reject text as a phenomenon. They reject its normativity. They seek forms in which writing is possible — without ordering. Speaking — without prescribing. Articulating — without dominating. Sometimes it succeeds. Sometimes it fails. But they know: if the work truly matters, it must be able to withstand silence. And if the viewer truly matters — they must come not for an explanation, but for an encounter.
Autonomy from text is not a denial of writing. It is a refusal of manipulation. Of the desire to control interpretation. Of the temptation to edit another’s gaze. It is a refusal of power. The author who refuses to explain does not hide — they acknowledge the limits of their knowledge. They invite not into structure, but into uncertainty. In this uncertainty arises the possibility of contact.
The digital turn — especially with the rise of AI — only intensifies the problem: generative annotations, automatic subtitles, algorithmic normalization of visual material — all of this pushes toward unification, toward the elimination of ambiguity. Resistance is possible only through the conscious preservation of the unexplained. This is not archaism — it is a gesture. Perhaps the last one still available to the author: not to speak, when everything demands words.
That is why text is not just an instrument, but a field of tension. The autonomous author who chooses silence does so not out of impotence, but out of respect. They leave the image — untouched. They do not appropriate interpretation — they refuse it. In the age of total explanation, this is the hardest refusal. And perhaps the only way to preserve photography as experience, not as illustration.
At first glance, horizontal collectives appear to offer an alternative to institutional hierarchy. They are built as spaces of equal participation, mutual support, and shared action. Without curators, juries, programs, or external demand. For the autonomous author, this seems like a chance: to be with others without betraying oneself. Yet in practice, such structures often reproduce the very logic they sought to escape — sometimes in an even harsher form. Not from above, but from within.
The reason lies in the dynamics of the group itself. Even in environments that declare horizontality, informal leaders almost inevitably emerge — those who structure the agenda, set the rhythm, define the language. The collective space begins to function as a field of cultural selection. Those who are more active, charismatic, articulate — become the “center.” Those who are quieter, slower, more cautious — end up on the periphery. Thus arises an internal hierarchy: without statutes — but with norms. Without pressure — but with expectation. Not institutional, yet fully tangible.
For the autonomous author entering such a field, this initially feels like liberation. A sense of belonging, exchange, movement appears. It seems possible to remain oneself — and still be connected. But over time, something else becomes apparent: the need to participate, to explain, to respond. Silence is perceived as detachment. Lack of initiative — as closure. A mismatch in rhythm — as incompatibility. The personal still belongs to you — but there is a growing sense that you are gradually shifting beyond the borders of the shared space. What once felt like difference becomes distance.
Such shifts are rarely articulated directly. There is no exclusion, no conflict, no condemnation. But an invisible wall appears: the author loses function, disappears from the correspondence, falls out of the discussions. They have not broken any rules — they have merely stopped being “convenient.” They do not resist — but they no longer engage. They are not expelled — but no longer invited. Within the group, such a figure is seen as inert, passive, “out of rhythm.” Outside — as lost. And this is precisely what makes horizontal forms so fragile: rejection from the outside feels systemic, but rejection from within feels like personal loss.
At the same time, horizontal collectives often demand not formal but deeply human involvement: attention, presence, availability, participation. This is not an institutional obligation but an emotional norm. To be there. To respond. To share. For the autonomous author, especially one living in economic or emotional exhaustion, this may be impossible. Especially if behind them lies a “second life”: work, routine, solitude, fragility. Even the warmest group can cause pain — not because it is hostile, but because its logic demands what you cannot give. Not through anyone’s fault — but through a mismatch of worlds.
Even the softest unions — irregular correspondences, rare meetings, exchanges of archives — can fall apart. Not from betrayal. But because no one can sustain them. Because any form of interaction requires administration. Even without a vertical structure — organization is needed. Even with trust — attention is required. And this is often what’s missing. Because an author may not be a participant, but an echo. They may be near — but not present. Their inclusion is not function but sign. Their presence — not action, but a form of memory.
And then the group either dissolves or turns into a new system of power.
Paradoxically, it is sometimes the very impossibility of direct participation that creates genuine connection. Not in action, but in awareness. Not in communication, but in conscious coexistence. Contact unshaped into dialogue, built instead on the quiet recognition: someone is there. Someone works. Someone keeps. Someone has not vanished. This is not a collective and not friendship. Not a scene. It is horizontality without infrastructure. Connection without a channel. Belonging without demand.
Such connections most often remain nameless. They do not require exchange. Do not require meetings. Do not require response. But precisely in this lies their strength. They set no conditions. They make no demands. They simply do not let you disappear. Even if you are not in the group — you are not alone. Even if no one names you — you exist. Even if no one has seen your work — someone knows you are working.
Technological solutions can support this condition. Not as platforms, but as thin connective threads. Independent archives, mailing lists, direct signals, minimal websites — all of these can become forms of presence without presence. The only important thing is that they must not become systems. Must not require biography, activity, growth. Must not turn into a new scene. Because then the essential will vanish: silence as a mode of connection.
Still, such collectives are possible. Sometimes — for a short time, at the crossing of rhythms, within a small exchange or project. Not a union of “autonomous” authors — rather, a kaleidoscopic convergence of those with varying degrees of engagement in the field. Some are trying to leave; some have already left; some not yet. Such heterogeneity makes the group alive — but also unstable. Usually these are not collectives, but flashes. They fall apart — and this is not a failure. Because in such structures, disintegration is not an end but a cycle. They may return — in another form, another tone, sometimes after years. Not as continuation — but as echo. And perhaps that is their only possible form of endurance.
Thus, horizontal collectives are not a guarantee of autonomy. Often — the opposite, a source of new norms. Not because anyone is bad, but because every structure requires participation. Yet despite this, the possibility of connection remains. Provided no one demands involvement. Provided silence is not read as refusal. Provided solitude is recognized as a form of co-presence. Only then can arise that which requires no name: a network of the absent. A resonance without a stage. A trace — instead of a platform. And perhaps that trace is the only form of support compatible with autonomy.
Autonomy may seem like a purely personal choice — a way to preserve independence from institutions, to build one’s own rhythm of work and responsibility. But under certain conditions, this choice inevitably becomes political. Wherever the field of art is interwoven with mechanisms of power, social norms, or systems of control, the ability to work apart already acquires political weight.
The form of refusal here acts as a form of resistance. Not as a direct declaration or heroic stance, but at the level of structure itself: the author does not accept the rules of the game, does not enter negotiations, does not take part in the distribution of visibility. Invisibility in this sense does not mean passivity; on the contrary, it becomes a gesture that prevents the system from completely enclosing the space and appropriating every figure.
This invisibility is paradoxical: from the outside, it may appear as disappearance, but in reality it functions as a form of presence. Absence within institutions, avoidance of public validation — these become tangible. Nonparticipation becomes noticeable, and through that, it marks the limits of institutional power. Where institutions seek to control the entire field, the very possibility of not being included becomes a challenge.
The political context defines the scale of this pressure. Under totalitarian systems, autonomy may be a means of survival and preservation of practice. In societies governed by strict religious or cultural norms, it becomes a way to avoid imposed identities and restrictions. Even the family can act as a source of pressure, demanding a “normal” social trajectory and stability. In each case, autonomy acquires political meaning because it breaks the scripts that power or society tries to impose as the only possible ones.
But autonomy is uneven. In some contexts, it is available as a luxury: a privileged author can afford to “refuse” without risking anything essential. Such autonomy is almost always quickly institutionalized and loses its political charge. In other contexts, however, autonomy remains the only possible way to continue working — and then it is not a luxury but a necessity, a form of resistance expressed through refusal.
The invisibility on which autonomy rests both protects and isolates. It shields from direct pressure but cuts off access to resources, making the practice fragile and vulnerable. Within this double effect — protection and isolation — lies the political core of autonomy. It always exists in relation to external forces: power, norms, institutions. That is why autonomy, even when conceived as a personal choice, turns out to be a political position.
One of the least discussed aspects of autonomous practice is its impact on personal life. In conventional logic, these spheres appear separate: there is work, there are relationships, there is daily life. But in reality, the mode of labor shapes everything. Not only expression, but rhythm. Not only the archive, but the home. Not only inner speech — but the ability to be with another.
The autonomous path is not a regime. It is a form of existence. It penetrates all layers: determining when you wake up, how you fill pauses, what you can endure and what you are capable of giving. It is almost always incompatible with conventional social time: it knows no weekends, holidays, or career milestones. It is governed by inner pressure. And in such a structure, anything unrelated to the practice can be perceived as a threat.
This is not a pose. Nor a strategy. It is a way of holding oneself together. Because inner work is fragile. It requires not just time, but silence, repetition, a particular tension. Even if the day is filled with side jobs, the work continues in the background: connection, memory, doubt, intuitive assembly. And if this process is constantly interrupted — disintegration occurs. Not outwardly. Inwardly. The kind that takes weeks to recover from.
That is why many autonomous authors find relationships difficult. Not because they are closed. But because they almost always lack the resources — temporal, emotional, physical. They can be near, yet not align. Listen, but not respond. Care, but not integrate. This is not egoism. It is a form of preservation. A form of responsibility toward that which cannot be explained — but must be done.
And yet, almost always within this practice there exists an “addressee.” The one to whom the work is addressed. Even if unnamed. Even if absent. It may be a concrete person — unreachable, distant, imagined. It may be an ideal no one can embody. It may be an abstract Other — a muse, the dead, the observer, the unknowing. But without them, speech is impossible. Even silence is not self-sufficient. It is always — toward someone.
Sometimes that someone becomes real — and a rare connection may arise. Not immediately. Not without disruptions. But when it happens, a form of intimacy becomes possible that requires no constancy, yet carries depth. Especially if both exist within an autonomous logic. Then emerges a kind of co-presence that does not demand continual participation but preserves extreme density. Such relationships are not built on symmetry, romance, or external support. They rest on an agreement: you — are in this too. You know what it is. You do not ask — why. And thus — you do not destroy.
Such connections are not ideal. They pass through exhaustion, illness, estrangement. Because daily life — wears you down. Money — runs out. Strength — fades. But precisely in such relationships something genuine appears: the possibility of not dividing labor into mine and yours. The possibility of not having to explain why there is silence. The possibility of being silent — together. Without demands. Without persuasion. Without formatting.
But even here, asymmetry is possible. It manifests most sharply along gender lines. The female reproductive role enters into direct conflict with the logic of autonomy. The body demands participation, attention, time. Society becomes a source of pressure. Family — a source of anxiety. Even a partner may inadvertently disrupt the rhythm. For a man, it is often easier. Not because he feels less. But because his life scenario is not constrained by rigid temporal limits. A woman, however, faces a window: bodily, social, internal — tied to natural desire, to a sense of duty to herself. Even if she is autonomous, timelines are projected onto her. And the choice between “life” and “work” ceases to be philosophical — it becomes a concrete necessity, so acute it can be unbearable.
For women, autonomy often collides with social roles. Structural expectations — motherhood, care, stability — not only complicate the path but make it nearly impossible. While a man can remain an invisible author for decades, a woman must more often explain herself, justify herself, catch up. And this is not only a question of biology but of the entire social order, in which female autonomy is still seen as deviation.
Children are the extreme form of this dilemma. They demand not just resources. They demand a reformatting of one’s entire life. An author living in a nonlinear rhythm may not be able to withstand such a reset. Not because the child interferes, but because the practice — stops resonating. Or begins to resonate differently. And that requires an honest conversation with oneself. Sometimes — an impossible one.
Yet there is no universal answer. Sometimes a child becomes not an obstacle, but an anchor. An axis around which something new can be built. Sometimes it is the child who structures life — because the author decides to gather themselves. Sometimes — not. Sometimes the author disappears. Or the work. Or the connection. It is always a risk. Always a wager. But even that can be made meaningful.
Thus, the personal life of the autonomous author is not a background subplot. Not private. But one of the deepest foundations of practice. Because being with another is itself a test: can the form endure co-presence? Can the language withstand the gaze? Can the work survive love? And if there remains even one person who can stand beside you — that is no longer solitude. That is — space.
Autonomy is not refusal. Nor is it a position. It is a structure. Invisible, unstable, often intuitive — but real. It is not given, not established once and for all, and cannot be transmitted. It must be built — and maintained. Not to “work as before,” but to keep the work itself possible in conditions where almost nothing is.
It is not a system in the usual sense — rather, a constantly shifting form of stability. It has no project, no instruction, no clear language. It is assembled piece by piece: from gestures, rhythms, accidental decisions that suddenly prove precise. From the architecture of an archive that works. From a diary that becomes the only method of fixation. From a calendar that contains no appointments — but repetition. From repetitions that create density.
The engineering of autonomy is always fragmentary. Something is devised. Something is forgotten. Something done by accident — becomes a support. The goal is not to collect everything, but to hold at least one rhythm. How to store files. How to stop yourself. How to return to the work. How to endure pauses. How to distinguish silence from refusal. And — how not to collapse.
Everything becomes a point of support: habits, schedules, folder structures, mirrored drives, book lists, an intuitive rule not to take on work that breaks balance or distorts voice and tone. Sometimes even seemingly meaningless restrictions bring stability: shooting with a single lens, ignoring what others are doing, not upgrading equipment, not making plans. This is not a program. It is grounding.
But even the most careful configuration eventually cracks. It is built into it from the start. Because there is no feedback, no external control, no audience waiting. There is only you and a rhythm that is easy to lose. Precisely at this juncture — between breakdown and return — one of the main capacities of the autonomous author appears: internal self-regulation. Not as willpower, but as the skill of recognizing failure. As the ability not to panic. As the capacity to wait without disintegrating. This skill is not innate — it is developed through the process. Through breakdowns, exhaustion, chaos. Through multiple cycles: to lose — to recover. It becomes part of inner resilience. Not demonstrative, but sustaining.
Therefore, the engineering of autonomy is not only construction, but retention. Not only structure, but the ability to return when it seems everything has vanished. Not a strategy. A practice of rebuilding — again, from fragments.
That is the essence: not efficiency, not growth, not result. But the preservation of a minimal point of support at which work remains possible. Sometimes it depends on others: on a partner who requires no explanations. On a friend to whom you can send an image without a caption. On a rare viewer who does not ask for annotations. This is not support — it is linkage. Weak, informal — but enough to prevent collapse.
The engineering of autonomy cannot be universal. Each author constructs it anew — according to their rhythm, language, economy, wounds, and limits. That is why it is almost impossible to transmit. Yet an exchange of traces is possible: of silence techniques, archive architectures, forms of protection. Not as instruction — as a sign of possibility. The very idea that one can work without participation — is already support. Even if it arrives silently.
Over time, new resources emerge. Not external — but internal. Not a grant — but a cycle. Not recognition — but density. Not inclusion — but endurance. Autonomy ceases to be solitude — and becomes support. Not because help arrived, but because the entire structure of life turns into a system. And you are no longer an author outside the system. You are — the system itself. Fragile. Worn. Imperfect. But alive.
And yet even the most coherent engineering offers no guarantees. Autonomy is not a path with an endpoint, but a form of endurance. It does not promise success. It does not protect from burnout. It does not eliminate loneliness. But within it lies the possibility of remaining true to oneself — without having to disguise it as a strategy.
In contemporary conditions, such a position appears increasingly vulnerable. And yet — possible. Not widespread. Not universal. Not safe. But permissible. And as long as even one continues — it does not disappear.
The Autonomous Author is neither a concept nor a strategy. It is a figure that emerges where other possibilities have disappeared. They do not build an alternative, form an opposition, or declare themselves. They simply remain. Not for success. Not for the stage. But because they cannot do otherwise.
They do not demand visibility — and thus become unseen. Not from weakness, but because they do not fit into the structure of presentation. They do not seek recognition — and therefore are never “understood.” Their work is not a demonstration, but a trace. Their gesture is not a message, but a means of survival. Their labor is not a path toward an outcome, but a form of continuous presence.
The Autonomous Author is not isolated. They observe. Rewrite. Repeat. They build not a project — but a rhythm. Not a plan — but a cycle. Their practice is not a finished work, but a sustained movement. Even if no one sees. Even if all happens in silence. Even if contact is impossible.
They do not reject others. But they cannot live in a mode of negotiation. Their communication is discrete, slow, informal. Their connection with others lies in rhythms, not roles. In intonation, not status. They do not deny the field — but do not enter it under imposed conditions.
The Autonomous Author is not a hero. Not a romantic image. They are vulnerable. They may fail. They may collapse. Their path often leads nowhere. But that is where their honesty lies: they do not pretend to know. They do not conceal doubt. They do not simulate confidence. They refuse to play a game they consider false.
Sometimes they disappear. Sometimes they fall silent for years. Sometimes they stop working. Yet even then — they remain. Because their way of existing is not in production, but in coherence with themselves. Their practice is an attempt not to lie. Their labor — a structure within which they can avoid betrayal of the self.
They cannot be an example. They cannot be repeated. They cannot be scaled. But they can exist — and that is enough. Because the very fact of existing outside participation is already expression. Already resistance. Already a sign that another way is possible.
The Autonomous Author is not a biography or a role. It is a figure: a constellation of practices, rhythms, and engineering solutions that arise where habitual forms of participation destroy. Within it one may glimpse the experience of an individual, yet it is more than any single life.
Attentive reading reveals shadows — areas where the text only gestures toward a problem without fully exposing it. These shadows form weak points and blind zones, where autonomy appears not as a coherent principle, but as a charged contradiction.
Autonomy is impossible without resources. Even minimal independence requires a foundation: housing, health, time. For many, such a base is unattainable, and the very option of autonomy becomes a privilege. Yet at the same time, privilege can serve as an entry point into autonomy: social position, material stability, access to resources and connections make it practically costless. In that case, the risk is minimal, and autonomy quickly gains institutional recognition and support. This scenario turns autonomy into an almost fail-safe option — but simultaneously exposes the sharp inequality of conditions. Moreover, such autonomy often fuses with the institution, becoming part of it, even if it has not formally changed its logic.
Equally evident is the gender imbalance. The universal tone in which the text is written masks a predominantly male experience. The history of autonomy is largely male, and this fact shapes both language and perception. Women have historically been denied authorship; many had to publish under male names, and often men directly appropriated their work. This has not been left behind: even today women are frequently denied full authorial status, their contributions diminished or doubted. This is not only a matter of institutional practice, but of political and social regimes where women’s authorship may be seen as a threat or as a disruption of established order. Thus, the gender dimension of autonomy intersects with the geographic and political: in some contexts authorship remains relatively accessible to women; in others — it continues to be contested or suppressed.
The theme of silence and refusal of text also demands reconsideration — on two interconnected levels. On the one hand, silence is easily read as absence: in algorithmic culture, invisibility often equals disappearance. On the other, the lack of verbal articulation does not imply complete withdrawal from the field; an author may leave traces through adjacent or “technical” practices — editing and translation, curatorial or archival work, maintaining online galleries, co-authoring podcasts, managing metadata and documentation, performing technical editorial tasks for journals, and so on. These activities do not always look like “text” in the traditional sense, yet they function as material and networked hooks — preserving contact, leaving trails that can later be followed. It is crucial to recognize the dual nature of this substitution: on one side, it is survival — a strategy of continuation, a way to leave a trace and maintain the infrastructure of labor; on the other, it risks being seen as auxiliary, “non-authorial” work, becoming itself a mechanism of invisibility. Such forms of labor are easily canonized as technical or administrative — especially where authorship has been discredited — and then the trace becomes camouflage: presence is preserved, but authorial identity dissolves. Moreover, the distribution of such “trace” roles is often gendered and geographically conditioned: for some they are a resource, for others — the last remaining way to stay within the field. Thus, alternative forms of expression and support can simultaneously serve as a lifeline and a new source of erasure.
The geographical and political dimensions of autonomy also demand attention. The possibility of working apart is distributed extremely unevenly: access to resources, institutions, and audiences depends on where the author is located. In some contexts, autonomy is tolerated; in others, it is seen as a threat or anomaly. Regional hostility toward authorship may manifest as cultural distrust, administrative restrictions, or direct repression. Yet precisely in such conditions autonomy often becomes the only logical escape: not a choice, but a necessity — a way to preserve the work in a space where institutional participation equals submission or disappearance. At this intersection of geography and politics, a new level of vulnerability emerges: autonomy becomes possible only as a continual struggle for the right to exist in space.
Another line demanding articulation is the temporal dimension. Autonomy is rarely permanent. More often it is a phase — a limited period when internal resources and external conditions align. For some it ends in return; for others it stretches into a lifetime and becomes a fate — more tragic than heroic. Endless autonomy may signify not liberation, but fixed isolation. Its temporality and fluidity make it not a stable state, but a process existing on the boundary between possibility and impossibility.
These unfinished lines do not close the text — they leave it open. They remind us that the autonomous author is not a model or a method, but a practice that always manifests through tension and fragility. And within that tension lies its true form.