The space between artist, publisher and printer

Publishing through a publisher

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For Vid Timmermans, the road to a first publication began with a pitch at De Donkere Kamer (a Belgian platform for photography). At 16, he presented a project named Heimat that grew out of a personal and visual search on home, roots and belonging. Born in Switzerland, with Croatian roots and a life in Belgium, he was working from a perspective shaped by movement between places. Attending and eventually winning De Donkere Kamer’s pitch led him to HOPPER&FUCHS’ publisher,  Bruno Devos. A first meeting took place over coffee, not around a finished book.

That early conversation mattered. Before there was a publication, there was a shared sense that Vid’s images had potential. Bruno recognised that immediately, not because the work was complete, but because it carried a strong point of view. The images were personal, but they also suggested something broader: a story about identity, memory and the different places that can coexist inside one body of work.

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For Bruno, that is often where publishing begins, not with a rigid format, but with a feeling that the work needs space to grow into. He likes to think of publishing not being a fixed format, but a space that can take shape in different ways. ‘I speak a lot about a publication,’ he says, ‘and a publication can be a book, a zine, a small edition, anything. For me, it is a space.’ In Vid’s case, that meant moving away from the idea of a single large photobook and instead shaping the material into two smaller zines, one in black and white and one in colour.

I speak a lot about a publication, and a publication can be a book, a zine, a small edition, anything. For me, it is a space

The choice was practical, but it was also conceptual. It gave the project a clearer rhythm and allowed the images to be grouped in a way that felt intuitive rather than overdesigned. Bruno wanted to keep that instinctive quality intact. Vid was young, and the images still carried a certain openness, so the publication had to remain close to the way the photographs were originally made: direct, searching and slightly unguarded.

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That balance between guidance and freedom is where the role of the publisher becomes visible. Bruno does not simply act as a gatekeeper or a manager. ‘The publisher helps define the work,’ he says, ‘but without closing down the artist’s voice.’

He decides on format, talks through sequencing and thinks carefully about how the images will live on the page. In his view, a publication should never be reduced to a neutral container. It should be an object that helps the work speak.

The publisher helps define the work, but without closing down the artist’s voice

If the publisher shapes the frame, the printer brings that frame into the material world. Gio’s role at Zwartopwit is not only technical; it is interpretative. Paper choice, binding, print quality and scale all contribute to the final reading of the book. A good printer, in that sense, is not just someone who reproduces images accurately, but someone who understands how to translate the spirit of a project into a physical object.

That translation matters especially in a photobook, where scale and tactility are part of the narrative. Gio explains that the same image can behave differently depending on the paper, the format or the way it is bound. A compact publication invites a different kind of attention from a large, spread-out one. In Vid’s case, the decision to keep the book small helped preserve the intimacy of the images. The work did not need to become monumental to be readable. It needed to stay close.

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The importance of a printer

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This is also where the role of the printer becomes collaborative rather than merely procedural. The artist brings the images, the publisher brings the framework, and the printer brings knowledge of how to make the project work as an object. At Zwartopwit, that means discussing paper stock, experimenting with tactility and looking for the right material language for each publication. Gio is clear that the goal is never to overwhelm the images with production values, but to make sure they land in the best possible form. ‘The printer does not just reproduce the images,’ he says. ‘We translate them into a new experience.’

The printer does not just reproduce the images, we translate them into a new experience

Frederik Buyckx’s When the flowers come: a diary of a modern shepherd offers a different path through the same terrain. Unlike Vid, Frederik did not arrive via a publisher. He approached Zwartopwit directly, with a clear concept and a strong sense of what he wanted the book to become. That is the self-publishing route: faster, more direct and more personally controlled, but also more demanding in terms of decision-making.

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For Gio, the difference is not simply one of scale or status. It changes the conversation. When an artist comes through a publisher, the publisher absorbs part of the structuring work. When an artist self-publishes, that responsibility stays much closer to the artist. The printer still helps shape the object, but the artist arrives with a more developed idea of format, paper and binding. The process becomes a conversation about how to realise that vision in material form.

Buyckx’s case is useful because it shows what self-publishing can do at a high level. It allows the artist to move quickly, maintain control and shape the publication in direct dialogue with the printer. But it also highlights why publishers matter. Bruno’s role in Vid’s project is not just to facilitate production. It is to help define the work, protect its logic and create the conditions for it to become legible as a publication.

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Taken together, the two cases show how much of a photobook’s meaning is created before the reader ever opens it. The images matter, of course. But so do the decisions about size, paper, pacing and structure. A photobook is not only a way to show work. It is a way to narrate it, frame it and give it a body.

That may be why the format still feels so relevant. In a culture dominated by screens and endless scrolling, the photobook offers a slower, more committed form of looking. It asks to be held, revisited and read through touch as much as through sight. For Vid, that physicality matters. For Bruno and Gio, it is part of what makes the work worth the effort. And for artists like Frederik Buyckx, it is what makes self-publishing not just possible, but meaningful.

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<div class="editorial-banner"> <div class=“editorial-credits”>zwartopwit.be<br>zwartopwit.be/bookshop<br>hopperandfuchs.com<br><br>When the flowers come: a diary of a modern shepherd is a visual diary in which Frederik Buyckx shares his experience of becoming a shepherd in the Albanian mountains. A life not dictated by a fixed agenda, but shaped each day by the weather, the rhythm of the seasons, the search for drinking water, the blooming of flowers, and the unpredictable moods of his goats.<br>frederikbuyckx.com<br><br>Heimat is a photographic project exploring Vid Timmermans’ sense of home across Belgium, Switzerland, and Croatia; three places closely tied to his family and background. Each location embodies a distinct yet interconnected experience of belonging. The work traces the differences and parallels between these environments, showing us the beauty of everyday life and the layered complexity of ‘home’ as both a place and a feeling.<br>01 black & white<br>02 color</div></div>