You started collecting in the 1980s. What was your initial experience with photography, and what motivated you to start collecting?

My initial experience with photography was influenced by two main factors. My father was a typographer and printer. He often brought home things he printed, especially posters, which quickly aroused my interest, so I started cutting them up and placing them into scrapbooks. My first significant encounter with photography was through my mother's family album, which contained photographs of her parents and grandparents. It's a special album because my maternal grandfather and grandmother were a surprising couple: my grandfather was a simple carpenter, while my grandmother came from a very large aristocratic family and was descended from General La Fayette. There was a significant gap between their social classes.

In this family album, there were pages with photos of my mother and her parents, people who did not have much money—alongside images of ancestors who lived in opulence. This contrast sparked many questions in my mind, but three photos in particular fascinated me for years because they were clearly not taken by my family members. It couldn't have been my grandfather, my uncle, or my mother. These were what are called fairground shots, where the principle is to shoot a rifle at a target, and if the bullet hits the center, a camera triggers to take a photo of the shooter. That was the prize for aiming well. In this album, there was a photo of my uncle and his friends shooting. I didn't understand this image because it was clear that my grandfather wasn't the one on the other side of the camera; he couldn't have taken it.

From Jean-Marie Donat's collection

The second photo was created by a street photographer. There was a time when street photographers would walk the boulevards and take pictures of people walking by. They would give a ticket in exchange, and then two days later, people could go to the shop to pick up their walking photos. In this family album, there were photos of my mother and my uncle walking with their friends. Again, it wasn't my grandfather who took those shots. At the time, I didn't understand that there could be professional street photographers.

From Jean-Marie Donat's collection

The third photo was somewhat similar. It had been taken by a photographer at the factory gate, in a manner quite similar to the street photographers. For the photographers who worked on the large boulevards, the people photographed often did not return, making it difficult to identify them. However, at the factory exit, the same people appeared day after day at the same place and time. I found a photo of my uncle leaving the factory with his bike and asked myself the same question: who had photographed him at the end of his shift? These were the photos that really fascinated me.

From Jean-Marie Donat's collection

You started collecting very young!

I first started collecting various printed materials including all kinds of printed material: newspaper clippings, metro posters with large weft dots, cheese labels, and other printed ephemera—all of which I carefully pasted into albums. That was the start. I stumbled into photography a bit by chance. When I was a child, we lived in a working-class district in the 13th arrondissement of Paris. My father and I used to take our dog out every evening on a big tour of the neighborhood. At the time, many people were clearing out apartments and throwing things onto the street. My dad loved it, and we would snoop together. I picked up photo albums, books, trinkets, and furniture. That's when I started collecting photos—I must have been about thirteen. Later, I moved often, and for years I had to leave quickly and travel light. I frequently left a lot behind without regret. So, the photos I'm talking about, I haven't had them for a very long time. But that's when I started collecting photography.

When did you realize that you became a collector?

We don’t really realize it at the time; we don’t ask ourselves that question.

When did you realise that your approach to working with photographic material was similar to an artistic practice?

It was quite recent, in 2015. My wife is a photographer, although she now works as a psychoanalyst. For years, I was deeply involved with my publishing house Innocences. In the evenings, when I came home, I would spend time sorting my photos into series as a hobby. I often told my wife that it felt like therapy to me. Some people garden, others drink whiskey; I worked on my photos and organized them into boxes every night. Then one day, my wife said, "No, it's not therapy; it's a neurosis!" [Laughs] She had enough and decided to take action. With her background in photography, she reached out to some friends, which led me to meet Sam Stourdzé, the director of the Rencontres d'Arles, in 2015. He visited our home, went through my photographic collection, and was quite surprised. He suggested that I exhibit my work for the first time at the Rencontres d'Arles. That was when I stepped out of the shadows and into the spotlight. Initially, I didn’t fully understand what the Rencontres d'Arles was. It was a revelation to see people interested in my work and to meet others doing similar things. Before 2015, it was just me, my little desk, and my boxes of photos.

Have you developed a photographic practice yourself?

Not at all. I’m a terrible photographer and even struggle to take decent photos with my iPhone; it’s quite bad. My wife made several attempts to teach me over the years, but it never worked out; I just couldn’t grasp it. Looking back, I think I understand why. With my background in graphic design I see the work of a designer or painter as contrasting sharply with that of a photographer like Henri Cartier-Bresson. As a graphic designer, I start with a blank sheet and define a space in which I work, bringing in external patterns to fill an empty page. In contrast, a photographer captures a small part of a vast world at a particular moment. The approach is fundamentally different. So, I would describe myself as a non-practicing photographer — or even a “ventriloquist” photographer — I don’t take photos myself, but I give a voice to the photos of others.

In a 2015 article, your collection was reported to include about 40,000 photos, negatives, and Ektachromes. What is the current number?

To be honest, I’ve never counted them. All the photos I have are those I’ve carefully selected over a long period. Some collectors buy entire boxes of photos and end up with millions stored in a warehouse, but they often don’t know what they have. In my case, everything is either classified or in the process of being classified. If you look at one of my boxes, you’ll find that its contents have been meticulously researched, considered, catalogued, and organized. When I visit a flea market, I don’t buy a whole box; I select the photos that interest me individually. But let’s stick with the figure of 40,000; it's a good starting point. My collection primarily consists of film photography, along with some slides, negatives, and Ektachromes. I also collect digitized photos, which are accessible and downloadable from the Internet.

What does the logistics of such a collection represent?

While it can sometimes be challenging, I’m fortunate to have an exceptional memory, which helps me remember the images I possess and contributes to the organization of my collection. Knowing exactly where each photo is located can be more complicated. Since I work on creating series, this process helps me to clearly label and organize them effectively. I don’t track how many photos are in each box. 

My profession is making books, and I work on my series with that in mind. For a series to be compelling, it typically needs at least two hundred photos. With this number, it forms a substantial body of work. However, without my intervention, it can’t progress further. The title of a series is crucial; it represents half of the work. When I find a fitting title, the series becomes very interesting because I never impose my own interpretation on what I present. My aim is to provide a societal and political perspective while guiding the viewer’s experience, allowing them to form their own interpretations.

Is it the series that influences the title you give it, or do you already have a title in mind beforehand that you explore and develop through your collection?

I might have a title in mind at some point, but I always try to step back. Often, what interests me in a photo is the background—the elements that aren’t immediately apparent in a single image, but when ten similar photos are put into dialogue, something more emerges beyond the initial impression. Generally, the series itself helps determine the title. Despite that, I sometimes feel frustrated because there are series I’ve had for twenty or even thirty years for which I still haven’t found a fitting title.

You founded the Vernacular Social Club in 2023. Why did you choose to focus on vernacular photography in particular? What do you see as the benefits and challenges of this style?

I have a problem with the perspective of a professional photographer. To me, there’s a filter between what is photographed and what I see—the photographer’s view, their hand, and their framing. This approach bores me; I find it tedious to look through someone else’s lens. This is why I’m not very familiar with the history of classical photography. I find vernacular photography much more interesting because it reveals two key aspects. But before discussing those aspects, let me clarify how these photos are not created with artistic intent. 

Vernacular photography falls into three main categories: First, there are family photos: weddings, holidays, births, gatherings with friends, communions, deaths, and so on. These remain within the family circle, speaking only to family members and telling a story without any artistic filter. Second, there are proof or utilitarian photos. These include scientific or practical images, such as catalog photos of shoes, private detective photos, X-rays of our lungs, those taken at an accident, or photos of valuable objects we have at home for our insurance. Finally, there is what I call proximity photography, taken by professionals. This includes fairground shots, identity photos from local studios, or images captured by walking photographers. These are everyday photos taken by photographers who don't consider themselves more important than the butcher or the florist. Neighborhood photography, in short. These unfiltered images become vernacular when repurposed beyond their original intent.

What excites me about these undocumented photo types is that they offer stories often absent from professional photography. In professional photography, we know about the photographer, their background, the context of the photo, and its place in publications or collections. In contrast, a photo purchased from a market prompts questions about its own history: Why is this photo in this shoebox? How did it end up here? So, there is the story of the journey of this photo. Additionally, these photos tell their own stories. Sometimes they are factual, but without documentation or annotation, they become a canvas for our own interpretations and fantasies. This makes them intriguing because they don’t dictate a story; instead, they invite us to create one. They open a door to the imagination. These undocumented photos are fragile—they must be handled carefully, and one must be cautious not to impose any false narratives on them. The title, too, should reflect this sensitivity.

Given this context, what is the importance of the Vernacular Social Club and its mission to disseminate vernacular documents?

It’s been a year since I founded this club, and it’s been a continuous effort. The original idea was to enjoy the process and create a space where enthusiasts of vernacular photography—what I like to call "amateurs of amateur photos"—could connect.  While some members are actively engaged, many remain spectators. I would love for the members to become more involved so that I can eventually step back and take on a more observational role myself, though that’s not the case yet.

More concretely, I hope we can publish a themed journal three times a year, featuring contributions from the club’s members. The website is designed to allow members with ideas to organize and manage content or to share photos and videos taken at flea markets in their own countries. What truly matters to me in this work is the societal and political perspective. My first major theme was "Brave New World," followed by "War and Peace," and then "La grande bouffe." These themes are meant to provoke thought, challenge perceptions, and address significant contemporary issues.

Today is June 30th, and with the election day in France creating a tense atmosphere, I'd like to revisit the Studio Rex archives exhibition, Don't forget me, which you showcased last year at the Rencontres d'Arles. Can you share how you discovered this material, the work you did with it, and what message you believe it conveys, especially in the current French, but not only French political and social climate?

This series is quite contemporary and differs significantly from my usual approach because the collections I create are personally curated by me. Typically, I build a collection by defining a theme and then searching worldwide for photos that fit it. However, Studio Rex is an archive collection where we know the context and creators of the images, which is a departure from my usual process. This archive spans from the mid-1950s to the early 1990s and is relatively young.

From Jean-Marie Donat's collection

One day, a friend from Marseille called me and asked if I was interested in photo booths. I said no. He then inquired whether I was interested in negatives. I replied that I wasn’t at all. Nevertheless, he sent me a PDF, which I opened to find it was filled with negative images. After converting these negatives to positives using Photoshop, I discovered 80 portraits of men from North and Sub-Saharan Africa. They were all dressed in similar 1970s jackets and had prominent mustaches. It was truly astonishing! I called my friend back, and he explained that these photos were from Studio Rex, a small family-owned photo studio founded in 1933 in Belzunce, a blue-collar district of Marseille. This area was a transit point for immigrants arriving at the port, where they would stay temporarily while sorting out their paperwork and finding employment. The studio was located next to an administrative office known as the "House of the Foreigner," (La maison de l’étranger) where immigrants went to handle their official paperwork, and naturally, they visited Studio Rex for their identity photos. At first, I encountered numerous identity photos and began acquiring entire boxes filled with portraits of serious-looking men who had endured challenging journeys, left their families, and conveyed a sense of hardship. Then, I discovered another category of photos: studio portraits reminiscent of those by Malick Sidibé, where people are elegantly dressed and posed alone or with their families, often with props like radios, mopeds, or flowers. This new perspective revealed a different side of their humanity. At this point, I began to find it intriguing, seeing it as a counterpoint to the first group of images. One day, the son of the studio’s founder gave me a handcrafted wooden suitcase, decorated with a crescent and a star made of metal, filled with photos. He didn’t know what to do with it; it contained photos that people had brought to him for enlargements, duplicates, or photo montages but had never picked up. 

From Jean-Marie Donat's collection

Three types of photos emerge from this collection. The first type consists of wallet photos that travel across the Mediterranean from Africa to France, where they remain and are used to create photomontages decorating their new homes with images of their loved ones. The second type includes identity photos taken and kept in France. Finally, there are the studio photos taken in France and sent back home to show, "Look, I made it, everything is fine, I will start sending you money." In short, this vernacular photo archive encapsulates the very essence of immigration history. 

From Jean-Marie Donat's collection

Returning to the message that such a photographic corpus can convey today, what is particularly compelling is how a seemingly regional story, such as that of Studio Rex, actually unfolds into a broader, universal narrative. People move when they lack the security or opportunity to live well in their home countries. This story is as relevant today as it will be tomorrow, given the challenges of climate change, conflicts, and the refugee crisis. This photographic archive tells an enduring and universal story of human migration and resilience.

There is still so much to discover and learn from vernacular photography! But, unfortunately, I come to my last question: what advice would you give to a young Jean-Marie Donat just starting out in collecting?

I would offer two pieces of advice. First, it’s never too late to pursue what you’re passionate about. When I was 17, I dreamed of playing the violin but felt I was too old to start, so I never did. Now, at 60, I sometimes wonder how different things might have been if I had started then—I might even be a virtuoso by now. Similarly, we have all the tools we need at our disposal; it's a matter of perspective and focusing on what we can do rather than what we can’t. Secondly, I would tell young people, including my trainees, that the key to a fulfilling life is curiosity. Curiosity isn’t a flaw; it is a great quality.