Aesthetic Book Photography Novels & Stories

Astrid went to the very corner of the library where the books that belong to the mystery section were located, she was fond of reading mystery genre books as well as horror. She already has many collections at home but she wants to explore more. "Nice," her eyes were fixed on a book when she read its title. "Arts of Death, photography and reasons." Her attention was immediately hooked by it so she hurried and picked it up and brought it to the selected table. Many things were bothering her mind while opening the book. The feeling of enthusiasm-her eyes sparked upon seeing the pictures from the book, trying to focus her eyes to the left page wherein a dead bird being pinned in a transparent w

I couldn’t help but blush when I realized why he’s looking at the photobook like that. “I guess, he’s mesmerized by you,” Ada spoke silently from behind me. I turned to her and saw her smiling while trying to dust off the shelves. I shook my head and looked Julian’s way again but this time, he’s already looking at me. I smiled at him before finishing the last photo. I applied several lighting effects on them before saving it. I compressed all of the photos in a single file before saving them into the drive. I stood up and took my coat slung around my swivel chair.

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

He lifted her in his arms and walked out of the living room toward the stairs and his bedroom. Aiden’s bedroom was different than she expected it to be. Done in warm earth tones with a large Michael Kenna’s black and white photograph. It wasn’t a poster… it was the real thing. She moved closer to it when he set her on her feet. The stark black-and-white photograph called to her as nothing else could. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her back against his body. Just holding her while Nevaeh examined the photograph to her heart’s content. She felt the subtle movements of his body rubbing against hers.

"I’m Alen, your photographer for today. And let me just say, darling, you are absolutely stunning. Adrian, you sure know how to pick ‘em." I blinked, unsure how to respond to that, but Adrian, stone-faced as ever simply slipped his hands into his pockets and gave a tight nod. Alen clapped his hands together. "Alright, lovebirds, let’s get started." He turned to Adrian, all business now. "So, here’s the thing. I want these photos to ooze passion. Chemistry. The kind of love that makes people sigh dramatically and wish they had what you two have." He made a sweeping gesture with his hands, like he was painting a masterpiece. "I want to feel the heat!"

The books were still there. This was the detail that had made Elijah cry when he'd first seen the space. Not the chairs or the windows or the light—the books. The shelves were still filled, not with the collector's original first editions but with books that had been chosen for their beauty and their age and their presence. Leather spines. Gold lettering. The specific quality of objects that had been made by hand and had lasted. Alexander had put his hand on Elijah's back when he'd seen the tears and had said nothing.

POV: Vivian Ashford The photoshoot is my idea, which is important, because most things that have happened to me in the past three months have been things that happened to me rather than things I chose, and I am finished with that particular dynamic. I call the photographer myself. Imani Cole, who I met at a gallery opening two weeks ago and whose work I have been following since her editorial spread in W last spring. Her aesthetic is precise and unapologetic, all strong light and direct gaze, the kind of photographs that don't ask for your sympathy and don't need it.

“Do you think you could take a few pictures of me? I haven’t posted anything in a few days, and my followers are getting antsy.” The true purpose of Lauren inviting me to spend time with her this morning becomes very obvious. She needed a photographer, not a friend. “Sure, I can take a few. I really want to read this book, though, so if we could be fast…” “Oh, that is an awesome idea!” Lauren grabbed the book out of my hand and flipped it from the front cover to the back. I must have looked confused because she quickly explained. “We could take a few shots of me reading on the beach. I haven’t done that before. Is this one of those books that will make me look smart?”

He'd made a good choice to stand out and do the shots outdoors, the natural light really bringing a healthy glow to his tan skin. "I think this one on the wall, this one for the cover and the rest of these can go in the book," I said, focusing Adrian's attention back on the photos spread across my desk. I'd separted two from the pile that I thought showed him in the best light. "I agree on this for the wall, but I think you'd be better off using this one for the book. It creates like a dark and light contrast in his character," he replied, picking out a different one from the pile.

I scrolled slowly. Street photographs. New York in various lights and seasons. A series of grief images that were striking in a way that was hard to look away from, raw and formally beautiful at the same time, the kind of work that came from someone photographing something real rather than something constructed. I kept scrolling. Unassuming in a way that was its own kind of presence. Not performing anything. No carefully lit selfies, no obvious brand construction. Just work, genuinely done, by someone who clearly meant it.