RIP Martin Parr: the photographer who found joy in the ordinary

I've just heard the news, and it's hit me hard. Martin Parr, the photographer who made a career out of documenting Britain's working-class holidays, village fetes and supermarket queues in gloriously oversaturated colour, died at his home in Bristol on Saturday. He was 73.

I won't lie, we're all in shock. My editor Chris George saw him only a few weeks ago, at a talk at his Foundation in Bristol. I chatted with him as recently as August, at Green Man Festival in Wales, following a screening of his documentary, I Am Martin Parr. I'd always been a fan, but watching that film (which I'd highly recommend), then meeting the man himself, was a revelation.

Because here's the thing about Martin Parr that people often missed: he genuinely loved the people he photographed.

Who he really was

Some critics called Parr a sneering class tourist, accused him of mocking his working-class subjects. But in the flesh he was the exact opposite: a quiet-looking man wandering among with his camera, chatting to everyone in a genuine and empathetic way. He approached them and his work with curiosity and, crucially, a schoolboy-like sense of fun.

Even when tackling serious subjects like class and consumption, there was joy in his process. He was never afraid to find things amusing, to celebrate eccentricity, to empathise with people, to smile at the beautiful absurdity of life.

Born in Surrey in 1952, Parr was inspired by his grandfather, a keen amateur photographer, and knew by his teens that he'd found his calling. After studying at Manchester Polytechnic, he spent time shooting at Butlin's holiday camps, where he discovered the highly saturated, nostalgic postcards by John Hinde that would shape his later work. That aesthetic – bright, almost garish colour that mimicked 1950s holiday snaps – became his signature style.

His breakthrough came in 1986 with his series The Last Resort: Photographs of New Brighton. Over three summers, he documented working-class holidaymakers in Merseyside, capturing sunburnt flesh, fish and chip wrappers, crying children and fairground rides. It's kind of weird to think of it now, but the reaction was explosive.

Middle-class people from London and the south of England – the kind that frequented photography exhibitions, at least – weren't generally used to seeing the reality of northern seaside towns: the litter, the rundown amenities, the unvarnished ordinariness. Some accused him of creating the ugliness he photographed, as if wielding a camera somehow made him responsible for regional economic decline.

But Parr was simply showing things as they were. "I make serious photographs disguised as entertainment," he said. It was his mantra, and it perfectly captured his approach; using humour and colour to smuggle in social commentary.

While The Last Resort focused on working-class life, he turned his lens on the middle classes with The Cost of Living in 1989. Garden parties, shopping trips, public school open days; all received the same unflinching treatment. In 1992, he even spent time photographing the residents of the Chew Valley, a part of rural Somerset where I lived as a teenager. And believe me, his pictures captured the incendiary social relations between locals and incomers there quite brilliantly.

His work was controversial enough that legendary photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson opposed his admission to the Magnum agency, saying he seemed to come from another planet. Parr famously replied: "I understand how you feel, but why shoot the messenger?" Justice was served when he was accepted by a single vote in 1994. Parr went on to serve as Magnum's president from 2013 to 2017, helping modernise the prestigious agency.

During the 1990s and 2000s, Parr's scope became more international. Small World critiqued mass tourism, while Common Sense examined global consumerism. He published over 100 books and co-authored the influential The Photobook: A History series with Gerry Badger, helping elevate the photobook form. His work was collected by MoMA, the Tate and the Centre Pompidou. In 2021, he received a CBE for his services to photography.

But Parr was more than just a photographer; he was a tireless champion of the medium itself. In 2017, he opened the Martin Parr Foundation in Bristol, which houses his archive today and regularly exhibits work by other photographers. He was an obsessive collector of photobooks and photo ephemera, eventually selling his 12,000-strong book collection to Tate. He curated festivals, published others' work, and mentored younger photographers.

He kept working right up until the end. His latest book, Utterly Lazy and Inattentive (titled after a French teacher's damning school report when he was 14) came out this year as an autobiographical collection, pairing his photographs with wry commentary. The Martin Parr Foundation and Magnum Photos will work together to preserve his legacy.

But his real legacy is already secure: he changed how we see ourselves. Parr made documentary photography bright, funny, accessible and deeply human. And he showed generations of photographers that you don't need to travel to war zones or disaster sites to create important work. You can just go outside, start paying attention to what ordinary people are doing, and you'll probably stumble on to something fascinating.

We'll all miss him terribly.