I realised that, sooner or later, what we think of as the "real" objects [1]—kea; twig and weir—will be gone, and the most immediate connections we'll retain with them will be their images: on walls, in albums, on monitors.  Eventually, even our memories will fade and disappear, outlived by those images.  As I mulled over the thought, I felt a kind of responsibility to the kea and the stream; in a moment of insight, I understood that often I photograph something at least partly to honour it.

Until that moment, the motivation seemed to have been unconscious, but I think it's been part of many of my photos.  Perhaps it explains in part why I feel uneasy about images that have been excessively manipulated; ironically, it might also be why some judicious manipulation can be not just acceptable, but desirable.  To manipulate an image so it conforms to popular (or, even worse, saleable) perceptions of what's attractive seldom honours the subject—by too readily destroying authenticity it says, effectively, "you're not good enough."  Conversely, a little respectful tweaking honours the subject by drawing attention to its essence.  Of course, some will argue that one person's respectful tweaking is another's excessive manipulation; some will even argue that manipulation of any sort is wrong because you can't define what honours a subject.  However, the latter would deny photographers the use of filters, of any darkroom manipulation—no dodging or burning, please; no toning; no local reduction, etc.—and, indeed, would place on shaky ground the use of highly saturated films like Fuji's Velvia or Kodak's E100VS, which certainly do not represent how most of us perceive colours [2].

However, the most important rejoinder is that we see with our minds; vision is a psychological process.  It's subjective; it's as much interpretation as perception.  What matters most is not what sort of manipulation was done, but why it was done—if the intention is honourable, the likelihood of excessive or cynical manipulation will be low.

I do accept that asking how a photo respects and honours its subject might sometimes seem irrelevant or inappropriate.  A good example might be that of photojournalists faced with acts of evil—in what sense would you want to respect or honour Robert Mugabe while his machines are razing homes and killing people in Zimbabwe?—but perhaps the intention is always important.  Why should I take this photo?  Or, having taken the photo when the situation precluded even momentary deliberation, how should I share the image (if at all)?  Maybe, in those hard situations, what we respect are those affected by the acts, and what we honour is truth.  Maybe, too, this is one way to recognise the difference between a photojournalist and a paparazzo.  And, in conclusion, I said earlier that often I photograph something at least partly to honour it; I can say also that sometimes I don't photograph something for that same reason.