When the round drawl of Walter Coker’s Alabama roots unfurls into the conversation, you listen—closely. In his stories, there’s a wealth of context that edges toward encyclopedic and a care for nuance that reflects the place he came of age: Florida. And then, just when you’re about to wince, when the story is almost just too much to bear, Coker will stare you in the eyes, pivot to some dark pun, and his booming laugh will wash over you. The same might be said for his photographs.
The range in his storytelling is the thing that lends his photographs this almost alchemical draw. In some, they take on the fly-in-a-room perspective of a William Eggleston or the deadpan approach of Dorothea Lange, but always, they reflect the core components that make up Coker’s je-ne-sais-quois: straight-forward, lots of detail, and no bullsh**.
Coker grew up in Satellite Beach. An Air Force brat, he inherited a peripatetic tic from his dad to find something he could call his own. For 40 years, he has returned to a little blip of limestone in the Bahamas to surf and make photographs. And in the past 25 years, periodic trips to Asia have eaten up vast swaths of his passport and led to his second career as a shop owner.
But let’s not stray too far from the issue at hand: Coker’s photographs. The body of work he has amassed mirrors his curiosity and his time spent away from home. Pawing through his immense archives that consist of raw files and negatives and slides and prints and stories reveals a commitment to social justice, to community, to celebrating the place he’s called home since 1990—which is St. Augustine.
But what you ultimately find in his work is that it takes an adept eye, deeply aware of what lies outside the frame, to show us even a glimpse of the complexity that Florida lays claim to. After a lifetime here—21 of which he was on staff at Folio Weekly—Coker is just starting to get a sense of just how complicated this place really is. But let him tell you—in his own voice.