Alan Huck’s I walk toward the sun which is always going down is not a conventional monograph. Published by MACK in 2019, it belongs to a small shelf of books where photographs and prose are conceived together rather than sequenced after the fact. Its narrator—unnamed, first-person, and prone to fragment—moves through a city in the American Southwest. What begins as observation accumulates into reflection; a periphery, a chance encounter, a stretch of road becomes a prompt for thinking about photography, language, and the difficulty of attending to a place.

The book alternates between pictures of the city’s edges and a running interior monologue. Huck allows each medium to remain uncertain, using photography’s inherent ambiguity and the slippage of written language as working conditions rather than problems to solve. The result is an exercise in attention: an image-text essay that asks how seeing and saying relate when neither can fully pin down the other.

Its literary frame is explicit but not decorative. Huck draws on the ambulatory writing of W.G. Sebald and Annie Dillard, among other references woven through the text. The book is partly metafiction about a photographer’s process and partly cross-disciplinary inquiry into what it means to attach oneself to a particular place. The 144-page OTA-bound paperback, with flaps and a 17 x 20 cm trim, is designed as a unified reading object, not a portfolio with captions.

For collectors, the interest lies in that integration. Huck’s project sits at a productive intersection of photography and writing, and its concern with attention, place, and the limits of representation gives it a lasting place on the shelf. It is a book to read as much as to look at—one whose sequence and prose argue for a slower, more permeable mode of encounter.