Damon Winter is a staff photographer for The New York Times. He won a Pulitzer Prize in feature photography for his coverage of Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign.

The challenge for any photojournalist covering a modern presidential race is how to capture the essence of a candidate in such a tightly managed environment, when the campaign is trying to retain control over his or her public image.

But no matter how restrictive the campaign, there are usually some opportunities to capture the small and revealing moments that occur in back rooms at rallies and during the grueling, cross-country trips as the candidates court voters. These, traditionally, have been vital elements of campaign coverage, allowing us to produce a richer, more nuanced account. In the Trump campaign, there have been almost none.

Until recently, the only vantage point from which we could photograph him was the “press pen,” an enclosure in the back of the room at his events, which offers only a head-on view. Mr. Trump doesn’t like to be photographed from behind, from the side or from below and, as a result, we have had little access to the areas closest to the stage.



Photographers covering his campaign went weeks without seeing Mr. Trump interact with supporters on the rope line after his rallies. In the final weeks of the campaign, we have often been ushered out before he has finished his speech. In September, Mr. Trump left the traveling press corps behind as he made his way to a rally in New Hampshire, and gloated about it as he took the stage without us there.

Despite the restrictions, I try my best to convey the tone and tenor of the campaign and capture a sense of Mr. Trump’s events, which can at times feel dark, both visually and in tone.

At rallies, the press is routinely harassed by supporters and insulted by the candidate himself. I often hear racist and violent comments and see young children chanting, “Lock her up! Lock her up!” — referring to Hillary Clinton — alongside their parents. Near Milwaukee, a man leaned over the metal barricade separating us and whispered to me that if Mrs. Clinton were there, they would “rip her to pieces.”

Mr. Trump is a fascinating visual subject. He is instantly recognizable from almost any angle and any distance. His signature hair reflects more light than anything around him, making him stand out in any scene. This gives me latitude to be creative in how I cover him. He is also very expressive when he speaks, which can present a challenge: He makes grand gestures so often that they begin to lose any meaning or significance.

For this reason, I often find myself drawn to his quieter moments. The first time Mr. Trump used a teleprompter, I photographed him staring directly through the words reflected in the transparent glass, straight into my lens. After months of criticizing his opponent for using one and getting himself into trouble with his off-the-cuff speeches, the candidate looked chagrined to rely on it.

For all of the limits to our access on the trail, Mr. Trump agreed to sit for portraits with me on three occasions over the course of the campaign. During those sessions he was always cordial and mostly agreeable, but he had very firm ideas about how he wanted to be shown. My biggest challenge was getting past his standard repertoire of poses and the near-scowl that he seems to favor the most. At a shoot in his campaign headquarters, his staff members lent a hand and cheered him on as we tossed pounds of red and blue confetti over him.

In one of the final frames, as the cheering stopped and he walked off the set through the last trickle of confetti, I saw Mr. Trump at a moment that captured a glimpse of what it feels like when the spotlight is gone and the party is over.

I have found that the most telling portraits don’t always have to show a person’s face. A photo I took in Greensboro, N.C., showing Mr. Trump in front of a dimly lit American flag, with only a pointed finger and his iconic golden hair visible, is one of the most revealing portraits I have made of him — not just because of what is shown, but because of what is obscured.

I was initially reluctant to cover another election, but I quickly realized that this year it was more important than ever to be out there with a vigilant, thoughtful and critical eye. As the restrictions on the press tightened, I felt it was my duty at every possible moment to subvert them, to find photographs that were honest and telling. Every situation, no matter how controlled, contrived or mundane, was an opportunity to make something real.

I know that I can never explain the day’s news the way our writers do, but what I can do is help the reader feel what it is like to be there and to make pictures that have meaning beyond the objects in the frame.

My role is not to make the candidate look good or make the crowds look impressive. My job is to tell the story.