Even firemen book
This book is about my daughter Lora (8). Or perhaps more about how she, unwittingly, accompanied me through a dark and wonderful episode of anxiety and depression. Where she sometimes simultaneously was the cause and the cure.

Read more about the background story behind the series here...


After a successful crowdfunding campaign, this book is now being printed and is planned for publication early 2018. You can (pre)order your exclusive copy by sending me an email at caspar@gmail.com, stating the number of books you would like to order, and to which address. I will then email you the payment details and, after your payment, send you the book(s). Payment via PayPal is also possible.

The book costs €25, excl. shipping.

Here's a preview of the first 30 pages of the book:


The book will be a carefully designed and crafted hardcover, as this project deserves no less. The cover will be made of Imperial 4500 – a beautiful linen material, and the photos will be printed on 150 grams Arctic Volume Cream paper. The offset printing will be done by renowned Amsterdam printer drukkerij robstolk. Even Firemen will be about 80 pages and feature 39 photographs. The first edition will be an exclusive 250 numbered copies, and will be printed early 2018.

I am proud that Even Firemen will be published by Plague Press Publishing – the publishing house of Magnum photographer Matt Stuart.

Here are a few spreads from the book:

And, to give you an even better idea, here are some of the photos and quotes from the book:

“Papa, I’ll tell you a secret. And if we can keep this a secret until I am seven, the secret will become a diamond.”

“If you’re old, you’re either ugly or dead.”

“There. I threw you into the Lost Machine. Now you are lost.”

"Papa, does everyone die?"
"Yes, sweetheart. Everyone."
"Even firemen?"

“Outside is very, very big.”


In the fall of 2013 I suddenly panicked. Just like that. And then it multiplied. Into thousands of fears, thousands of horrible things that could possibly happen. And a lot of those scenarios involved Lora, my then 4 year old daughter. I, or more specifically: my brain, would vividly project detailed shorter or longer horror movies of things that could happen to her. From traffic accidents to random terrorism to her simply falling fatally on her head at the playground.

Now I knew this was something most parents have. But not all day long, and not with such vivid imagery and the extreme emotions that came with that. I felt like I was living those horrors without them ever happening. Without being able to convince myself: hang on, relax, that won’t happen, you’re overreacting. Logic had no effect.

So I became that father who kept calling “Be careful!” after his daughter with every thing she was doing. Which I understood was ridiculous. Even more so because Lora was, and is, a cautious and mindful child by nature – also, she’s strong, smart and not clumsy or careless at all. She’s never fallen out of trees although she climbed many. She’s never fallen of her bike, ran foolishly into traffic or set the house on fire. Conclusion: it was me, not her. And I needed help.

Meanwhile, I was working, or trying to, as a photographer and a freelance visual designer. But I also was with Lora a lot of the time. Which to me was great... but exhausting. I suffered from immense headaches, dizziness and tiredness. I avoided friends and family and crowds, while at the same time feeling isolated, lonely and depressed. I was not the fun and friendly and active dad I wanted to be. Which gave me more stress. I felt sorry for Lora, for my wife, for my family, and for my friends who I didn’t call anymore.

At the same time, I did spent a lot of time with my wonderful, happy, funny, smart and lovely daughter. We did go places. We had fun. We went on holidays. At the same I felt horrible and not even half the person I used to be. But, still being a photographer, I brought my camera with me most of the time. And I photographed Lora. In a way that wasn’t about her. It was, of course, about me. About what I imagined being her could be like. About how I was afraid she would remember her childhood. About how lonely and dystopian being her would feel.

So photographing her was therapeutic. Necessary. And beautiful too! Slowly, and not without setbacks, I got better. I learned – an obvious lesson, as are most life lessons – that you become what you repeat. That being afraid for me had become second nature. And that confronting those fears, and repeatedly experiencing that they didn’t come true, helped. So in a way I was, perhaps, confronting my own fears by photographing Lora. By simply spending time with her. Having fun, or at least trying to have fun, and sometimes pretending to have fun. But it helped. I actually started believing the numerous people who told me, again and again, who had always told me, that I was doing fine. That Lora was doing fine. And always has been.

Go back up...