The Idea dictates everything II

Thematic concepts, are what probably drive me these days. I can’t visualise the final work during the shoot and prefer to leave things open. I do however, sometimes get an indication of where the work may go.

Either way, when I start to edit the work, I spend the first half dozen edits looking for the thematic theme that is hopefully buried in the work, and when I find it, it is as though “this was the idea to begin with” and it dictates everything else from that moment onwards.

I don’t ordinarily pre-visualise what I’m going to do with the images when I shoot them. But sometimes I do. In this instance I had the idea that I wanted to make the backgrounds darker. I had no idea if the horses would be in colour or monochrome, or what tint they would be until I was editing them.

As much as it would be easy to assume that I was directing where the editing would go, it’s often rarely, if at all, possible to do that. The work tells you where it wants to go, and if you listen to it, things tend to flow. But if you aren’t listening to where it wants to go, then you’ll just feel resistance and difficulty in working with it.

These shots were hand-held, in a brightly lit room. With a lot of background brick work. I had been curious as to whether I could subdue the backgrounds and found it came easily simply due to the lower dynamic range of my films. What I could see in the backgrounds of the horses, my films could not. Often limitations bring benefits and this is one benefit of working with low dynamic range film. I had to expose for the highlights and let the backgrounds fall into darkness.

But it took me a while to figure out what the approach was. What the main idea was, and once I saw where the work wanted to go, the idea of horses in darkness dictated where the work was going to go.

Artistic Awareness

This is a subject I keep coming back to. Because I feel that I have a good handle of where I’ve come from, and what external sources (teachers) got me here. This isn’t purely an exercise in humility although I think good artists tend to have that aspect to them. This is more about the simple fact that if you understand what contributed to your abilities, then you’re on much more solid ground.

I’ve been mentoring and teaching for some time now. A teacher’s role is to give students clarity and confidence, and when it goes well, the teaching can almost disappear from view. It often shows up in these ways:

  • Good teaching leaves students feeling they worked it out themselves. When a teacher points the way and the student does the work, it’s natural, and even a good sign, that they feel the achievement is theirs.

  • Confidence grows through ownership. Students learning a new skill tend to credit themselves for their successes, and that self-belief is exactly what we hope to build.

  • Recognition often comes later. If students acknowledge what their teacher gave them, it frequently happens years afterward. It takes time, practice, and experience to see clearly which parts of your growth came from someone else, and that’s a natural part of learning.

I think it’s important for all artists to gain some idea of the contributions that went into where they’ve got to with their art. None of us gets there entirely on our own, and I believe it’s valuable to understand our influences and the impact of certain teachers, whether formal (such as mentoring) or informal (such as the influence gained from looking at other people’s work).

For me, the starting point is curiosity about my own process. After a success, I try to ask “How did I get here?” rather than just “I did it.” When I trace where an idea, habit, or technique came from, I often find the fingerprints of the teaching and influences that shaped me. Here are some practices I’ve found helpful:

  • Reflection. I keep notes or a journal on what I was told, what I tried, and what changed. Looking back over a few months makes my progress, and where it came from, visible in a way memory alone doesn’t.

  • Humility. I try to hold “I did the work” and “I was shown the way” together. Credit isn’t a fixed pie, and acknowledging a teacher takes nothing away from my own effort.

  • Openness to feedback. I treat critique as information rather than a verdict, and I try advice before dismissing it, even when it feels unnecessary.

  • Patience with not knowing. As a beginner, I couldn’t yet see what I couldn’t see. Accepting that my judgment was still developing made me more willing to trust guidance and to honor agreements made with a teacher.

  • Seeking comparisons. I look at my earlier work, at peers who learned without that guidance, or at what happens when I work without it. Contrast is one of the fastest ways to see what a teacher contributed.

  • Gratitude as a habit. I name the people who helped me, even privately. It builds the ability to notice invisible contributions in general.

  • Willingness to teach others. Explaining a skill to someone else shows me how much was handed to me, and how hard good guidance is to give.

A simple exercise I find useful is to ask, at the end of a project, “What did I know or do differently because of someone else’s input?” It takes a minute, and over time it builds real awareness.

I take great delight in seeing a student improve, and even more when the homework they produce exceeds what I thought was possible. Teaching is often results-oriented, focused on the work itself, but it rarely includes the personal development that sits behind it: how we handle our successes and failures, whether we have an accurate sense of what we’ve achieved and who helped us get there, and our self-awareness more generally. In my experience, good artists are curious people, and many of them ask these questions instinctively.

re-negotiating my relationship with colour

I think over the past five years or so, I’ve been renegotiating my relationship with colour.

Initially attracted to strong, saturated colours, I found over the first decade of image-making that my photography moved to a more muted palette. I assumed at the time that strong colour was the territory of the beginner, and that as one becomes more attuned to working with contrasts and light, a more subtle approach to colour follows as well.

Although I think there is some truth in this, I’m not sure it’s entirely correct. Certainly, we do have to learn to use colour, and in my own case I had to learn that simply having strong colours in the work did not always equate to a great image. Over the years of working on my tones and contrasts, I found that colour can and should be used selectively. I just made the wrong assumption that as one starts to use less of it in certain work, this was a trajectory: a simple, one-dimensional path towards colour reduction.

I’m not so certain of this now, even though I think it is what happened to me for a while. A long while. Maybe around a decade.

Each year I felt as though the colour in my work was becoming less and less. I assumed this was simply a case of becoming more adept at working my compositions, so that colour would become more subtle, much like how our use of contrast can become more nuanced over time. I remember my first few years of photography being in love with very contrasty work and thinking that images looked weak if they had softer contrasts.

I then wrote an article about five years ago suggesting that I was getting a little bored of the muted look and that I was finding I was reintroducing colour (unconsciously) to my work. My theory at the time was that we tend to shift back and forth, much like a pendulum, from strong to muted colour and back again.

Now I think it’s more a case that I have an evolving, constantly changing relationship with colour, and have come to find myself very comfortable with one portfolio having a lot of colour and another having almost none. Certainly, I’d love to think that this is more about skill: knowing when the use of strong colour is appropriate and, equally, when it is not.

I think I’ve unknowingly had a relationship with colour since I picked up my very first camera. But the assumption by me (and I think this is quite common), is that we choose colour. I often hear other photographers say “I like strong colour” or “I prefer more muted work”, and we assume we can choose the colour strength we want, irrespective of the landscapes we visit. We also maybe subconsciously are attracted to landscapes that fit our preferences.

I’m not sure if my return to colour is simply a case of relaxing a bit. I’ve had a decade of colour reduction and perhaps I’m just enjoying letting the colour return. I’m not sure, because all I do know for sure is that I have found it hard to re-introduce colour consciously. It always feels too strong, too clumsy, and I think the work of late that does have more colour in it, has somehow felt more comfortable for me to go there.

I used to say: “we need to submit to the landscape, for it will not submit to us”. This still holds true for me, and is includes the use of colour. I certainly feel a calm resignation to working with, rather than against a landscape that presents strong colour.

I’m also more comfortable in having strong colour portfolios co-existing next to ones that do not. I now see colour as a component of portfolio design. Some portfolios require colour and some do not.

But ultimately, the landscape is always in conversation with us. It tells us what it is. We just have to listen to it. I like it when I realise the true nature of a place, and figure out how to represent it in a small portfolio of 6 to 9 images, and colour is now very much a major part of the decision as to how to represent the work.

This is not about AI. It's about creativity

Rick Ruben is great at summing up the creative process. And how ‘following the herd’ does not work. I really love what Rubin has to say and I would highly recommend buying his book on creativity as well. It’s not a ‘how to’. It’s more a ‘how to tap into your own intuition and follow your own path’.

Interview below is great. Just ignore the clickbait title.

Closer

I wanted to show you this beautiful image by Jana Hoffmann. She was on my Isle of Eigg workshop this September.

What appears at first to be a body wrapped in plastic, is of course, just plastic wrapping that has washed up on Laig bay. There is often so much jetsam and flotsam that comes up on the beaches of Eigg each year and this was perhaps too good to pass up on.

Image by Jana Hoffmann. Isle of Eigg workshop participant 2026.

I think what makes this image, is the long exposure in the background. The island of Rum is just beautifully veiled in cloud. And the sea wash is also beautiful.

Interestingly for me, the initial edit of this image did not go well and I had considered rejecting the image. By the end of the workshop it was one of my favourites from the week.

During my mentoring workshops, I like to discuss editing, as I feel that we learn to compose better and look out for obstacles in our compositions during the editing stage. Not the capture stage as many assume.

Below is the initial capture turned to black and white with no filtration applied.

Anyone can use Lightroom. With a bit more effort Photoshop can be harnessed as well, but it is the ‘what to do’ rather than the ‘how to’ that does not come with the software knowledge. Interpreting a scene is a skill. With no single definitive way to edit images, an image can be interpreted and re-interpreted forever.

Wrapped up in the interpretation are our own aesthetic leanings (tastes), and also our ability to ‘see’ or not, as is often the case for the less experienced editor.

Many thanks to Jana for allowing me to reproduce her image.

Making Room for wonder

I was initially attracted to photography by impressive images. Images that had strong contrasts, strong colours, and impressive dramatic scenery.

I think this is a rite of passage for most of us. We are initially drawn to the spectacular and It is only after some time, that I think we begin to appreciate the more nuanced, subtleties of low contrasts, muted colour palettes and simplification of subject matter.

 I’m often reminded of a quote:

 “Just because you can, doesn’t always mean you should”

Rather than seeking to make impressive images, I much prefer these days, to leave room for wonder. Space in the work, to be able to pause, rest the eye and find my own interpretation. I think overly impressive images tend to be deficient in this regard.

Their aim is to invade our senses. There is no gentle invitation to come to the work in my own time. And once there, staying with the work is equally hard, for what instantly appealed, soon evaporates.

 I have come to appreciate quieter imagery. Subtlety of tone, contrast and colour. Where fatigue is less likely to set in. It makes for a more comfortable viewing experience. And gives a sense of dynamics to the work, for you can only have intensity if there are quieter passages to compare against.

In my view, the subtlety of an edit, is the territory of the experienced photographer. For experience brings confidence. Confidence to avoid overcompensating. Confidence to know when enough is enough. Because good editing, can only be achieved if one’s abilities to ‘see’ have improved.

 No longer impressed by the overly bold, or the need to impress others, the confident and experienced eye seeks nuance in the work, because it knows, that this is where we make room for wonder.

My world of Photography & Music

If you are a regular reader and have been following me for some time, then you’ll know that I have origins in song writing. I’ve been a musician since I was 12. Untrained - something I regret a little as I wish I had some knowledge of musical theory.

I released a new piece of music this week with my friend Nigel Sleaford as vocalist.

To me, music and photography are one and the same.

I am preoccupied by tones, and separation. With photographs, getting all the components of the photograph to sit in their own tonal registers, and not clash is part of the composition process.

In music, composition is called ‘the arrangement’. The choice of instruments and their tonal responses is important. What they play and how they make room for each other is a vital part of the arrangement.

I have been thinking that I seem to spend most of my time in photography or music thinking about frequencies. Light (high frequencies) and dark (low frequencies), and how they interact.

The art of committing

There’s always a risk, that once we’ve found a good idea, if we modify or change it in some way, we may lose the essence of it. Unable to move forward, for fear of losing an initial idea in the pursuit of a greater one, the work halts and is left in limbo.

I used to be grateful for the undo option, as I could go back if I’d found I’d taken a wrong turn. Undo seems like a creative safety net. Freedom to take a chance, to see where the work may go, and if we make a mistake, we can always retract. It certainly has its uses.

But we must commit at some point. And I think there’s an art to doing so.

You see, I think it’s very hard to let go of work. And when we have an undo option, we can postpone finishing the work indefinitely. if we so choose. But we have a duty to clear the decks at some point. To close off work that has gone on for too long. So that we can make space for new work to enter our lives. And we must also learn that the creative process is made up of a series of commits, of decisions to get to the finishing line.

I don’t like having limitless options. I work better when I am forced to commit, knowing full well that I cannot go back. It’s taught me to trust myself more. It’s also taught me to go with the flow.

The creative process is much like a performance. You are running live and anything may happen. Unintended results can bring inspired consequences. Committing to something I did not intend, can be a real power move.

Commitment is now a welcome part of my tool set. A key skill.

It helps bring purpose and intent to the fore in my work. And if I’m uncertain, it allows me to draw a line under it, so that I can be free to move on.

Landscape Fluctuations & Photographer Variability

A curve, a line, gradated tones. That is ultimately what photographs are.

Photographs are also aesthetic signatures. Each of us has our own: the hues and contrasts that each of us is attracted to, or find pleasing are part of the personality of the work we produce. We all have our own signature.

I’ve often thought of my landscapes as teachers. It is why I return to some of them on a yearly basis. Because there is much still to do, much still to explore. And often some kind of progress, or development in any stylistic approach I’ve found.

2024 set

Two small portfolios. The above set shot in 2024. The set below shot in 2019.

To me, the 2019 set were working more with the lines and shapes of the lagoons. The 2024 set are slightly more abstract in nature and I am deliberately playing with the loss of information of dune slopes, so that some of the lagoons appear to be hanging in space. It feels like a refinement to me. The tones have been pushed out more. The lagoons are darker and the sand lighter. More graphic.

2019 set

And the set I produced in 2025 (below) are somewhat more a return to what I was shooting in 2019. More back to regular lagoon shapes. Less abstract compared to the 2024 set.

Partly this is because I think I just didn’t find the conditions lent themselves to going more graphic on the work, but mostly I think because I just didn’t feel that I wanted to go so graphic on the set.

I’ve noticed that around 2024, the work I was producing was becoming very minimalistic and more graphic. I really like the work from this year, and somehow, through no direction of my own, the graphic sensibilities eased off. It’s as though I got tired of pushing things too graphic. But I think it’s simply more that creativity tends to ebb and flow. One year I may go super graphic with the work. Another year I may find less so.

2025 set

Irrespective of whether these sets are better than the other - I much prefer to consider that they are the result of light / landscape and photographer variances. I tend to be variable :-)

But it does illustrate that returning to the same landscape to make pictures each year, often does not result in making the exact same set as before. Or that there will be a mood or difference in what you get based on your own mental state and what the landscape is providing.

That is why I always enjoy returning to and repeating landscapes. They get under my skin and I know that it is impossible to repeat what I did before - even if I tried. And always impossible to go back to ‘capture what I missed last time’.

Instant devaluation

Good ideas are not so common. But they do happen once in a while for most of us. Whereas, unique and exceptional ideas are extremely rare and may never happen for most of us. Ever.

Great ideas tend to get copied. Emulated. Used as ‘inspiration’. They tend to get replicated to the point that they become a trope. Perhaps even a cliché. So common in fact, that their importance of just how rare they were when they were created is soon lost.

In photographic terms one may hear the devaluation of a great idea executed by someone using the following statement:

“it’s quite obvious when you go there”.

For what is often lost, is context. The contrast of what the world was like before the original idea came into existence. For it is impossible to go and copy something if it does not already exist. And even harder to create an original idea out of thin air.

I always think that great ideas always lose their value once published. Humans copy. It is what we do. Trends are in essence, folks all buying into the same idea. That’s what Fashion is. Mass acceptance of something.

Great photographs are inevitaby devalued. Partly because newer and fresher things are derived from them. Nothing is ever truly original and in the process of emulating and replicating other peoples ideas adaptions and mutations of the original idea will come into existence.

But also, great photographs are devalued quite simply because it is often very hard to grasp just how hard it was to create the original idea. For once it is there, we have hindsight. And hindsight always affects our judgement.

It really doesn’t matter if you do create unique or great work. Chances are, you will be instantly forgotten in the sea of copyists who want to go and make similar images as you. That is just the way it is. Give birth to an idea and it is yours if you do not publish. But once you do publish, then your idea is no longer your own. The audit trail of who found the composition and how ground breaking you may have been in capturing it is soon lost.