A creative’s guide to using AI wisely — with the A.C.T.D. framework.
I will seem a little controversial in this article, but AI (artificial intelligence) is becoming a constant in this creative world. Do I use it? Yes. How? When I don’t know how to do things, like speak Chinese. When I need to have a copy editor to check my grammar and spelling. When it comes to photography do I use it? Not in the creation of a photograph, but sometimes yes to edit for me. There are tools in Photoshop that are useful to the photographer like generative fill, for example..
But what is AI? The large language models, the generative image tools? Does it write code for developers? Yes it can, but as most things it is a machine and never forget that. It is learning, and think of it as being an eager student ready to learn. It doesn’t get it right all the time, and it can, like any human, make mistakes. It is a computer. It does exactly what you tell it to do. Does it understand British understatement, sarcasm or banter? No, because it still needs training.
But like most things, does it live up to the hype? No, especially if you don’t know how to talk to it. When I talk to people about how I use AI, I always share my A.C.T.D. framework.
A is for Actor. I tell AI: “Act as my editor,” or “Act as my literary agent.” AI thrives on context — so give it one. For example: “Act as a specialist in vegan cooking.” (Yes, very controversial — I did warn you.)
C is for Context. AI thrives on it. Give it background — what you’re trying to achieve, who your audience is, or why this matters.
T is for Task. Be specific. Tell it exactly what you want — not “help me write,” but “write a 300-word intro about AI for photographers.”
D is for “Think Deeply.” Ask AI to reflect before answering — in ChatGPT, click “Think”; in Qwen, you may need to select a reasoning-focused model.
And here’s the truth no one talks about enough: AI doesn’t create — it remixes. It feeds on human-made content — blogs, photos, code, songs, even tweets. And as anyone who’s scrolled the internet knows… a lot of that data is complete bollocks.
It’s trained on our best ideas — and our worst. Our genius — and our garbage. So if you feed it junk, it gives you junk back. If you give it context, clarity, and care — it can help you refine your own voice. Not replace it.
But tell me Ian what can’t it do? It seems to be replacing everyone in translation and creative industries? I get it, we all sorry about that, but you can learn how to spot AI content on the internet. People once said a photograph never lies, but we soon found out that it could lie to us. It can’t replace that personal interaction and accompagnement, such as sitting with a client before a shoot. It can’t replace the feeling you get when you receive your prints from the photographer, and you realise that all that prep was worth it.
I have met people who have told me that I have a beautiful camera, and that it must take beautiful pictures. Well? It can’t. Like the person who says yeah but I can do that on my mobile… Generally they can’t. We still have our craft. A computer can’t do that for us. I can’t replace our artistic vision, despite trying to tell us that it can. At best it can only provide an emulation.
I first wanted to learn about the internet when it first came out. I wanted to know how to use it before my children would tell me. That was over 25 years ago. I approach AI in the same way. It doesn’t have all the answers, but when well used, it’s a bloody good tool to have in your kit.
This isn’t about rejecting AI—it’s about reclaiming agency. When I give it clear context and a specific task, it becomes a mirror for my own creativity. But the song? The photo? The feeling in your hands when you hold a print? Those aren’t AI’s work. They’re yours. The tool sharpens the craft—but only the human holds the vision. So use AI like a darkroom chemical: a helper, not the artist. And never forget: the most revolutionary thing in your kit isn’t silicon. It’s you.
A illustration to a song written by AI about my Moly and my wife. That bitch who stole my man…
P.S. The song above? Written entirely by AI. It’s witty, structured, and even tugs at the heart—proof that AI can imitate craft. But it didn’t feel heartbreak. It didn’t choose to love a rescue dog more than its human partner. That irony, that ache? That’s still ours. AI remixes our stories. We give them meaning.
(Or: How I Became a Human Pancake on a Tuesday Night)
For about a month now I have been off work after “un accident de travail.” I was leaving work on the 24th of September and tripped over some uneven flooring. I’m not a small man or a light man and I landed flat on my face like a guardsman fainting. I think my arms must have been tucked along my rib cage, and my nose hit the ground. The resulting nosebleed left a bit of my DNA on the floor and I looked miserable, furious with myself — and in pain in my ribs.
We went to casualty that night at about 20h as I was in pain, which is not something I’m overly fond of. None of this pain is weakness leaving the body codswallop for me matey. Casualty was shut for the evening and we dialed 15 for the SAMU who declared that since my breathing was fine I must only have fractured ribs, go home, see your doctor, take a paracetamol and try not to move.
No shit Sherlock! However, that’s exactly what I did. Surprisingly enough I didn’t move very much that first night, and the next day my doctor confirmed what we thought and I was given the good stuff. Tramadol! Tramadol didn’t make me high. It made me numb. And for the first time since falling, that felt like mercy.
Over the last month my car has died, I have rested, still have pain when I turn over in my sleep, yet feel rested, and I have been eating a lot healthier with more veg and protein. My wife took over driving me from my appointments and shouting when I yelled out in pain. Do I feel better for the time off? I suppose so. But like a 68, you feel there’s just one thing missing, much the same as 70 but with the one extra thing.
Would I recommend it to a friend, not at all… 1 star out of 5 because of the rest and time off work…
I can hear you already, Dear Reader: “Hang on—I thought this blog was about travel photography and orchestra tours in China?”
As John Cleese once said:
“And now for something completely different…”
Cue the Monty Python music—though this isn’t a cue for absurdity. No fish-slapping dances today. This is about something more dangerous. Love. And Shakespeare.
Because—let’s face it—love, actually, is all around us (thank you, Hugh Grant). We’ve sung it:
All you need is love. Love lifts us up where we belong. L is for the way you look at me…
We’ve worshipped it, doubted it, messed it up, and come crawling back to it. Love is a million things at once: cringeworthy, glorious, selfish, sacred. But the question still nags: Can love ever truly last? Or does it begin to fade the moment it’s held too tightly—like a flower picked for its beauty, already wilting in your hand?
Framing Love Through a Different Lens
Lately, I’ve been experimenting with video—combining image, voice, rhythm, and mood. So I made a simple film of me reading Sonnet 18. Just that. No music. No flair. Just words and breath.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
It’s one of Shakespeare’s most enduring sonnets—often quoted, rarely thought about beyond the first two lines. But I kept coming back to it. The idea that beauty, once seen, must fade. That time steals everything. And yet, art—poetry, photography—dares to say, maybe not.
A Thousand Words (and Then Some)
Somebody once said a picture is worth a thousand words. Even—dare I say it—words from the Bard himself. And I think photography, at its best, tries to do what Shakespeare was doing: hold something fragile in the light. Give it form, give it space to breathe. Defy time.
“So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
Photography, like poetry, tries to preserve what’s already slipping through our fingers. The moment. The light. The love.
The Beauty of Fleeting Things
Now, I’m no literary scholar, but I’ve read enough sonnets to know that Sonnet 18 isn’t just flattery. It’s an argument against impermanence. Yes, the beloved is “more lovely and more temperate.” Yes, “summer’s lease hath all too short a date.” But what makes the poem sing is Shakespeare’s refusal to let beauty fade quietly.
He doesn’t just admire. He memorialises. And in doing so, he teaches us something profound: It’s not the flower that lasts—it’s the memory of the flower.
In the North of England where I’m from, summer is short and unpredictable. Think Whitley Bay in May, where shirtless Geordies drink lager for temperature control, and the ice cream vans do brisk trade under grey skies. We know the value of warmth because we only get so much of it.
Now, here in France, the summers are longer—but just as fleeting in their own way. The light is different. Softer. Still just as hard to hold on to.
Love Over Time
This brings me to the other lens I’m always looking through: my marriage. My wife and I met over three decades ago. We’re not the same people we were in our twenties—and thank God for that. Love has changed. Grown. Softened. Been tested. And held.
What I felt for her then wasn’t what I feel now—and yet it was the seed of it. Love doesn’t stay still. That’s its curse—and its beauty. The woman I love today isn’t the girl I fell for. She’s a mother, a partner, a woman of strength and kindness. My love for her has lines and weight now. It’s been through storms.
The Voyage and the Wind
There’s a line in the sonnet:
“By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d…”
Untrimmed sails. It’s a nautical image. Love as a voyage. And not always one with calm waters.
As a Catholic, I believe in the indissolubility of marriage. That it’s not just about romance, but about helping each other get to heaven. My in-laws divorced; my own parents didn’t. I’ve seen love crack. I’ve seen it heal.
Marriage isn’t a fairy tale—it’s work. But it’s also a grace. When it’s hard, I try to fix things rather than walk away. Not always perfectly, but with intention. And, frankly, with faith.
Love Through Generations
My son has just left home—for the second time—after his first real heartbreak. It was messy, as first loves often are. But he’s learning, like we all do. Hopefully he’ll come through it wiser, maybe even gentler.
My daughter’s still a child—full of confidence and conviction. She thinks she knows what love is. I just hope I can guide her without crushing her wonder.
Love, like light, bends. It shifts over time. And sometimes, we only recognise its shape in hindsight.
Art, Memory, and the Illusion of Permanence
A photograph feels eternal. But look again a few years later, and the people in it start to look like ghosts. Hair a bit darker, clothes out of style, expressions younger than we remember.
Art doesn’t stop time—it echoes it. We take photos because we want to remember. Because we want someone—someday—to know we were here.
That’s the power of Shakespeare’s sonnet. He didn’t name the beloved. We don’t know who it was written for. But we feel the love. That’s the part that endures.
Conclusion: Remember Me
I think, deep down, we all want more than to be loved. We want to be remembered.
That’s what a sonnet does. That’s what a photograph can do. They capture light—just for a moment—and give it a place to live.
Sure, the image will fade. The print will yellow. But the feeling? That can echo for generations. It might not be eternal in years—but it can be eternal in resonance.
My Dear Reader, I have neglected you for too long. For the last two weeks, I have been on tour in China of all places.
Therefore, you have only been able to read the Photography Philosophy series, and whilst being in China, I may have taken the odd photo both in colour and black and white. I look forward to sharing them with you and telling you some tall tales and giving you a glimpse of life on tour.
I will take the opportunity to wish each and every one of you, a very Happy New Year.
I will leave you with a small taste of things to come with this image…
Yesterday, I lost one of my colleagues. Not “lost” in the usual sense—we knew exactly where she was. She was lying on the ground outside the workshop, her heart having simply stopped.
In France, when something like this happens, we don’t call an ambulance. We call the fire brigade. One of the men at her side was a volunteer firefighter who had already started performing CPR. The fire brigade arrived in just 13 minutes, but in such moments, time stretches and feels endless.
I kept my distance, observing my colleagues gathered around her. Despite being trained as a first aider, I felt it was better to step back. Sometimes, you just know when your presence might add to the confusion rather than be of help.
Returning to the office, the atmosphere was thick with concern and unanswered questions. Who was it? What had happened? Was it serious? Had the fire brigade arrived?
About ten minutes later, my manager called us into the workshop. His face was grave, and the room felt heavy, as if we already knew something terrible had occurred. We waited in silence as he told us that our colleague was still receiving CPR from the fire brigade.
“Any questions?” he asked.
“Who is it?” someone asked, though we all held our breath.
“Nathalie. She works on the end of the ‘ligne standard.’”
The news hit like a punch to the chest. Nathalie wasn’t just a colleague; she was one of the kindest people I’ve had the pleasure to work with. Always smiling, always with a kind word, even on the roughest of days.
I returned to my duties, trying to keep busy as a way to cope. I had some timber to inspect, so I focused on that. As a Catholic, I always say a Hail Mary whenever I see an ambulance. So, I did just that, entrusting her to Our Lady. What else could I do?
After my inspection, I went into the workshop for a coffee. When I greeted a colleague, our conversation inevitably turned to Nathalie. He mentioned, almost casually, “Didn’t they tell you? She died on the way to the hospital.” My reaction was a stunned “Bugger!”
It struck me that when I was praying for her, it must have been at the moment of her death. That thought brought me some comfort. At the moment, however, I feel nothing. Not sad. Not grieving and wailing. Just nothing. The therapist came in this morning to listen to anyone who wanted to talk. I don’t even know if anyone turned up.
Fair play to upper management, though. The Directeur Général and the owner of the firm were there that afternoon. It was a gesture of respect, if I’m honest. I still wonder what more I could have done. Nothing. Is it normal to feel? …Nothing?
IJM Photography 