Sit Rep IJM


Disclaimer Alert. This post talks about sensitive subjects but should be read, even by my mother. Not everything in this world is perfect. We don’t all have perfect lives. It’s not all toxic positivity. Listen first to the Deep Dive talking about this article.

Not great to be honest.  Today was not a good day.  Today was particularly shitty.  Well more pissy and shouty, but more about that later.  Let’s get something straight.  Despite what might be said in this article, I love my daughter and wife very much.  I just don’t like them a whole lot.  I can’t fucking stand them to be honnest.

My daughter is turning out to be an entitled little shit that is a typical teenager who thinks the world revolves around her and that we must all bow down and accept every whim and of course respect her and talk to her nicely.

Dad, are you on your meds?

Not effing likely.  Why should I take them just to put up with you?

So not at my best…  It would appear that I have survived blue monday.  But only just.  My “darling wife” is right in the middle of menopause and thinks HRT is only good for giving her cancer.  Intriguing thought to be honest.  At least like that I won’t be getting shouted at any more for being a useless shit show despite all the work I’m doing on myself,  I’m still a waste of air.

Stop doing that thing you keep doing!

Breathing Dear?

Why should I even bother taking the meds?

Because why should I take meds just to put up with you?

Good fucking job I love you.  

Maybe I should just jump under a bus and put them all out of their misery…

Shame I actually like my son.  He’s a good kid.  He took me out to a lovely restaurant for my birthday.  Then we went to a ‘retail outlet’ for me to buy myself a present which is adorable but I need to declutter and have too much shit in my house..  The clutter is doing my head in.

Ah well.  It could be worse.  I could be back at work…  One of my great fears.  At the moment the fashion seems to be to treat your staff sufficiently not too badly for them to be put on leave for depression.  Oops! Well that worked out really well.

Birthday on Monday and if anyone wishes me a happy birthday, I will be screaming at them internally, swearing at them and cursing them, whilst saying “thank you”with the appropriate grace.   

And no—

I don’t want to talk about it.

I don’t want to heal.

I don’t want to find meaning.

I just want it to stop!

For precautionary self censoring reasons, don’t jump under buses. You might damage the bus. You probably won’t but safety first eh! Help lines:
🇨🇭 CH: 143
🇫🇷 FR: 3114
🇬🇧 UK: 999 or 116 123
🇺🇸 US: 988

The Collection


I didn’t set out to sell prints.

Not really.

For years, I’ve shared images here — not because they were “good,” or “marketable,” or even finished — but because they stayed. They lingered after the shutter closed. They returned to me in dreams, in quiet hours, in the slant of afternoon sun months later.

Some moments refuse to be forgotten.

So now, carefully, tenderly, I’m offering six of them — made physical. Not mass-produced. Not disposable. Just… present. As they were meant to be.

Each print is produced through WhiteWall on museum-grade archival paper, using pigment inks rated for over 100 years. Made to order. Shipped with care — because if you’re making space for one of these in your home, I want it to feel like a conversation, not a transaction.

There’s no rush. No countdown. No pressure.

Just paper, ink, and a moment that mattered.


1.
Title: Path to the Pavilion
Location: Hangzhou, China — 2024
Caption:

A path curves toward still water — where ancient pavilions meet modern hills. The past doesn’t fade here; it leans in, softly.


2.
Title: Reflections on the Canal
Location: Shaoxing, China — 2024
Caption:

Old eaves and new towers share the same mirror — history and progress, neither dominant, both held in water’s quiet gaze.


3.

Title: Skyline of Absence
Location: Noirmoutier (viewed from mainland), France — 2022
Caption:

The sky writes its own language — contrails like scars, posts like ghosts, water holding silence. The island waits beyond the frame.


4.
Title: Coastal Sky, Vendée
Location: Near Fromentine, Vendée, France — 2021
Caption:

A long exposure blurs time into cloud — the sky moves, the sea holds still. This is not a storm. It’s the coast breathing.4. Coastal Sky, Vendée — Near Fromentine, 2021


5.
Title: Vespa & Whiskey
Location: Nantes, Quartier Bouffay, France — 2023
Caption:

A Vespa parked with purpose — a crate of Irish whiskey lashed to its back. Not delivery. Not advertisement. Just life, paused, in a cobblestone alley.


6.
Title: Steam and Sizzle, Shenzhen Night
Location: Shenzhen, China — 2024
Caption:

Smoke rises over skewers, prices flash in neon — food everywhere, people nowhere. This isn’t chaos. It’s rhythm. And hunger.


And then — because I believe in the power of the overlooked — there’s a seventh.

🎁 BONUS PRINT — Available for a Limited Time
7.
Title: The Smallest Museum
Location: Alnmouth, Northumberland, UK — 2023
Caption:

No grand entrance. No ticket booth. Just a wooden shed under open sky — holding stories too small to shout, too true to ignore.

It’s available for a limited time — for those who appreciate the quiet corners of the world.


I don’t make photographs to sell.
I sell them because some moments refuse to be forgotten.

If one of these finds its way to your wall, I hope it does more than hang there.
I hope it reminds you that some things are worth keeping — exactly as they were.

Take your time. These prints aren’t going anywhere.

— Ian
ijmphotography.net

A New Chapter for IJM Photography


Hello, dear reader.

In a world that often feels unmoored, I’ve found grounding in the simple act of making and sharing photographs. I’m pleased to share that IJM Photography is now officially a registered micro-entreprise in France—a quiet but meaningful step forward.

Next month, I’ll be launching a small, carefully curated collection of print-on-demand photographs, drawn from images I’ve shared here over the years. To begin, I’m offering six 8×10 inch prints—some in rich colour, others in classic black and white—each printed on museum-grade archival paper and ready framed.

These are more than pictures. They’re fragments of light, memory, and place—moments I’ve carried with me, now offered to you.

I hope one of my images finds a home with you.

While the print collection launches next month, if you’d like to support IJM Photography today, donations of any amount are warmly welcomed.

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Never Complain, Never Explain


Content Note: This post discusses depression and emotional exhaustion. Please read with care.

That was the old Royal Family rule—stoic, impenetrable, forever above it all.

I, alas, am not royalty. I’m an overthinker with a camera and a blog, and I owe you nothing… but I’d like to offer a little explanation anyway. Call it common courtesy. Or perhaps just the need to name what’s been happening.

So here’s the situation report from IJM Photography.

I haven’t written in a month for two reasons.
First: the season. If you’ve followed this space for a while, you know I’ve long wrestled with melancholy—especially as the days shorten. This year, it hit harder than usual. I made it through November, but only just. By December, I was physically and mentally exhausted.

Second: my health. After a conversation with my manager and HR, I was referred to the médecin du travail. She diagnosed me with dépression aiguë—acute depression (not the cute, Hello Kitty kind)—and noted a heart murmur. Frankly, I was relieved to have a name for what I’d been carrying.

She ordered me to go straight home—not back to work—and to see my GP the next day. She mentioned my brain chemistry was “in a bit of a mess.” Which, in its odd way, reminded me of three things:

  • — I have a brain
  • — I have a heart
  • — and I am profoundly tired

Not broken. Just worn thin.

I was referred to the local Centre Médico-Psychologique. There, I broke another unspoken rule: when the nurse asked how I was, I didn’t say, “Fine, thanks.” I told the truth—calmly, factually, without blame—about the weight I’d been under since returning to work after my accident, and how even the resilience I’d inherited from past generations suddenly felt out of reach.

To my surprise, a session with a psychiatrist opened up right away. He was kind, thoughtful. We talked about identity, belonging, and the quiet strain of straddling cultures. He said I carry “the mindset of an immigrant”—and that perhaps I’ve become more French than I realize. He suggested working on communication with my spouse, and that a trip back to the UK might help me reconnect with myself.

He might be right. If funds were no object, I’d book the ticket tomorrow.

For now, I’m taking things one day at a time. Resting. Recharging. And slowly returning—to my camera, to my words, to myself.

Thank you for waiting.

— IJM

The Pyrenees Mountains – and the Pont d’Espagne which isn’t in Spain


If the Vendée is Jane Birkin — elegant, understated — then the Pyrenees are full-on Marilyn. Proper mountains. Vast. Unapologetic. Even in May, some peaks were still capped in snow.

I was in Lourdes hoping to strengthen my faith. I think Killian needed that too — but more than anything, he needed his mountains. Now, finally, I get it. Up there, I saw him more clearly: less the boy I once knew, more the man he’s becoming.

Like most of us, he has his issues — but he’s working through them. And sometimes, he even lets me help. Those are the moments I think I might just be getting somewhere as a father.

He’d decided we were heading to see his beloved mountains. The place? The Pont d’Espagne — yes, in France, despite the name. I may have mentioned that. Maybe.

We left the impressive foothills of Lourdes behind and climbed into the real mountains. Snowy peaks against blue sky and drifting clouds. Windows down, music low, we drove toward the famous pont. It had better be worth it.

Killian and I travel at a relaxed pace. If the view’s good, we’ll pull over. Get the camera out. Take a few shots. See what happens.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it’s a fiasco. But more often than not, we come away with something.

Oh no! Catastrophe! A village where you can park, and go and get an ice cream. Ah well. We took one for the team, and the lady behind the counter told us that the previous week they had snow and were shut, yet this week everything looked just like a day in May should look like. Ice cream seems to have this way of just hitting “that” spot. It’s not the tidiest of foods to eat, but it’s one I’ve developed a great fondness for it over the years.

I was already learning how to approach the infamous concept of the hairpin bend. As you know, a full head of hair hasn’t been my issue for years — let alone hairpins. But the name fits. The main thing is to drive slowly, carefully, and not die… Given I’m writing this now, reports of my untimely demise were, as they say, greatly exaggerated.

We arrived at the Parc National des Pyrénées. You go through a barrier that didn’t seem to be working — one that had given up on life and was just standing to attention, waiting for whatever ‘it’ might be. So, being the thoroughly decent chaps and all-round good eggs that we are, we tried to find a ticket. We couldn’t, but since we had tried, we said something that rhymes with bucket, and started walking to see, at long last, the bloody bridge. It had better be worth it.

I had the X100F with me and Killian was carrying my DSLR and kit. What a good lad he is. He later said that if I wasn’t lugging it around, we might’ve gone just that little bit further. So back to the pont…

Before we even saw the bridge, we heard it: the sound of the water was tremendous. Water is a primeval force, and this was huge. I wanted the “money” shot, and decided to try with the X100F, giving it a sporting chance. The Canon 6D Mark II, with its stabilised lens, would come out on top. Handheld at 1/6th of a second? Not ideal — but fun to try. You get the feeling of movement in your shot, and with the magic of ND filters, you’re not overexposed.

The site itself is just astounding — not just because of the view or the sound, but because of the raw power of the place. Killian led me grumbling up the hill and we sat down to have our picnic. We fed the ants a bit of our pâté en croûte and watched them discover it, then devour it completely. And devour it they did.

He led me past the téléphérique — closed, of course — and followed the river until we reached a wide, flat-bottomed valley with water snaking through it. We saw traces of horses and wild boars, which are a lot less boring than you might think. I noticed the clouds coming round the mountains as they go, but not singing. I don’t know a huge amount about mountains, but that’s usually a cue to get back to the car…

The walk back to the car was just about being father and son — taking the mickey out of each other as we went. It seemed to be the way we operated, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

China – Shenzhen Day 3


A Day Off in Shenzhen – Rest, Reflection, and Culture

https://ijmphotography.net/2025/11/14/致我在中国的读者们:一封感谢信a-letter-of-gratitude-to-my-readers-in-china亲爱/

After a late night chat (you know how it goes on tour – what happens, stays on tour), I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a lie-in. And it was just what I needed. This felt like our mini-break during the tour – a sort of weekend off. It was well deserved. Life on tour can be demanding, and the emotional investment involved can really take its toll. Corentin and I both got up at the same time, and he was off to join the others in the big city. As for me, I was having a day to myself with my little companion – the X100F. Just the two of us.

So, what was the plan for the day? Well, I was hoping to visit a spa for a massage to sort out my legs. I’m not exactly fond of pain, but thought it would do me good. I have arthritis in my right knee, and although the weight loss has relieved much of the pain, my left knee has been compensating, and my left calf was starting to feel like it was on the brink of tearing. Not ideal. I had found a few places on TripAdvisor, one of which had a rather dubious reputation – apparently, not only offering massages but also “happy endings.” Definitely not for me. I did find a more refined option with a solid reputation for wellness. Perfect. All I had to do now was find it.

As I left the hotel, I bumped into Jennifer Courcier, our soloist and guest star. She still has an amazing voice – if you caught last week’s concert post, you would have heard it. If not, well, go have a listen now. I’ll wait…

Starbucks and Cultural Contradictions

Good, wasn’t it? Doesn’t she sing beautifully? Jennifer mentioned she was heading to the beach but first needed a coffee fix. Starbucks was nearby, so off we went for a caffeine hit. Now, whenever I hear the word “Starbucks,” the phrase “basic bitch” comes to mind. I never know what to order, so, with a bit of help, I discovered that “ordinary” coffee is actually a double espresso. My anxiety was starting to rise as I tried to make the choice, but I finally settled on the “Yunnan” blend. The Chinese barista prepared it with such care that I almost felt like royalty. Things were already looking up.

We sat on the terrace and chatted. I’d been mentoring one of my younger horn players to help him out of a funk. He had recently switched mouthpieces to improve his upper range but went back to his old one. Classic horn player existential crisis. If you know, you know. Jennifer had witnessed one of my coaching sessions and seemed quite impressed by the process. Maybe I did know a thing or two about teaching after all.

The coffee was excellent, and so was the company. We chatted some more, staying off the topic of music. Who wants to talk shop when you can get to know the real person? It humanises them, and Jennifer shared the story of how she became a professional singer, her journey to this point. We eventually parted ways, and I popped back into Starbucks to buy a couple of mugs for the children. One less thing to argue about back home.

Solo Adventure – Exploring the City

I managed to find the metro on my own and bought my little green ticket. The attendant asked where I was going and showed me the map. I couldn’t make sense of it, so out came my phone to zoom in on the stop I needed. I suddenly felt very old, yet thoroughly modern.

On the train, I just watched people, even managed to get a photo or two. My destination? Window to the World – a theme park where you can see replicas of monuments from around the world. I wasn’t going to pay for the full experience, as I’ve already seen many of the real monuments during my travels, but it seemed like good material for photography.

I’ve mentioned before the cultural differences between France and China, but this next observation took me by surprise. Let me introduce you to our characters: Chinese girlfriend and Chinese boyfriend. Chinese girlfriend is the picture of elegance, effortlessly fashionable, her makeup and hair flawless. Chinese boyfriend, by definition, is the photographer, capturing every moment to make his girlfriend look like a top model. She strikes a pose, usually demure and poised, while he stands there, holding the handbag, looking less than graceful. After a few snaps, she sends him back to retake the shot, and they repeat the process at every new location.

I could understand the desire to control one’s image, especially in a location that might seem exotic for a Chinese person, just as a pagoda in Europe feels exotic for us. In some ways, I must seem a bit exotic to them, too. Later, I learned that some people had been taking photos of me without approaching. It might have been a respect thing, as I was a bit older than them.

I wandered around, watching society unwind on a Sunday outing. It felt good to be alive. But then, it was time to head to my massage.

The Google Maps Mishap

I knew the spa wasn’t far away, but that’s where I made the mistake of trusting Google Maps in China. Let’s just say it’s not the most reliable way to get around here. It led me in the wrong direction, and before I knew it, I was walking the streets, getting increasingly lost. But in moments like these, you often find unexpected shots because you’re paying attention to everything, frantically trying to orient yourself. I eventually found my way thanks to a kind gentleman at a hotel who pointed me in the right direction. I was back on track.

The Deep Tissue Experience

Arriving at the spa, I was greeted by dimmed lighting, tea, and a comfortable chair to relax in. I chose a deep tissue massage that would last an hour – pure self-care. I was told there was a short wait, so I took the opportunity to edit some of my photos from earlier in the day. I was offered more tea by the receptionist, who made sure I felt well taken care of.

When it was my turn, I was shown to the massage room and instructed to change into the disposable undies and bathrobe. Let’s just say, as a bigger guy, I was given their largest robe, and it was definitely on the small side. The little lady who came in to perform the massage had no hesitation in digging her elbows into my back with surprising force. She asked if the pressure was okay, and honestly, it felt like her elbows were massaging so deep that they had gone right through me. The pressure was definitely intense, and despite whincing a little, I said the pressure was fine, lying through my back teeth. She worked through my back, shoulders, and calves, and though at times it felt a “little” too much, I could feel the benefits immediately. They don’t call it deep tissue for nothing!

Recharging and Reflection

After the massage, I was feeling thoroughly relaxed, though not quite “recharged” yet. It would take a couple of days before I truly felt the benefits, but it was already worth it. I was pampered with more tea, biscuits, and nuts – twice! I couldn’t fault the service.

Next, I popped into a shopping mall near the hotel, hoping to find a silk tie for my outfit. Dark jeans, nice shirt, and sports jacket – I looked quite dashing, if I do say so myself. But the price of the ties wasn’t going to work for me, I’m fine with a little luxury now and again, but everything within reason…

A Humorous End to the Day

I took the tube back to the hotel, but of course, I foolishly tried to use Google Maps again to navigate. That was a mistake. I ended up lost. As my phone battery started running low, I sent a WhatsApp message to Corentin, who suggested I take a taxi and sent me the address in Chinese. I was perfectly safe, but definitely lost. Eventually, I hailed a cab, showed the driver the address, and thanked him for saving me. When I told him how awful Google Maps was in China, he just smiled. The fare wasn’t much, but the relief of getting back to the hotel was priceless.

As the great man himself once said, “All’s well that ends well.”