I didn’t plan this series when I sat down to write the first part. I thought I had one post in me about why I bother with a camera at all, and then I kept finding more questions underneath that one. Seven parts later, here’s roughly what I’ve landed on, plus what surprised me about writing it down in the first place.
The question I started with, why photograph at all, turned out not to have one answer. Some days it’s about keeping a record. Some days it’s closer to therapy, a way of getting out of my own head for an hour. Writing that part made me notice how much the reason shifts depending on my mood before I’ve even picked up the camera, which I hadn’t really clocked until I tried to explain it to someone else.
The emotional side surprised me more than I expected. I went into that post thinking I’d talk about composition and technique, and instead ended up telling a story about an A-level music essay and a teacher tearing my taste in Glenn Miller to shreds. Photography and music turned out to be doing the same job for me: reciting the text and then letting go of what anyone makes of it.
Storytelling was the one I found easiest to write, probably because I already think in contact sheets, whole rolls rather than single frames. Identity was the hardest. Writing about whether a camera reveals who you are meant admitting things I don’t love admitting, like the fact I’ve picked up more from YouTube than from thirty years of just going out and shooting. Connection reminded me how much of this supposedly solitary hobby actually happens because of other people: my kids as reluctant first models, a Nantes meet-up where I brought the smallest camera in the group, a photography collective that’s shown me the same streets through completely different eyes.
And impermanence, the last one before this, is probably the part I think about most now, weeks after writing it. Every photo is proof that a moment is already gone. I used to find that a bit bleak. Somewhere in writing it out I stopped finding it bleak and started finding it more like the whole point.
So, what’s actually changed for me, having written all this down? Not much on the surface. I still go out with the same cameras, still get annoyed at the same mistakes. But I think I’m a bit more honest with myself now about why I press the shutter when I do, and a bit less bothered when the reason doesn’t sound impressive.
If any of this made you think about your own reasons for picking up a camera, good. I’m not expecting anyone to agree with all seven parts, I don’t think I fully agree with all seven parts. If you want to tell me where you think I’ve got it wrong, the comments are open, and I mean that as a genuine invitation rather than a polite sign-off. I’ll read them properly.
When I first started out, I’d take my film down to the photographer on Newland Avenue, near where I grew up, and he’d make what everyone called a contact sheet. The strips of negatives got cut, slotted into a frame to keep them flat, and exposed straight onto a sheet of photographic paper. Thumbnails of everything from the roll, all in one place, so you could work out which frames were actually worth printing.
Lightroom’s my contact sheet now. Same idea really, I import the whole take and go through deciding what’s worth developing further. Different tools, same decision.
What’s that got to do with telling a story? Everything, actually. A contact sheet is where the story starts getting built, because a narrative needs a shape, a beginning and a middle and an end, and so does a set of photos from a day out. Looking at the whole roll at once, you see how the shots sit next to each other, not just whether any one of them is sharp. Which ones you choose to develop isn’t really about which are technically best. It’s about which ones actually tell you what happened.
That’s roughly how I pick what goes on this blog too. A shot of my mate JD mid haircut, or my dinner right before I demolish it, they’re doing the same job: filling in a piece of whatever the day was. I try not to forget the photo of dessert before I eat it. Miss that window and all you’ve got is a plate with cake crumbs on it, which, as a photo, says nothing.
Back to the idea of an arc, though, because that’s the bit that matters. When I head out for the day I usually start with a few throwaway shots just to get my eye in. Sometimes I’ve got a plan. Usually I haven’t. Mostly I’m just trying to catch the feel of wherever I’ve ended up, a café, a church, a pub, whatever’s in front of me. Each shot leans on the last one, and by the end of the day there’s a sort of thread running through the roll, even if I didn’t plan it that way.
Paid work’s different, obviously. If I’m hired for an event I’ll sit down with the client first and talk through what actually matters to them: what the venue’s like, whether there’s awkward lighting or someone’s got mobility issues to work around, which moments they’d never forgive me for missing. Having that list of must-haves, the Kodak moments I mentioned in the last post, gives me something to hang the day on.
Say I’ve got a wedding booked. I know I’m shooting the bride getting ready. I know I need to be at the venue before the couple turns up. I need the rings photographed before they’re on anyone’s finger. I’ll want portraits of the guests milling about too. Planning all that out in advance is the only reason I’m not a nervous wreck on the day itself.
Just married
Not every story needs a series, though. Sometimes one photo does the whole job. It holds what’s in the frame plus everything that isn’t: the emotion, the context, sometimes a proper mystery.
Take an empty café table in soft morning light, half a cup of coffee gone cold, a notebook left open. That’s a story on its own. Who was sitting there? Why did they leave? What were they writing? The photo doesn’t answer any of it. It just hands you the question and lets you sit with it.
Different people will read that image differently depending on what they’re bringing to it. It’s really a conversation between whoever took the photo and whoever’s looking at it. I set the scene, choose the light, press the button, but it’s the viewer who finishes the story in their own head.
Same goes for people. A portrait of someone staring out of a window, somewhere else in their head entirely, makes you wonder what they’re thinking about, or where they’re going, or what just happened to put that look on their face. It’s more than a face in a frame at that point. There’s a whole narrative sitting underneath it that words wouldn’t do justice to.
Am I sure about this cake?
Telling a story with a camera isn’t really about the picture-taking bit at all. It’s about deciding which moments are worth keeping and finding a way to shoot them so they carry more than what’s literally in frame. Sometimes that takes a whole roll. Sometimes it’s one frame and you’re done.
Next time you’re out with a camera, don’t just take pictures. Ask yourself what you actually want someone to feel looking at this later, whether that’s a quiet morning in a café or a wedding with two hundred people watching. Look back through your old photos sometime too, in order, like a reel rather than a folder. It changes how you see them. Might even change how you see the next roll you shoot.
With the aim of delving deeper into the meaning behind photography, I’ve decided to launch a new series of articles. Here, I want to explore questions like why rather than just how or with what. In my Photography 101 series, we looked at the basics—technique, lenses, and so on. I’ve written extensively about gear in my camera reviews. But now, I’m searching for something beyond that.
The wheels in my mind are already beginning to turn. Not frenetically yet, but there’s a steady intellectual process underway. Answering “why” feels more challenging than “how” or “with what.” It demands more from me than simply focusing on technique or gear.
Here goes anyway!
To set the stage for this exploration, I’ll begin by sharing my own journey in photography. Understanding where I come from may help illuminate my perspective on the medium.
I was born in an age before the all-powerful image took over. Yes, we had photos, and I enjoyed looking through them in our albums. Each image was a physical object, and the idea of viewing images on a screen was foreign to us all. When we spoke of phones, we meant the ones hanging on the wall at home or in the phone boxes on the street. They certainly weren’t for taking photographs.
Back then, cameras fell into two categories: point-and-shoot cameras for the masses and “proper” cameras for photographers. Point-and-shoots were basic, easy to use, and, for me as a small child, they were an introduction to photography. Proper cameras, on the other hand, were for those who had learned the craft of photography, and using one made you feel part of a certain fraternity.
My first Form Master at prep school, Father Gerald, had a proper camera and recorded school life with it. Occasionally, a board with a selection of 6-by-4-inch photos would appear, always in black and white. Father Gerald must have had his own darkroom for developing and printing. I have no idea what kind of camera he used, but it was undoubtedly a proper one.
In 1984, a German orchestra visited Hull, and Stefan Haller from Neustadt an der Aisch stayed with us. Stefan had a proper camera, and I was fascinated by it. When I asked my father if I could have one too, he agreed—but I would have to learn how to use it first. The local YPI organized a summer school offering various activities, including proper photography. And that, Dear Reader, is how I first encountered this “proper photography” lark!
So now you know the why and how behind my beginnings in photography. Let’s look at how this journey evolved. My first proper camera was a Praktica MTL 3. It was fully manual and had a built-in light meter, which helped me get my exposure right each time—or nearly each time. With that camera, I trained my eye and explored the world around me.
Photography at the time was film photography. Although Kodak invented the digital camera in 1979, digital photography didn’t become accessible until the early 21st century. Growing up, color photography was for capturing moments with friends and having a laugh; black and white was considered more “arty” and suited for serious photography. I was deeply affected by the black-and-white images in newspapers, while color images seemed relegated to magazines.
I remember having breakfast with my father every morning as he read The Independent, a paper known for its high standard of photographic journalism. This was my daily visual inspiration. I had a subscription to National Geographic, where I encountered even more incredible photography in its pages. This was top-class photojournalism, and these images now serve as a historical reference for us all.
This is the time and place I come from. For young Gen Z readers, it might sound like ancient history, but to me, it’s deeply real and continues to influence my approach to photography in the digital age.
Now that you’ve had a glimpse into my why, let’s dive deeper. In the next article, we’ll look at why others feel compelled to pick up a camera. Throughout the series, we’ll explore the connections between images and emotions, how we tell stories through our photos, and how photography can be a form of self-expression leading to personal growth. We’ll examine how photography connects us to others, reflect on the philosophy of impermanence, and, at the end of the series, I’ll invite you, Dear Reader, to reflect on your own photographic journey…
I’ve decided to take some advice and start a series of articles focused purely on photography. You may already know how photography has impacted my life, and perhaps you’re hoping to discover something similar for yourself. This isn’t a formal course, and the advice I share comes from my own experiences over the years. My aim here is to offer you a useful reference point as you begin or continue your own photographic journey.
Let’s assume you’re new to photography and want to move beyond using your phone’s camera. You’re ready for a “real” camera. Does that sound about right?
From time to time, people approach me and say, “Ian, what’s the deal with photography? How do I get photos like yours?” That’s when my imposter syndrome likes to make an appearance. But despite that, I’m here to share what I know.
To begin, you’ll need a camera. I know it can feel overwhelming, especially if you’ve glanced at the price of a Leica and wondered if it’s worth selling a kidney. (Pro tip: hold off on that.) Leicas are beautiful, but you don’t need to break the bank to get started.
Any camera within your budget is a good starting point, especially if it allows you to control settings manually. Whether you choose film or digital, the fundamentals remain the same. Do you want the retro charm of a Canon AE1, the compact style of a Fujifilm X100F, or perhaps a more professional DSLR? The choice is yours, but remember: the camera is just a tool. It’s how you use it that matters. I’ve written some camera reviews you can check out, and I plan to add more in the future.
Now, let’s talk about the basics.
Exposure Basics
Photography is essentially about light—how much of it reaches your camera’s sensor (or film) and how it interacts with your subject. Too much light, and your image will be “overexposed” (too bright). Too little light, and it will be “underexposed” (too dark). You can, of course, play with these elements intentionally, using over- or underexposure to highlight specific areas of your shot. Photographers often talk about exposing for the highlights or shadows to get the right balance. In film photography we will expose for the shadows and in digital photography we expose for the highlights.
How do I control the light?
It all comes down to balancing three key elements, often called the “Exposure Triangle”: ISO, shutter speed, and aperture. Adjust one, and you’ll need to compensate with the others. Let’s go through each of these in turn.
The three variables every photographer learns to negotiate. Get one wrong and the other two will tell you about it
Understanding ISO
ISO controls your camera’s sensitivity to light, crucial for getting the right exposure in your photographs. In film photography, it’s referred to as ASA, but the principle remains the same.
Lower ISO Settings (100-400): Ideal for bright conditions, such as sunny days, as they produce images with minimal grain or “noise.” For example, using ISO 100 outdoors on a clear day will give you crisp, clear shots.
Moderate ISO Settings (400-800): These settings are suitable for cloudy days or indoor lighting. Using ISO 400 allows you to capture good quality images without excessive grain, but expect some visibility of noise when using ISO 800 in dimmer conditions.
Higher ISO Settings (1600 and above): Perfect for low-light situations, such as indoors or nighttime photography. While ISO 1600 can help you capture images without a flash, be prepared for more noticeable grain. ISO 3200 can be used for very low light, but expect significant grain in the final image.
Modern digital cameras handle higher ISO settings much better than older film cameras did, significantly reducing noise even at higher values. The key takeaway is to experiment with different ISO settings to see how they affect your shots. Don’t hesitate to adjust your ISO based on the lighting conditions—higher sensitivity can make a big difference in capturing those special moments.
Shutter Speed
Shutter speed determines how long the sensor (or film) is exposed to light. A fast shutter speed—like 1/500th or 1/2000th of a second—will freeze motion, but it lets in less light, so you may need to increase your ISO to compensate. Slower shutter speeds (1/60th of a second or lower) let in more light but can cause motion blur or camera shake. If you’re handholding the camera, try to stay above 1/60th of a second. If you’re using a longer lens, say 85mm, you may want to use 1/100th of a second or faster to avoid shake.
For stability with slower shutter speeds, a tripod is your friend. Just bear in mind that vintage cameras often have lower maximum shutter speeds, but those quirks deserve their own chapter.
Aperture and depth of field
Aperture controls how wide the lens opens to let light in, and it’s measured in f-stops. A smaller f-stop number (like f/2.0) means a wider aperture, which lets in more light and creates a shallower depth of field—ideal for those portraits with a soft, blurry background. A higher f-stop (like f/16) means a smaller aperture, which lets in less light but keeps more of the scene in focus—perfect for landscapes.
Aperture not only affects the amount of light coming through but also how much of your image appears sharp. The trick is finding the right balance for the look you’re aiming to achieve.
Conclusion
One of the great things about digital cameras is that you can experiment with these settings without worrying about the cost of film. You can see the results immediately and make adjustments on the fly. Most digital cameras offer different modes to help you control the exposure. For example, “Shutter Priority” lets you set the shutter speed while the camera adjusts the other settings. “Aperture Priority” does the same for aperture. If you’re more experienced, you can take full control with manual mode.
This is just the first in a series of articles designed for beginners, but it’s always helpful for even the more seasoned among us to revisit the fundamentals. If you have questions, feel free to leave a comment. No question is too simple, and I’ll do my best to respond.
Until next time, Dear Reader.
Post Scriptum
I’ve noticed many of you arrive at this site through this page (probably from Google), so welcome! This is just the first in a broader series on photography. If you found this article helpful, there’s more where this came from. I also cover topics like composition, gear choices such as the Pentax ME Super, which as its name suggests is rather Super, the differences between 35mm and medium format, and my approach to street photography.
My aim is to demystify photography. It doesn’t have to be complicated. Whether you’re just starting out or already have some experience, I hope you’ll find something useful here. Thanks for reading, and don’t hesitate to ask questions or leave a comment. I look forward to hearing from you.
