Hello lovely people. I know it’s been a couple of weeks since I shared any photography—nothing for your perusal, your viewing pleasure, your delectation—but fear not: I’m still alive and almost kicking.
Life has been happening, as it tends to do. But I have been busy behind the lens, and I’ve got photos from left, right, and even centre. Lourdes. The mountains. The wild coast of Brittany. There was even a family photoshoot for my mother-in-law and two of her daughters. All with stories attached, of course. I just need the time to edit the images and write them up properly for you.
Recent Life & Travel Updates
So what’s new in my world?
Well, my son has moved into his own place with a mate—which is both a proud and surreal moment for a parent. As for me, I managed to burst two tyres on my car by accidentally driving up onto a particularly cruel bit of pavement. I was properly disgusted with myself.
Thankfully, the garage reassured me that I wasn’t a rubbish driver—that stretch of pavement had claimed more than a few victims. Apparently, I’m just one in a long line.
I’m now looking into getting a different car for my upcoming summer trip to the UK. That, and I’ve been eyeing drones—yes, partially because a mate has one, but also because the cinematic potential is just too good to ignore.
Dipping Into Video & Drone Photography
Lately, I’ve been making short training films for work, which has nudged me into exploring video for myself. It’s been a learning curve, but I’m enjoying it. Drone footage, in particular, would give my personal video projects that sweeping, cinematic feel everyone seems to be chasing right now.
It’s exciting to try new creative tools—it stretches the eye and challenges how I think about framing, movement, and story.
Favourite Photography Gear Right Now
If you’re curious about the gear I’ve been reaching for lately, here’s what’s been in my rotation:
Fuji X100F with the 23mm f/2.0 (35mm equivalent) – perfect for mindful black and white street work.
Canon 6D Mark II with the 16–35mm f/4.0 – excellent for dramatic landscapes and travel shots.
Fuji XT-2 with the 18–55mm f/2.8–4.0 – a solid choice for work-related video filming.
And yes—I’m still working in both black and white and colour. I love both approaches, but when I shoot black and white, I try to do so deliberately, not just as an afterthought in post. The choice of tone affects everything—the light I look for, the lens I pick, even the timing of the shutter.
What’s Next: Photo Editing, Writing & More
Music is winding down for the season after some fantastic concerts. Meanwhile, the world rolls on—there’s a new Pope I quite like, and it seems Donald and Elon are in a bit of a spat again (but let’s not get into that).
As for me, I’m getting back to editing, writing, and creating. Thank you for bearing with the silence—new photos, stories, and perhaps even videos will be coming soon.
Until then, keep well, stay curious, and maybe avoid the pavements.
The tour is over. The bags are unpacked, and things are settling back into their usual rhythm at home. But even though I’m back, part of me is still in China—still thinking about the streets of Shao Xing, the energy of Shenzhen, or the moments shared with the orchestra. The journey may have ended, but it hasn’t really left me.
Reflecting on the Journey
From the moment I landed in Changsha to the final farewell in Shanghai, this trip was a series of moments—some I expected, and some I didn’t. The hustle and bustle in Shenzhen, the streets of Shao Xing, the quiet hills of Xian Ju, and the meals shared with colleagues between concerts. It wasn’t just about the places. It was about the little things—a gesture of hospitality, that mutual respect between musicians, or just watching the world go by.
This trip wasn’t just about playing concerts, it was about learning and adjusting. It was about connecting with people, understanding their way of life, and how we relate to one another in those brief encounters.
The Photographer Without Film
For the first time in a long while, I didn’t travel with my usual film cameras. The Fujifilm X100F was the only camera I had with me, and while I had mixed feelings about it at first, it became a good fit. There was no hesitating over which shot was worth the price of a roll of film. It was just me, the camera, and the present moment.
Not every moment needed to be captured. I found myself slowing down and soaking things in—sometimes shooting quickly, sometimes just letting the moment pass. It wasn’t about having everything on film; it was about experiencing it fully, even without the lens in front of me.
Respect and Connection
One of the most memorable things about this trip wasn’t the landscapes or the buildings—it was the people. Everywhere I went, I felt a deep respect and sense of community. It wasn’t about being given titles like “Uncle” or anything else. It was just how people engaged, how they saw me as part of something.
The concerts themselves were a reminder of this—the public wasn’t there for rehearsals, but they were there for the concerts, offering energy and appreciation. Music, like photography, is about presence. It’s about sharing a moment with others, and that’s something I’ll never forget.
Coming Home
Returning home after a trip like this always feels a little strange. The familiar feels slightly unfamiliar at first—the quieter streets, the slower pace. But there’s comfort in returning, and yet, it’s hard not to feel that shift in perspective. Things seem different now.
The Final Frame
So, what remains from all of this? The photographs, of course. They’ll hold the moments, the details, the things I might forget over time. But beyond that, it’s not just about the photos. It’s the way travel shifts your perspective and makes you notice the small moments—the ones that don’t always get captured in a frame.
This series was meant to document a tour, but it ended up being more than that. It’s a reflection on the journey itself, on photography, on what it means to truly be somewhere, to connect with others. The tour might be over, but this story isn’t done yet. And whenever the next journey comes, I’ll be ready to pack my bags again.
I have been posting these articles in the WhatsApp group made for the people on the tour, and people’s feedback has been amazing. What came out the most was the feeling of revisiting the tour through the photographs and how that made people feel. And if you make somebody feel something with an image, then you’re off to a good start. The other comment was, “Oh, I didn’t see that!” And that is part of our role as photographers, to record what people don’t see… My reputation as a photographer seems to have surpassed my reputation as a beer drinker, which is good, because I hardly drink a drop anymore. My reputation as a writer seems to be well established too.
So not only am I seen as a hornplayer but also as a photographer, a writer, and a sensitive soul instead of the gruff bear that sits at the back of the orchestra and makes farting sounds with his instrument. Quite the step up really!
There’s a stock phrase about the journey being more important than the destination. Another one suggests that a journey can transform a man into something new—something he didn’t even suspect. As I look back at the man who left home, went to China on tour, and the one who came home, I can’t help but wonder if there’s truth in both. I’ve previously described China as a “foreign concept,” and now, having returned, it feels far less so. I’ve peeled back a layer of the country and gained a deeper understanding of its culture—musical, culinary, and otherwise.
This tour, too, has been a “parenthesis,” a break from real life, and a chance to be me—not just “Papa” or “husband.” No longer defined by my role in the family or at work, I could just exist as I am, whoever that is. Though I still feel some anxiety about how others perceive me, age has brought a certain self-awareness, self-knowledge, and—perhaps—a bit too much overthinking. For those two weeks, I was simply a guy on a bus, surrounded by French people, walking through new experiences, and discovering everything along the way.
China as a Totally Foreign Concept
Before I left, my idea of China was that of a far-off place, so completely different from anywhere I had lived before. Those ideas were formed in childhood, shaped by the media’s portrayal of this foreign land. I won’t deny it—I was terrified of the whole trip. Researching things online only added to my worries about not being able to read or speak the language. Growing up, I saw China as a Communist regime, almost oppressive like the Soviet Union, and as the enemy we had to defend against. I remember watching the handover of Hong Kong in 1997, feeling my stomach churn as I watched truckloads of PLA soldiers occupy our old colony.
I remember, too, older members of the band, where I wore green for a living, talking about Hong Kong as the dream posting—warm, sunny, and everything a soldier could need. But what was I really afraid of? The unknown. We all knew about China’s state security apparatus, without truly understanding it. The events of Covid only deepened that sense of fear and mystery.
I even worried about something as simple as eating with chopsticks, imagining I’d have to rely on forks or my fingers. Looking back, all of these fears now seem so silly. But they were real before I experienced the country for myself—and especially before I met its people.
The People Who Changed My View
Somehow, I managed to take each day as it came, simply bathing in the new experiences. And, strangely enough, China worked its magic on me. It didn’t just change my view of the place—it changed how I saw the people. They were charming, incredibly friendly, and in a way that made them seem so much more human.
I began to see myself in them, and I realized that, despite our differences, we are more alike than we might think. We all fall in love, become parents with grace, and share the same aspirations for our children—to be happy, to find love, and to repeat the cycle.
I think back to Christmas Day, when I made new friends. The simple “Merry Christmas” was enough to endear me to them. I also reflect on how beer, it seems, transcends barriers of language, creating a connection that only men seem to understand. I’m not trying to exclude women, of course—heaven forbid—but there’s something inherently masculine about it.
My Place in the Orchestra
Another transformation came in terms of my place in the orchestra—or rather, my perception of it. As the 4th horn, a position typically reserved for the least experienced player, I have always resented the remark. But now, I know my role to be the solid foundation of the section, guiding it through the music. At 53, I no longer feel the need to prove anything. I’m here for the music, content to plod along at the bottom. It’s not humility—it’s comfort, and a willingness to let the young bucks enjoy the spotlight.
Being on tour, though, inevitably brings people closer together. Take poor Corentin, who shared a room with me for two weeks. It’s one thing to get along during rehearsals or after a concert, but living in such close quarters really gives you a new perspective on someone. I knew Corentin was a good lad, but during those two weeks, I saw him in a different light. We talked, laughed, and endured the trials of close proximity.
I remember one drive home from a concert when my birth mother FaceTimed me with the news of her cancer diagnosis. Corentin, despite his limited English, understood more than he let on. He listened as I processed the information, and in that moment, we connected in a way that most people don’t. Maybe that’s what brought us even closer.
Sharing a room with him was like being back in the army. We worked hard, played hard, and celebrated with the kind of noises only a group of men could share. If you can fart in front of someone, you’re already on the next level of friendship.
One moment that stood out for me was when I helped Clement, the other horn player. I had offered him some coaching to help him out of his funk. During the concerts, he had some delicate parts, and although I could easily play his passages for him, I didn’t want to embarrass him. So, I didn’t change seats to play his part during the performance. Instead, I stayed where I was, and when it came to his turn, I played my part to the best of my ability. It was subtle but important—I didn’t want to take his place; I just wanted to give him the support he needed without making him feel like he couldn’t do it on his own.
Afterward, Clement spoke very kindly about me to the younger players in the group. He praised me in a way that felt both generous and sincere, and it left me feeling deeply grateful. His words were not just kind—they spoke to a level of respect and camaraderie I hadn’t anticipated. I hadn’t sought recognition; I just wanted to help. But his thoughtful comments—about my support without overshadowing him—meant more than I could have expected. It’s rare to find such generosity of spirit, and I appreciate him for that.
I nearly forgot to talk about my girls from my days in Cholet. It was Eléonore that suggested that I join the orchestra, and I’m so glad she did. I was about to leave my horn in its box and let it gather dust somewhere in my house where people wouldn’t trip over it. She has been a very good friend to me over the last 13 years, and I think she’s wonderful. Then of course I mustn’t forget Titaua and Mathilde. And they certainly didn’t forget to tall every one about my “kilt” days, where as fed up of being English, I would let people know that one can be from the UK without necessarily being English. My first adoptive father was Scottish, and his brother, Uncle Joe, was Professor Regis at Edinburgh University. People came up to them saying that Ian wasn’t like how they had imagined him, and was actually a decent chap and all-round good egg! Then Eléonore just reminded them that “they” didn’t know me the way she did…
During the tour, as you’ve seen, I took some photos—some of them very odd. But I wasn’t the only one sharing them in the infamous WhatsApp group. For the first time, people saw a different side of me—the artist, not just the beer-loving horn player. I even started sharing my blog posts in the group, and maybe I’ve earned a reputation as the writer. Who would’ve thought? A beer-drinking horn player who takes decent photos and has a way with words—still knows how to play, though.
Anything Else?
I think my approach to food has also shifted. I’ve always liked the idea of sitting around a big table with friends, and during the tour, I was reminded of that. The variety of dishes was astounding, and I saw some players more comfortable with what they knew, while others bravely ate silk worm chrysalids. Me? I just enjoyed whatever was put in front of me, from chicken and duck feet to tortoise.
I found myself stepping away from desserts, my sweet tooth growing calmer. Eating the Chinese way—deliberately, mindfully—was a revelation. Much like film photography, it slowed me down and made me more aware. I ate less, but I appreciated the variety. I even tried to emulate that at home—though, I didn’t put chillies in my dishes.
I’ve also become more accepting of my body. Despite still feeling like I have a long way to go, I’ve made peace with the body I’ve got. Corentin’s lack of judgment helped, and I’ve learned to be more at ease with the frame that carries me around.
How to Conclude?
What’s clear is that this journey, this “parenthesis,” hasn’t just been a break from the familiar—it’s been a period of quiet transformation. The familiar parts of myself have had space to evolve. And perhaps that’s the true beauty of any journey—not the destination, but the unfolding of a self you might not have fully known. In a way, I’ve returned not quite the same man who left. But then again, perhaps that’s the essence of travel: it allows us to become more fully who we truly are, even as we discover the world around us.
As the journey ended, I found myself thinking less about the places I’ve seen and more about the moments shared—those small, unexpected connections that shape an experience just as much as the landscapes we pass through. Travel isn’t only about what we take away from it; it’s also about what we bring to those we meet along the way.
Perhaps that’s what lingers most—the idea that stepping beyond our usual paths isn’t just an act of discovery but a quiet exchange. We put ourselves out there, not just as observers but as participants, leaving behind something of ourselves in the process. And in return, we find that the world, in all its vastness, feels just a little more connected.
I once read that if two Germans meet, they will form a club. I am not German, but they perfectly illustrate this universal need to belong. They are generally not the most extroverted of people, but even introverts have this need to form a relationship with somebody. As photographers, we have this same urge, but perhaps in a more subtle way. When I’m out on the street, I will always notice someone with a camera, even when I’m without one myself. I find myself looking to check the brand, possibly the make of the camera, and the type of lens the person is using. Even when we simply nod at each other, it’s a recognition of our shared enthusiasm for the art form. Am I judging them? Sometimes, yes, but to err is human.
When I see a film camera around someone’s neck, I am immediately drawn to it. When I venture out with the behemoth Mamiya C220, the camera is almost as much a statement as the actual image I’ll eventually take with it. People will come and inquisitively ask, “What kind of camera is that? Can you still get film for it?” or say, “Yes, my grandfather had one like that.” The obvious charm of a medium format TLR in this modern world.
Photography is sometimes seen as quite a niche activity, and film photography even more so. A film camera gives out a more exclusive vibe, telling the world that, yes, we actually are serious about this, and know what we are doing, as the camera isn’t doing anything for us. We are artists and therefore superior to you, at least that’s what we tell ourselves for validation… One could argue that there is a need for even more knowledge with film photography, and that the need to develop our films just goes to show our dedication to the craft.
Well, not always. But it does give a starting point to a chat, which invariably leads to a discussion about this shared interest, and gives us a common starting point to our relationship, however brief that relationship might be.
I also want to explore the relationship between the subject and the person photographing that subject. For a long time, I was petrified of using a model. I’m an introvert by nature, so the idea of having to make small talk with and direct a model was awful. I wanted to learn more about photographing a model and to break out of this comfort zone. Strangely, buildings won’t talk back at you or tell you what they think of your shot. People, on the other hand, are completely different.
I had learnt basic lighting technique and then had to find models. Luckily, I could rely on my daughter and wife as my first subjects, then branch out to include my son and his then-girlfriend. I then moved onto unsuspecting friends, fellow musicians, and eventually felt my confidence slowly building enough for me to photograph complete strangers by establishing that rapport between us. I discovered that sometimes they were as terrified as I was. Again, something we had in common…
I followed some advice from Sean Tucker, who specialises in portraiture. I simply had a conversation with my model, which seemed to put us both at ease. This allowed the model to detach from the shoot and just chat away.
Community and Collaboration
But connection isn’t limited to brief exchanges with strangers on the street; it can also be found in deeper collaborations with other photographers. As I said earlier, I am more of an introvert, and the idea of making an effort to be sociable is something I find exhausting. At parties, I have been known to chill out on the outer realm of guests and chat to the dog. Hey, we have great conversations together!
However, I have been known to make that special effort and even meet up with other photographers. If you’ve ever talked to me about photography and the merits of various pieces of kit, and actual cameras, you’ll know that I can talk about it until the cows come home—to the point that most people switch off after 30 seconds. But when you have a captive audience who actually cares and knows what you’re talking about, it just brings me out of my shell.
Sometimes one might think it’s a very blokey thing to meet up with other men and talk about, and participate in, some rather niche activity. That might sound a little suspect, but I assure you it isn’t.
I once had a meet-up in Nantes (the very first article on this blog), and it was so rewarding. It was a typical male bonding activity, and everyone, except for me, brought along their biggest cameras and most expensive lenses. It almost felt like a competition to see who had the most impressive camera. I just brought my relatively tiny X100F, the thinking man’s camera. Much like my car, it’s not the most inspiring thing to look at, but I enjoy using it, and it certainly gets the job done in a very satisfactory way!
I have also collaborated with Nantes Grand Angle, a collective of photographers that have outings in and around Nantes. In exchange for a free tour or free visit, we take pictures during the outings and write about them in our blogs or publish the photos on Instagram. I have done a couple of outings with them, and it’s always interesting to see other photographers in action. They are there seeing the same things as me, but not in the same way. That sense of belonging has a huge feel-good factor too.
A Shared Lens
Photography may often feel like a solitary pursuit, but beneath it lies a powerful thread of connection, weaving us together through moments captured and stories told. Whether it’s the subtle camaraderie exchanged between strangers with a simple nod on the street, the thrill of collaborating with others who share our passion, or the quiet understanding forged with a subject in front of the lens, these encounters remind us that we are never truly alone in this journey.
Through photography, we find not just a way to see the world but a way to be part of it—a community of like-minded souls bound by a shared appreciation for light, shadow, and time itself. In the end, our photographs are a bridge, linking us to others and creating a lasting connection beyond the mere act of pressing the shutter. For as long as we hold a camera, we’re part of something bigger, capturing fragments of life that, no matter how fleeting, will always connect us back to one another.
What could be a more contemporary expression of self than the modern selfie? For some, it represents a genuine connection, while for others, it becomes a carefully curated fantasy shared on Instagram in pursuit of self-importance—think #lifestyle, #ootd, or #memyselfandI. These representations can evoke mixed feelings about the authenticity of self-expression.
However, this is not how I view photography as a reflection of self. Photography is the only art form that allows the viewer to look through the lens just as I did when I pressed the shutter button. You see exactly what I saw in that moment, and, depending on how I edited the photo, you may catch a glimpse of the emotions swirling in my mind at that time.
Consider two people facing each other, a coin held up between them. One sees the heads side, while the other sees the tails. Each perspective offers only a partial view of the whole object, much like how each photograph can convey different meanings and emotions depending on the viewer’s interpretation. This highlights the importance of taking in the entire picture. But it’s not just this perspective that changes the way each individual looks at the coin, but all the personality and life experience that the person brings.
So, what about the expression of my identity and worldview? You might detect my state of mind through the subject matter of the photograph. If you see one of my photos taken during the anti-government demonstrations in Nantes, you might draw conclusions about my political leanings, when in reality, I was completely neutral about the situation. Here, the viewer adds their own interpretation to what they see, imagining this world and identifying with the picture in a way that is relevant to them. I think we all are guilty of that. My worldview, too, may show through—an insight into the world around me and how I choose to see and document it, since you are witnessing a moment in time as I saw it.
But why press the shutter button at a particular moment and not 1 second before, or 1 second after? Cartier Bresson talked about capturing the decisive moment. I try and make sure that I have no distracting elements. I try and get my subject right where I want them, or wait for them to cross the scene at a certain spot. Does this mean that I miss shots? Yes, but it’s all part of the game! Have I become a self-hating perfectionist? Fortunately, no. But do I try and make that extra effort? Definitely. I owe it to myself, but to the viewer of the resulting photo. Some might talk about a certain professional conscience, but if you’re going to do something, then try and do your best?
Personal Growth
This is a tricky subject, as I’m not entirely certain that my subject matter has evolved as I have. Am I still taking the same old photos as I used to? Possibly. Yet there are new techniques I’ve picked up along my learning journey. I may have started learning about photography over 40 years ago, but I’ve never stopped. In the last ten years alone, I’ve learnt so much, often with YouTube as my teacher. I’ve expanded my knowledge of film—how to use it and develop it—and I’ve learnt more about editing. I might just mention that I trained in “Desktop Publishing” back in 2003. Twenty years ago… time flies! Lots of Photoshop, Illustrator, and QuarkXpress.
New equipment and different lenses have allowed me to explore wide-angle photography and, as they say, “get it out of my system.” But is it really out, or have I simply explored it enough to satisfy my curiosity for the time being? I will, no doubt, revisit it again. This exploration has clearly shaped the way I view a scene, and I now know how to use the distortion it offers as another stylistic string to my bow. Wide angles enable me to alter how the subject is seen, making a more significant impact on the viewer, who experiences something distinctly out of the ordinary. It’s a small but meaningful addition to my work that could offer that extra something to a potential client.
I’ve grown more confident in my photography over time through consistency and practice. Getting out there with your camera is, without a doubt, the way to go. Some might accuse me of relying on gear, but I feel that I’ve genuinely put the hours in to master certain aspects of this craft and to have a certain self confidence in my abilities as a photographer.
Do I take the same photos that I did back in 1987 and now? In certain ways, yes. Because my personality shines through the photograph. However back in 1987 I was concerned just about nailing the exposure, and didn’t have the knowledge and photographic culture that I do today in 2024. I was also a 15 year old back in 1987, and am now over 50. The essential part of who I am remains, but my life experience has changed me, as it would anyone over 35 years.
Cultural Context
You might not know this about me, but I have lived in France for the last thirty years. More time than I lived at “home” in the UK. Has that affected my photography in any way? Maaaaybe…
France is the home of Cartier Bresson, and Doisneau, and their wonderfully crafted street photography. Yes, I have explored their work and have been amazed by it, and amazed by the simplicity in certain shots of theirs, but a deceptive simplicity that takes so much time to emulate. So yes, I have been influenced by French culture. It forms the way I look at the world around me, especially when in the streets of Nantes and I feel their influence accompanying me as I wander around the streets. It’s also the subject matter that changes from country to country. Just look at the difference between my two countries, the UK and France.
But it doesn’t stop there. I have been influenced by photographers that I see on the Internet. Names like Sean Tucker, Thomas Heaton, James Popsys, Mango Street, Peter McKinnon, and Jamie Windsor spring to mind and their videos have certainly been a huge influence on me. And there’s not even one Frenchman in that short list… It’s not that I reject French youtubers, but when at work I have to make the effort to speak French, when I am outside my house I have to make the effort to speak French, aso when at home I prefer to keep things in my mother tongue. It’s a me problem, and not a them problem.
Conclusion: The Lens of Self-Reflection
Photography, at its core, is about more than just taking pictures; it’s about capturing fragments of identity and moments of personal evolution. While the images we create may reflect the world around us, they also tell the story of how we see ourselves and the ever-changing lens through which we view the world.
What I’ve come to realise is that photography isn’t just a technical pursuit or a series of compositions—it’s a mirror. Through it, I’ve discovered not only the nuances of the world but the nuances within myself. From the early days of worrying over exposure to now, when the process feels more like a conversation with the scene, I have grown not just as a photographer, but as an individual.
Yet, this growth is never complete. Photography, like life, is a journey with no clear destination. The influences, the techniques, and even the subjects will continue to shift as I evolve. What remains constant is the intention: to connect, to reflect, and to capture not just an image, but a piece of time that speaks to who I am, and who I am becoming.
In the end, photography is an act of constant reinvention. Each shutter press is an opportunity to redefine the self and understand the world a little better, one image at a time.
I’m going to tell you a story about an essay that was given to us by the music master at the beginning of my Music A level course. There were four of us studying music, and the lessons took place in his study, much like a tutorial at university. The title of the essay was something like describe the perfect piece of music.
Back then I described the Glenn Miller song, Moonlight Serenade. One of my fellow pupils described the Planets from Holst. In the following tutorial after our essays had been marked, I was criticised since the Master thought my piece was repetitive, had no particular musical merit, and was corny. I, on the other hand, argued that it was the way the piece made me feel.
With hindsight I should have just handed in a clean sheet of paper saying that there is no such thing as a perfect piece of music, as taste is purely subjective and that he should take his essay question and possibly reconsider his stance! I didn’t of course. But it certainly got me thinking, even to this day!
Subjectivity in Art
As in any art the appreciation of the viewer is purely subjective and we have to be so careful about reading an interpretation into a given work. There are effectively themes that are explored in literature that could be described as obvious. But in Photography, I maintain that any connection to a particular photograph is an emotional one first, before going any deeper.
The Essence of Emotional Connection
But what makes this emotional connection possible? And how do I go about achieving this in photography. I’m going to harken back to my musical training. My horn teacher in France would say, your concerto is your text. Your job is to recite that text to the audience. That is all you have to concentrate on. You’ve worked through your concerto, the techniques necessary to play it, and once the sound leaves the bell of the instrument, it is no longer yours. It belongs to the audience. They are the ones listening and they are the ones that will form the emotional connection.
Creating Meaningful Portraits
So how do I make this connection with my audience when it comes to photography? Well, in portraiture they say to focus on the eyes of your model. Eyes being the entrance to the soul. If I can capture that and have my model looking directly at my camera and therefore my audience then I’m well on the way to creating a meaningful portrait.
The Art of Street Photography
In my street photography, it can be about catching a detail that everybody sees but that nobody notices until they look at your image. You can go to my photography tutorials and look at the composition articles to learn about how we direct the audience to a particular point in our photograph by using leading lines, the rule of thirds, and emphasising our subject with our lighting, or by isolating our subject.
The Role of Colour in Evoking Emotion
We also solicit emotion through the colors we choose. Warmer tones can infuse images with energy and happiness, while cooler tones can make them feel peaceful or introspective. For example, adding reds and oranges to a portrait can evoke warmth and approachability, while blues and greens can give a landscape a calm, reflective quality. Considering these colours “in camera” can make the entire process more intuitive, helping you set the mood before you even begin editing.
The Power of Black and White
Shooting in black and white, using only tones of light strips away the influence of colour and presents us with the “essence” of a scene, and it’s one of the reasons I love shooting in black and white, be that on film or digitally. I aim for a timeless quality to my black and white images, and the emotion can be just as intense. Without color, we focus on texture, shadow, and contrast—elements that can evoke nostalgia, solitude, or contemplation.
Mindfulness in the Photographic Process
What I think I’m getting at is that to evoke an emotion we need to be so mindful of our photographic process. Sometimes taking that step backwards allows us to reflect before pressing the shutter button.
Conclusion
I don’t have all the answers of course, but in the end, capturing emotion in photography is as much about the heart as it is about the eyes behind the lens. Each photograph we create is a bridge between ourselves and our viewers—a connection forged in the moment but lasting beyond it. Just as a musician lets their notes drift into the silence, we photographers must let our images speak, leaving space for others to interpret, feel, and connect.
So, as you move forward in your own photography, remember to pause, to feel, and to let emotion guide your hand. Don’t be afraid to take a step back before pressing the shutter, and ask yourself: What do I want my viewer to feel?
I hope this reflection gives you a new perspective on how you approach your next shot. After all, photography, like any art, is a journey without fixed answers—one of constant discovery. Take time to explore, experiment, and, most importantly, to feel.
IJM Photography 