Embarking on Analogue

Then

Photography has played a huge part in my life. I can’t even remember getting into it; it’s just always been there. What originally drew me to it as a medium was its simple ability to encapsulate the dance between something and its surroundings. By default, light always seems to be an afterthought to me. I’m more interested in how the object interacts with the confines of the space. Good light, in most of my photography work, is really just serendipity.

For many years, I worked in photography as a freelancer and commercially, simply scratching that itch of fitting things in a box in a way that feels just right. In hindsight, this is nothing more than a relationship of concept and result.  

In more recent years, as the weight of the imprint life has on you feels heavier, I’ve moved away from client-based work. I felt it was more important to allow the little voice of unburdened creativity to be heard and to recognise that it’s not the thing being done that matters, it’s how it’s done. It’s the intent with which a task is carried out that matters. It’s the small, considered, concentrated efforts that make a mark in your mind and the final result.  

I evolved this effort of nuance into making more by hand. Silver gelatine printing, being a traditional photographic printing process, was an organic direction. However, I wanted to find a way to capture the chaos of what it is to be human and encapsulate it within a considered space. Scorching various substances into glass slides and taking a light-based relief of this echo of an ignition achieves this beautifully. In this serendipitous result, viewers can find their own meaning in the landscapes of pattern—a concept I find fascinating. Perception plays a huge part in our lives, as everything we see is through the lens of our own experiences. The art can act as a mirror, reflecting to the viewer a life full of their own experiences.  

Now  

In the darkroom, time seems to lose its hold. It's an odd sensation, consciously stepping away from the pull of modern distractions, resisting the urge to reach for my phone, succumbing to that tapped dopamine. But what's even more surreal is how quickly you adapt to this absence. Soon, I find myself at ease, immersed in the analogue world, where the only screen is the small timer on the enlarger.

There’s an inherent calmness in this environment. Despite my self-proclaimed status as a chronic procrastinator, locking the door to imprison time and focus solely on the task at hand is a constant struggle. Yet, within the confines of the darkroom, amidst the hum of the enlarger and the background scent of chemicals, I find solace in the disciplined routine.  

As I spend more time in the in tis space, I find myself reflecting on the pace of modern life and the rise of consumerism in a throwaway world. We’re so often focused on rushing toward the end—the result—that we lose the chance to absorb the process itself. Craft, to me, is a way to push back against this. It allows us to reconnect with being human, to embrace the imperfections, the challenges, and the slow, deliberate act of creating something meaningful.

Exhibiting my work is a rewarding experience. There is a unique joy in engaging with people who bring their own perspectives to the organic forms found in my work. Conversations often uncover interpretations I had not considered, reinforcing the idea that art is a mirror reflecting the viewer’s experiences back to them. It is these moments, sharing the nuances of craft, process, and meaning, that make exhibiting so fulfilling.