There are three words I have heard people associate with my work, and I hope they are accurate. Observation, intention, and connection. I never set out to build a system around them. They were simply there, quietly shaping the way I worked long before I realised they could be named. If anything, the words feel less like principles and more like descriptions of something I kept trying to understand.
Observation
Most things begin with light. If the light is wrong, everything else collapses. If the light is right, it opens the door to noticing. After that, I watch for patterns of movement or behaviour. Noticing a pattern is the moment when observation begins to shift toward intention, even if only slightly.
Observation is mostly a mental process for me. There are places where the body has to cooperate, especially outdoors, but the decisions are led by the mind. My best observation is never calm. It is a restless state, a mix of alertness and something close to anxiety. Not a dramatic kind of anxiety, just a hum under the surface that keeps me awake to what might happen.
There are times when observation goes wrong. When I find myself shooting without any clear reason, almost compulsively, caught in a loop of “maybe this will work.” It feels awful in retrospect, like I was trying to photograph my way out of confusion. But the skill lies in recognising that loop as early as possible and stopping it. That moment of self-correction is one of the most important parts of the work, even if it is invisible in the final image.
Intention
Intention, for me, is rarely something planned. It is something discovered. There are moments when I am looking at a scene that feels promising as a whole. Something in me responds before I consciously understand why. Then, almost suddenly, the exact thing I am responding to reveals itself. The subconscious impulse becomes clear. That is the shift from observation to intention.
The difference between shooting with intention and shooting out of habit is mostly about presence. When intention is there, I am fully in the moment. When it is not, the work feels like box-checking. Not wrong, not harmful, but shallow.
Missing a shot can feel different depending on the moment. If it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the frustration is real. But if it is not the only chance, I often feel a kind of hope. Some of my favourite images were ones I thought I had missed entirely. Imperfection can sometimes lead to something better.
Connection
Connection is the anchor. Everything else exists to make room for it. When it happens with a person, it feels like a sudden awareness that the other’s internal world is as large and complicated as my own. It is a moment when something private becomes momentarily shared, even without words.
With animals, connection feels different. More honest, more direct. Animals do not hide discomfort or reshape themselves to seem agreeable. They show you exactly how they feel, and that honesty comes with responsibility. I have to give them enough space for the moment to remain theirs. If an animal is uncomfortable, it is clear. If it is calm, that calm is real. There is no guesswork.
There is also a physical rush when the connection aligns with a photograph. I have joked before that it is a gentler, more embarrassing form of adrenaline. The feeling someone might get from landing a trick on a skateboard is not far from the feeling I get when everything falls into place in the frame. With wildlife, the feeling is sharper because nothing can be manipulated. There are no tricks to becoming invisible. You simply hope you are accepted for the brief moment you are there.
There are also moments when the connection does not appear. The early frames of any assignment often feel like that. You do what is safe, what ensures coverage, what gets the job done. It is not a problem, but if that feeling persists, the work becomes mechanical. That is the signal to stop, reset, and find whatever moved me in the first place.
Observation, intention, and connection are not sequential for me. They overlap, contradict, and loop back on each other. Sometimes observation creates intention. Sometimes intention collapses and forces me back to observation. And occasionally connection arrives out of nowhere, skipping the other two altogether. They are ideals to keep in mind, not rules to follow.
The mistake I make most often is thinking too far ahead. Looking for the next photo before appreciating the one in front of me. Worrying about what a moment will become before allowing it to be what it is. It takes effort to stay present, to let the work mature on its own terms.
If these three words describe anything meaningful in my practice, it is that they help me return to presence. They remind me to look, to understand, and to feel. The rest is just trying to stay open long enough for something real to happen.
