Mark Waddington

Author: Mark Waddington

  • Reflections on Judging a Camera Club Competition

    Reflections on Judging a Camera Club Competition



    Last night I had the pleasure of judging at a local camera club, and I came away with several reflections I’d like to share.

    First, the club itself deserves real credit. It is friendly, welcoming, and clearly growing in membership. There is a wide range of ages and photographic interests represented, and it stands out as one of the most welcoming clubs I’ve judged at. It appears well organised, and the competition entries showed a broad spectrum of experience and ability. But drawing from my experiences over the last year of so …

    The Confidence Question

    One story I hear again and again when visiting clubs is that competitions tend to be dominated by a small core of regular winners. Those with less confidence often hesitate to enter at all.

    Confidence is a real issue. Competitions can, unintentionally, become divisive. They can create a perceived hierarchy — a sense that some members are “better” than others. This can become self-fulfilling: the confident members grow stronger and more assured, while the less confident gradually withdraw.

    That is not healthy for any creative community.

    The Double-Edged Nature of Competition

    I have genuinely enjoyed judging competitions over the last year or so. In fact, it has improved my own photography. Being required to articulate what makes a strong image forces clarity of thought. And when I cannot define precisely why an image works, I’ve learned to relax into that mystery rather than cling rigidly to rules.

    Competitions are, in many ways, a double-edged sword.

    On the positive side:

    • They encourage participation.
    • They stimulate engagement with club activities.
    • Judging can promote technical learning and progress.

    But we must also be aware that the very mechanisms that make competitions effective can, if unchecked, become corrosive.

    When Photography Becomes a Sport

    In some instances, club photography begins to resemble a sport. League tables, points systems, and rankings can feel uncomfortable. Elevating particular individuals to near-celebrity status may satisfy some egos, but it risks distorting the purpose of the club.

    Judging outcomes are inevitably limited. They are shaped by:

    • The subjective views of the judge.
    • A relatively narrow set of criteria designed to ensure fairness.

    Ironically, those criteria can sometimes reduce photography to a prescriptive formula — encouraging rule-following over artistic exploration.

    That said, I do not wish to be overly negative. For many members, the competitive element is exciting, stimulating, and rewarding. It adds energy and focus.

    But we must remain mindful of those who feel excluded by it.

    Risk-Takers and Rule-Followers

    Over the years, I have seen many innovative and creative photographers willing to experiment and take risks. They produce unusual, sometimes challenging work. If that work is dismissed because of technical “imperfections,” those individuals may feel discouraged.

    This creates two broad tendencies:

    • Those who conform to established rules and feel rewarded.
    • Those who experiment and feel undervalued.

    Of course, this is a generalisation. Reality is more nuanced. But the risk is real enough that we should be alert to it.

    Returning to Founding Values

    Camera clubs and photographic societies would benefit from revisiting their founding values.

    If a club genuinely aims to be open and to encourage photographic progress — not just personal achievement, but the development of photography itself — then it must embrace a wide range of approaches, styles, and philosophies.

    Photography has transformed radically since its inception, particularly in recent years with digital techniques and artificial intelligence. We cannot afford to judge as though we are still in the Victorian era.

    Creating Space for Creative Flourishing

    The priority, as I see it, is to create an environment in which creative people can flourish — and be rewarded for taking risks and breaking the mould.

    Photography should not stand still as an art form. Nor should our personal practice become stagnant. We want to feel the breeze of constant freshness moving through our work — an ongoing excitement about how photography can evolve and be deployed in new ways.

    A Thoughtful Way Forward

    In conclusion, camera clubs might consider:

    • Revisiting and updating their core values.
    • Reflecting carefully on how competitions are structured.
    • Designing categories and themes that are open enough to encourage surprise and originality.
    • Ensuring participation is as wide and inclusive as possible.

    Competitions can remain an important and vibrant part of club life — but only if they serve creativity rather than constrain it.

    If we get that balance right, camera clubs will not only nurture skilled photographers — they will nurture brave ones.

  • What Are You Really Trying to Say With Your Photographs?

    What Are You Really Trying to Say With Your Photographs?

    In my photography, I’ve always been drawn to the challenge of balancing two things: the strength of the content and the form of its presentation. I was brought up on the idea that content is king—but the longer I’ve worked with photographs, the more I’ve realised that we don’t always stop to ask what we actually mean by content.

    For me, content is not just what appears in the frame. It’s the message, the idea, or perhaps the story that the photograph is trying to express. Sometimes this is obvious and explicit; other times it’s subtle, implied, or left open. Strong content doesn’t shout—it steps forward quietly and invites the viewer to participate, to spend time unpacking what the image might be about.


    When Technique Takes Over


    When we’re out taking photographs, we’re not always conscious of content at all. It’s easy to be seduced by the visual appeal of a subject: the light, the colours, the textures, or how neatly it might fit into a well-composed frame. We’re often led to believe that a good photograph is one that is technically accomplished—sharp, well-exposed, carefully presented.

    Of course, technical skill matters. But there’s a risk here. When technical evaluation dominates, it can overshadow the quieter, more elusive qualities of meaning. A photograph can be visually impressive yet say very little. And without realising it, we can end up photographing how things look rather than what they might mean.

    Shifting the Emphasis Toward Content

    So how do we, as photographers, shift the emphasis away from surface appearance and towards content?

    One approach I’ve found helpful is surprisingly simple: learning to articulate, in words, what we have seen and what we are trying to achieve. Think about how exhibitions are often accompanied by an artist’s statement—an explanation of ideas, intentions, and approaches. Many of these statements are probably written after the work is finished. But I wonder whether there’s value in being able to speak about our intentions before or during the act of photographing. Not just for an audience—but for ourselves.

    Photography as a Question, Not an Answer

    Take something as ordinary as spending time photographing a local woodland. On the surface, the aim might seem obvious: to make beautiful images of trees, light, and landscape. But what do I really hope to come away with? What am I drawn to, again and again?

    For me, I’ve been trying to embrace the complexity of the woodland as a metaphor for the complexity of community life. I’m interested in how different elements coexist—how plants, animals, decay, growth, life, and death are all interwoven in cycles of dependency. Holding this idea in mind helps shape what I notice, where I linger, and what I choose to photograph. And hopefully, it carries something of that intention through to the final images and on to the viewer.

    Leaving Space for Mystery

    That said, there’s a balance to be struck. We don’t want our intentions to become so rigid that they close down the possibility of discovery. Photography thrives on accident, surprise, and moments we couldn’t have planned. Being too prescriptive can turn an open exploration into a narrow checklist.

    But a loose written or verbal statement—a starting point rather than a rulebook—can be incredibly useful. It can guide us toward work that feels more personal, more intentional, and perhaps even more distinctive. It gives us something to push against, return to, or gently abandon as the work evolve.

    Ultimately, learning to articulate what we’re trying to achieve isn’t about limiting our photography. It’s about giving it depth—and giving ourselves permission to look, think, and photograph with greater purpose.

  • The Hidden Power of Amateur Photography.

    The Hidden Power of Amateur Photography.


    Amateur photography has often been characterised as an activity preoccupied with beauty. Susan Sontag, in On Photography, draws a distinction between photographs that console or please and those that interrogate or unsettle. Within amateur photographic culture, this emphasis on the “pretty picture” is undeniable. The creation of a visually pleasing image is widely regarded as a primary measure of success, reinforced through competitions, exhibitions, and club culture.


    By contrast, within the art world, individual images are rarely judged in isolation. Greater value is often placed on a coherent body of work—an exhibition or long-term project that articulates a sustained idea or enquiry. Such bodies of work situate photographs within a broader life context, allowing meaning to accumulate over time. The photographer’s oeuvre, rather than the single image, becomes the primary site of interpretation.


    Amateur photographers, however, tend to focus on refining individual images rather than developing long-term projects. The notion of a consistent body of work, formed slowly and organically, often appears less relevant or less attainable. Yet this difference may point not to a limitation, but to a largely overlooked strength.


    The value of amateur photography may be significantly underestimated when considered collectively rather than individually. While individual images may not always announce themselves as “important,” the photographs produced by amateurs within any given year—across towns, villages, and neighbourhoods—can together form an extraordinarily intimate portrait of local life. These images are frequently made casually, without institutional pressure or professional expectation. Precisely because of this, they may be less contrived and more authentic than much professional work.


    This suggests a need to reassess the cultural value of amateur photographers, including those working within camera clubs. Far from being a secondary or preparatory tier of photographic practice, amateur photography represents a vast and largely untapped seam of creativity. Its contribution lies not in competing with professional photography on professional terms, but in offering something fundamentally different.


    The question, then, is how individual photographers—particularly those in organised amateur groups—might respond to this idea. How might they adopt a level of confidence that moves beyond the limitations implied by the term “amateur”? Rather than viewing amateur photographers as lesser practitioners, it may be more accurate to recognise them as photographers with unique access: to everyday life, to personal relationships, and to communities that are often closed to outsiders. Their work is typically less agenda-driven, less shaped by markets, commissions, or institutional expectations.


    As the technical quality of amateur photography continues to rise—driven by increasingly sophisticated and accessible technology—there is a corresponding responsibility for those leading amateur groups to shift the emphasis of practice. Technical mastery alone is no longer enough. Greater encouragement should be given to storytelling, to personal significance, and to the sustained observation of familiar environments.


    Too often, amateur photographers are drawn towards photographic tours, workshops, and so-called “honeypot” locations, implicitly reinforcing a sense that meaningful photography happens elsewhere. This may stem from a perceived inferiority, leading amateurs to mimic professional styles and subjects in the hope of producing work of greater value.


    Yet it may be possible—and necessary—to reverse this logic. Amateur photographers, unconstrained by clients, deadlines, or the need to earn a living, are uniquely positioned to produce genuinely original and potentially groundbreaking work. Their access to private spaces, long-term relationships, and local narratives allows for insights into lived experience that are frequently unavailable to professionals.


    This raises a provocative proposition for camera clubs and amateur communities: that photographers working at a local level might be elevated to a status that, in certain respects, surpasses that of many professional photographers. Not because they are more skilled, but because they are freer—and because their collective work has the power to articulate rich, nuanced, and deeply human accounts of contemporary life.

  • Composition and Storytelling: And a Sense of Mystery

    Composition and Storytelling: And a Sense of Mystery

    In this post, I want to talk about two aspects of photography that I believe are absolutely essential: composition and storytelling.

    Composition

    Let’s start with composition.

    Composition is one of the few areas in photography where we have complete control. It’s where we can truly add something unique and personal — our way of seeing the world.

    But composition is more than simply arranging shapes and lines in a pleasing way. It’s also about how we use colour, tone, and light to guide the viewer’s eye through the image. I see colour and tone, along with lines and shapes, as all part and parcel of composition.

    I like to think of composition as design — the design of a photograph. How do all the visual elements fit together? How do they work as a whole? Good composition is about what some people might describe as harmony: the way shapes, lines, tones, and colours interact to create balance, rhythm, and flow.

    Storytelling

    Now to the second aspect: storytelling.

    When I talk about storytelling in photography, I don’t necessarily mean showing a literal story. It’s not always about a clear narrative within the frame. Often, it’s about creating a sense of story — hinting at something that feels as though there’s more happening beneath the surface. You can’t always explain it, but you sense it.

    That subtle uncertainty is powerful. It invites the viewer in. It makes them curious and encourages them to use their imagination.

    For me, that’s what makes an image memorable — when it leaves space for interpretation rather than spelling everything out. If a photograph is too literal or obvious, it can end up feeling a bit contrived.

    Beyond Rules and Definitions

    So composition and storytelling — those are the two areas I’m constantly thinking about and practising in my own photography (and failing at, most of the time).

    But there’s another layer to all this — something about how we talk about photography itself.

    When we try to explain concepts like composition or storytelling in words, we often end up simplifying something that’s deeply intuitive. Language helps us communicate ideas, but it can also trap us in definitions and formulas. Photography, at its core, is a visual language, not a verbal one. It’s something we need to feel rather than explain.

    The moment we try too hard to define what composition “should” be or how a story “should” be told, we risk losing the magic. Creativity doesn’t live in rules — it thrives in openness and curiosity.

    Maybe we need to loosen our grip a little. Instead of trying to control every element or chase a perfect formula, we can allow ourselves to respond emotionally to the scene in front of us. When we do that, photography becomes a kind of dialogue with the subconscious — a way of discovering parts of ourselves we didn’t know were there.

    So perhaps what I’m really saying is this:

    Let’s bring the mystery back into photography.
    Let’s make it less about certainty and more about emotion, intuition, and imagination.
    Let’s move away from rigid rules and embrace photography as something deeply human — something we feel our way through.

  • Layers of Interest in a Photograph

    Layers of Interest in a Photograph


    Picking up from my last post, I’ve been thinking more about what makes a photograph interesting — and in particular, about the idea of layers of interest. We can be drawn to an image for all sorts of reasons, but I want to focus on some of the more direct, obvious qualities that make a photograph work.

    The First Layer: The Subject Itself

    The most immediate layer of interest is the subject. Is it inherently interesting? Does it draw attention simply because of what it is — regardless of how it’s been photographed? This is when we think of a photograph as being of something. Some subjects have an innate visual or emotional pull — a dramatic sky, a face full of character, a fleeting gesture — and that alone can make a photograph compelling.

    The Second Layer: Design and Composition

    Another layer of interest comes from how the photograph is designed. How has the photographer composed the image? What has been included or left out? A well-composed image can feel balanced, satisfying, and beautifully arranged.

    I often think of this layer as using the scene in front of you as raw material for design. The interesting question, though, is how much that design reflects what was actually there — and how much it transforms it. Does the composition help me experience the scene more deeply, or does it pull me away from it? Does it reveal the reality of what I saw, or does it impose something artificial on top of it?

    The Third Layer: Meaning and Emotion

    Then there’s a deeper, more psychological layer — the one that deals with meaning. This is where metaphor, story, and emotion come into play. It’s what the photograph means rather than just what it shows.

    At this level, I’m interested in the relationships within the image — between people, objects, or ideas — and in the emotions they evoke. Sometimes this layer is very direct, like the expression on someone’s face. Other times, it’s subtle, hidden in atmosphere, symbolism, or mood.

    The Fourth Layer: Audience and Context

    Of course, even if a photograph has a fascinating subject, a strong design, and emotional depth, that doesn’t necessarily mean people will appreciate it. Whether a photograph is seen as “good” depends so much on the audience and the context in which it’s viewed.

    History is full of examples of art that was misunderstood or dismissed at first, only to be admired years later. The context of viewing — who’s looking, where, and when — can make all the difference. Finding an audience that connects with your work can be one of the hardest parts of being a photographer.

    A picture that leaves people cold isn’t necessarily a failure. It might simply be waiting for the right audience — or the right moment — to be understood.

    Communication and Value

    I sometimes think that one of the most interesting questions about art is not whether it’s good in any absolute sense, but whether it communicates. If we see all creative work as a form of communication — and not every artist does — then perhaps the real test of value is how effectively it reaches people.

    If a piece of art moves people, starts conversations, or even sells for millions, it’s clearly connecting on some level. In that sense, dismissing it as “rubbish” misses the point if its purpose is to communicate and be appreciated.

    So maybe the value of a photograph doesn’t just lie in its subject, design, or meaning. Maybe it also lies in the way it speaks to others — or even just in the fact that it speaks at all.

  • The Power of Intention in Photography: Thoughts from Tom Marsh’s Talk

    The Power of Intention in Photography: Thoughts from Tom Marsh’s Talk

    Photographer Tom Marsh made a powerful point in a talk a heard him give last night— that intention lies at the heart of every photograph. He also demonstrated just how differently we can interpret an image once we’re given a statement of intention from the photographer. It made me wonder: is it actually helpful to know what the photographer intended, or is it better to leave interpretation completely open?

    Tom, a West Yorkshire-based photographer who runs Yorkshire Photo Walks and various workshop sessions, gave a fascinating talk to Ilkley Camera Club. His presentation had two main parts.

    In the first, he outlined a framework for evaluating a photograph’s qualities — looking at the subject, the visual design (the composition, colour, and form), and the content or message. The second half focused on something more philosophical: the photographer’s intention. Tom showed us how a simple statement of intent can radically alter the way we read a photograph.

    I completely agree that having an intention is vital. A photographer might aim to tell a story, create a mood, provoke emotion, or simply capture beauty. But the bigger question that Tom’s talk left me thinking about was this:

    Is it important to know the photographer’s intention before viewing the work, or should we, as viewers, work that out for ourselves?

    Personally, I lean towards not knowing. Part of the joy of looking at art — whether a photograph, a painting, or a sculpture — is the process of discovery. I don’t think everything should be handed to the viewer “on a plate.” When we have to interpret and feel our way through a piece, it becomes more personal and engaging.

    Every viewer brings their own experiences and emotions, so each interpretation is unique. Sometimes a photograph might resonate with someone in a way the artist never expected — and that, to me, is one of the most beautiful things about art.

    That said, I also think Tom is right: understanding an artist’s intention can deepen our appreciation of their work. But maybe that understanding shouldn’t come from a single statement attached to one image. Instead, it could come gradually — through getting to know the artist, seeing more of their work, and learning something about their life and creative journey. Over time, we start to form a kind of relationship with the artist, and it’s within that context that their intentions become clearer and more meaningful.

    Tom’s talk was excellent — insightful, thought-provoking, and full of inspiration. I’d highly recommend booking onto one of his workshops or hearing him speak if you get the chance. This whole question of artistic intention feels like a conversation more photographers — and camera clubs — should be having.

    More to follow up:

    Tom’s website tommarshthephotographer.co.uk

    Yorkshire Photo Walks yorkshirephotowalks.com

  • Veil of Glass

    Veil of Glass

    I touch —

    gently —

    the traces of breath

    clinging to the veil of glass.

    Dreams leak slow,

    soft as smoke,

    caught in the trembling skin

    of their own mystery.

    The delicate suspension shivers,

    then falls —

    a blade of light

    splitting the wound.

    Beyond gray bone —

    sky, tree, shadow —

    a black nerve pulses, exposed.

    Ghosts scatter

    at the sharp edge

    of a careful, careful touch.

    I awake —

    and the mist parts,

    just enough

    to let the world through.

  • Beyond the Perfect Shot: Rediscovering the Heart of Photography

    Beyond the Perfect Shot: Rediscovering the Heart of Photography


    There’s a place we, as photographers, need to get to — a place beyond the world where a “good” photograph is defined solely by its technical excellence. Too often, photography is described in terms of composition, focus, exposure, and colour. Of course, these are all important. They are the foundation — the craft and mastery of the medium, much like learning to play an instrument or paint a picture.

    But once we’ve mastered the technique, we have to ask: what’s the music?

    The Music in a Photograph

    Photography, at its core, is about communication. It’s about making a connection between people and conveying something meaningful — something that transcends an accurate depiction of a scene. The real power of photography lies not in technical perfection, but in its ability to touch emotions, provoke thought, and speak to the times we live in.

    When I attend photographic competitions, I often notice that the emphasis remains heavily on the technical aspects — the sharpness, the exposure, the composition. Occasionally, a judge will mention originality or the message behind the image, but this is often secondary. And yet, it’s precisely that message — the intent, the emotion, the story — that gives photography its soul.

    Photography as Experimentation

    For me, the most exciting part of photography is its potential for experimentation — its ability to push boundaries and challenge what’s acceptable. Photography can be a playground for ideas, a space for those who like to break rules and explore the unexpected.

    When we treat photography as an experiment rather than a test, we open ourselves up to surprise, to discovery, and to innovation. It’s through risk-taking — through play — that photography evolves and remains vital.

    The Power of Collaboration

    Like many art forms, photography is not a solitary pursuit. At its best, it is a relationship — between the photographer and the subject, between the photographer and the audience, and often between creative collaborators.

    We can’t all be good at every aspect of the craft. Some excel in the technical, others in vision, storytelling, or presentation. That’s where collaboration becomes essential. Great creative work rarely comes from isolation; it emerges from relationships — from the energy, friction, and inspiration that collaboration brings. As a producer, I’ve seen that the most successful projects almost always come from collective effort and the shared drive to create something exceptional.

    What This Means for Camera Clubs

    So, what does all this mean for the average camera club?

    It means creating an environment where members can be brave — where they can experiment, take risks, and play with photography without fear of failure. Unlike commercial settings, amateur photography gives us the freedom to make mistakes and learn from them.

    Let’s encourage more experimentation, more unconventional approaches, and more creative risk-taking. Let’s move away from trying to imitate professional perfection and instead embrace photography as a living, expressive, and collaborative art form.

    Because in the end, photography isn’t just about capturing a perfect image — it’s about saying something that matters.

  • Seeing with the Imagination

    Seeing with the Imagination

    Hello — this is a quick post to capture a few thoughts before they get blown away by the winter winds.

    One of life’s great joys for me is visiting exhibitions, especially art exhibitions. I was thrilled recently to visit Cartwright Hall in Bradford to see the four shows from this year’s Turner Prize shortlist. Then, of course, there’s the annual Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy — always a highlight — and closer to home, one of my favourite places is the Mercer Gallery in Harrogate.

    I mention all this because I believe art can be deeply inspiring for photographers — and not just the visual arts.

    Recently, I was listening to an interview with Philip Pullman, author of His Dark Materials. He said something that stayed with me: that it’s important to see with the imagination. There are things we can’t see with the naked eye — whole worlds that exist only when we engage our imagination. And those worlds, he said, are no less real.

    When you talk to artists, you quickly sense what moves and excites them — what drives them to create. Their work comes from the imagination, is expressed through imagination, and ultimately, it takes imagination to interpret it.

    Something I’ve noticed over time is that for many artists, the subject itself is often less important than the feeling the work creates — what it evokes in the viewer. They think in terms of colour, shape, line, and texture: the visual elements that carry emotion. Often, the subject is subtle, even withdrawn from the scene, inviting the viewer to work a little to uncover its meaning.

    Photographers, on the other hand, often take a different approach. We tend to focus on clarity — on the placement of the subject, the focal point, and where the viewer’s eye is being directed. Painters seem far less concerned with such precision. They work more through intuition and mystery, treating patterns, shapes, lines, colours, and textures as subjects in their own right. These elements are often what the work is really about — more so than simply depicting an object and placing it neatly within a frame.

    That’s not to say a clear subject isn’t important in photography, but perhaps the starting point could be the design — or even the feeling — rather than just the object itself. The subject might just as easily be light, atmosphere, or emotion.

    This is only a brief reflection, but it raises a question: do our familiar photographic formulas — with their emphasis on clarity and defined subjects — sometimes limit our imagination? Could the unseen elements in an image be just as important as the ones we include?

    As Philip Pullman suggested, can we “see through” a picture with the imagination? Perhaps what we leave out is every bit as significant as what we show.

  • Beneath the Leaves

    Beneath the Leaves

    My regular dog walks in Middleton Woods near home are always an inspiration. At this time of year, the leaves are turning, and the earth is full of fungi. It’s a time to reflect on the cycle of life and death — in fact, nothing truly dies; it simply moves on, transforms.

    In the last few days, I heard a wonderful talk by comedian Alan Davies at the Ilkley Literature Festival. When writing his autobiography, he said he realised it wasn’t about writing down what he knew, but about revealing what was unknown. That idea was, in a way, echoed by Iraqi exile Mohammed Sami, whose work I saw at the Turner Prize exhibition. He said, “The things I articulate in my artwork are memories hidden in the brain cells that are waiting for a trigger.”

    The idea of writing a biography is daunting, but in a way, all artwork is autobiographical. So, I am becoming more mindful of how these personal elements are reflected in our work.

    Recently, I followed an old stone path until I found myself slightly lost — and here’s a poem that grew out of that experience.

    Beneath the Leaves

    Boot soles press the forest spine,
    stone worn slick by hoof, paw, claw.
    Pilgrims pass—children, dogs,
    ancient traders long since gone 

    Sunlight pierces oak ribs high,
    warms the dark, wet earth to stir.
    A breath of mould, of sweetness, rises—
    death weaving its quiet magic here.
    The dying shines brighter than the living.

    Light seeps slow, a golden tide,
    ghosts of leaf and root stir beneath.
    Above, green dims… then flares,
    a singing of leaves,
    their final hue a requiem of hope.

    The congregation rises:
    roots, fungi, worms,
    whispers threading branch to branch.
    Balance hangs, held like a breath,
    waiting… before the storm ignites.

    And suddenly, the path is gone.
    I stand unmade,
    between the known and the unknown,
    between the hand and what reaches for it.

    This is the law:
    the tame unravels,
    the bright turns strange,
    the heart cracks open to its echo.
    The forest leans close, breathing.

    It will take me—
    bone, bark, and name—
    back into its ancient life.

    Beneath the leaves,
    beneath the leaves,
    the future waits,
    silent, patient, eternal.

    © Mark Waddington 2025