MARK WADDINGTON

Blog

  • Have camera clubs had their day?

    Have camera clubs had their day?

    A friend recently directed me to a blog post by photographer Paul Gallagher, asking whether camera clubs are promoting the wrong things. His concern was the emphasis many clubs place on photographic competitions. His argument is not unreasonable. A highly competitive atmosphere can sometimes undermine the collegiate, supportive and friendly qualities that ought to make a camera club enjoyable.

    My immediate reaction was that perhaps the problem isn’t competitions themselves, but the importance we give them.

    Having spent the last couple of years judging camera club competitions, I sincerely hope that the clubs I have visited don’t take my verdicts too seriously. What, after all, does it really mean when I give one photograph 18 marks and another 16? It is little more than a momentary response to an image, filtered through my own tastes, experience and expectations.

    Yet those few marks can sometimes seem to carry enormous significance.

    This raises a more interesting question: what is a camera club actually for?

    Camera clubs are an important part of our cultural landscape. Many have been in existence for generations. They bring together people who share an interest in photography and provide something increasingly valuable: an opportunity to meet other people, share ideas, learn from one another and pursue a creative interest together.

    But the world in which many of these clubs were established has changed dramatically.

    When photography was technically difficult and expensive, camera clubs had an obvious practical purpose. Members could learn about cameras, film, processing and printing from people with more experience. Developing photographic skills was a significant part of the attraction.

    Today, much of that technical knowledge is built into the technology itself. Cameras can automatically determine exposure and focus. Software can correct many imperfections and perform increasingly sophisticated editing.

    Technical skill still matters, of course. But perhaps it shouldn’t be the main measure of photographic achievement.

    If the technology can do so much for us, what is left for the photographer?  What is the human element?

    Competitions should not be abandoned but clubs should not be defined by them.

    Here are some thoughts:

    • Keep competitions, but put them in perspective. They are one activity, not the purpose of the club.
    • Introduce longer-term projects, giving members several months to explore an idea rather than produce a single winning image.
    • Set challenges around ideas rather than categories — memory, community, work, loneliness, joy, change, nature or place.
    • Create opportunities for discussion rather than simply judgement. Ask members what they see in an image, what they think it is saying and what questions it raises.
    • Encourage experimentation. Make room for photographs that are deliberately imperfect, unconventional or difficult to categorise.
    • Invite members to talk about their projects, including their failures and uncertainties, rather than only presenting their best finished photographs.
    • Work with the wider community. A project about a local place, industry, environment or community could involve people who aren’t camera-club members at all.
    • Celebrate different kinds of achievement. Completing a project, trying something new, helping another member or contributing to a group exhibition can be just as valuable as winning a competition.

    Keep competitions but don’t take them too seriously and don’t make them  the absolute measure of photographic achievement.

  • Landscapes and the Performance

    Landscapes and the Performance

    I’ve always enjoyed landscape photography, although I have to admit I’m often disappointed with the results. The experience of being out in the landscape, breathing the fresh air and simply taking in my surroundings, is what I enjoy most. Having a camera is often just an excuse to get outside and spend time looking, noticing and appreciating the world around me.

    When I review my photographs after a day in the countryside, or by the sea, I often feel that something is missing. The image may be technically fine, even beautiful, but it doesn’t quite capture the experience of being there. The best way I can describe it is that it’s like an opera stage before the performance begins. The set may be magnificent, but it isn’t complete until the actors arrive and the story unfolds.

    A landscape is much the same. It is a stage on which countless performances take place. Sometimes the actors are the weather: a dramatic storm rolling in, towering clouds gathering on the horizon, or shafts of sunlight breaking through after rain. Sometimes they are the wind bending the trees or rippling long grass. At other times, the performance is only hinted at through the traces left behind—a line of broken dry-stone walls, an abandoned shepherd’s hut, or the worn path of generations who have walked there before.

    People, of course, bring their own stories to the landscape. Walkers, cyclists and farmers all become part of the scene, adding movement, purpose and a sense of life.

    I’ve often thought that painters such as John Constable understood this particularly well. Constable didn’t simply paint grand landscapes; he filled them with the everyday activities of ordinary people. One of my favourite paintings includes a pile of manure being tended by farm workers. It’s probably not the sort of image you’d choose for a tin of chocolates, but it reminds us that landscapes are places where people live and work, not just picturesque views.

    Beyond the activity within the scene, there is another performance taking place—one inside the viewer. A landscape can stir memories, evoke emotions and remind us of other places or times. It can also bring back the physical sensation of standing in the wind, feeling the warmth of the sun, or hearing rain approaching across the hills. These experiences are impossible to record directly, yet they are often the most important part of being there.

    Perhaps that’s why, when I look at a landscape photograph, I find myself asking not just what is in the picture? but what is missing?

    I like to think of my own photographs as interpretive landscapes rather than simple records of a place. My aim is not only to show what was there, but also to suggest what was felt—to hint at memories, movement, atmosphere and the passage of time. I’m interested in photographs that reach beyond the single captured moment and evoke something of the much broader story unfolding before and after the shutter was pressed.

    Beautiful landscapes are to be treasured and I hope my photographs are beautiful too. But the landscape images that excite me most are those that offer something more than beauty alone. They invite us to imagine the unseen, to sense the life beyond the frame, and to complete the performance ourselves.

  • Learning to See

    Learning to See

    One of the biggest challenges in photography isn’t the technology – it’s our ability to really see. At least that’s my experience.

    David Hockney once said that most people wander through the world without really taking the time to look. Another artist, David Anderson, who painted trees, put it another way: “Nobody really knows a tree until they have painted it.”

    Taking photographs has become so easy with today’s automated technology that, in many ways, the camera replaces our need to see for ourselves. We let the camera do the looking. We collect images almost automatically, then review them afterwards like we’re examining the contents of a fishing net to see what we’ve caught.

    Drawing and painting are very different. To draw or paint well, you have to study what’s in front of you. You need to understand the shapes, tones, structure and relationships before you can interpret them. Without that careful observation, very little can be achieved.

    I’ve found that practising drawing has improved my photography. I’m becoming much more aware of tonal values, structure and composition. It’s also taught me how important it is to strip a scene back to its essential elements instead of trying to include everything.

    So my recommendation is to spend time looking before you press the shutter. Better still, try drawing or painting alongside your photography. I don’t expect to become a great artist – but the act of drawing itself will, I think, help develop one of the most valuable skills any photographer can have: the ability to really see.

    What you do or make once you have seen is another question altogether!

  • Photographing in the Rain

    I was out in the rain today, camera in hand, wandering through the town centre.

    Raincoats and umbrellas everywhere. People striding forward with purpose, determined to reach their destinations before becoming completely soaked. Commuters darting out of the railway station. Would-be shoppers sheltering in doorways. Pedestrians dodging the splash of passing cars. Children being hurried across the crossing, their little legs working overtime to keep up.

    It isn’t the sort of weather most people choose for photography.
    Surely a bright, sunny day would be better?

    And then there’s the expectation. Any self-respecting photographer might aim for images that are pin-sharp, colourful, and technically precise. Instead, my photographs today are black and white — dark, moody, slightly unfocused. Fleeting figures passing through the frame. Faces barely recognisable. Motion rather than clarity.

    So why do it?

    Because lately, I’ve been thinking less about what a photograph shows and more about what it feels like. I’m experimenting with techniques without expecting perfection. I’m allowing room to be surprised. I’m chasing a feeling rather than an explanation.

    Yesterday, I had a conversation about how we see. We’re very good at describing what’s in front of us — a street, a person, a rainy afternoon. But isn’t it far more interesting to describe what we feel when we encounter a scene?

    Perhaps our emotional response is a better measure of a powerful photograph than simple visual accuracy.

  • Reflections after the Leeds Photographic Society exhibition.

    Photo: 90 years of memories by Tamsin Spain

    I visited an exhibition by the Leeds Photographic Society at Salts Mill over the weekend, and it was a real pleasure to see such a wide variety of photographs on display. By chance, some of the images were ones I had previously judged in competitions at the society, which made it especially rewarding to encounter them again in this new context.

    The exhibition prompted me to reflect on just how broad and fascinating photography really is. There is no single genre, style, or approach that defines it.

    Photography spans many aspects of life and serves countless purposes. It’s tempting to try to define photography narrowly, but doing so is a bit like trying to define writing as only “literature.” Writing ranges from the works of William Shakespeare to something as simple as a shopping list for a trip to Tesco. Photography, like writing, encompasses a vast spectrum—some work is highly creative, while other work is purely practical.

    Photography can be deeply functional, such as a medical professional taking an X-ray, or personal, like a parent capturing a moment on the beach. At the same time, it can reach extraordinary artistic heights in the hands of photographers such as Ansel Adams, (who promoted emotional responses above techical excellence).

    However, like many art forms—painting in particular—history has a tendency to decide what is considered “good” and what is not. Art history has traditionally elevated certain genres over others; for example, grand historical painting was often valued more highly than landscapes or still life. Similarly, the photographers who are remembered tend to be those who were well documented, widely exhibited, and effectively promoted.

    Yet creativity is alive and thriving everywhere. There may well be hidden Michelangelos and Ansel Adamses working quietly today, unrecognised. Our perception of greatness is shaped by cultural expectations and, often, by the publicity machines that influence what we see and value. Those who become famous have usually succeeded not only through talent, but also in ensuring their work is visible and celebrated.

    In reality, creativity is deeply subjective. Appreciating great photography is not just the role of critics, galleries, or competitions—it belongs to all of us. We can choose to seek out meaningful work beyond the usual venues: outside galleries, beyond magazines, and away from competitions. There is something special about discovering the work of modest, dedicated individuals creating quietly in their own spaces. The Royal Photographic Society has a campaign slogan “photography for all”, perhaps that idea is as much about appreciating photography as it is about the actual making of images?

    This leads me to wonder if modesty is one of the most valuable qualities in creative work. Instead of gravitating only towards heavily promoted images, we might pause to appreciate creativity wherever we find it. By doing so, we step away from the influences of marketing, branding and ego, and reconnect with the genuine act of creation.

    Let’s not be sniffy about snapshots. Even the most casual photograph can be a meaningful piece of creativity—a small window into someone’s life, passions, and perspective. These images are rarely created to win awards or build reputations; they are simply expressions of the joy of living and observing the world. Life, after all, is worth capturing.

    Perhaps we should try to de-categorise photography. Let’s be cautious about awarding value only to what is widely promoted or formally recognised. Instead, let’s respect and encourage the small, sincere efforts of people developing their creativity.

    This is where community groups like the Leeds Photographic Society play such an important role. They provide a local space where ordinary people can nurture creativity, curiosity, and a sense of wonder through photography.

    So, thank you to the Leeds Photographic Society for putting on such an inspiring exhibition.

    (Photo credit: 90 years of memories by Tamsin Spain)

  • The Boundaries of Respectable Photography

    I recently had a conversation at Ilkley Camera Club about the scope of photography and how it is understood within the activities of the club. The discussion made me reflect on how photography is often framed within quite narrow boundaries.

    Photography is frequently divided into familiar genres: landscape, urban scenes, still life, portraiture, and so on. Each of these categories carries its own expectations about what constitutes “good” photography. Within each genre there are implicit rules—about composition, subject matter, and technique—that define what is considered successful. The result is that photography in these settings often follows a rather narrow creative path.

    Even video, which is unquestionably a form of photography in the literal sense—writing with light—is rarely considered part of the photographic club tradition.

    So how far does photography really reach in terms of its scope and creative possibilities?

    To be fair, many photographers in camera clubs do experiment with more exploratory techniques. Composites, intentional camera movement, and other forms of manipulation are increasingly common. Yet I sometimes wonder whether these approaches are still regarded as peripheral activities rather than central to what “serious” photography is supposed to be.

    It is worth considering the work of artists who have pushed the medium in more imaginative directions. The ethereal long-exposure photographs of Olga Karlovac, for example, create dreamlike images that challenge conventional expectations of sharpness and clarity. Looking further back, the photograms of Man Ray demonstrate that photography does not even require a camera to be compelling.

    When photography enters into the kinds of conversations more commonly associated with painting, sculpture, or multimedia practice, it opens up a much richer creative territory. Photography can interact with other materials, processes, and artistic traditions.

    Some might argue that once photography is mixed with other media it ceases to be “pure” photography. But I would argue the opposite. Photography has always been a hybrid process. The traditional darkroom method—light captured on film and then transferred to silver bromide paper—is itself a complex, multi-stage interaction between light, chemistry, materials, and craft.

    Consider the work of Anna Atkins. Her cyanotype prints combine light, chemistry, pigment, and paper in a process that is both scientific and artistic. Few would deny that these works are photographic, even though they involve far more than simply pressing a shutter.

    In this sense, photography may actually be just one element within a much broader creative practice. To narrow it into something we might call “pure” photography risks denying the medium its real power. Photography becomes most interesting when it forms relationships with other media and techniques.

    The same might be said of creativity more generally. Human creativity rarely exists in isolation. It emerges through collaboration, dialogue, and shared influence. Artists are inspired not only by their own experiences and ideas, but also by the work, thoughts, and perspectives of others.

    Perhaps photography should be understood in the same way—not as a closed discipline with strict boundaries, but as part of a wider creative ecosystem.

  • Less Thinking, More Intuition.

    I was scrolling through Instagram and came across an interview with the late artist L. S. Lowry – the man who painted matchstick men and cats and dogs! I had a fascination with him when I was a child and even thought about travelling to Salford to call on him. I didn’t, unfortunately, but it was quite special to hear from the man himself. (I’ll try and include the video below.)

    In the video, he was asked about the feelings and thoughts he had while painting. In response, he said he might be thinking about lunch or what he would do later in the day. Painting for him was instinctive and automatic. Time passed quickly.

    I am always interested in finding ways to improve my art and photography – but when I see someone who makes it seem so effortless, I wonder why I struggle so much.

    I think my struggles might come from a mindset encouraged by online tutorials. The way art and photography are often taught presents them as mountains of deficiency to overcome. Much of what I see online promotes the idea that creativity is primarily a technical struggle, something to be conquered through formulas and routines.

    To be fair, though, a lot of the teaching I see online is very good and helps to build confidence and familiarity with the tools. Once you know how to handle the camera instinctively, how to adjust settings without conscious effort, your attention is freed. When that happens, you can let your instincts operate more freely. I suppose there was a time when Lowry himself had to learn how to draw and use a paintbrush.

    So I am really hoping that I can reach that state where I am much more instinctive, and photography and art become closer to meditation than construction — less of a struggle.

    Perhaps, for me, the time has come to relax and not think about it too much — just get on with it and see what happens. Although perhaps this blog post is evidence that I do, in fact, think too much!

    My favourite quote from the video, “I wasn’t quite satisfied with that, just too harmless’.

  • The Meaning of Making Photographs

    I’ve been agonising over a question that crops up regularly for me: when we create a piece of work, can we truly claim ownership of it, or are we simply attaching our name to something that happened almost by accident?

    It’s really a question about intention. What part do we actually play in making photographs? This theme keeps surfacing in my convesations, perhaps because it touches on my own insecurity about creativity. I take the camera out, point it at something, press the shutter—and then, among dozens of failed images, I occasionally discover a good one. But does that make me creative? Does that make me a good photographer? Do I care?

    In the late nineteenth century, Kodak famously promised: “You press the button, we do the rest.” It was a brilliant slogan. Photography would no longer be complicated or technical; anyone could do it. The machine would handle the hard part.

    But when technology—or sheer luck—produces an image for us, what exactly are we claiming when we call it our work?

    We like to talk about vision and intention. We prefer to believe that the image emerged from somewhere deep inside us, that it reveals our subconscious or our unique way of seeing. That language can sound grand, even pretentious. And yet it’s also true that photographs sometimes happen almost by accident: the light shifts, a stranger walks into the frame, the camera chooses the exposure. Still, we are happy to sign our name beneath the result, or take a competition prize.

    I’m not suggesting that happy accidents are wrong, nor that allowing the camera to do the heavy lifting is somehow dishonest. In fact, one of the most important aspects of art may be recognition. We look at an image and think, Yes—that’s it. In that moment of recognition, the work becomes ours. We adopt it. We see ourselves in it.

    It’s a little like the childhood expression: finders keepers. The accident becomes meaningful because we chose it. We found it. And in choosing it, we gave it significance.

    Perhaps this says something about me. Maybe my photography grows partly out of insecurity. I want to show that I see differently, that I’ve been somewhere interesting, that I possess taste, depth, sensitivity. The camera becomes my way of saying: Look at me. Look where I am. Love me!

    There’s undeniably an element of self-promotion in that.

    And there’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting to feel distinct or valued. But if photography is to mean something more—if it is to anchor us in reality rather than merely decorate our ego—then we must examine our motives. Are we revealing something true, or are we simply curating a version of ourselves?

    Letting the camera “do the rest” is not enough. The real work begins afterwards. It begins when we ask: Why did I take this photograph? What drew me to that moment? What was I feeling? What am I trying to say?

    Photography can become a conversation with ourselves. We take pictures, we review them, we respond, and we change. It becomes iterative—not about producing perfect images, but about developing deeper awareness. Over time, we begin to recognise our preferences, our longings, even our blind spots.

    Creative expression is messy and uncertain. It doesn’t always arise from grand inspiration; sometimes it begins with accident, curiosity, or even vanity. But if we stay attentive, photography can move beyond technology and self-presentation. It can become a slow, ongoing attempt to understand both the world in front of us and the person holding the camera.

    And that final part—the self-understanding—is something no camera can do for us.

  • A Studio Session at Ilkley Camera Club

    Tonight at Ilkley Camera Club we had a fascinating practical studio session with Tabitha Boydell and model Erica Mulkern.

    Tabitha Boydell runs a business offering location shoots in some of the most lavish and visually striking settings around the country. Her events provide access not only to beautiful venues, but also to professional lighting setups, experienced models, and carefully curated costumes. (You can explore her work through her website.)

    This kind of session isn’t something I’ve done before. However, looking through Tabitha’s portfolio, many of the resulting images are truly spectacular.

    More Than Just “Taking the Shot”

    During the evening, Tabitha worked closely with Erica Mulkern to pose and create a studio lighting arrangement for us to use. Sessions like these are necessarily limited — especially when several photographers are sharing time and wanting to practise — but they offer an excellent opportunity to refine technical skills, particularly with strobe lighting, and to work with an experienced model.

    Yet beyond the technical learning, I was eager to explore something deeper.

    In a setting where the location, the lighting, and the model are already carefully prepared, the temptation is simply to “take the shot.” But a photograph is not merely a picture of something attractive. It is the outcome of a relationship — a “dialogue” between the photographer and the subject.

    Entering the Dialogue

    It is relatively easy to photograph something already beautiful: an elegant dancer, a dramatic landscape, a poised model. But what has the photographer contributed? What has been added beyond competent exposure and composition?

    The real challenge in creative photography is not simply to record beauty, but to respond to it — to enter into dialogue with it — and to allow that exchange to shape the final image.

    When photographer and subject truly interact, something new emerges. The subject offers presence, expression, character. The photographer brings interpretation, intention, and vision. The resulting photograph is not merely the sum of these parts, but something unique — a third thing born of that interaction.

    Bringing Ourselves Into the Frame

    In studio sessions like this, the question becomes: is it enough to capture what is placed before the camera, or should we bring something of ourselves into the frame?

    Looking at Tabitha’s portfolio, it is clear that many photographers who attend her sessions do more than document the scene. They add a layer of imagination — a personal response that transforms a well-arranged opportunity into something distinctly their own.

    Perhaps the true challenge, whenever we encounter a beautiful subject, is not simply to photograph it well, but to enter into a kind of conversation: to listen, to respond, and to shape something individual out of that relationship.

    In that sense, photography is less about taking and more about engaging — and the image becomes the visible trace of that conversation.

  • Story, History, and Playing with What’s Next

    I had the pleasure of judging two print competitions at the Leeds Photographic Society last night. I loved the buzz of enthusiasm and friendliness. What also struck me wasn’t just the quality of the work, but the depth of the club’s history.

    Founded in 1852, it’s widely regarded as the oldest photographic society in the world — even older than the Royal Photographic Society. That’s quite something in a medium that has changed as dramatically as photography.

    I was introduced to some of that history recently at Leeds Art Gallery, seeing the work of John Atkinson Grimshaw, who joined the society in 1890. He worked at a time when painting and photography were in creative tension. Rather than resisting photography, he absorbed its influence — especially its handling of light — and let it shape his “moonlight” paintings.

    I’m not nostalgic for the past. There’s no point in trying to go backwards. But story matters. We all stand in the middle of one. The past shapes us, even as we move forward.

    At the competition, one self-portrait had been made using a flatbed scanner. The photographer placed her face on the glass and moved during the scan, creating strange, beautiful distortions. Others used sophisticated digital techniques in Photoshop. Different tools, same spirit: experiment and see what happens.

    It’s encouraging to see the Leeds Photographic Society — and many others — still thriving after so many years. But I sometimes feel that the approach to photographic competitions has remained a little static. Judging often still places heavy emphasis on technical perfection.

    Fifty or a hundred years ago, that made sense. Photography was technically demanding. Mastering exposure, focus, film choice, and the darkroom required real expertise. Technical competence was an achievement in itself.

    Today, technology is far more accessible. Good technical results are easier to achieve. Technical standards are now the starting point, not an end in themselves, as I’ve said before.

    Perhaps that’s the thread running from Grimshaw’s time to ours. The question isn’t how to preserve the past, but how to respond to what’s in front of us. If Grimshaw were alive today, I doubt he would ignore new technology. He would probably be playing with it.

    So how can these clubs and societies move forward while drawing on their past? How can they appeal to a new generation of photographers?

    I think the spirit of creativity is alive and thriving for those who are prepared to experiment — whether it’s sticking your face in a scanner, light painting with a torch at night, or taking photographs in the manner of J. M. W. Turner in the middle of a storm. Photography and creative expression should be exciting, and perhaps even dangerous.

    I hope the Leeds Photographic Society can keep the spirit of John Atkinson Grimshaw alive — not as a place of comfort and familiarity, but as a call to embrace the new and unfamiliar. To create something not seen before.