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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.

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.

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The Four Stages of Seeing

In my mind, the photographic process unfolds in four stages:

1. Attraction – Something catches our initial attention.
2. Framing – We compose the scene through the viewfinder.
3. Selection – We choose which image deserves to be printed.
4. Reflection – We stand back and look at the finished piece.

At each of these stages, we often focus on what we’re seeing. But what if we paid equal attention to what we’re feeling?

It’s almost as if, at our best, we momentarily forget the literal subject and respond instead to shapes, tones, contrast, movement — to atmosphere. To mood.

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A Challenge to See Differently

My challenge to myself — and perhaps to you — is this:

Switch off the rational, pre-programmed response that judges what makes a “good” photograph. Become more aware of how an image makes you feel.

It may be unconventional. It may defy expectations. It may not win prizes for sharpness or colour.

But if it strikes something deeper — if it lingers — then perhaps it has done something far more important.

Sometimes, the rain gives us exactly what sunshine cannot.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

As I continue my journey in photography — particularly through critique sessions where we analyse images in detail — I’m finding myself increasingly weary of how much time we spend discussing technical aspects.

There’s so much hype around camera equipment and its supposed ability to deliver technically perfect results. Sometimes I worry that we’re being hoodwinked into believing that “off-the-shelf excellence” can simply be purchased by upgrading to the latest gear.

When I watch YouTube videos or scroll through Instagram, I’m inundated with adverts promising that this lens, that camera body, or some new accessory will elevate my photography. But the truth is, most of this equipment will not upgrade my photographic excellence — unless it comes with a brain transplant.

A Refreshing Perspective

That’s why it was so refreshing to attend a photo judging session with David Oxtaby the other night.

While he acknowledged technical excellence, he made it clear that the real priority was emotional impact. That struck a chord with me. In the end, I sincerely believe it’s the emotional connection we feel with an image that truly matters.

Technique Is the Starting Point, Not the Summit

I want to be careful here. I’m not criticising the pursuit of technical excellence. In fact, I’ve written before that technical skill is essential — but it’s a starting point, not an endpoint.

Once we’ve mastered the basics of exposure, focus, and composition, we’ve reached base camp. From there, we look up at the mountain. The real climb begins when we strive to express our stories, feelings, and identities through our photographs.

Photographic excellence cannot be bought from Sony, Fujifilm, or Canon. It comes from passionate engagement with artistic expression — from the effort to create work that is emotionally engaging and culturally meaningful.

Judging with the Heart as Well as the Head

I’m currently judging another competition for a camera club in Leeds. Inspired by David’s session last week, I’m trying to be more deliberate in my approach — to slow down, meditate on each image, and pay attention to my emotional response.

It may be that I’ll be criticised for not focusing heavily enough on technical aspects. My decisions may seem subjective. But if photographs are meant to strike deeper into the soul — if they are meant to move us — then technique alone is not enough.

I do worry that I might confuse some people. But I’ll do my best to explain my reasoning. And perhaps there will be a few kindred spirits who align with my belief that truly powerful photography is not just seen — it is felt.

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.