The Artist I Am, The Photographer People See

Recently, I attended a creative event that, on paper at least, should have been a thoroughly enjoyable evening. I wanted to be there. It was a privilege to be invited. I found myself surrounded by creativity and recognised many familiar faces from the local arts community.

Yet, as I walked there, throughout the event and long after I’d left, I felt strangely unsettled. It wasn’t a feeling I expected, and as the evening went on I found myself wondering where it had come from.

It wasn’t the first time I’d experienced it. I’ve felt it before at exhibitions, private views and other creative gatherings. Which is odd, because these are exactly the places I should feel most at home. They’re spaces where people gather to celebrate creativity, and creativity has been at the centre of my life for as long as I can remember.

Over the following days I found myself reflecting on those feelings, not because I wanted to get rid of them, but because I wanted to understand them.

I don’t think there was one single reason for the way I felt that evening. Instead, I think there were three underlying reasons, which I’ll explore throughout the rest of this piece.

For a long time, photography has been two things to me.

One is a profession. It’s documenting live music, photographing events, creating images for organisations and telling other people’s stories. I enjoy that work immensely and I’m proud of it. It became the foundation for my Red Dot and LOUD+CLEAR services, and it’s probably the side of my photography that most people associate me with.

The other is something much more personal.

It’s the photography that asks questions rather than answers them. The photography that explores atmosphere, memory and emotion. It’s where I experiment, where I take creative risks and where I try to express something beyond the literal scene in front of me.

In truth, this artistic side came first. It’s always been central to why I pick up a camera. The professional side followed naturally, becoming an extension of that same creative expression rather than something separate from it. As my artistic practice has continued to develop, I’ve become increasingly aware of the balance between these two parts of my photographic life.

Photography occupies an unusual place in the creative world. Most people instinctively recognise the creativity involved in a painting or an illustration. They appreciate the imagination, skill and craft because they can immediately see that something has been created.

Photography is different.

Because we’re surrounded by photographs every day, it’s easy to forget how many creative decisions lie behind a single image. Composition. Light. Timing. Perspective. Editing. Patience. Interpretation. The best photographs don’t simply record a moment; they express something about it.

Yet photography is still often perceived as a service before it’s recognised as an art form. I understand why. I’ve built part of my career around providing photography services, and I’m proud of that work. But it does make me wonder whether people see my artistic work differently, or whether they simply see the photographer they’ve always known.

Perhaps that’s one thread.

Another may have nothing to do with photography at all.

A while ago I was made redundant from a role that I genuinely enjoyed. Like many people who go through redundancy, I told myself I’d moved on, and in many ways I have. New opportunities have followed, my photography has evolved and life has continued.

But redundancy leaves feelings that linger long after the job has gone. It quietly asks questions about identity. Did I matter? Was I valued? Who am I professionally now? Those questions don’t occupy my thoughts every day, but I suspect certain situations have a way of bringing them gently back to the surface.

Then there’s something I suspect many creative people experience.

The ability to hold two completely contradictory thoughts at exactly the same time.

“I don’t really deserve to be here.”

And…

“I wish my work received more recognition.”

One questions your worth. The other wonders whether your worth is being seen. Perhaps they’re simply different ways of asking the same question - Where do I fit?

Looking back, I don’t think that evening was about one thing at all, but perhaps it was about all of them.

The lingering questions that redundancy can leave behind. The challenge of balancing the professional and artistic sides of photography. The feeling that photography still has to work harder than many other creative disciplines to be recognised as art.

And the quiet uncertainty that seems to accompany so many creative people, however experienced they become.

None of those feelings are entirely negative. If anything, they’ve reminded me that I care. I care about making work that means something. I care about growing as an artist without losing sight of the photographer I’ve always been. I care about contributing to the creative community, not simply documenting it.

Maybe feeling unsettled from time to time isn’t a sign that something is wrong. Maybe it’s simply what happens when you’re still growing.

I don’t know whether I’ll ever completely stop asking these questions and in truth, I hope I don’t. Because sometimes the most important thing we create isn’t a photograph.

Sometimes it’s a better understanding of ourselves.