My approach to engaging with photography, whether it’s a weighty photobook or a striking individual image, stems from a deeply held belief, my first instinct is always to connect, not to critique or rank. I truly believe that behind every frame, every meticulously arranged page, there’s a beating heart, a person who has poured thought, effort, and often immense stress into their work. To truly connect with a photograph, it feels essential to me to try and step into that artist’s mind, to sense their intentions, to understand their context, their emotional impulses, and their intricate technical choices. This isn’t about blind adoration, it’s about a relentless curiosity, an empathetic immersion that looks to understand the very journey the artist embarked upon. For me, this active process of listening to the work, of trying to see through their eyes, naturally leads to a more positive, more compassionate, and a far richer engagement with the art itself. It becomes a conversation, an unfolding dialogue, rather than a detached, almost clinical, assessment.

I am obsessed and fascinated with the WHY take this image, WHY choose this subject, WHAT are you trying to portray and WHAT is it making me feel.

This mindset is why I’ve never been comfortable with the act of tearing things down. Perhaps it’s because I understand, intimately, what it feels like to pour a part of your very being, your anxieties, your hopes, your painstaking effort, into something, only to watch it land in silence, or worse, be dissected without the kindness of understanding. Photography, like all art, demands an unflinching willingness to be seen, to be vulnerable, and that alone, for me, always deserves a profound respect as it is after all subjective. You might not get it or be the target audience.

There are moments, fleeting, profound, when a photograph truly reaches out and clamps a visceral grip on your heart, pulling you into a narrative you never expected. I remember, not so long ago, stumbling across Giacomo Vesprini’s quiet, almost melancholic, street scene online. It was from a city I had never visited, yet it utterly stopped me in my tracks. No dramatic light, no obvious grandeur, instead, it offered a glimpse behind a carnival, a humble white storage container style building, fences surrounding towers, perhaps a mobile mast alongside the gentle, continuous spin of a carousel. In front of it all, a security guard sat on a chair, head tilted to the sun, hands stretched out. It spoke of solitude, of shared humanity in the most mundane of settings, and in that fleeting connection, I felt a familiar ache. It was a powerful reminder of the raw vulnerability inherent in simply existing, and even more so, in creating. The whole scene could have been lifted from Codona’s at Aberdeen Beach, and that resonance, that quiet echo of home, amplified its impact. It was in that pause, that quiet absorption, that I reaffirmed this core philosophy.

The beauty, and indeed the delightful challenge, of photography lies in its inherent subjectivity. What strikes a profound chord within one person might leave another utterly unmoved, and this variance isn’t, in my view, a flaw in the art, but rather a testament to the boundless richness of creative expression itself. My role, then, as a voice within Viewfinder Chronicles, is never to impose a singular, rigid objectivity, for that would be a disservice to the art and the artist alike. Instead, my purpose is to explore resonance, to articulate precisely what speaks to me, and crucially, why.

Take, for instance, an image I captured myself back in early January, while walking the dog with my middle child down at Aberdeen Beach. It shows a couple sitting on the stone ramp, their feet nestled in the sand as the tide nudges closer, a ship a faint silhouette in the distance of the freezing North Sea. They’re facing the expanse, backs to me, seemingly lost in quiet conversation, just enjoying each other’s company. I find myself revisiting this photograph again and again, drawn to its inexplicable pull. Perhaps it’s the undeniable “Aberdeen-ness” of it, the raw, untamed essence of the North Sea that resonates so deeply within me. I’ve always held strong feelings about street photography and capturing people without explicit consent, but here, their distance, their anonymity, makes it feel different, almost ethereal. There’s a particular mist in the air, a familiar coastal embrace, that I’ve worked tirelessly to convey in my edits, trying to capture that elusive, perfect finished feel. This image, born from a personal moment, exemplifies how a subtle scene can hold such profound, lingering emotional weight.

Then there’s Jiatong Lu‘s “The Secret Place With Nowhere To Hide,” a fine art piece that is simply breathtaking. It presents a serene river scene, muted greens, whites, and blues painting the trees and bushes across the water in a stunning, almost dreamlike view. But what truly sets it apart, off centre, are the subtle lines of another image peeking through, an old man in a red vest. This is a profound piece that holds your gaze indefinitely. Lu’s own words about the work, about creating an imaginary “safe haven” from childhood trauma, about escaping to an unknown place, speak volumes about the power of photography to explore identity, isolation, and inner emotions. His vision, where photography takes him to worlds unreachable in reality, echoes my own belief in the medium’s ability to transcend the mundane and delve into the fantastical. It’s a testament to how art can conceptualise fragmented feelings and reconstruct relationships, revealing a raw, profound beauty.

Or Karen Vikke‘s image, which I believe was taken with her iPhone, of a simple window. It’s set within a creamy beige building wall, the small cottage style window off centre, broken into six panels with white frames and a vibrant orange border. Below it, a basket overflows with blossoming red flowers. The colours are exquisite, a harmonious blend that just sings. What truly strikes me about this photograph is its profound simplicity, its inherent minimalism, and yet, how powerfully it resonates. I often wonder how many people walk past this very window every week without a second glance, missing the quiet artistry of its composition, the subtle beauty in its everyday existence. It hits hard precisely because it takes something so ordinary and elevates it through keen observation and thoughtful framing, encapsulating that deep respect I have for the overlooked.

Now, let me be abundantly clear, choosing positivity in my reviews, seeking out the light, never means ignoring the complexities or pretending that every piece of art is, by some imagined metric, “perfect.” That would be disingenuous, a disservice to the very authenticity I cherish. Instead, it’s a conscious decision to focus my energy and my words on what is working, what is bold, what is human, and what genuinely moves me. It’s about actively seeking the strength, the intention, and the unique voice within a body of work. I have, of course, felt that familiar tension, that internal tug between the urge to offer what some might call ‘critical feedback’ and my inherent desire to be kind, to be constructive. My resolution has always been to ask, does my commentary truly help the artist, or does it merely feed into a culture of easy dismissal? I consistently choose the former. Even what might appear as a technical ‘misstep’ often carries a profound intention or reveals a deeper, raw, beauty, if one is willing to look beyond the surface and truly delve deeper into the artist’s mind and heart. My aim is always to understand, to connect, and to elevate, never to rank or to tear down.

When I immerse myself in a photograph or a photobook, I let it speak directly to me, allowing my own memories, emotions, and intellectual curiosities to intertwine with the artist’s narrative. For instance, revisiting a series on urban decay from decades past recently, I found myself unexpectedly transported back to the raw, unpolished streets of my own youth. The images, stark and unflinching, spoke not just of crumbling brick and peeling paint, but of the relentless march of time, the resilience of communities, and the melancholic beauty found in imperfection. My reaction wasn’t merely technical analysis, but an emotional and intellectual resonance, a reminder of forgotten corners of my own life. It is this personal connection, this visceral response, that I aim to convey in my words.

What I hope my readers take from Viewfinder Chronicles, beyond insights into specific photographs or artists, is a way of seeing. A gentle, yet firm, invitation to look longer, to feel more deeply, to resist the quick judgment, and to foster a profound respect for the hands and hearts behind the lens. This mindset, I have found, has made me a better photographer myself, more mindful, more observant, more connected to the myriad stories unfolding around me, and more deeply empathetic towards others within this fascinating craft. There is, I believe, enough tearing down in the world. Enough hot takes and five star scales and quick dismissals that dilute the very essence of human creativity. My purpose, my passion, is to build something with my words, something that truly honours the quiet effort, the courageous vulnerability, and the transformative vision behind every single frame. Because photography, like life itself, truly deserves to be seen, experienced, and celebrated with boundless kindness and an open heart.

Regards

Alex