People often ask why I spend so much time photographing artists instead of their work.
The answer is simple.
I’m interested in the person who makes the work.
A painting can tell us many things.
A sculpture can reveal an artist’s thinking.
A photograph of the artist standing in their studio often tells us something else entirely.
It tells us who they are at that moment in their journey.
Over the years, I’ve realised that every artist carries something unique.
Not in the way they dress.
Not in the way they speak.
In the way they occupy their studio.
Some spaces are quiet.
Some are chaotic.
Some are filled with unfinished work.
Others carry the weight of years of experimentation.
Every studio reflects a way of thinking.
As a photographer, I’ve always been drawn to people.
Street photography taught me to observe before reacting. It taught me to notice small gestures, fleeting expressions and moments that most people overlook.
That instinct stayed with me when I began working with artists.
I don’t arrive looking for the perfect portrait.
I arrive looking for something honest.
Sometimes it appears in a conversation.
Sometimes while the artist is making tea.
Sometimes in complete silence.
The best portraits are rarely planned.
They happen when people forget the camera is there.
Photography allows me to document something that will disappear.
Studios change.
Artists change.
Ideas change.
The work changes.
Twenty years from now, those photographs will carry a different meaning.
They won’t simply show what an artist looked like.
They will become part of the history of a practice.
The same is true of conversations.
That is why I enjoy interviewing artists.
I’m rarely interested in asking them to explain a painting.
I want to know what keeps them awake at night.
What they’re struggling with.
What they’ve abandoned.
What they’re trying to understand.
Those conversations often reveal more than the finished work ever could.
This is also why I write.
Photography captures a moment.
Writing captures a thought.
Together they create something far richer than either can achieve on its own.
One records what was seen.
The other records what was understood.
Most writing about art focuses on interpretation.
I’m more interested in documentation.
Every artist carries a lifetime of decisions, failures, discoveries and doubts that never appear in an exhibition catalogue.
Those stories matter.
They explain how a practice evolves.
One day, the exhibitions will end.
The reviews will be forgotten.
The prices will change.
What will remain are the photographs, the conversations and the written record of a life spent making art.
That is what I want to leave behind.
Not a collection of portraits.
An archive of artists.