Some days, the light demands attention — golden, sharp, insistent. But the moments I’m most drawn to are the ones where light simply arrives. It creeps across frosted grass, or brushes the side of a crumbling stone wall with no fanfare. In these quiet places, light seems to understand how to be part of the story, not the whole of it.
On a recent early walk, I found myself standing in a field just outside Dunfermline, mist hanging in the air like memory. The light was barely there, pale and hesitant, but it transformed everything — softening the trees, smudging the lines between ground and sky. I didn’t take many shots. I didn’t need to. Sometimes it’s enough to stand still and just watch how light lands.
These gentle encounters shape much of my work. I’m not looking to capture the spectacular — I’m looking to hold onto what we might otherwise overlook. The light in these moments doesn’t shout. It whispers. And for me, that’s where the magic is.
In a world full of noise, simplicity speaks the loudest. Here’s why I often choose restraint over drama, and how less really can be more when it comes to visual storytelling.
Just beyond the edges of town, the landscape opens up in quiet ways. This journal entry captures a recent photo walk through local hills — and the unexpected moments found in familiar places.
