Reflecting on the first part of the course, I’m realising how important it is to let go of overthinking and just start making images. The Square Mile exercise was a gentle but valuable reminder that there’s creativity to be found in the familiar. I didn’t need to search for something extraordinary or travel far, just stepping outside and paying attention to what’s around me was enough to get going.
My tutor’s feedback highlighted the contrast between the diagonal, dynamic compositions and the more flat-on building shots in my early work. That observation made me pause and think about how different compositions guide the viewer’s eye, and how intentional or instinctive some of my choices were at the time. The diagonal shots that draw the eye toward the horizon carried more energy, while the head-on images offered a quieter, more contemplative feel. Noticing this contrast has made me want to be more deliberate with how I frame scenes moving forward, depending on the story or mood I’m trying to convey.
The artist research section really helped me begin to explore where my interests lie. Looking into the work of Gawain Barnard, Roni Horn, Tom Hunter, and Karen Knorr was like unlocking different corners of photography that speak to different parts of my curiosity. From atmosphere and subtle storytelling to more conceptual or staged approaches, each artist brought something different into focus for me. What stood out most was how they each made the ordinary feel worthy of attention, something I hope to carry forward in my own work.
The feedback also reminded me that this assignment was about simply beginning. The Square Mile was never meant to be perfect; it was about developing an eye for themes, connections, and the potential in local surroundings. I can already feel how valuable it’s been to view my photography as a series, not just isolated images. That way of thinking, seeing my photos as part of a set or story, is something I want to build on throughout the course.
In many ways, this first part felt like the foundations being laid. Paying attention to my surroundings, exploring what grabs me visually, and taking inspiration from artists who help me look differently. From here, I’m excited to keep building confidence in both my technical skills and my creative intuition.
For Assignment Five, I was asked to explore the idea that “Photography is Simple” by creating a series of ten images. The focus was on capturing a unique viewpoint and moment in each photograph, without repeating information.
I chose to focus on three interconnected themes: everyday small moments, walks through the neighbourhood, and people’s movements. These subjects naturally resonated with me and felt like an authentic extension of how I see the world through my camera. My goal was to stay present and observant, capturing moments that might otherwise go unnoticed.
I took my camera on slow, mindful walks through my neighbourhood, paying attention to the familiar and the ordinary: small objects, passing strangers, shifting light. I concentrated on my viewpoint (where I stood) and waited for the right moment to release the shutter. Sometimes it was a fleeting glance, a passing movement, or the way a shadow stretched across the pavement. I kept my approach simple, trusting my instincts and allowing the subject to reveal itself without staging or interference.
In the first part of my series, I captured everyday small moments. I photographed reflections in water, shadows cast across surfaces, and a can of drink left on a bench. These images represent the unnoticed poetry of the ordinary, details that exist briefly before changing or being forgotten. They demonstrate how photography can transform passing fragments of life into subjects’ worth attention.
The second group of photographs came from walks through my neighbourhood. I looked for visual contrasts and textures like fallen brown leaves nestled among bright green foliage, cracks in the pavement and the intricate pattern of tree branches viewed from below. In these images, I aimed to show how familiar spaces can tell new stories when we change our perspective. By paying attention to detail, I simplified the chaos of the world into small, composed frames.
The third part of the series focused on people’s movements. I experimented with shutter speed to reflect the motion of cars passing, people walking crisply frozen with a fast shutter, and a person lying still on the grass. These images were about capturing human presence and rhythm, both movement and stillness.
My final image was of a group of men playing basketball, captured at the decisive moment just as one of them took a shot. Although there are distractions in the background, I believe the energy of the scene comes through. The photograph might not be compositionally perfect, but it captures a real, vibrant moment, which, to me, aligns perfectly with the idea that photography is about “where to stand and when to press the shutter.”
After completing the series, I reconsidered the idea that photography is simple. As Tor Burridge notes, when photographing purely for enjoyment, it does feel simple. But underneath that simplicity are many layers: my understanding of light and composition, the technical knowledge of my camera, and the subtle influence of photographers whose work has shaped my eye.
I was particularly inspired by Miho Kajioka’s reflections on beauty in fleeting moments, and Michele Groskopf’s statement that photography teaches us about ourselves. What we notice, what we’re drawn to, what we value.
This project reminded me that while photography can be as simple as being in the right place at the right time, the emotional connection and deeper intention behind each image add a rich layer of complexity.
Artist Statement
Photography, at its core, is about the moment. A fleeting instant that captures more than just a scene. It holds emotion, atmosphere, and the often unnoticed beauty of the everyday.
For this series, I focused on simple, spontaneous moments: quiet details observed on walks through my neighbourhood and brief encounters with people in motion. These subjects felt natural and intuitive to photograph.
Rather than forcing a narrative, I embraced presence and spontaneity, allowing the images to emerge as I wandered. I paid close attention to my viewpoint and the timing of the shutter, capturing moments that may seem mundane, but carry quiet significance when viewed closely. Each photograph is an attempt to find beauty in the ordinary, to tell a story of a moment that might otherwise slip by unnoticed.
This series reflects my belief that photography is, in its simplest form, about being in the right place at the right time. But beyond that, it’s also about noticing, feeling, and connecting with the world in meaningful ways. As I progressed through this assignment, I realized that photography is simple, until it isn’t. Until you see how your choices in framing, light, and timing are shaped by personal experience, emotion, and influence.
In a world of constant distraction, these photographs offer a quiet invitation to pause, reflect, and rediscover beauty in what’s already there.
When I think about ‘Behind the Gare Saint-Lazare’, the “point” my eye always comes back to is the small, delicate space between the man’s foot and the reflection in the puddle. It’s not so much the man or the water that grabs me, but that tiny breath of air, the pause right before impact. It’s a space full of tension, possibility, and mystery.
Inspired by that idea, I created my own photograph of a droplet of water suspended under a tap just before it falls. The most important “point” isn’t the water itself; it’s the fragile space around it. The invisible pause between one moment and the next.
The information these “points” hold isn’t about objects, but about potential. The water droplet clings to the tap, impossibly heavy and light at once, moments from surrender. In these tiny gaps, time feels like it folds in on itself, like the future has paused to take a breath.
This echoes what Flusser and Berger talk about. Photographs capturing an eternal return, a circle rather than a straight line. Just like Cartier-Bresson’s puddle moment, my droplet image isn’t about action, it’s about almost action. That hypnotic, magical hesitation. Every time I look at it, I fall back into that stillness. Photography isn’t just recording what happened. It’s creating a space where something might happen.
I captured four different shots that, while visually similar, each hold their own subtle differences. Two images show the water just as it detaches and falls, leaving behind a delicate trail, almost like a thread pulling the drop back toward its source. The other two freeze the moment just before release, when the droplet clings stubbornly to the tap, swollen with tension.
What I found most fascinating was how such a small, everyday event could carry so much emotion when frozen in time. The images don’t just record what happened; they hold the feeling of waiting, of something inevitable about to occur. Even though the photos are quiet and simple, there’s a lot of invisible energy inside them.
Seeing them side by side made me appreciate how photography can turn even the tiniest shift like a wobble, a stretch, or a fall, into something worth noticing. Each frame feels like it holds its own tiny, suspended world. The experiment made me much more aware of the power of timing, and how the smallest moments can create a lasting visual impact.
For this exercise, I chose my dog as the subject. Someone I share everyday closeness with, but who also moves in and out of connection depending on mood, environment, and attention. Using my camera as a measuring device, I wanted to explore not just the physical space between us, but the emotional shifts that occur as that space changes.
I began by photographing him indoors while he was sleeping. I kept quiet and respectful, moving slowly as I took each frame. The first images were taken from across the room, with his body curled up and relaxed, unaware of my presence. As I crept closer, I captured the gradual awareness building in him, a twitch of the ear, a shift of his body, and finally, direct eye contact with the lens. That moment of eye contact felt like a bridge being built, the space between us closing not just in proximity, but in presence.
Later, I took the camera outside as he wandered freely, nose to the ground, totally absorbed in the world of smells. At first, I hung back and simply observed, capturing his movements from afar. Then came the shift: he noticed me. In an instant, he broke into a joyful run towards me, tail wagging and barking, full of playful energy. I kept shooting as he circled around me, as if inviting me into the game. The photos became chaotic, slightly blurred and full of motion. The camera now recording not distance, but the collapse of it.
My favourite image comes from the first sequence. It’s the frame where he’s just woken, still resting, but looking directly into the camera. There’s a quiet connection there. He’s not performing, not reacting, just being, and meeting me in that moment.
This exercise made me aware of how photography can document not only presence but the relationship. The distance between a photographer and their subject isn’t just spatial. It can be emotional, energetic, even ethical.
The two sequences revealed different sides of our connection. One tender, still and slow, The other wild, energetic and playful. It also reminded me to look beyond the shot I planned and stay open to what the image reveals. The movement, the blur, the unexpected expressions. They all became part of the story. As Alexia Clorinda suggests, I included what I didn’t mean to do, and it made the work more honest.
For this exercise, I visited Point Ormond Viewpoint in Melbourne, a location that offers a wide panoramic view overlooking the bay and the city skyline. I chose it because of the distinct layers it presented, from the foreground right through to the horizon, making it ideal for practicing the act of seeing as described in the brief.
I started by observing the foreground, where a man stood next to his bike, enjoying the view. He was positioned slightly off-centre, adding an organic touch of life and movement to the scene. His presence grounded the composition and gave me an immediate focal point to work from.
Next, I looked at the middle ground. A paved path stretched into the distance, acting as a strong leading line that disappeared into the trees. It guided my eye toward the rest of the scene and created a natural flow through the composition. I noticed how the line of the path created a rhythm, like a visual bridge between the man and the faraway city.
Then my focus reached the background, where the Melbourne city skyline came into view. The skyscrapers stood tall on the horizon, slightly hazy from the sun, but still sharp enough to create a beautiful contrast against the soft blue sky. This layer gave the image its sense of depth and scale. A reminder of the relationship between nature and the built environment.
Finally, I looked up to the sky, a brilliant blue canvas with the sun glistening off the water below. The light bouncing off the bay added a sense of calm and clarity, tying the whole scene together in a wash of warmth and brightness.
Once I felt that I could see everything all together as a single unified view rather than in isolated parts, I raised my camera and took the photo. It was surprisingly difficult to maintain awareness of the whole scene at once. My eyes kept wanting to jump to individual elements, but I found that softening my gaze helped me hold the entire picture in my mind. It became less about focusing and more about being open to everything at once.
This exercise reminded me how easily we miss the bigger picture when we get caught up in details. It also echoed Giacometti’s challenge where he struggled with capturing both the whole figure and its details simultaneously. The photograph I captured is simple, but to me it holds the balance between stillness and movement, closeness and distance, man and city.
It was a powerful reminder that what matters is to look, really look, and to trust that the act of seeing itself is just as important as the shot you take.
A point has many different meanings depending on what you are using it for. In this context, a point is small within the frame and the position is more important than the form. The brief for this exercise asked me to take three or four photographs with a single point placed in different parts of the frame following these three rules: the place of the point shouldn’t be too obvious, use rule of thirds when composing the shot and the point should be easy to see.
I set up my camera with a fixed frame and selected an object to work with. For this activity, I used my dog’s toy. I thought it would be an excellent thing to use because it is yellow and therefore stands out among the others. I began distributing it throughout my garden using the rule of thirds. The first three photographs are nice since they adhere to the rules. However, the fourth photo is difficult to find since, in order to obey the rule of thirds without repeating the first few photos, I had to position the point far back in the garden.
Once we’d taken those images, I had to take three more with no restrictions. I figured I might have a little fun with this one. I kept the frame exactly as it was and moved the point to other locations. If you didn’t know the brief for this exercise, you wouldn’t notice the first photo because there are so many elements in the frame. Moving on to the second shot, you are instantly drawn to the point because it is not only in the center of the frame, but it is also bright yellow and hanging from the washing line, making it difficult to overlook. For the final photo of these three, I was preoccupied with deciding where to position the point. Then my dog wanted to play, so I photographed her and the point together. I had fun with these three images since I followed the brief while keeping it entertaining.
A Journey Through a Creative Arts Degree 