Workhouse photography

08/10/2026

Room with a view

07/10/2026

07/10/2026

06/10/2026

Shall We, Dare We, Dream Again

Growing up, we dream without limits. Then life happens. Work, money, bills, health, responsibility. Slowly, we can become lost in the routine of simply getting through life, and the small dreams we once carried can become forgotten.

These photographs were shot in Paris on a Canon 250D, a camera capable of producing highly detailed, considered images. Yet I have chosen to print those photographs onto discarded receipts, a material never intended to hold photographs in this way.

There is a deliberate juxtaposition between the quality and purpose of the camera and the almost pointless act of printing the resulting image onto something so temporary. The receipt represents the everyday: transactions, money, work and routine. It is something designed to be kept briefly and then thrown away. The photograph, however, asks us to stop and consider.

In SHALL, the first woman looks towards the woman in sunglasses, almost watching, wondering or waiting.

In DARE, three women sit together, appearing almost hesitant, as though caught between staying where they are and taking the next step.

Then in DREAM, a woman calls someone over. Her gesture becomes an invitation, opening the possibility for another person to join her.

The receipts become more than a surface to print on. They become part of the work. They hold the things that can weigh down our lives while the words SHALL, DARE, DREAM, AGAIN sit against them as a reminder not to discard the things we hope for.

Perhaps dreams don't always need to make sense.

Perhaps they just need us to dare to dream them again.

And maybe, like these photographs, something doesn't have to be made for its intended purpose to become something meaningful.

05/10/2026

archive of familiar
"To remember is, more and more, not to recall a story but to be able to call up a picture.” (Sontag)
I photograph strangers without knowing anything about them. On the Underground in Paris, I began to recognise people through the small things they did to distract themselves: staring at their phones, looking into the distance, sitting quietly, waiting.

They were strangers, but their actions felt familiar because they were things I recognised in myself.

Susan Sontag wrote that photography can turn an experience into an image, something we can keep and return to. She also suggests that photographs allow us to possess, in some way, moments and people we never truly knew.

This accidental photograph became something like that for me. I know nothing about these people, yet their actions made them familiar. The image became an archive of a moment shared with strangers, held together by the small behaviours that connect us.

Perhaps photography doesn't always record what we know. Sometimes it records what we recognise.