02/08/2026
Ah, July. That most treacherous of months when the British calendar conspires to drag innocent, peace loving individuals away from the god given right to a hot dinner and thrust them into the dimly lit, mildly frantic universe of amateur dramatics.
In the grand and inexplicably chaotic cosmic tapestry of MJC Photography, July is universally recognized as Show Month a time when sleep becomes an abstract theoretical concept and one’s camera gear begins to feel less like professional equipment and more like a set of heavy iron weights designed specifically to test a human being’s mental fortitude.
We kicked off this madness with West Side Story, a production that was, quite frankly, an absolute emotional rollercoaster. One minute you're marvelling at the choreography; the next, you're deeply concerned for the vocal cords of a teenager who is giving it their absolute all while wearing a remarkably convincing 1950s leather jacket.
The following week offered up an abundance of drama, though I regret to inform you that the most harrowing scene did not actually take place on stage.
There I was, floating merrily down the road in the soothing, bumper to bumper bliss of Plymouth rush hour traffic. My mind had comfortably uncoupled itself from reality and was happily floating toward a future that involved a magnificent, freshly cooked dinner. My mouth was literally watering. Life was good.
Then, the phone rang. It was Laura. ( LS Drama Workshops )
"How far away are you?" she asked.
Now, those five words delivered in a tone that suggests someone has either left the oven on or accidentally declared war on a small European nation, are guaranteed to make a driver's stomach drop directly into their socks. All thoughts of a delicious meal instantly vanished, replaced by the icy grip of sudden panic.
You see, in my innocent mind, I wasn't scheduled to shoot until Friday night. What I had critically failed to appreciate was that the universe (via the theater management) had concocted a completely different cast for Thursday night, and Laura, quite reasonably, though inconveniently for my digestive system, wanted both captured for posterity.
I am reasonably certain it violates several international treaties to make a person sprint through their own home, madly hoovering up camera lenses and tripods, while the glorious, taunting aroma of an unattended home cooked meal wafts through the hallway. It is a subtle form of psychological torture.
Consequently, the Thursday night cast were greeted by a photographer who was:
1. Unusually sweaty,
2. Decidedly hangry, and
3. Secretly calculating if it was socially acceptable to eat a granola bar during a dramatic monologue.
Miraculously, my visible distress did not derail the proceedings. The cast was utterly faultless, and the entire production was a visually stunning triumph ably abetted by the splendidly dramatic lighting provided by the good folks at MB Productions.
Having survived the pint sized thespians, I was promptly hurled into the breathtakingly athletic world of dance courtesy of The Linda Mortimore & Charlotte Smith School of Dance
People often ask me whether I prefer photographing theater or dance. To which I say: How does one choose between a lovely cup of tea and a brisk walk through a hurricane? They are entirely different beasts.
Photographing dance is fundamentally an exercise in defying the laws of physics. It’s about freezing a fleeting micro second of kinetic energy, capturing a leap at the exact moment gravity seems to take a short tea break.
Now, while once again provided stage lighting that was rich, dramatic, and intensely atmospheric, it was also the sort of lighting that makes a camera sensor weep quietly in the dark. In order to catch every flying kick and high speed spin without turning the kids into blurry streaks of colour, I had to dial my camera settings up to levels that would make the chief technicians at NASA tilt their heads in quiet awe.
When the dust settled and the high ISO noise cleared, I was genuinely thrilled with the results. It is a rare privilege to document so many remarkably agile, dexterous, and endlessly energetic teenagers doing what they love (even if it does occasionally interrupt my tea time).
So, that was July: sweat, missed meals, and sheer theatrical triumph.
Now then... what on earth is August planning to throw at me?
