Author’s Note
This essay began as a private reflection, written without an
audience in mind. Revisiting it years later, I realised it traced something
larger than photography alone: how learning to observe the world shaped the way
I now approach storytelling. I have lightly edited the piece for clarity and
flow, but the voice and events remain as they were lived.
My Camera and Me
The plan was to write an essay that, somewhere along the way, might
be of interest to anyone with nothing better to do than read the story of how I
became interested in photography — and how that interest developed into a
passion.
I do not profess to be motivated by any deep or meaningful quest to
understand photography as an art form or its relationship with man’s
subconscious urge for world domination. I just like taking photographs. Simple.
Even now, when I capture a particularly good image, I still get a knot of
excitement in my stomach.
I have enjoyed teaching myself how to take a half-decent photograph
and how to get the best from my equipment. I was fortunate to be part of the
transition from film into the digital age. I once tried to explain to a
teenager how photographs were taken using film that had to be processed and
printed. It took some doing. He looked at me in complete bewilderment.
“When did it all begin?” I hear you cry. Well, maybe not — but I’ll
tell you anyway.
My first memory of anything photography-related is seeing a piece of
string stretched across a wall in my parents’ bedroom, with lengths of cine
film hanging from it while they dried. I was nine or ten at the time. My late
father was keen on photography and sparked my interest. I would sit with him
for hours editing and splicing film as we wound it through his editing machine,
staring at each frame as it passed through the tiny viewing screen. He took his
cine camera everywhere we went as a family, and we often had film nights at
home. One of my most prized possessions is still his cine camera, which I
believe my grandmother bought for him.
Around the age of ten, my junior school arranged a trip to London.
Off I went, camera in hand, to the big city — and I loved it. We visited the
Tower of London, Madame Tussauds, Buckingham Palace, and I think we even saw a
show at the Palladium. I also managed to bump into George Best in the lift at
our hotel — an exciting moment for any ten-year-old.
To keep us engaged, our teacher organised a photo competition. Well,
guess what? I won.
My winning photograph was of the changing of the guard marching down the Mall. To get a better angle, I ran out in front of the band, grabbed the shot, and was promptly escorted back to the pavement by a policeman. Even then, I was looking for something different. The prize was a book called The Story of Sail. A boring book — but one I still treasure.
It nearly didn’t happen. During a visit to Kew Gardens, I lost my
camera and had no time to go back for it. I was devastated. Not only had I lost
my photographs, but also the camera my parents had bought especially for the
trip. Once home, I wrote to Kew Gardens asking if, by some miracle, it had been
handed in. It had — and they returned it just in time for me to have the
photographs printed and entered into the competition. Did I mention I won?
Over the next few years, I dabbled — photographing local scenes,
sketching in pen and ink, and earning an O-level in art. I remember cycling to
Llangwm on the banks of the Cleddau Estuary, camping for weekends, and
sketching boats along the river.
College followed, then work — first in catering, then at a local
building society. On my twenty-first birthday, following family tradition, my
grandmother gave me £100. I knew exactly what I wanted: a camera. I bought a
Chinon CE-4 35mm SLR, and with it my passion was reignited.
I soon turned a spare bedroom into a darkroom, spending hours
learning to print black-and-white images and mastering the art of burning and
dodging. Whenever I had spare cash, I added to my kit: lenses, Cokin filters, a
300mm mirror lens, and zooms for portraits. I photographed everything, read
magazines and books, and learned relentlessly. I was utterly absorbed.
I produced a series of montaged images of popular parts of Tenby,
using cut-out magazine overlays, and exhibited them in the town’s Tourist
Information Centre with the support of local councillor Roy Morgan. The work
sometimes mocked tourists and received mixed reactions, but it gave me
exposure.
During a camping weekend in Bala, I found myself at a championship
white-water canoeing competition. I got close to the action and still remember
the thrill of capturing canoeists battling through the rapids.
After photographing a fashion show at the Imperial Hotel in Tenby, I
was approached by the husband of one of the models and asked if I would
consider taking private photographs. I politely declined.
By then I was shooting mainly on 35mm transparencies, favouring
Fujichrome for its punchy colours over the softer Kodachrome. My passion
continued to grow, and before long I was asked to photograph a friend’s
wedding. Exciting — and terrifying. I agreed.
I explained that I wanted more than formal line-ups; I wanted to
tell the story of the day through candid moments, details, expressions, and
unusual angles. That approach became my style, and as I photographed more
weddings, I found the interaction with couples deeply rewarding. Being
entrusted with such an important day was always an honour.
Looking back, it’s hard to believe how weddings were photographed
then. Using 35mm film, I would shoot just two or three rolls on each camera.
There was no preview — just shoot and hope. Afterwards, I would invite the
couple over for drinks and reveal around fifty prints laid out beneath a sheet.
Primitive by today’s standards, but it worked — and I stayed busy.
Busy enough to reinvest. I bought a magnificent Mamiya 645
medium-format camera — a beast of superb quality. Using 120 film produced
larger negatives and sharper prints. Some of the slides I shot with it were
among the best work I’ve ever done. Sadly, they are all lost.
At the same time, I had embarked on a career in estate agency and
eventually faced a choice: photography or security. I chose the safe option. I
wound down the wedding business and sold the Mamiya — a genuinely sad day.
Photography became personal again, free from client pressure.
My eldest son later developed an interest in photography, though in
a more abstract style. He had an enviable ability to visualise finished images.
When he began studying photography at college, digital cameras were emerging. I
bought him a Canon autofocus camera — autofocus! A revelation.
Not to be left behind, I bought a Kodak digital compact. Images were
now stored on memory cards, edited on computers, and manipulated in ways that
once seemed impossible. Photoshop opened entirely new doors.
Years later, I was asked to photograph another wedding — this time
digitally. The experience reignited my professional interest, and soon I was
shooting regularly again, building a website, and offering online proofs and
ordering. It all felt seamless and modern.
Photography taught me how to observe. Writing simply gave me another way to hold on to what I saw.
There were memorable moments: secret weddings, difficult clients, topless
brides and many joyous celebrations. And one poignant experience — a couple who
separated before their album was delivered. Their photographs were beautiful,
but understandably unusable for promotion.
I had never loved studio work, believing natural light to be more
honest. That belief was challenged when I photographed a sixth-form prom using
borrowed lights and backdrops. It was chaotic, educational, and exhausting.
When students bypassed my ordering system, I learned a hard lesson and walked
away from that contract.
Studio lighting intrigued me nonetheless. I set up temporary studios
in Saundersfoot village hall and later the De Valance Pavilion in Tenby.
Families, children, and pets came through the door, and the sessions were a
success. With weddings increasing and studios thriving, I should perhaps have
gone full-time. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
Then life intervened.
In 2015, my wife of thirty-two years died after a very short
illness. Our two sons were in their early twenties. A few months earlier, my
father — who had first put a camera in my hands — had also passed away.
My wife was an accomplished photographer herself. We once entered
the same competition; she came first, I came second. After every shoot, I would
hand her my cameras. She would make the first edit — culling thousands of
images down to a workable set. I never questioned her judgement.
Shortly after her death, I photographed a pre-booked wedding. When I
came home, I instinctively reached to hand her the cameras. She wasn’t there. I
have never photographed a wedding since.
I was lucky enough to remarry and have enjoyed a wonderful life,
though serious photography took a back seat for a time. Phones improved,
iPhones gained legitimacy, drones altered perspectives, and photography
continued to evolve.
These days I often travel with just my phone, leaving bulky
equipment at home. Last year I sold my remaining kit and bought a compact
mirrorless camera — perfect for how I now work.
We are entering another chapter with the rise of AI. Controversial,
perhaps, but undeniably exciting. It has rekindled my creativity in unexpected
ways.
Now, when I walk with my wife — at home or abroad — I am always
observing. Looking for light, angles, moments. And from that observation comes
something familiar: that same knot in my stomach, the sense that I have found
something worth capturing. Sometimes with a camera. Sometimes, now, with words.
David Baxter
The photographs included here are not intended as illustrations of specific moments in the text. They are pauses — visual reflections that echo the way photography taught me to observe, long before I tried to write stories.
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