Prints have always been a big part of my life. When I was a boy, my dad was a very keen photographer, often spending the weekend in his makeshift darkroom at home. The pungent smell of fixer was something that I got used to at a young age.
There were always prints on the walls and albums of photographs on the bookshelves, a combination of family pictures and my dad’s art (he painted too), evoking childhood memories every time I walked down the stairs or sat in the living room.
In the late 1980s, I became a photographer. Making prints became the most important thing to me. They were the way that I made sense of the world. I’ve never painted, so photography was my medium. The prints I made often reflected how I felt at the time - sometimes they were very dark, sometimes lighter. They were a physical gift of self-expression. The act of taking a photograph became just the first step in making a print.
Prints were how I made my living too. Books of prints. Wall prints. When clients paid me to shoot something for them, they expected to see prints.
When I moved over to digital capture in 2005, I still printed everything. The medium of capture had changed but the importance of producing prints hadn't. To me, digital files are just pixels in suspended animation. They become photographs only when they appear on a sheet of photographic paper.
Alas, a lot of people only view prints with importance when something significant happens in their lives. Sadly, it's often the death of a loved one.
When dad died, I was blessed with having a rich archive of his life through the many prints and books that mum had kept. I consider myself to be lucky as so many children don't have access to the memories of their parents.
Over her lifetime, my wife's grandmother took many thousands of pictures. Every family occasion, every day trip, she would always take photographs. They were so important to her that they were mentioned in her will and passed onto her children. She had many boxes and books of prints. They were a record of her life from working with the French Resistance during WWII, to when she died in her mid 80's.
Without her prints, would family and friends even realise what she had experienced throughout her life? Unfortunately, hard-drives of images are lost each year, or remain inaccessible to those without passcodes. It's very sad to think of future generations missing out on a huge part of their family's history.
As I've got older, printed photographs have become so precious to me. When looking through a box of photographs recently, I came across a print of my grandfather standing next to me with freshly-caught mackerel in our hands. I was a small boy, maybe seven years old, but the memories of that day came flooding back. I remember the taste of salt on my lips, the feel of oily mackerel in my hands, and the heady aroma of my grandfather's cigar. It remains a wonderful childhood memory. My grandfather died a long time ago, but part of him stays with me, triggered by a postcard-sized print.
In another box, there was a print of my parents out on a winter’s walk. My dad had a camera around his neck. I remember the cold air, the rustle of brown bracken beneath my feet, the click of the camera as dad took pictures. This memory was from 40 years ago.
There have been many favourite pictures in my lifetime. I've printed all of them. Today, I see them on the walls of our home every day. Perhaps my favourite is a photograph I took of my daughter playing on a beach in Lanzarote. It was a wonderful time for us as young parents. It's a holiday snap, but every day I see it, I have a smile on my face.
There were always prints on the walls and albums of photographs on the bookshelves, a combination of family pictures and my dad’s art (he painted too), evoking childhood memories every time I walked down the stairs or sat in the living room.
In the late 1980s, I became a photographer. Making prints became the most important thing to me. They were the way that I made sense of the world. I’ve never painted, so photography was my medium. The prints I made often reflected how I felt at the time - sometimes they were very dark, sometimes lighter. They were a physical gift of self-expression. The act of taking a photograph became just the first step in making a print.
Prints were how I made my living too. Books of prints. Wall prints. When clients paid me to shoot something for them, they expected to see prints.
When I moved over to digital capture in 2005, I still printed everything. The medium of capture had changed but the importance of producing prints hadn't. To me, digital files are just pixels in suspended animation. They become photographs only when they appear on a sheet of photographic paper.
Alas, a lot of people only view prints with importance when something significant happens in their lives. Sadly, it's often the death of a loved one.
When dad died, I was blessed with having a rich archive of his life through the many prints and books that mum had kept. I consider myself to be lucky as so many children don't have access to the memories of their parents.
Over her lifetime, my wife's grandmother took many thousands of pictures. Every family occasion, every day trip, she would always take photographs. They were so important to her that they were mentioned in her will and passed onto her children. She had many boxes and books of prints. They were a record of her life from working with the French Resistance during WWII, to when she died in her mid 80's.
Without her prints, would family and friends even realise what she had experienced throughout her life? Unfortunately, hard-drives of images are lost each year, or remain inaccessible to those without passcodes. It's very sad to think of future generations missing out on a huge part of their family's history.
As I've got older, printed photographs have become so precious to me. When looking through a box of photographs recently, I came across a print of my grandfather standing next to me with freshly-caught mackerel in our hands. I was a small boy, maybe seven years old, but the memories of that day came flooding back. I remember the taste of salt on my lips, the feel of oily mackerel in my hands, and the heady aroma of my grandfather's cigar. It remains a wonderful childhood memory. My grandfather died a long time ago, but part of him stays with me, triggered by a postcard-sized print.
In another box, there was a print of my parents out on a winter’s walk. My dad had a camera around his neck. I remember the cold air, the rustle of brown bracken beneath my feet, the click of the camera as dad took pictures. This memory was from 40 years ago.
There have been many favourite pictures in my lifetime. I've printed all of them. Today, I see them on the walls of our home every day. Perhaps my favourite is a photograph I took of my daughter playing on a beach in Lanzarote. It was a wonderful time for us as young parents. It's a holiday snap, but every day I see it, I have a smile on my face.
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