I was born in Cornwall and have never left it behind. The moorland fog, the granite cliffs – these aren’t subjects I seek out so much as places I return to, again and again, compulsively. Photography, for me, is less a practice than a reason to be out in it – alone, late, in weather most people turn away from.
I work in black and white because colour, I find, flatters. Strip it away and what remains is closer to how it actually feels: stark, vast, indifferent. The horses standing in mist, the starlings turning over the fields, the lonesome trees and the old stacks on the high moor – I’m not documenting them so much as trying to get at something underneath them.
There is a melancholy to this landscape that I find beautiful rather than bleak. The light failing over the sea. A murmuration dissolving into dusk. A pony alone on the moor. These are not sad images, but they hold something – a tenderness toward things that are fleeting, exposed. Still here.
I want the person looking at my work to feel the cold and the wildness. And to feel, underneath that, something they might not have expected: a kind of grace.