Self-portraits in landscape photography

Land­scape as a mir­ror of the photographer

I remem­ber many, many years ago my wife ask­ing, ​’Why are all your pic­tures so dark?’ I just replied, ​‘Because I like them that way’ It was true that the sub­jects and most def­i­nite­ly the edit­ing tend­ed towards the som­bre, the dark and dra­mat­ic. I didn’t real­ly reflect on that too much at the time, but, of late, I have been con­tem­plat­ing the evo­lu­tion of my pho­tog­ra­phy. Today, what I pho­to­graph is pret­ty much the same, but the way in which I approach it, from in the field to the final print, is quite dif­fer­ent. There is a clear evo­lu­tion. My images are no longer dark, and they are more cel­e­bra­to­ry of the land­scape and what is with­in it. In the main, they are lighter, not just in bright­ness but in character.

Let’s go back to those dark images my wife com­ment­ed on. If I am hon­est and open with you, those days were dark­er for me. I have always tend­ed towards the glass-half-emp­ty end of the scale. Back then, it was three-quar­ters emp­ty! I could sum up that the way in which I pho­tographed and pre­sent­ed my images reflect­ed me then. I was not con­scious­ly express­ing myself, yet expres­sion was present all the same. Over time, I have come to believe some­thing sim­ple but sig­nif­i­cant: pho­tog­ra­phy is not just about what you pho­to­graph, but about how you see — and who you are when you see it.

What do we mean by self-por­trai­ture in land­scape photography?

When I speak of self-por­trai­ture, I do not mean plac­ing our­selves phys­i­cal­ly in the frame. We each bring a unique and per­son­al per­spec­tive to the act of pho­tog­ra­phy: a mélange of mem­o­ries, val­ues, expe­ri­ences, doubts, desires, and fears. When we step into a land­scape with our cam­era in hand, we are not just react­ing to what is out there, but uncon­scious­ly seek­ing res­o­nance with what is with­in our­selves. A cer­tain tree catch­es our atten­tion, not mere­ly because of its shape, but because it embod­ies some­thing we recog­nise: resilience, soli­tude, grace, defi­ance. A veil of mist stirs more than aes­thet­ic appre­ci­a­tion; it evokes ambi­gu­i­ty, mys­tery, loss or per­haps peace, still­ness, and calm.

In this sense, land­scape pho­tog­ra­phy becomes less about what we see and more about how we see it and what we are drawn to reveals some­thing essen­tial. As pho­tog­ra­phers, we are not pas­sive recorders of the land­scape. We are inter­preters, dis­tillers, and trans­la­tors of our own expe­ri­ence. The image becomes a con­nec­tion between the out­er and inner world, a self-por­trait made in the lan­guage of rock, tree, water, and light.

A spi­ral of devel­op­ment: influ­ence, intu­ition and expression

The jour­ney from see­ing to express­ing is rarely lin­ear. I have found it help­ful to think of pho­to­graph­ic devel­op­ment as a spi­ral that moves through three phas­es: influ­ence, intu­ition, and expres­sion. We cir­cle through them, some­times advanc­ing, some­times retreat­ing, yet grad­u­al­ly deep­en­ing our understanding.

Influ­ence

Influ­ence is where we all begin. We are drawn to the work of oth­ers; pho­tog­ra­phers we admire, styles we want to emu­late, com­po­si­tions we try to copy. This phase is essen­tial; it feeds our enthu­si­asm and helps us build the tech­ni­cal foun­da­tion for image-making. 

How­ev­er, too often, pho­tog­ra­phers can become trapped there. They col­lect images like post­cards, repli­cate scenes already seen, and uncon­scious­ly adopt some­one else’s vision and style as their own. With­out self-enquiry, influ­ence becomes rep­e­ti­tion. Pho­tog­ra­phy becomes reac­tive rather than reflec­tive. The pur­suit of applause drowns out the qui­et voice of self-aware­ness. And so, the spi­ral of devel­op­ment stalls.

This is not to say that those ear­ly influ­ences are shal­low or mis­guid­ed. Quite the oppo­site. They often res­onate with us pre­cise­ly because they echo some part of our own inter­nal land­scape, even if we are not yet ful­ly con­scious of it. A begin­ner drawn to the qui­et min­i­mal­ism of Michael Ken­na or the lumi­nous seren­i­ty of Ansel Adams may be respond­ing to a yearn­ing with­in them­selves for still­ness or clar­i­ty. In this way, influ­ence can serve as a mir­ror, but it can­not be a destination.

Intu­ition

Intu­ition is the next turn in the spi­ral. It is the stage where we begin to feel our way into the land­scape. We start to recog­nise what draws us in a scene before we can artic­u­late why. We stop chas­ing loca­tions and start respond­ing to mood, atmos­phere, and form. Com­po­si­tion becomes instinc­tive. Edit­ing becomes a dia­logue, not a formula.

The images become less about exter­nal val­i­da­tion and more about inter­nal sat­is­fac­tion. In this phase, we begin to pho­to­graph not just what we see, but what we feel. We sense a direc­tion with­out ful­ly under­stand­ing it. The work becomes more per­son­al, though its mean­ing may still be unclear.

Expres­sion

Expres­sion is the final turn, where inten­tion and intu­ition align, and the pho­to­graph becomes a ves­sel for some­thing deeply per­son­al. Expres­sion doesn’t mean grandeur or nov­el­ty. It may man­i­fest itself in a sub­tle curve of light, an uncon­ven­tion­al crop, or a qui­et scene that oth­ers might over­look entirely. 

The cam­era, though mechan­i­cal, can func­tion as a mir­ror. It reflects not only the world in front of it, but the sen­si­bil­i­ty behind it. In this way, even tech­ni­cal deci­sions — lens choice, time of day, tonal range, depth of field, plane of focus — become expres­sive tools. A pref­er­ence for shad­ow or mist, chaos, or order isn’t ran­dom. It becomes auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal. What mat­ters is not what the image con­tains, but what it com­mu­ni­cates. Expres­sion is pho­tog­ra­phy with a voice.

Here, land­scape pho­tog­ra­phy becomes less about the land­scape and more about the pho­tog­ra­ph­er. The image is no longer sim­ply descrip­tive. It becomes auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal, even if the pho­tog­ra­ph­er nev­er intend­ed it to be so. Expres­sion requires a will­ing­ness to look inward as well as outward.

The Prac­ti­cal Reality

Whilst I present this as suc­ces­sive stages, it is, in fact, iter­a­tive. Some­times, when I do not feel con­nect­ed to the land­scape before me, I might revert to influ­ence or intu­ition. I find that being expres­sive is not some­thing that you can do all the time. I don’t believe that you can be orig­i­nal and cre­ative all the time. It is not pos­si­ble for any artist.

The Role of Self-Enquiry

What moves a pho­tog­ra­ph­er from influ­ence towards expres­sion is not sim­ply time or tech­nique. It is self-enquiry.

Self-enquiry is the will­ing­ness to ask your­self why you are drawn to a par­tic­u­lar scene; what are you respond­ing to? Is this say­ing some­thing about how I see the world, and how so? It could be just an innate appre­ci­a­tion of the beau­ty of nature, that is to say, joy or con­tent­ment. What do I want to say and to whom?

These are not ques­tions with quick answers. They may not even be ful­ly answer­able. But they ori­ent us toward depth. With­out them, we risk becom­ing deriv­a­tive, for­mu­la­ic, or mere­ly pro­duc­ing dec­o­ra­tive images. We sim­ply col­lect images. 

Yet, self-enquiry seems to be increas­ing­ly rare in pho­tog­ra­phy. Many pho­tog­ra­phers remain stuck in the influ­ence stage, not because they lack tal­ent or pas­sion, but because the wider envi­ron­ment rewards imi­ta­tion over intro­spec­tion. Speed and val­i­da­tion, likes, shares, and cam­era club praise have become the cur­ren­cy of pho­to­graph­ic suc­cess. Slow­ing down, ques­tion­ing one’s intent, risk­ing fail­ure or obscu­ri­ty; these are not encour­aged. But they are essen­tial if we are to pro­duce work that tru­ly express­es who we are. Pho­tog­ra­phers that nes­tle in the world of influ­ence take com­fort in con­sen­sus, a place of lit­tle risk and one that wel­comes you in.

Self-enquiry is what turns influ­ence into insight and intu­ition into expression.

Cul­ti­vat­ing Deep­er Engagement

For those at the begin­ning of their pho­to­graph­ic jour­ney, it’s easy to feel that you must first mas­ter gear or tech­nique before express­ing any­thing mean­ing­ful. But expres­sion doesn’t require mas­tery — it only requires hon­esty. The pho­tographs you’re drawn to, even if heav­i­ly influ­enced by oth­ers, already con­tain the seeds of your voice. The key is to stop and ask: Why this image? Why this feel­ing? These small acts of reflec­tion open the door to some­thing deeper.

So how can we cul­ti­vate this deep­er engagement?

One way of cre­at­ing space is to pho­to­graph with­out the intent to share. Not every­thing needs to be post­ed, sub­mit­ted, or judged. Give your­self space to explore and fail.

Writ­ing along­side your pho­tog­ra­phy can reveal pat­terns you might oth­er­wise miss. Jour­nal­ing about why an image speaks to you or why it doesn’t can open sur­pris­ing insights.

Return to famil­iar places. When nov­el­ty fades, deep­er lay­ers often emerge. Famil­iar­i­ty breeds nuance and is extreme­ly powerful.

Study your own work. Lay out twen­ty of your favourite images from the past few years. What do they have in com­mon? What do they say about you? What was your mood when you took the photograph?

Allow pho­tog­ra­phy to be an act of feel­ing, not just see­ing. Let your mood guide your choic­es: sub­ject, light, colour, tone.

Over time, these qui­et prac­tices build an inner compass.

Per­son­al Reflections

In my own work, I’ve been told that there is a cer­tain soft­ness, some­times even a hint of grief, that under­pins many of my images. I did not set out to cre­ate melan­cholic pho­tographs. But I have always found refuge in nature. It is a place of solace and reflec­tion. There­fore, it is under­stand­able that this emo­tion­al under­cur­rent is reflect­ed in the work. Equal­ly, my favourite sub­jects are moun­tains and wood­lands. Moun­tains are endur­ing and time­less, slow­ly adapt­ing or being formed by the forces of nature. They are resilient. Wood­lands are chaot­ic and messy, much like life, and my impulse is to derive some kind of order. 

In truth, we can­not hide from our­selves in our pho­tog­ra­phy. Soon­er or lat­er, who we are is revealed, whether we intend it or not. The cam­era does not just record what we point it at. It records how we are in the world.

To pur­sue land­scape pho­tog­ra­phy as a form of self-por­trai­ture is to embrace it as a prac­tice of becom­ing — not mere­ly cap­tur­ing what is, but dis­cov­er­ing who we are through what we choose to see and share. It asks that we go beyond the frame and encom­pass the fram­ing mind.

This does not require grand state­ments or obvi­ous sym­bol­ism. It asks only that we pay atten­tion. That we treat our images as ques­tions, not answers. That we allow the land to reflect not just the light, but some­thing of ourselves.

These incli­na­tions are not a strat­e­gy; They are sen­si­bil­i­ties. Soon­er or lat­er, who we are reveals itself in the work, whether con­scious­ly or not.

So, we begin to cre­ate some­thing that is not just tech­ni­cal­ly com­pe­tent or com­po­si­tion­al­ly pleas­ing but expres­sive, hon­est, and unmis­tak­ably ours. It reflects our style. I would cau­tion against see­ing it as a rigid or sin­gu­lar visu­al iden­ti­ty. True pho­to­graph­ic style is not a for­mu­la or fil­ter applied to every sub­ject; rather, it is a con­sis­tent sen­si­bil­i­ty that evolves. It may shift with the sea­sons, change with our cir­cum­stances, or deep­en as our inner life matures. 

The expres­sive pho­tog­ra­ph­er does not pur­sue same­ness but cohe­sion — per­son­al insight that man­i­fests dif­fer­ent­ly depend­ing on the moment.

Becom­ing Through Seeing

Ulti­mate­ly, to pur­sue land­scape pho­tog­ra­phy as a form of self-por­trai­ture is to accept it as a prac­tice of becom­ing. It asks that we look beyond the frame and con­sid­er the fram­ing mind. It asks that we treat our images as ques­tions rather than answers.

If we are atten­tive, hon­est, and will­ing to reflect, what we pro­duce over time are not mere­ly pho­tographs but traces of our own evo­lu­tion. The land­scape becomes wit­ness to how the world looks to us, and how it feels to inhab­it it.

In the end, pho­tog­ra­phy is less about the final image and more about the path we walk to reach it. If we are atten­tive, the land teach­es us not only how to see, but how we see our­selves — and in doing so, every land­scape becomes, in some qui­et way, a self-portrait.