As a photographer, it’s a weird concept to sit here and to try wax lyrical about a time when a shot didn’t go to plan or I didn’t get the images I’d envisioned. It seems alien to draw any attention to work you’re not particularly proud of, it goes against everything that’s ingrained in you. It’s a super competitive industry which is bursting at the seams with immensely talented photographers, meaning it is certainly easier to sink than it is to swim. If a rider is only as good as their last race then a photographer is only as good as their last photo.
Photography is subjective, everyone has a unique taste in the style of images they are drawn to, not least a photographer who has the first opinion and call on whether an image they have taken will say the light of day or not. You’ll usually know before you even sit down at the computer which images work and which don’t, so without batting an eyelid you’d ingest your memory card, sift through the bytes and select what you want, binning the rest never to be seen again. Naturally, you’ll only ever want to flaunt your best work.
Not today. I’m going to attempt to talk about the time I didn’t get what I set out for. Now before I start, the images are hardly garbage but I just couldn’t get rid of the haunting feeling that I’d left something a little more special behind in those mountains just outside of Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory. The rugged beauty had me scooping my jaw off the floor on a regular basis and to not do it justice would be criminal.
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