A Splendidly Still Evening in Looe: Landscapes, Litigious Gulls, and Geopolitical Blunders

After several weeks of pointing my camera lens at a succession of startled human beings and deeply suspicious pets, I felt a familiar, urgent ache. It is a peculiar craving known chiefly to those who indulge in landscape photography: the deep-seated, borderline pathological need to stand utterly motionless for hours on end, staring at a view where, in all honesty, absolutely nothing is happening.

It is a state of existential suspension that fans of Plymouth Argyle Football Club will recognize instantly.

Escaping the Elements in Southeast Cornwall

Having confessed this photographic itch to Sarah the night before, we hatched a plan. We required a destination we could both enjoy, crucially, one that did not involve a lung busting trek up a vertical cliffside, culminating in a windswept hypothermia endurance test.

We settled on the thoroughly delightful coastal town of Looe, Cornwall.

Looe is, under normal circumstances, famously picturesque. Lately, however, it has achieved a fresh layer of notoriety as one of the primary Beyond Paradise filming locations. For reasons that defy rational human intellect, the television show’s producers saw fit to declare that this quintessentially Cornish town is actually located in Devon. This is a geographical insult so profound to the local populace that it’s a minor miracle the show’s weekly murder count isn’t significantly higher.

The Fish and Chip Audit

Fortunately, the human locals we encountered were entirely peaceful. The wildlife, however, was another matter.

As we sat down to enjoy that mandatory coastal staple, fish and chips, we found ourselves heavily policed by a squad of local herring gulls. These were not mere birds; they were avian bailiffs. They loitered nearby with an air of intense grievance, clearly harbouring complex legal questions regarding the rightful ownership of our dinner.

Note to travellers: When eating outdoors in Looe, constant vigilance is not a recommendation, it is a survival strategy.

Down the River or Across? The Photographer’s Dilemma

With the last of the chips successfully defended and devoured, and the immediate threat to my life downgraded, it was time to dust off the tripod and get down to business.

Nature, sensing my patience, kindly obliged. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, a truly spectacular cloud formation rolled in, painting the Cornish sky in brilliant, dramatic hues. It was the exact shot I had been hoping for.

Now, however, I am left with the traditional, agonizing dilemma of the amateur photographer. I have two distinct perspectives from the evening, and I cannot quite decide which is the stronger composition:

• Option 1: Looking directly down the atmospheric Looe River.

• Option 2: Looking straight across the water to capture the stacked houses of the town.

East Looe River taken at Sunset

Looe Cornwall taken at Sunset

The Currency of Joy: A Plymouth Pet Portrait Adventure

It is an established medical fact, or at least, a deeply held personal conviction, that I suffer from a localized neurological affliction known as an itchy shutter finger. (Please, do not Google that. The internet has a way of turning a whimsical phrase into a terrifying rare tropical disease.)

It is a condition that inflicts a profound restlessness upon the soul if a week passes without a camera lens being pointed at something.

Lately, this affliction has been fed a veritable buffet. My lens has been aimed at an eccentric spectrum of the universe: from tiny, dramatic thespians to towering basketball giants, and from graceful ballerinas to the glorious, unbridled chaos of working spaniels. I have loved every single frame.

In fact, the sheer velocity of the shutter action has resulted in a significant backlog. The blame for this digital traffic jam lies entirely with my own compulsion to waffle. I feel an unnatural urge to write a small essay about every encounter, a defect that costs me more hours than I care to admit to my accountant.

This slow, artisanal approach stands in direct defiance of the modern internet. My social media feeds are permanently clogged with terrifyingly energetic young things shouting from beaches, urging me to "post daily!" while weaponizing complex "algorithmic strategies" to maximize my "organic reach."

The Art of the Deal (With a Dog)

Reach or no reach, I am utterly delighted to share a recent adventure from my Plymouth photography studio featuring what might mathematically be the most joyous canine in Devon.

Meet Daisy.

A happy portrait of a dog taken in a professional Plymouth Studio

Daisy arrived for her pet portrait session and immediately undertook the obligatory grand inspection. In the world of studio dog photography, this involves a thorough, high velocity nose vacuuming of the floorboards to sniff out the historical news of every creature that had preceded her.

Once the administrative sniffing was concluded, we got down to business.

For Daisy, "business" exists in a very specific economic framework. Posing for a professional dog photographer is not done for the love of the arts; it comes at a strict, transactional cost. The currency of the realm was the Treat.

Daisy would quite literally perform a complex, rhythmic tap-dance on the spot at the mere prospect of a meaty titbit. It turns out that maintaining an endless supply of high-value liver cake is catastrophic for one's waistline, but it is an absolute miracle worker for creating a happy, expressive photoshoot. (Sounds all too familia!)

The results were spectacular. I captured the perfect portraits, the studio survived the whirlwind, and Daisy left entirely satisfied with her earnings.

Shooting Cast Headshots: A Tale of Tiny Thespians, Reluctant Flashguns, and Creative Survival

I have been thoroughly, unapologetically spoiled of late. Thanks to my recent residency at Trident Studio in Plymouth, I have grown accustomed to an embarrassment of riches in the lighting department. There is enough high end equipment packed within those walls to give the Blackpool Illuminations a serious run for their money. It is a photographer's paradise.

So, when the wonderful Laura casually asked if I could step out of my illuminated sanctuary to shoot location headshots for the cast of her upcoming theatre productions, I should have known better.

The Art of the Creative Hustle (and Falling for It Every Time)

Laura possesses a spectacular, almost supernatural ability to describe what can only be called a whirlwind of tiny, energetic thespians as "a total breeze." She is, without question, a phenomenal acting coach. I know this because her performance works on me every single time.

Armed with nothing but my own modest personal flashguns, I arrived on set.

To achieve that crisp, pure white background beloved by casting directors, I had recently invested in the largest softbox humanly imaginable. Behind our pint sized performers, it looked magnificent. However, filling a structure the size of a minor planet with light meant my poor little strobes had to work harder than they ever had in their lives.

Professional Actor Headshot taken against a white background using Studio lighting.

When Gear Rebels: Finding Creativity in the Misfires

Over 600 images later, my flashguns were quite literally feeling the heat. When you demand that level of heavy workload from portable gear, mutiny is inevitable. Every so often, there would be a distinct misfire, or, more accurately, a flat out refusal by the equipment to continue working under such a tyrannical boss.

Now, a sensible person might have panicked. But if my time in photography has taught me anything, it's that you must never miss an opportunity to call a happy accident "creative genius."

Professional Actor Headshot taken against a black background using Studio lighting.

Using the unexpected drop in light, I leaned into the shadows to create a dramatic, artistic black and white headshot.

Over to You: High Key White or Classic Monochrome?

Monochrome isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, of course. It’s a bit old school, a bit moody, but against all odds, I rather liked the results.

What say you? Do you prefer the crisp, modern look of a classic theatre headshot, or does the accidental drama of the black and white version steal the show?

Are you looking for professional headshots in Plymouth or Devon? Whether you need corporate portraits or cast headshots for drama schools, let’s chat about how we can create something memorable (and hopefully keep my flashguns from melting).

The Fine Art of Herding Furry Tornadoes: A Masterclass in Studio Chaos

According to the dictionary, chaos is defined as a state of total confusion, utter disorder, or a complete lack of organization. It is a word used by scientists to describe the universe, and by parents to describe a toddler's bedroom.

However, I am convinced the lexicographers at Oxford had a different muse entirely when they penned that definition: a photoshoot at Trident Studio, Plymouth featuring two specific English Springer Spaniels named Inka and Lottie.

To say these two have energy is to say the sun is a bit warm. They possessed the kind of vibrating, molecular restlessness usually reserved for a five year old child who has been systematically stuffed full of fizzy pop and Smarties. It was a whirlwind of a dog photography session and frankly, I loved every chaotic second of it.

The Grand Inquisitors of the Studio Floor

The moment both Springers crossed the threshold, they did not politely look for the camera. Instead, they immediately undertook a highly urgent, deeply spiritual mission to sniff every single square inch of available floor space.

The Scene: Heads down, bums triumphantly up, and tails wagging with such furious velocity they threatened to alter the local weather patterns.

It was a furry tornado whipping into every corner of the room. Once the perimeter was thoroughly inspected and deemed safe from imaginary intruders, it was time to get down to business. Or at least, our version of it.

Tag Team Wrestling (With Added Fur)

Coaxing Inka and Lottie into position was less like traditional pet photography and something more akin to refereeing a high stakes tag team wrestling match. They took turns on the studio floor, trading places with the chaotic energy of Olympic sprinters.

Thankfully, the match was masterfully refereed by their owners, who utilized a combination of patience, treats, and what I assume was mild sorcery.

In the end, it was the fleeting, beautiful little moments of calm that we captured. Amidst the whirlwind, the camera caught those soulful, bright eyes and magnificent ears in perfect stillness. And let me be completely honest, I was absolutely delighted with the results.

Looking for Pet Photography in Plymouth?

If you have a furry whirlwind of your own and want to capture their unique personality (chaos and all!), get in touch with MJC-Photography. We specialize in turning high energy into timeless portraits.

Shooting Hoops (and Photos) at Plymouth’s Historic Custom House

Shooting Hoops (and Photos) at Plymouth’s Historic Custom House

We really are extraordinarily blessed down here in sunny Plymouth. The city practically begs to be photographed, offering up an embarrassment of riches when it comes to stunning backdrops. So, when Basketball England booked me as their commercial photographer to document their annual awards, I was absolutely delighted.

The venue for the evening was none other than The Custom House on the Barbican. For those who haven’t had the pleasure of standing in its shadow, The Custom House is an imposing, Grade II listed, granite fronted masterpiece. It was erected in the early 19th century as a unapologetic statement of Plymouth’s burgeoning wealth as the region’s premier merchant port. It is a spectacular building, though on this particular evening, its most crucial architectural feature was simpler: it was quite possibly the only venue in Devon with a ceiling high enough to comfortably accommodate a room full of basketball players.

Capturing the Big Moments (and the Tall Guests)

The night itself was a glorious celebration of everything that makes sport wonderful. Our host, Nick, had travelled the entire length of the country to personally oversee the festivities and ensure that the local heroes who do so much for their community received their well deserved dues.

Setting up for event photography of this scale requires a bit of tactical planning. I staked out my territory in a corner of the long room, unfurled the backdrop, and made sure to deploy my absolute tallest light stand. When your subjects routinely tower over the average door frame, standard equipment simply won’t do.

The Goal: Blend the candid energy of a live sports awards ceremony with the polished, high end look of a professional studio photoshoot.

From the formal trophy presentations to those fleeting, candid little moments of laughter and pride between teammates, it was a joy to capture. All in all, it was a night the Plymouth basketball community can be thoroughly proud of and I was just delighted to play my part in making it look picture perfect.

Braving the Elements: A Rugged Dartmoor Fitness Photoshoot (And One Very Tired Photographer)

Imagine my delight when a gentleman named Gavin reached out to book a commercial photoshoot for his upcoming outdoor fitness business. He had spotted my work in Tavistock’s historic Pannier Market and decided that my lens was the perfect fit for his venture. Given that his business revolves around rugged, outdoor training on the dramatic landscapes of Dartmoor, it felt like a match made in heaven. Or, at the very least, a match made in Devon.

In my mind’s eye, I immediately conjured a glorious tableau: a group of effortlessly enthusiastic fitness types, the sort of chiselled, impossibly beautiful people who seem to populate social media with annoying frequency, bounding joyfully across the heather. We tossed ideas back and forth and settled on a date to meet at Tavy Cleave.

If you have never visited Tavy Cleave, I can highly recommend it. It offers the absolute finest of Dartmoor concentrated into one spectacular spot:

• Rugged granite tors

• Sweeping, cinematic vistas

• Lung busting hills

• A dramatic valley complete with a rushing river and a waterfall

It is, in short, a Devon paradise.

When Dartmoor Ignores the Met Office

"Rugged" was the specific look we were aiming for. Somehow, the temperamental weather gods of the West Country decided that rugged actually meant downright brutal.

Lulled into a entirely false sense of optimism by a cheerful Met Office forecast, we agreed to meet early to capture as many images as possible before any storm clouds gathered. Delightful in theory. However, if there is one thing I have learned as a Dartmoor photographer, it is that Dartmoor does not read, nor does it respect, weather forecasts.

As we climbed our first Tor, the sky shifted from a mild, brooding grey to a state of absolute, dark anger. Yet, we persevered. With the first set of fitness portraits safely on the camera sensor despite the lowering cloud, we descended into the valley toward the waterfall and wild swimming area.

Note to readers: Dartmoor water in the cooler months is not what one would call "inviting." It is closer to liquid ice.

Gavin, however, is clearly constructed from sterner stuff than ordinary mortals. Before I could even mutter the word hypothermia, he had stripped down to his swimming trunks and dived headlong into the icy depths. I watched on, convinced I was working with Superman.

Fitness vs. Photography: The Great Contrast

After a brisk jog back to his van, it was time for Gavin to endure several more forms of torture in the name of physical fitness. Fortunately for everyone concerned, this next segment did not involve me exerting myself any further than lifting my camera and adjusting my shutter speed.

Photoshoot complete, our local fitness hero packed away an alarming number of heavy weights and assorted equipment without looking like he had broken so much as a single sweat. Meanwhile, a red faced, slightly rotund photographer trudged back to his own car, feeling very much like a broken man.

It was a brilliant day of Devon commercial photography, capturing the raw, authentic grit of outdoor training. When Gavin officially launches his new Dartmoor fitness venture, I highly recommend checking it out, though you might find me at the back of the class, catching my breath.

Planning a Brand Launch in Devon?

Whether you need rugged fitness photography on the moors or professional commercial imagery in Tavistock or Plymouth, I’d love to help bring your business vision to life (and I promise to bring plenty of enthusiasm, even if the weather brings the drama).

[Get in touch with MJC-photography today to discuss your project.]

The Physics of the Flash (Or, Why Your Phone Isn't Enough)

Most people think light is just... there. It’s what keeps you from walking into the furniture. But for a professional dance photographer, light is more like a sculptor’s chisel.

If you use the kind of flat, bright light you find in a supermarket or a particularly aggressive dentist’s office, the dancer disappears. They become two-dimensional, like a cardboard cutout. To capture the true art of movement, you need shadows. Shadows are what tell the viewer’s brain that the dancer has muscles, depth, and hasn't just been flattened by a falling piano.

Key Factors in Dance Portrait Lighting:

1. Directional Drama: Notice the way light falls across a face in a professional portrait. We call this "sculpting with light." By angling the light—much like the way a sunset makes even a compost heap look majestic—we highlight the grace and strength of the dancer.

2. The "Freeze" Factor: Dancers move fast. Faster than a rumor in a small village. To capture a ballet mid-air jump without it looking like a smudge of beige, you need high-speed lighting. This isn't just a flash; it’s a tiny, controlled explosion of precision.

3. Atmospheric Sepia and Mood: Sometimes, the best light isn't the brightest. A sepia-toned dance photograph evokes a sense of history and timelessness. It says, "This moment didn't just happen; it mattered."

Why MJC-Photography?

Whether it’s theatrical stage lighting or a controlled studio dance session, the goal is to make the soul of the performance visible. You can have the most talented dancer in the world, but if the lighting is wrong, you're just taking a picture of someone who looks like they’re having a very energetic argument with gravity.

In the world of creative dance photography, we don't just "take" pictures. We wait for the light to agree with the movement. It’s a bit like magic, only with more tripods and fewer frogs.

If you’re looking for high-quality dance portfolios or performance photography in Plymouth, remember: the light matters. Without it, you’re just standing in the dark. And while that’s great for hiding from creditors, it’s terrible for your Instagram.

Book your session today at MJC-Photography.com where we make sure the light always catches your best side.

The Art of the Pirouette (and Other Things I Don’t Understand)

Yesterday, a rather peculiar thing happened in Plymouth: the sun came out. In this corner of the world, such a meteorological anomaly usually triggers a mass migration of the local populace toward the nearest beer garden, where they sit in a state of pink shouldered delirium, clutching pints of cider and wondering what that big yellow ball in the sky is.

I, however, had managed to convince the immensely patient Tania and her remarkably talented daughter, Lucy, to forego the siren call of a liquid lunch. Instead, we spent the afternoon tucked away in my studio, a place that remained stubbornly, almost heroically, immune to the outside warmth.

Now, Lucy is a regular star of the LS DRAMA Workshops and a veteran of the theatrical stage. I’ve had the pleasure of capturing her actor’s headshots before (which, I suspect, are currently making her Spotlight profile look far more professional than anything I ever did at that age). But this particular session was a different beast entirely: we were here to capture the fluid, gravity defying world of dance.

I should confess right now that this shoot was a triumph of collaboration, mostly because I am a man of a certain vintage in possession of two left feet and a complete lack of any rhythmic sensibility. My personal vocabulary of ballet is, to put it mildly, non-existent.

The afternoon largely consisted of me issuing a series of painfully inept, wildly metaphorical instructions, which Lucy then had to translate into something graceful. She handled my bumbling directions with the kind of weary, noble tolerance usually reserved for a Spanish waiter trying to explain a menu to a British tourist who refuses to speak anything but very loud, slow English.

Despite my linguistic failings, the results were, if I may say so, rather splendid. Through a combination of clever lighting, some frantic camera adjustments, and Lucy’s sheer athletic prowess, we managed to capture a gallery of images that I am immensely proud of. It turns out that when you pair a talented dancer with a photographer who is mostly just relieved no one tripped over a power cable, magic happens.

I’m already looking forward to the next time a group of talented performers graces my studio. Though, next time, I might try to learn what a plié is beforehand.

Ready to capture your own moment of grace (or just a really good headshot)?

Whether you’re a dancer, a budding thespian, or just someone who needs a photo that doesn't look like a CCTV still, I’d love to help. Head over to my Studio Portraits page to schedule your session, or drop me a line at mjcplymouth@gmail.com to chat about your next project!

Full-length studio shot of a female dancer balanced on one toe in a classic ballet pose. She is looking upward with arms outstretched, while her sheer maroon skirt billows dramatically around her. The lighting is bright and high-key, emphasizing the silhouette and the fluid motion of the fabric.

Capturing the Charm of Jude: A South West Family Portrait Session

It is an established maxim of the human experience that one can have too much of a good thing. Quite who "they" are, that dour, faceless committee of fun deniers I cannot say. But I am reasonably certain they never had the pleasure of meeting young Jude during his recent baby photoshoot.

Jude is currently eight months into his earthly residency and possesses the sort of effortless, devastating charm that suggests he is destined to leave a trail of broken hearts from here to the Cotswolds. While we are on the subject of biological unfairness, we must discuss his hair. It is a mane of such implausible, swishing voluptuousness that I found myself gripped by a sudden envy; some fellows are simply dealt a better hand by the follicular gods.

Behind the Scenes at My South West Photography Studio

Being the offspring of the South West’s most accomplished drama coach, I naturally assumed that photographing a baby as charismatic as Jude would be child’s play. I placed our pint-sized star beneath a softbox of such cavernous dimensions it could have doubled as an aircraft hangar and prepared for the magic.

As a professional portrait photographer, I’ve seen it all, but Jude dialled the cuteness up to a level that would have rendered a hardened Victorian schoolmaster misty-eyed. My shutter clicked, the flashes popped, and for a moment, I thought I had mastered the art of the infant portrait.

The Challenge of Family Photography

However, pride goeth before a fall. Having secured a "bag" of winning solo shots, I decided to raise the stakes by introducing Mum into the frame. This, it turned out, was my Waterloo.

It appears that a happy, beaming eight month old is far more interested in the familiar, radiant face of his mother than in some sweating chap pointing a heavy glass and metal contraption at his nose. To capture that perfect mother and baby smile required a level of physical exertion I hadn't prepared for. I found myself scooting across the studio floor with the frantic grace of a startled crab, desperately seeking an angle to preserve these fleeting moments of domestic bliss.

If capturing such joy is indeed a "good thing," then I must respectfully disagree with the faceless overlords: I don’t think I could ever possibly have enough of it.

Ready to Capture Your Family’s Story?

Those "fleeting moments" pass by in the blink of an eye, especially those implausible hairstyles and gummy smiles. Whether you are looking for a relaxed baby photoshoot or a natural family portrait session in the South West, I would love to help you tell your story (even if it involves me scurrying across the floor like a crab to get the shot).

A curious toddler with blue eyes and blonde hair wears a white long sleeve shirt and a tan sherpa vest, posing on their stomach against a neutral studio background.

The Indignity of Editing and the Joy of Staying Dry

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There is something inherently noble about the landscape photographer, standing knee-deep in a freezing bog at four in the morning, waiting for a sunrise that, nine times out of ten, is obscured by a sky the colour of dirty dishwater. I have spent a significant portion of my life in such pursuits. However, since opening my new residency at Trident Studio, I have discovered a profound, almost unseemly sense of smugness that comes from being indoors.

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While the British weather outside has been performing its best impression of the Old Testament, mostly "The Great Flood" portion, I have been safely ensconced in the warm, dry embrace of the studio. It is a revelation. Over the last few weeks, my shutter button has been pressed with the sort of frantic frequency usually reserved for a teenager in a particularly juicy group chat.

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Portrait Photography: Making Stars and Facing Backlogs

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The primary cause of this mechanical exhaustion has been a delightful parade of talented young actors. We’ve been crafting the kind of professional headshots that I hope will soon be staring down from billboards or at least convincing a casting director that this person is precisely what their next period drama is missing.

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I’ve taken to muttering the phrase "MJC, Photographer to the Stars!" under my breath. It has a certain melodic quality to it, don’t you think?

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The downside of all this "stardom," of course, is the editing. I am currently staring down a backlog of post-processing that would make a Hollywood production office weep with exhaustion. Every hour spent in the glow of the studio lights results in several more spent in the much less glamorous glow of a computer monitor, meticulously adjusting the stray hairs of future Oscar winners.

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The Art of Motion: Dancing with Erica Mulkern

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Despite the looming mountain of digital files, I couldn't resist a "busman's holiday" this past Friday. Long before this business venture began, I had booked a session with the breathtakingly talented Erica Mulkern.

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Photographing dancers is a precarious business, mostly because one tends to become so mesmerized by the sheer, improbable elegance of the human form in motion that one forgets to actually, you know, take the picture. It is a genuine occupational hazard.

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Interestingly, despite the leaps and bounds, my inner portrait artist seems to have taken the wheel. My personal favourite from the session is a stark, black-and-white headshot. It captures a quiet intensity that all the movement in the world can’t quite replicate.

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Ready for Your Close-Up?

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But enough of this. The editing suite calls, and it is a jealous mistress.

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If you are looking for high-quality acting headshots or creative portrait photography that might just catch the eye of the next big casting director, and if you’d like to personally contribute to my mounting workload, I’d love to hear from you.

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You can reach out right here or visit me over at mjc-photography.com. I promise to stay indoors for the duration of our session.

A close up, black and white portrait of a woman looking directly at the camera with a serene expression. She is wearing a dark, sequined dress and elegant drop earrings. Her hand is delicately raised to her neck, showing two rings on her fingers. The lighting is dramatic, with soft shadows and light patterns across her face and neck.

A professional studio portrait of dancer Erica Mulkern seated on the floor, wearing a delicate blue ballet costume with puffed sleeves. Her ballet pointe shoes are positioned prominently in the foreground, showing signs of wear, while she looks toward the camera with a focused expression.

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Dog Photography at Radford Park | MJC Photography Plymouth

One of the more pressing reasons I have recently taken up a residency at Trident Studios is the simple, blissful reliability of a roof. It turns out that having a sturdy layer of industrial grade material between oneself and the heavens is a marvellous invention.

Mother Nature, it seems, took our collective grumbling about last summer’s hosepipe bans quite personally. In a fit of celestial overcompensation, she has spent the last few months ensuring we have enough precipitation to see us through to the next decade, and perhaps a small portion of the one after that.

Having been the grateful recipient of a gift voucher, available, I should shamelessly add, from our stall in the Tavistock Pannier Market (a chap has to eat, after all) I finally found a window of meteorological cooperation. It was a rare and fleeting opportunity to capture some photographs that didn’t involve me looking like a saturated North Sea fisherman in heavy duty Gore-Tex.

I decamped to Radford Park, a place of terrific, if slightly damp, variety. It boasts everything a photographer could desire: charmingly tumbledown stone buildings, an abundance of flora and fauna, and even a miniature castle that looks as though it were misplaced by a passing medieval giant.

In my mind’s eye, that dangerous place where logic rarely ventures,I envisioned elegant portraits of Luna set against vast, sweeping panoramic vistas. The reality, however, was somewhat more kinetic. Luna, evidently impressed by the terrain, decided the best way to appreciate the park was to traverse every square inch of it at breakneck speed.

It is a scene that has become distressingly familiar to the locals: a middle-aged man, increasingly red of face, prostrate in the mud with a camera clutched in his hand, emitting a series of desperate barks and whistles. All of this in the vain hope of arresting the subject’s attention for the fraction of a second required for a "formal" pose.

It is a specialized form of madness, I grant you. But oh, the elation when that frantic, muddy chaos aligns for one fleeting moment and becomes, quite simply, "The Shot."

If you have a four-legged friend who similarly treats the laws of physics as mere suggestions, I would love to meet them. Whether they prefer a dignified stroll or, like Luna, a series of frantic, mid-air acrobatics, we can capture a moment that actually lasts longer than a whistle.

Luna attempting to achieve low earth orbit in pursuit of a tennis ball at Radford Park

Landscape Photography at Looe Island: A Sunrise Guide for the Sleep Deprived

There is something about @thephotographyshow that compels a man to rummage through the hall closet, blow a thick layer of prehistoric dust off his gear, and remember exactly why he owns a tripod in the first place. It was four days of unadulterated, wide-eyed geekery, the sort of event where people discuss sensor cleaned-ness with the intensity of theologians. I spent my time listening to the formidable Rebecca Douglas and Josh Edgoose, and clumsily wrapping my oversized paws around pieces of kit so expensive they practically glowed. If my credit card possessed a voice, I suspect it would have spent the weekend screaming in a high, thin register before eventually seeking asylum in the wallet of someone far more sensible.

In my defence, the urge to go out and photograph a landscape has been difficult to satisfy lately, mostly because Mother Nature has spent the last month suggesting quite pointedly that we all stop what we’re doing and learn how to build arks. We have endured what feels like forty days and forty nights of rain, delivered with a persistence that can only be described as "biblical."

Consequently, when the sun was finally granted a day pass to appear in public, I knew I had to act. I consulted my "shot list" a document brimming with optimism and doomed intentions, and settled on Looe Island. Now, Looe Island is one of those places that requires a celestial alignment usually reserved for the return of Halley’s Comet; you need the right light, the right tide, and a specific lack of atmospheric grumpiness. For once, the universe blinked and agreed to cooperate. The tide had curiously decided to show me mercy, and the sunrise promised to be nothing short of spectacular.

All that remained was the small, localized tragedy of setting an alarm for 4:30 am.

To look at my portfolio, you might reasonably conclude that I am a man who views sleep as a redundant hobby. I can assure you this is not the case. My duvet is a formidable opponent, capable of pinning me down with the strength of a professional wrestler. It was only the looming, mountainous spectre of my impending credit card bill that finally goaded me out of bed.

And so, here I find myself: standing on a small, damp, rocky beach in the predawn gloom, waiting for the sun to do something worth recording. I am pinning my hopes on capturing an image so undeniably "saleable" that my bank manager might be persuaded to put down the telephone and leave me in peace.

A long-exposure sunrise over Looe Island in Cornwall, featuring a vibrant pink and orange sky reflecting onto dark, wet coastal rocks. The seawater is blurred into a soft, ethereal mist as it flows around the foreground rocks, with the silhouette of St George's Island on the horizon.

Professional Studio Headshots: Why Lighting is Your Secret Weapon.

The Laboratory of Light

Stepping into my studio is a bit like entering a high tech laboratory where the primary experiment is you. Out in the real world, the sun is a fickle beast, it’s either hiding behind a cloud, leaving you with the complexion of an unbaked biscuit, or it’s blinding you until you squint like a subterranean mole.

In the studio, however, light is my loyal servant. Through an arrangement of "softboxes" and "reflectors" terms that sound like they belong in a NASA briefing, I can sculpt a jawline where previously there was only a vague suggestion of one. Whether you need the crisp, authoritative "Power Gray" of a corporate executive or the moody, cinematic shadows required for a professional acting headshot, I have the dials to make it happen.

The Young Actor’s Dilemma

I have a particular soft spot for the young actors who come through my doors. For them, a headshot isn't just a profile picture; it’s a golden ticket. Casting directors spend approximately three seconds looking at a thumbnail before deciding if you’re the next "Brooding Lead" or "Quirky Best Friend."

The challenge for a young performer is looking like themselves, but on their absolute best day. Left to their own devices, many drama students arrive with a look of intense, Shakespearean tragedy or a grin so wide it looks painful.

At MJC-Photography, we work on the "Active Face." We find that middle ground where you aren't just staring at a glass lens, but rather looking through it at your next big role. It’s about capturing a spark of character that says, "I can carry this scene," without looking like you’re trying too hard to be a "Serious Artist."

Engineering the "Natural" Look

The great irony of my job is that looking "relaxed" is actually a feat of minor structural engineering.

Whether you’re a 19 year old Thespian or a 50 year old CFO, humans tend to retract their necks like startled tortoises the moment a camera appears. My role is to guide you through the "MJC-Photography choreography":

• The "Squinch": A micro adjustment of the eyes that translates to "I am incredibly competent" rather than "I have lost my contact lenses."

• The Lean: A physical posture that feels like you’re falling over but looks like pure, unadulterated confidence on a screen.

• The Chin Drop: Essential for avoiding the "looking up your own nose" angle.

Why It Matters (The SEO Soul of the Business)

In the vast, churning sea of the internet, your face is your favicon. An MJC-Photography studio headshot is a piece of high performance marketing equipment. It tells the world that you are a person of substance, someone who understands that details matter, and, most importantly, someone who doesn't have a bridesmaid’s shoulder permanently attached to their ear from a cropped wedding photo.

So, if your current headshot looks like it was captured by a doorbell camera during a power outage, come see me. I promise it’s much less painful than a rehearsal for The Crucible.

Professional headshot of a blonde woman in a brown top posing against a black studio background.

Why I Stopped Chasing Dopamine and Earned my LSINWP Instead: My Brush with Professional Sanity

I have a confession to make, and I suspect I am not alone in this particular modern malady. I am, quite hopelessly, a slave to the six inch glowing rectangle in my pocket.

It begins innocently enough, a quick check of the weather, perhaps and before I can blink, three hours of my life have evaporated into the digital ether. I sit there, transfixed, thumbing through a caloric intake of "likes" and the occasional "share," which provides just enough of a dopamine hit to keep me spiraling down the virtual rabbit hole. It is a strange, sedentary sort of demise.

In a desperate bid to reclaim my dignity, I decided to subject my work to a "panel of experts." Now, in my mind, the Society of Photographers, specifically the Society of International Nature and Wildlife Photographers (SINWP) does not consist of people who use emojis. I pictured them as a group of battle-hardened veterans kept in a windowless room, released only when some poor, unsuspecting soul (me) asks for a professional qualification assessment.

The Fridge-Door Ambition

With the kind of unbridled, goofy optimism my dog displays at the mere sound of a refrigerator door creaking open, I gathered twenty of my favorite images. I submitted them with a heart full of hope, metaphorically sitting on my haunches and waiting for a crumb of praise to fall from the judges' table.

I quickly realized, however, that these judges were not handing out treats for simply "being a good boy." They clearly hailed from the Cesar Millan school of photography training. I was not going to get a belly rub; I was going to get a dose of "tough love" that would make a drill sergeant blush.

From Retriever to Retriever (of Details)

The over enthusiastic Golden Retriever in my soul had to be sternly told to "sit." In its place, I had to summon the spirit of a focused German Shepherd. I spent weeks sniffing out every technical flaw, inspecting every pixel for "noise," and obsessing over composition with a level of intensity usually reserved for finding a lost tennis ball in high grass.

It was, I should admit, a grueling process of refinement. But I am delighted and more than a little relieved, to report that the "hard work" command finally paid off.

I am now officially reporting for duty as a proud recipient of a Licentiate of Photography (LSINWP). It turns out that while a "like" button is fleeting, the satisfaction of a professional qualification is, much like a well chewed bone, something you can really sink your teeth into.

The Art of Not Fidgeting: Why Your Child’s Headshot is Their Most Important Script (and How We Survive the Session)

If there is one thing more unpredictable than the British weather, it is a ten year old in front of a studio light. One moment you have a mini Laurence Olivier, brooding with Shakespearean intensity; the next, they’ve discovered their own ear and are fascinated by its structural integrity.

In the competitive world of casting, a young actor’s headshot is their calling card. It’s the first thing an agent sees and crucially, the last thing they remember. But getting that "perfect" shot isn't about forced smiles or stiff collars. It’s about capturing that elusive, sparky thing called personality.

I recently had a two young performers in the studio, and it reminded me that the best shots happen in the quiet gaps between "poses." It’s the moment they laugh at a bad joke (I have many) or look thoughtfully at a lens like it’s a portal to another world.

Why Professional Studio Headshots Matter:

• Agent Standards: Casting directors look for "Spotlight ready" images, clean backgrounds and natural lighting.

• Authenticity: A pro headshot looks like the child on their best day, not a filtered version of someone else.

• Confidence: There is a remarkable shift in a young person’s posture when they see a truly great, professional image of themselves.

Whether they are aiming for the West End or a local commercial, a great headshot is the first step on the ladder. My knees may creak when I drop down to their eye level, but the results are always worth the joint pain. So, if your child’s current headshot looks more like a school photo and less like a 'leading lead,' come see me. I’ll bring the bad jokes and the studio lights; you just bring the personality.

Smeaton’s Tower Sunrise: A Six-Year Wait for a Glimpse of Plymouth Gold

If there were ever a civic referendum to determine the undisputed heavyweight champion of Plymouth icons, Smeaton’s Tower would win by a landslide, probably while looking remarkably dignified in its red-and-white stripes. It is a structure so stubbornly charismatic that even the Beatles, a group not exactly known for being wallflowers, once posed nearby, though they kept a respectful distance, presumably sensing that the lighthouse might effortlessly outshine them.

It is, quite simply, a magnet for anyone with a camera and a spare afternoon. I am, I should confess, no exception to this rule. However, upon auditing my own photographic archives, I was hit by the mildly horrifying realization that it has been a full six years since I last dragged myself out of bed to capture her at sunrise.

In an attempt to rectify this appalling lapse in judgment, I have spent the better part of the winter peering through rain-streaked windows, waiting for a break in the relentless Devon deluge. And then came Tuesday, the 17th of February. It was a day that really ought to be registered with some minor government department, for between the hours of 6:00 AM and lunchtime, we were treated to a phenomenon known in more tropical climes as "actual sunshine." It didn’t linger, of course, this is England, after all, but while it lasted, it was nothing short of a miracle.

I spent the pre-dawn hours in a state of terminal giddiness. I was up, dressed, and vibrating with anticipation long before the first smudge of light appeared on the horizon. There is a specific, quiet magic to watching the world stir. No matter how many creaks my joints develop, at the current rate of decay, my knees should be expecting a congratulatory telegram from the King any day now, I still possess the wide-eyed thrill of a child who has managed to sneak downstairs early on Christmas morning.

To see the sun finally make a guest appearance after weeks of grey misery was better, frankly, than finding Santa’s muddy boot prints on the hearth. It was a glorious, fleeting reminder that the world is, occasionally, a very fine place to look at.

The Amateur Ark-Builder’s Guide to Wembury Beach (Before the Rain Returns)

If you happen to inhabit this particular fold of the English landscape, a region so relentlessly lumpy it’s a wonder the sheep don’t all have one leg shorter than the others, it will not have escaped your attention that the weather of late has been, to put it mildly, biblical.

In fact, I am reasonably certain that since the turn of the year, the most frequently consulted entry on the internet has not been "how to lose ten pounds" or "easy sourdough," but rather "construction techniques for the amateur ark-builder." I have taken the role to heart, sprouting a beard of such patriarchal proportions that I’m often mistaken for a lost member of a Victorian climbing expedition. Mrs. C, while steadfastly vetoing my requests to adopt the robe-and-sandals look in public, has at least shown a surprising, if slightly alarming, openness to the idea of filling the spare room with two of every living creature.

So imagine our delight when, roughly halfway through another afternoon spent staring morosely at the rain as it sluiced down the windowpane in great, rhythmic sheets, a genuine miracle occurred.

The clouds, seemingly having grown bored of drowning us, shook hands and went their separate ways. In their wake, they left a sky of such startling, improbable blue that it felt almost like a provocation. In the centre of it all sat a fiery orb of such intense brightness that I vaguely recalled seeing something similar on an episode of Teletubbies back in the early 2000’s.

This was not an opportunity to be squandered on household chores or finishing the Ark (which joined the long, dusty ranks of my other abandoned DIY projects). I swapped my theoretical sandals for actual boots, lunged for my camera bag, and bolted for the door.

Given that the British climate treats a sunny interval with the same fleeting commitment a toddler gives to a broccoli floret, a dash to Dartmoor felt recklessly optimistic. Instead, we zipped along in our small car through a countryside that was less "rolling hills" and more "saturated sponge," bound for the nearest patch of coastline at Wembury. I have, it must be said, photographed Wembury Beach approximately four thousand times, but one does not turn one's nose up at actual, verifiable sunshine. After all, in this part of the world, there is every chance we won’t see it again until the next millennium.

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A Night at the Theatre (And Other Minor Miracles)

I recently found myself, camera bag in tow and feeling slightly more precarious than usual navigating the corridors of the Quad Theatre at Marjon University. The occasion was the end of year showcase for LS Drama Workshops and The Linda Mortimore and Charlotte Smith School of Dance, and I must say, it was a thoroughly restorative experience.

There is something profoundly humbling about watching young performers. While I often struggle to navigate a supermarket aisle without bruising an elbow, these individuals managed to leap, pirouette, and deliver complex lines with a level of grace and confidence that, quite frankly, borders on the suspicious.

It was an evening of immense talent and infectious energy. From the first curtain up to the final bow, the stage was a whirlwind of activity that reminded me that, despite the general muddle of the world, there is a great deal of excellence being nurtured right here in Plymouth. My hat is off to the students and the tireless teachers who made it all look far easier than it has any right to be.

For those looking to witness this talent firsthand (or perhaps enroll a child who possesses more coordination than I do), do look up the marvelous work being done by LS Drama and the LMSD School of Dance.

"A group of young performers from LS Drama Workshops demonstrating a level of focus and enthusiasm that I usually reserve exclusively for the arrival of a Sunday roast. They are, quite impressively, the 'Little Stars with Big Imaginations' promised on the tin."

"Members of the Linda Mortimore and Charlotte Smith School of Dance mid flight. I spent most of the sequence worried about gravity, but they seemed to have reached a very polite, very graceful understanding with it."

The Physics of Twixtmas: Chocolate Tins, Photography, and a Trip to Tavistock

The period between Christmas and New Year is a chronological anomaly that really ought to be scrutinized by the finest minds in astrophysics. It is a strange, gelatinous void where the laws of physics seem to have taken a collective leave of absence. Time loses all structural integrity; the sun rises and sets, certainly, but for all the sense it makes, every day might as well be a Wednesday in 1974.

In my household, the only reliable way to gauge the passing of the hours is by the steady depletion of the Chocolate tin. You know the stage: that melancholy moment when the shiny, desirable prisms of cocoa and hazelnut have vanished, leaving behind only those sadistic little cubes of coconut ice that no one, not even under the duress of a global famine, would ever voluntarily choose to consume.

It was while I was rummaging through a mountain of discarded, crinkly wrappers, a desperate, archaeological dig for a solitary forgotten truffle, that I realized someone had beaten me to it. Faced with the crushing blow of a chocolate-less existence, I decided to turn my thoughts to the future.

Now, I am not talking about the usual New Year’s resolution to ease the existential burden currently being felt by my long-suffering trouser buttons. No, I am referring to my "Shot List."

Each December, with a level of optimism that can only be described as delusional, I compile a list of photographic locations I intend to capture over the coming year, complete with preferred months and specific lighting conditions. Looking back at my 2025 efforts, I find I’ve managed to achieve roughly a quarter of my goals. It is a truly pathetic showing, and one that my Line Manager, more commonly known as "The Wife" will almost certainly bring up during our impending End of Year Appraisal.

Desperate to avoid being placed on a Personal Development Plan, or. God forbid, a diet, I found myself rushing out on Boxing Day to claw back some shred of dignity. I have been promising a definitive photograph of Tavistock at Christmas for two years now. My hope is that by delivering this last minute "winner," my dearly beloved might overlook my general sloth and allow me to keep my current trouser stretching status quo for another season.

The Quiet Canine and the Muddy Photographer

I have, regrettably, had dealings with Pugs before. My previous encounters call them professional skirmishes, if you like had led me to a simple, unshakeable conclusion: the Pug, as a breed, is essentially a fleshy, perambulating loudspeaker, forever dialled up to eleven. Much like my own Dachshund, that short legged tyrant who seems to view silence as a personal affront, they invariably have a great deal to say and an almost pathological desire to express it at maximum decibel levels, repeatedly, until your eardrums surrender.

Quinn, however, was a curious, almost unsettling anomaly. He was; to use a phrase I never expected to apply to a small dog, akin to a Buddhist monk who had taken a particularly solemn vow of Noble Silence. It was as if his owner had located the master Mute button on the dog's operating system, pressed it with surgical precision, and then, just to be safe, gone and hidden the remote under a rather large rock. The quiet was disconcerting.

The job, as it so often does, required me to become a creature of the night. Or at least, the very early morning. We had to meet before the sensible, day shift dogs were out, because Quinn, for all his Zen, apparently turned into a bit of a lad in the presence of his peers. He lost his mind, you see. It was like hiring a very quiet accountant and finding out he moonlights as a drummer for a heavy metal band.

Arriving on location, some popular, grassy receptacle for dog-walkers, we had certainly beaten the rush, though to say we were "alone" would be stretching the truth until it snapped like an old rubber band. The K9 loving population, as I have observed countless times, are a committed, indeed fanatical, bunch who apparently operate under the deeply concerning motto: Sleep is for the Weak.

Now, when you spend a sufficient amount of time snapping pictures of our four-legged friends, you soon find that the process involves a series of ritualistic humiliations. It becomes depressingly normal to find yourself lying prostrate in something vaguely resembling mud, whilst making all manner of grotesque, high pitched noises, a sort of bizarre, middle aged mating call, all in the earnest pursuit of "getting the shot."

So it was, that in the middle of this perfectly routine spectacle, I experienced something of a first class shock. A kind-hearted soul, mistaking my utterly deliberate photographic manoeuvre for a catastrophic physical failure, rushed over with an expression of profound alarm. They were desperately trying to help this middle aged fool; (me) back onto his feet, convinced I had somehow taken a tumble and was perhaps moments away from needing serious medical intervention. My clients, naturally, enjoyed a delightful bit of unexpected spectator sport.

Having been suitably reassured that I was indeed physically fine, though almost certainly mentally unstable, a condition I managed to omit from the diagnosis, my Samaritan retreated to a safer, more sensible distance. Through this whole, embarrassing debacle, Quinn, the little Buddha himself, remained an utter professional, maintaining a sort of inner Zen that would have made the Dalai Lama weep with pride.

So, here is a helpful public service announcement for all you early risers: the next time you spot a gent of advancing years lying face down in a suspiciously damp patch of grass, do have a good look for an expensive looking camera nearby. If you spot one, there is a very good chance that he did it on purpose and that he is merely sacrificing his dignity to the cruel gods of light and aperture. Do not, I implore you, try to save him. It’s a job requirement. They really don't pay us enough!

Quinn the pug