There’s something mildly absurd about standing in a muddy field at sunset, holding a £3,000 camera, whispering at a stranger to “relax your shoulders and look natural”.
I often wonder what the passing dog walkers think I’m doing. They must assume I’ve lost my mind.
The truth is, they’re not entirely wrong. Being a portrait photographer in Surrey requires a touch of madness.
Every face tells a story, and every story wants to escape the confines of a polite smile. That’s where the chaos begins.
I’ve had clients burst out laughing mid-shot because I tripped over my own camera bag. I’ve had toddlers charge at me like small, sticky tornadoes.
Once, a family dog stole my lens cap and refused to give it back until bribed with biscuits.
These things don’t make it into the glossy final portraits, of course, but they’re the reason the portraits work. Real moments are never neat. They’re messy, unpredictable, and gloriously human.
I think that’s what keeps me hooked. You can spend hours fiddling with lighting, testing angles, and adjusting settings, but the magic never lives in the technical stuff. It lives in the split second when someone forgets they’re being photographed.
That’s when the real person appears. The eyes soften. The shoulders drop. The mask slips.
And there it is: a glimpse of truth. It might sound sentimental, but it’s addictive.
Of course, there are days when nothing goes to plan.
I’ve had shoots where the weather laughed in my face. A perfectly scheduled outdoor portrait session turns into a battle with sideways rain.
I try to stay professional, but inside I’m yelling at the clouds. There’s something heroic, or maybe just foolish, about protecting your camera under your coat while your client’s hair develops a life of its own.
Yet somehow, those are often the shoots that produce the best images. There’s a certain beauty in surrendering to the elements.
People stop pretending when they’re cold and damp. Their smiles become defiant, their laughter more real. It’s Surrey, after all.
Rain is practically part of the brand.
Then there’s the awkwardness. Everyone is awkward in front of the camera, even the ones who claim they’re not.
They stand there, frozen, unsure what to do with their hands. I usually tell them to breathe and forget about the camera. It rarely works straight away.
So I talk. I tell them about the ridiculous things that happen during other shoots. Like the time a farmer’s sheep wandered into the background and refused to leave. Or when I accidentally knelt in something I shouldn’t have.
That usually gets a genuine laugh. Once they’re laughing, I’ve got them. The moment becomes real.
It’s strange, being a portrait photographer. You spend your life studying people, trying to capture something honest about them, yet you end up learning more about yourself.
I’ve discovered that I’m both patient and impatient, a perfectionist and a complete mess.
I chase light as if it’s something I can own. I’ve waited hours for the right golden glow to hit a face, only for it to disappear the second I press the shutter.
I’ve shouted at the sky more times than I care to admit.
Photography makes you humble. It teaches you that control is an illusion.
Some days, I question everything.
Why do I spend so much time editing tiny blemishes no one else will notice? Why do I crouch in weird positions to get the perfect composition? Why do I wake up before dawn just to chase fog through the Surrey Hills?
The answer is simple: I can’t help it. There’s something addictive about seeing a person come alive in front of the lens.
When I show them the final image and they say, “That’s me, but I actually like it,” it’s worth every sore knee and muddy shoe.
People often assume portrait photography is glamorous. They imagine sleek studios and stylish clients sipping coffee while I press a button.
The reality is slightly more chaotic. It’s tangled cables, misplaced memory cards, and last-minute reschedules.
It’s climbing a wobbly stool to adjust a light and realising too late that it’s not very stable.
It’s wiping raindrops off your lens with your sleeve because you forgot your cloth.
But that’s the beauty of it. The imperfection is the charm.
If I’m honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Every shoot is a small adventure, an unpredictable collaboration between me, my subject, and whatever mood the Surrey weather is in.
There’s a strange intimacy in photographing someone. You see them as they are, not as they think they should be.
And when you get it right, when the light hits just so and the expression is utterly unguarded, it feels like catching lightning in a jar.
So yes, I confess: on occasions, I’m a little unhinged.
I talk to my camera. I mutter to myself about aperture settings. I chase clouds like a man possessed.
But behind all that, there’s a deep love for what I do. Because portrait photography isn’t just about faces. It’s about connection, chaos, and the rare beauty of being real for a moment.
If you’d like to experience that kind of portrait session for yourself, get in touch.
I can’t promise your hair won’t blow in the wind or that a curious sheep won’t join in, but I can promise that we’ll create something honest, human, and uniquely you.
