As a young distance runner, I worked with coaches who taught me something I’m still using: fitness is discipline applied to a particular goal. Not fitness for its own sake — fitness for something.

Today, that something is getting up peaks as high as 4,250 metres with a camera when I need to. Not winning races. Not maintaining a gym selfie. Getting up, making the work, getting down.

I know I can manage 21 km a day in the back country and handle peaks up to 3,000 metres. The difference between there and 4,250 metres — a 15% drop in available oxygen — puts me in the zone where altitude sickness becomes a real concern, aerobic capacity falls off, and acclimatisation time matters. That gap requires capacities I need to build.

Now, in mid-life, I have the self-awareness to know that more than a few ships have sailed — and that some were never even in the harbour. I have no interest in gym memberships or the high-intensity programmes that look like a never-ending dopamine rush. What I’ve built instead is a routine that is sustainable, flexible, and based on what I know works — supported by good research. I pared back the excess. I don’t need a yogi’s flexibility. I need my body to process oxygen efficiently.

I

Zone 2 is the heart of my routine.

It’s the highest exercise intensity at which blood lactate remains stable — around 1.5 to 2 mmol/L — and the point at which fat oxidation is maximised. Most athletes define it by heart rate: 60–70% of your maximum. For mountain walking, the lactate-based definition is more useful. If you don’t have a lactate meter or a coach, it’s the intensity where you can hold a conversation, but not effortlessly.

This measure is not fixed. The longer you train, the higher your lactate threshold rises relative to your age-dependent heart-rate zones. That’s the point.

Zone 2 matters because a long day in the mountains — especially loaded with camera gear — is almost entirely spent at this intensity. The better my mitochondrial function (the efficiency of the power stations inside my muscle cells), the more fat I burn, the slower my glycogen depletes, and the less fatigue I carry into the descent. Training here builds a bigger furnace.

Crucially, I can maintain this load without special diets or recovery protocols.

II

The current fashion is to go hard on strength training. And why not? You look terrific and can talk about reps and maximum lifts and other esoterica. The problem is one of balance.

Too much of one thing limits time for what actually matters: maintaining your aerobic base. Peterson et al. (2010), surveying the research on strength training in bodies over fifty, found that frequency and volume do not significantly predict strength gains — intensity does. Most studies focused on one to three sessions per week. I choose two.

Getting up a hill does not require enormous strength. Getting down one without injury does. Downhill, your muscles lengthen under tension — eccentric loading — which puts considerably more stress on your legs than the climb. The risk of injury is higher on the descent, which is also when you’re most tired.

Targeted eccentric training — Bulgarian split squats, Romanian deadlifts, slow step-downs, and the like — both builds muscle mass and lengthens the fibres, preparing them for the specific demands of descent.

III

VO₂ max — the ceiling of what my body can take in, deliver and use in terms of oxygen — matters even though hill walking never approaches it. The logic is straightforward: the higher the ceiling, the easier everything beneath it becomes.

A higher VO₂ max means a steep section at 3 mph sits at a smaller fraction of my total capacity: less lactate, slower glycogen depletion, faster recovery between pitches. At 4,250 metres, where effective VO₂ max drops roughly 1–2% per 100 metres of elevation above 1,500 m, that headroom is not a luxury. On a long day at altitude, it is the margin between working comfortably and working at the edge.

I don’t need an elite number. I need it high enough that the hills aren’t pushing me into Zone 3 for extended periods — a comfortable aerobic margin on steep ground and thin air.

I get there by swapping one weekly Zone 2 run for a Norwegian 4×4 session: four minutes at 90–95% of maximum heart rate, three minutes of active recovery at 70%. If I’m tired, or if no big walk is coming, I skip it and keep the steady work. The emphasis is on longevity and having the conditioning when it counts — not on grinding out sessions for their own sake.

I choose 4×4s because the research supports them as one of the more effective protocols for improving oxygen uptake. Alternatives exist — 15/15s (15 seconds hard, 15 seconds easy) work well too. You don’t need a smart watch for any of this. If you can speak after the first four minutes, you’re not going hard enough. Or find a hill.

My running coach had me doing something similar decades ago, before the research existed to explain it. He called them 400-metre splits. I ran a lot of them — until my legs failed or I puked up my lunch, whichever came first. The benefit of the recent science is that it tells you which methods work best and, crucially, how much is enough. My coach never seemed to have a limit in mind.

One warning: warm up properly before any interval work — a slow jog or ten minutes with a skipping rope. Cool down afterwards, stretch hips, quads and calves. I use a foam roller. Forty minutes to an hour covers the lot.

This sounds like a lot. It isn’t. The routine takes about four hours a week. Juno and I are not training to be elite athletes. We want to get up that peak and down safely — and make some good images along the way.

A necessary caveat: if you’re unfit or managing a pre-existing condition, talk to a specialist first, and find a good coach. Beyond a certain age, injuries don’t heal on your schedule. You end up on the bench for uncomfortably long stretches. What works for me may look nothing like what works for you.

But the principle holds: science lets you build a tailored plan that supports the life you actually want. The cost is modest. The alternative is hoping for the best, which — in the mountains — is not a strategy I’d recommend.

A Question for You

What would you need to be fit for?

— Johan du Preez

References

On Zone 2 Training

1. Assessment of Metabolic Flexibility via Lactate and Substrate Oxidation by San Millán, I. & Brooks, G.A.

2. Peter Attia Podcast — San-Millán explains his full six-zone model and Zone 2 physiology in detail.

3. High North Performance — good breakdown of San-Millán’s Zone 2 framework with references.

4. Much Ado About Zone 2 — a 2025 narrative review in Sports Medicine that critically examines the Zone 2 evidence base (a useful counterbalance).

5. Zone 2 Intensity variability study — cites the San-Millán & Brooks 2018 paper directly in a Zone 2 context.

6. Episode 201 – Deep dive back into Zone 2 | Iñigo San-Millán, Ph.D. (Pt. 2).

Appropriate Strength Training

1. Resistance Exercise for Muscular Strength in Older Adults by Peterson, M.D., Rhea, M.R. & Alvar, B.A. 2010.

2. Eccentric Exercise as Potential Intervention for Downhill Locomotion by Vogt, M. & Hoppeler, H. 2014.

Improving VO₂ Max

1. Aerobic high-intensity intervals improve VO₂max more than moderate training by Helgerud, J. et al. 2007.

There is a particular kind of terrain that preoccupies me: the edge zone. The place where a glacier has recently retreated, leaving behind raw moraine — gravel and silt and cold light. Ecologists call what follows primary succession. The land doesn’t restore itself. It becomes something else entirely.

I have been thinking about this as I think about quitting.

Western culture has built a theology around persistence. Grit. Staying the course. The billionaire’s memoir is always, at its core, a story of not stopping — though it rarely mentions what was sacrificed at the altar of the not-stopping, or who else bore the cost. The assumption embedded in this theology is worth examining: that the self who began a thing is the same self who must finish it. That identity is fixed. That what you valued at thirty will be what you value at forty-five.

The moraine disagrees. So do I.

Identity is not a static formation. It shifts with experience, with accumulating understanding of who we actually are — as opposed to who we once hoped we might be. The decision that was optimal five years ago may no longer be. This is not failure. It is information. The question is whether we are honest enough to acknowledge it.

Economists have a clean solution for this problem, as economists often do. Ignore sunk costs, they say. What you have already spent — in time, money, prestige, or the bruised years of your early forties — is gone regardless of what you decide now. What matters is the realistic expected value of continuing, measured against the realistic expected value of the alternatives. Every hour on one path is an hour not spent on another. Your past self is not a reliable advisor for your future self. He has too much at stake.

But I am not a calculating machine, and neither are you. We are creatures who feel the weight of what we have invested. The sunk cost is not just an accounting error; it is a grief. And grief is not easily ignored.

One way through is to resist the seduction of the exceptional outcome. In certain fields — art among them — no result is ever out of reach. There is always the next show, the next series, the residency that changes everything, the collector who finally sees it. This open-endedness is one of the things that makes creative work meaningful. It is also what makes it a particularly efficient trap.

The honest exercise is to consider not your best possible outcome, but your average one. The distribution of results across people doing what you are doing, working as hard as you are working. Averages are not destiny. But they are a corrective to the story we tell ourselves about our own exceptionalism — a story that keeps us at the table long after the odds have turned.

The signals are usually legible before we are ready to read them. I have learnt to pay attention to a particular cluster: time spent on work that funds the work I want to do, rather than on the work itself. Flagging enthusiasm that is not tiredness. Goals that have quietly shifted.

These are not reasons to panic. They are readings. Take them seriously.

When I have decided to leave something, I have come to believe in a particular discipline: decide quickly, move slowly. The decision, once made, should not be relitigated every morning. But the execution — particularly when others have woven their plans around yours — deserves care. Sometimes the situation doesn’t allow for that. Sometimes the exit has to be sudden. But where there is space for a coherent leaving, use it.

There is also the question of what follows. Quitting one thing does not automatically open into another. Skills are not perfectly transferable; the gap between what you were and what you are becoming is real, and sometimes expensive — a pay cut, a loss of standing, a period of feeling junior again in your own life. This friction is not trivial. It is one of the reasons people remain in unsatisfying work for longer than serves them.

One approach that helps: arrive somewhere before you leave. The bridge takes time to build — more than you’d like — but it narrows the gap between the self who is departing and the self who hasn’t quite taken shape yet.

This issue is, in part, a note about my own leaving.

For the past several years, street photography was my primary practice — five years in Rome, London, Lisbon, New York. I photographed strangers before I had learned not to be afraid of them. The streets taught me that. They were the bridge.

Earlier this year I wrote that I was shifting my practice toward something different: essays rooted in environmental and human narratives, exploring how people and places live with change and uncertainty. The work I am now making under Margins of Safety — landscapes of risk, restraint, and decision — is where that shift has led me.

My reasons were not strategic. They were a matter of values. What I wanted to say had outgrown the form I had been using to say it.

If that is not what you subscribed for, I understand the impulse to leave quickly and without ceremony. There are worse applications of this issue’s advice.

But if you stay: the core of this letter has not changed. I will still write about creative life and process. I will still share images. Only the terrain has changed.

What would you gain if you stopped?

— Johan

Mastery isn’t a certificate you frame above the sofa. It’s a lifestyle choice—commit to who you want to be, then set up your days to make that identity inevitable.

I’m not a master. But I *have* built a life that gives me the best odds of earning the skill, intuition, and (on a good day) a bit of flair.

I wake with the birds. Coffee. Reading until 7:30am. By then Juno—my faithful companion and part-time debt collector—has moved on from polite suggestions to physical lobbying for breakfast.

Afterwards we walk, or I run with her in the park.

Unlike many creatives, I don’t “think” on these outings. That’s our time. Also: I don’t fancy becoming a cautionary tale because I was pondering symbolism while sprinting at full tilt with a muscled fur-missile strapped to my waist. This hour is pure joy.

Then it’s back to work: developing negatives, maintaining my image database, and posting to social media. Twice a week, I slow things down even further—sequencing images, examining prints, planning logistics. Quiet work. The kind that looks like nothing, until it looks like a body of work.

Afternoons are for practice with the tools. I’ll test a new lighting set-up, refine a pose, and keep showing up in one of the two studios I use—one local, one in the City. I also treat writing as a tool: not decoration, but a way of thinking clearly on paper.

Late afternoon, Juno and I head to the dog park for the evening social. There’s something magical about a pack of dogs coming alive as the sun fades—whilst their handlers try not to get taken out at the knees. It’s community, but with more panting.

Evenings are for lighter inputs: the saved articles, podcasts, or videos that don’t require a fresh brain. Or I’ll head to a camera club social, or an exhibition opening—small reminders that other people are also out here trying to make something honest.

In between all of this—about a third of my time—I work. Sometimes work demands I change the schedule, as it did through Autumn and Winter 2025/26. Those digressions no longer faze me, because I know passion will bring me back to the thread I left hanging.

Oddly, periods of focus shift can be intensely stimulating for my creative life. It’s during these times that new ideas surface—despite being submerged in the arcane arts of maths, economics and decision science.

When I travel, though, my focus tightens: shooting and writing. And I know I need to get better at talking about those trips—because that’s the point. That’s the garden. I’ve guarded it for no good reason, like a dragon protecting a hoard of… perfectly normal rocks. Time to open the gate.

One or Two Quotes

I

“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”

— Annie Dillard

II

“I write when I’m inspired, and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.”

— Peter De Vries

In the Spotlight

Question to You

What small change can you make in your day for the one thing—painting, poetry, photography, anything—that lights you up?

I started this journey by taking my camera for a walk every Saturday (or Sunday) morning. Today, it’s my encore.

News from the Studio

If you’d like to see what this kind of life produces, have a look through the Archive on my website. And if you’re considering a print for your home, the Shop is the simplest way in.

Collector-friendly offer: reply with (1) a wall size and (2) the kind of room it is—hallway, study, living room—and I’ll suggest a few images and print sizes that will actually work in that space.

That’s a wrap. If you know anyone interested in photography, visual storytelling, or collecting finely crafted prints, please share this email. Or simply hit reply to say hello or share your thoughts.

Johan du Preez

Come seedtime we toil

clearing, planting, watering

seeds of passion & sustenance

In a ray of light

we watch them

sprout and bloom

Come harvest-time we tally

the fruits & costs

of pestilence & fallow lands

Wintertide is time for reflecting

on nature’s bounty & scorn

on man’s greed & fear

The wheel of time turns

a new season beckons...

Ideas for the Creative mind

I

Long before I make an image, there is logistics: timing, access, weather, the unglamorous mechanics of being in the right place at all. What I rarely arrive with is a shot list. Instead, I carry a loose map of places I want to explore and people I hope to meet. It is an outline, not a prescription. I leave space for things to reveal themselves.

II

When I move through a place—and spend time with its people—my eye is quietly sorting: shapes, lines, textures, tones, colours, character. At some point, these elements cohere in my occipital lobe. Recognising the beginning of something worthwhile is rarely analytical. It arrives as an instinctive, unmistakable yes.

That moment, however, is only the beginning. Once an image shows itself, the work becomes deliberate.

III

It took me a long time to understand that straightforward documentation of a landscape is, for me, the least interesting part of the creative act. What matters more is dismantling a scene and rebuilding it in a way that reflects how it was experienced, not merely how it appeared.

Over time, I learned to linger. To experiment. To stay long enough. This often takes the form of working through focal lengths and planes, introducing deliberate blur, filters, or an altered point of view. These are not stylistic flourishes; they are ways of translating attention into form.

In the Spotlight

Working through Iceland’s early spring—navigating snowstorms, whiteouts, and fog—I learned that landscape art is shaped as much by patience as by dramatic light. Like many, I was drawn to the so-called golden hour, believing beauty lived only at the edges of the day.

But the Icelandic landscape, unpredictable and often inaccessible, forced a recalibration. The shifting weather revealed something quieter and more durable: subtle colour, restrained composition, and a continuity of daylight that carried mood rather than spectacle. I began to see the sun’s arc as a painter’s brush, working steadily across the land.

Rather than chase perfect conditions, I learned to remain attentive. To observe. To stay long enough. Inspiration, I realised, is unruly, and meaningful work resists formula. My practice changed accordingly. Less became more, and each encounter with the landscape became an exercise in quiet adaptation and discovery.

If this way of working resonates, the Iceland images—and related series—are available to view in the archive and print catalogue on my website. These are pieces made to live with you, not to be glanced at and forgotten.

Johan du Preez

Photographer

Today, I’m shifting the lens. I am proud to introduce Studio Du Preez—a creative practice focused on what I call Essays of People and Place.

To me, an image is more than a record; it’s an interpretation of a world in transition. From the raw, pre-commercialised textures of the Mara in Black Cotton to the quiet, abstract solitude of Wintertide, this studio is a home for visual inquiries into the places that haunt and define us.

You can explore the new archive at studiodupreez.com. Thank you for being part of this journey.

Ideas for the Creative Mind

I have gradually broadened the list of cities I photograph, from London to Rome, Lisbon, New York, and now Singapore.

This is, by nature, a slow process. I only really begin to notice the interesting within the ordinary once I know a city’s streets.

London and Rome are not just large cities; they are vast. London is roughly twice the size of New York’s five boroughs, while Rome sits somewhere between the two. To truly know any of them would take a good chunk of my lifetime. By knowing, I mean developing an intuitive sense of a city’s ebb and flow, and what constitutes a respectful distance. A hint: in London it is farther than in either Rome or New York. Romans are almost always up for a chat—and, when stylishly dressed, often willing to pose—while New Yorkers are either in too much of a hurry or simply don’t care if I work in close proximity. Londoners, on the other hand, can get sniffy, even though the law does not favour claims to a “private space” in public.

I am currently sequencing the images I made on the streets of Singapore in 2025. Singapore was a doozy—but only because I used to live there and walked its streets camera in hand. From day one, both the streets and the people were generous. I walked away several kilos lighter—the upside of hours on foot in 31°C heat and mid‑eighties humidity—and with a thick stack of negatives.

I

I have been experimenting with alternative, entirely digital workflows for sequencing negatives. Unfortunately, these approaches slow me down. I find it harder to spot relationships both across a series and within a sequence.

Sometimes it’s best not to be clever.

II

My preferred method of sequencing images is delightfully analogue. After an initial cull that leaves only the negatives I am willing to show, I send this selection off to the printers. I always choose the cheapest printing method and paper—usually C‑type prints on standard Fuji stock—because quality is not the point. Nor is rendering. I print them correctly exposed, with flat contrast and minimal sharpening.

I start by sorting the stack chronologically by day, spreading each day’s shoot out on a large surface1.

I look for strong sequences—complementary images that build toward a natural end point. Practically, this means searching for an establishing image, one or more detail shots, a portrait, a few fillers that help set context and tone, and a closing image.

If a sequence is weak, I simply drop it on the floor. Juno knows what to do with those.

III

I find sequencing works best when some time has passed between making the images and working on them. This allows infatuation to give way to something more substantive.

After the initial sequencing of vignettes—liberally bookmarked with annotated index cards—I start again. This time I am guided by intuition: perhaps a pop of colour here, a reflection there, a hint of movement somewhere else. Photograph. Rinse. Repeat.

You read that correctly—I actually use my smartphone for something. These reference photographs make it easy to see where my mind goes each time I shuffle that giant deck of cards.

In the Spotlight

When I feel stuck, I pin the sequence on the wall above the editing table and write myself a small note: Sit with me.

Over the next few days, when I take a break from processing and writing, I return to look at that sequence. Eventually, I see it. In this week’s Spotlight, the central image—the anchor—was weak. It was cut and replaced with what had been the opening image. Look closely and you will see a rhythm of colour, context, and life building up and then winding down.

Once satisfied, I return to the computer and begin processing.

One or Two Quotes

I

“A photograph is usually looked at—seldom looked into.”

— Ansel Adams

II

“The meaning is not in the thing itself, but in the arrangement of things.”

— Georges Perec

(Bonus) Question

What are you doing with the thousands of photographs on your smartphone? A thoughtful edit of your 2025 images might make a meaningful gift for someone you love.

That’s a wrap. As the year slows and the days shorten, this might be a good moment to share this note with someone who enjoys photography, visual storytelling, or collecting finely crafted prints. Or hit reply and say hello—I’m usually nearby, editing or walking off another cup of coffee.

Johan du Preez

“Write what you know. That should leave you with a lot of free time.”

— Howard Nemerov

II

“You have to go too far to discover how far you can go.”

— T.S. Eliot

Ideas for the Creative Mind

I

At the start of the year I promised myself I’d step off of the content treadmill and focus more on substantive essays. This immediately raised an awkward question: *Where do the ideas actually come from?*

The old adage “write what you know” contains a lot of truth. Mining my obsessions offer a a rich vein as they are familiar terrain, but with plenty uncharted territory worth exploring. That led me to Margin of Safety, a project I have mentioned before.

II

Another source is lived experience—those unguarded moments that, if I’m attentive and not mentally ossified, can point to larger themes worth exploring. These ideas often stretch me in surprising ways.

Take a recent run of encounters in which people confidently decided I was female—apparently the consultation period is optional. After one particularly pointed episode—my wife of twenty-one years sitting right there, trying not to laugh—I briefly wondered whether the unconscious-bias training HR used to flog wasn’t entirely pointless after all.

Once I’d shrugged off that thought, I began sitting with something more interesting: how my identity is perceived since my job shifted to Freelance Functional Adult & Domestic Co-Pilot. Reality, how I see myself, and how others see me don’t always line up. And the subconscious plays its part too, shaping the internal narrative in ways no amount of conscious reasoning can quite explain.

III

Writing about these little snafus is mostly a matter of weaving the right moments together in way that does not put the reader to sleep. Writing about the science and philosophy of identity, however, is a more demanding undertaking.

My reading pile began to grow almost of its own accord:

1. A Simpler Life — The School of Life.

2. The Inner Citadel — Pierre Hadot.

3. The Conquest of Happiness — Bertrand Russell

4. Seven and a Half Lessons About the Brain — Lisa Feldman Barrett.

5. The Feeling of What Happens — Antonio Damasio.

6. Synaptic Self — Joseph LeDoux.

Not all of them proved useful—nor did they need to be. Sometimes a book simply opens a window, and that’s enough.

In the Spotlight

I passed this empty pavilion on Madison Avenue while hunting for lunch and, more importantly, a cup of coffee. It was completely empty save for the gorgeous midday light filtering through the reeded glass that screened patrons from the hustle and bustle of a city that never sleeps.

Given the extreme contrast, I used a spot meter to expose for the highlights, ensuring I retained detail while letting the shadows fall where they may.

To protect those shadows, I set the ISO to 200—the second base sensitivity for my camera. In aperture priority or, if you’re so inclined, programme mode, the camera would have bumped up the ISO significantly to push the tone curve to the right. That would have introduced unnecessary noise and destroyed the shadows. By selecting a base ISO—which varies by brand and by in-camera curve—I kept the shadows clean so I could work my magic when I processed the negative.

That’s a wrap. If you know anyone interested in photography, visual storytelling, or collecting finely crafted prints, please share this email. Or simply hit reply to say hello or share your thoughts.

Johan du Preez

I

When I first committed to my creative practice, I knew only that I wanted to make images. The rest was uncertainty.

Community1, a good library2, and adult education helped me find my footing. Returning to class after decades—first online, then in person—was humbling but rewarding.

Finding the right peers took longer, but persistence paid off. When I finally met my people, the connection was instant. Few understand the joy of debating the perfect backpack for a photo trip; most just smile politely and move on.

II

Like most independents, I wear many hats—from writer to accountant. The trick has been building solid systems and outsourcing what I can. The hardest lesson: fail fast, adjust, move on3.

III

Discipline keeps my work steady; purpose gives it direction. Most mornings I rise at 5:30—sometimes prompted by Juno—and spend an hour reading, writing, or refining my web site before we walk. That rhythm grounds the day. Over time my purpose has shifted from *crafting fine images* to *crafting fine stories*—less process drift than quiet evolution.

One or Two Quotes

I

“Art is born of constraint, lives on struggle, and dies of freedom.”

— André Gide

II

“The creative process is a process of surrender, not control.”

— Julia Cameron

In the Spotlight

Our walk from Midtown East to the Upper West Side of Manhattan on a gloriously sunny morning did not disappoint—nor did the pizza at Mama’s TOO!. I had a slice of their House pie and their Poached Pear pie—both utterly divine.

On the way, I found both a perfect coffee in Central Park and this classic view of Midtown Manhattan—a scene familiar to many New Yorkers.

How does a visual artist make the familiar interesting?

In street photography, it often comes down to waiting for interesting moments. I prefer arranging people in interesting ways—an idea borrowed from Stephen Shore and Massimo Vitali.

For landscapes and city scenes, you can wait for unusual light or weather patterns—practical in the wild, less so in urban environments. One of my best ideas I borrowed from David Hockney, whose paintings guide the eye through colour, tone, and blur. These tools are open to any colourist who understands a camera intimately. I used all of them in my interpretation of this classic Midtown view4.

View of Midtown Manhattan

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading. As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling, or collecting finely crafted prints, please share this email. Or simply hit reply to say hi or share your thoughts.

Johan du Preez

My partner and I had barely settled in before our shared love of exploring pulled us back outside. It was early evening on the very first day of our New York adventure; we’d only landed at JFK a few hours earlier, and already we found ourselves wandering towards South Point Park on the eastern side of Roosevelt Island.

We were caught up in the easy joy that comes with being somewhere new—a full week in Manhattan ahead of us—wide awake despite the inconvenient truth that it was midnight back home.

Before us stretched an extraordinary view of Manhattan1, the skyline glowing as the sun slipped into the blue hour. The colours were fleeting, and the artist in me moved before thought could catch up—camera raised, exposure set almost by instinct. I metered for the shadows, then reduced the exposure by a full stop to retain texture in the darker areas and keep the luminous blues from blowing out. For me, the contrast between sky and water holds the city perfectly in balance.

View of Manhattan from Roosevelt Island

One or Two Quotes

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.”

— Henry Miller

“To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted.”

— Bill Bryson

And now, a brief word from the studio.

Business matters

In the near future, I’ll be launching paid subscriptions. I deeply appreciate each of you and aim to make this transition as seamless as possible. With a paid subscription, collectors can enjoy the following benefits:

Current subscribers keep full access for three months after the switch. If you choose to support, you’ll help fund the stories and images shared here—decide whenever it feels right.

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Johan du Preez

I will make no excuses for the faint-hearted: the making of a perfect contact sheet from a processed film is essential.

Jay, Bill; Hurn, David. On Being a Photographer (p. 57).

Ideas for the Creative Mind

This summer I chose to step away from my viewfinder to make a start on the mountain of images that had been waiting patiently for me. For years now I have been a ghost on the streets, drawn to their pulse, their chaos, and the beauty hidden in the ordinary. Yet this way of working has its cost: the negatives pile up faster than I can tend to them.

There was another reason for slowing down, more personal and more fleeting. This is likely the last summer my youngest spends with us before life carries him elsewhere. So we sought out adventures in the Italian Dolomites—where, improbably, a perfect espresso awaits you at 6,500 feet—and in the English Lake District. One landscape long familiar, the other entirely new. I will share more of these wanderings in time, perhaps in the form of a travelogue, a thread I am curious to explore.

Between climbs and long rambles, I turned to the images from my first visit to New York as a photographer rather than a businessman. The work took longer than usual, slowed by the fact that I was experimenting with a new way of handling the negative—the subject of this note.

I

On Being a Photographer by David Hurn and Bill Jay remains one of my touchstones. It imparts wisdom & knowledge without pretence and pares away the excess that clutters so much writing today. Much of how I edit and process negatives can be traced back to its pages.

I begin with simplicity: correctly exposed negatives, flat contrast, minimal sharpening. Modern software makes this easy enough, and my own recipes smooth the path.

This first pass is a culling. Negatives that falter are set aside. Those that hold up are given three stars and no more. These are the frames I am willing to show a client, post to Instagram, or share here. They are also the ones I choose to develop further.

After culling the New York shoot, I was left me with 92 images—out of 700 taken in nine days. It sounds like a lot, but many belong together, linked by time, place, and subject. In these groups, one adjustment often carries to the rest.

Automation plays only a small role for me. I use it where it helps, but I believe a print is a vessel for vision, not an assembly-line product. Others, particularly commercial photographers, may outsource or embed AI deep into their post-production workflow.

II

The second stage is interpretation, where memory and feeling guide my hand, supported by the field notes I keep.

New York, for me, was an act of discovery. I had known it only as a destination for business, never as a place to truly explore. Even now I would not claim to “know” it, but I have walked long enough to sense its optimism, its friendliness and enjoy its light and colours. My notes reminded me how much the rich colour and contrasts struck me—livelier than London, utterly unlike Rome or Lisbon. These impressions shaped how I approached the negatives.

My technical adjustments remain light: a shift in exposure here, a nudge to contrast there. Most of my attention goes to the tone curve, since a print can never hold the full stretch of a digital file. For this series I dodged the shadows and mid-tones, and burned the highlights, tempering the punchy contrasts of the street into something the paper could hold. If a negative resists too much, I let it go.

Colour is my final choice in this stage—what to let sing, what to quieten. It is a small step, but one that changes everything. Over the last year it has become central to my practice, reminding me that tiny shifts often carry the greatest weight.

III

The final stage in preparing negatives is colour grading and sharpening.

Colour grading is how I weave my experience of place and people into the print. Drawing on memory and notes, I tone highlights, mid-tones, and shadows until the image feels like what I lived. This is not science but instinct—a way of leaning into my humanity in a world increasingly drawn to algorithms.

Not everyone favours this approach. But stories thrive on rhythm, texture, and surprise. Without them, they fall flat.

Sharpening comes last, with a light touch applied in two passes: one for the fine details and one for the coarse. Years of practice with my camera and lenses have taught me how far to go, guided by ISO and tonal distribution.

I do this with restraint. Heavy sharpening can ruin skin and texture, a mistake I can’t afford since people inhabit most of my frames. It’s better to tread lightly and make fine adjustments later in print. I’ve learned that if constant heavy sharpening seems necessary, the problem lies in the technique, not the file.

Question

From 92 New York frames, I arrive at 45 with distinct character. I spread them on the light table, adjust where needed, and distil them further into a set of fifteen to thirty for proof printing.

What moves me is not just what I see, but I feel. My art is expressing that in the print. Mine is a craft found in memory, intuition, and the lived moment.

So I wonder: how much of your own work do you shape by memory and feeling, rather than by rule and recipe?

In the Spotlight

The above infographic sets out the theoretical maximum dynamic range of capture and display devices. I still prefer to measure light in stops, a language of halves and doubles, though today the D-Max ratio is more often quoted.

The challenge is plain: what a sensor records and what a print can carry are worlds apart. Sometimes I lose nearly half the dynamic range in translation. By contrast, high-end displays hold much more of the original image.

I first encountered this puzzle years ago in The Negative by Ansel Adams. His account remains valuable, though for a modern view I often recommend Bruce Barnbaum’s The Art of Photography.

For a glimpse of how this plays out in practice, revisit Issue 32 and the image below of New York’s skyline taken from Roosevelt Island.

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Johan du Preez

“I rebel—therefore I exist.”

— Albert Camus

“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”

— Lao Tzu

Our first experience of Thursley Common was The Moat’s glacial calm. Its surface, a mirror-world of clouds and trees as tall as skyscrapers; in the distance, the sun strobes on the undergrowth. Stssick... Stssick sounds my shutter—these are postcards to future memories.

I used to haunt Thursley Common. Dawn or dusk—the margins of the day when the world is least touched by an audience—binoculars slung round my neck, or else a camera, the choice dictated by the time of year. Then the fire came, and the place—along with the locals—grew prickly and inhospitable. When my body joined the hostilities my focus shifted from nature to recovery.

Middle age has a way of wrapping us in cotton. This usually starts with an illness or an injury, followed by the inevitable lectures—“You’re not as young as you used to be,” or “You need to slow down”—and before you know it, you’re slowly retreating from everything that makes you vital, all the joy and meaning systematically excised, as if abstinence might somehow cheat nature.

During my recovery—a stretch of time that made a stay in purgatory look blissful—I was dominated by a torn calf muscle, torn shoulder ligaments, a rolled ankle, and the general incompetence of the medical establishment. I was aware that the warranty had expired but was not willing to trade quality for quantity. My third act would be one of rebellion.

But rebellion requires a plan.

I fired the physiotherapists—but kept the surgeon on the payroll, whose diagnostic abilities were exemplary—and traded my Nikons for a Sony mirrorless system. I cancelled the country club membership and steadily snipped away at all the trappings of middle-class comfort I had accumulated—including my career. And, crucially, I rebooted the training regimen that had kept me fit in my twenties.

With yet another tick on nature’s scorecard approaching, I asked my partner of twenty-five years to gift me a dog. T paired me with Juno, who inherited the vital force of her namesake—earning her the endearment Princess. (The other is Beanie; I’ll leave your imagination to dwell on that one.)

Training Juno—a German Pinscher—is a labour of love and a test of patience, lubricated by generous praise and treats. Chicken jerky is all right; lamb jerky gets her to do (almost) anything. Imagine training a finely-tuned huntress to sit idly by and wait whilst you set up your tripod, as the neighbourhood squirrels cheer you on. She is both stubborn and impervious to my guidance but—and this is important—became my second shadow by the second day.

I will never forget the uproar—and mess—she made when I placed her in her den. I will have none of that, Mon Dieu—the indignity! Since that night, she’s made herself at home: her bed, my side.

Since our partnership started, we’ve stacked up the miles, while my health and vitality have quietly improved. Over the last few weeks, Juno has graduated from park runs and local walks to extended rambles in the countryside.

Back at Thursley Common, we found signs of the devastating fire, including a scarred trio of trees next to the rebuilt boardwalk and—where the heather had been scorched—knee-high growth flowering defiantly through the relentless heatwaves this summer brought. The bog is mostly dry, the waterline receded, the Golden Club flowers retreating from the heat.

Juno takes the lead while I scout for images that tell the story of this landscape. By now, we’ve established a rhythm: Stop, followed by a treat and me fumbling with my Mamiya, and ending in Show! Shooting with a medium format camera is an exercise in patience—mine, certainly, but mostly hers. If I linger too long she yawns; her review process is refreshingly honest. Our negotiations are invariably settled with a treat.

Environmental photography demands time. So does the recovery of a scorched heath. The fire, started by some fool with a BBQ, took two days to subdue; its effects will not be so easily dispatched. Nature, like art, is a long game.

In the immediate aftermath, you search the embers for signs of life. Medium-term, you might reseed or plug-plant the worst-hit areas, recontour the bog, wage war against invasive species, and limit grazing. You could rewild the lot—though wattle fences and signs of enthusiastic cattle grazing suggest that’s not on the agenda.

As a heavy cloud-bank drifts in, the landscape is left saturated in uniform tones. Gone are the pillars of light that illuminate a wildflower here, a fern’s arm over there, or strobe through the leaves of tall trees. I pack the Mamiya away—film is now too expensive for the postcard business—and Juno’s tail resumes its oscillations.

It isn’t long before the eerie quiet of the heath strikes me. Gone are the sounds of birds calling, ducks quacking—mallards now numbering only a handful—and the scratchy song of the Dartford warblers. What remains is the soft whisper of the wind over the new growth and the crunch of boots in sand.

I avoid the old path—ravaged by tyres—through the heart of the old bog, not wanting to disturb any curlew that might have returned, as it’s too late for their piercing morning calls to be certain.

Juno is unimpressed. She halts, legs straining against me in protest, staring defiantly down the trail I’ve refused. Treats, then nudges, and finally, Heel!—negotiations concluded. At that moment a green woodpecker broke from cover, skimming over my left shoulder, its wild, bubbling laugh ricocheting hope across the heath.

Hope—like nature—lives eternal. The hobbies may return in the autumn, or an old memory may bring a migrant here next spring. As for the Dartford warbler—who knows where they’ve gone, or whether they will ever forgive the spring of 2020?

But Juno and I? We’ll just keep walking.

Studio News

Walking with Juno is the first essay in Margins of Safety, a project that looks to the thresholds where safety gives way to risk and ambiguity. Through fieldwork, writing, and fine art prints, the series will develop into a modular body of ten to twelve essays, each reflecting on how the land records both restraint and the cost of overreach. Over the next week I will flesh out the project’s goals, timeline, and key themes here and on Instagram, my main space for social media engagement.

Explore my wildlife series

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Johan du Preez

Recently, my wife asked me to create a content portfolio for her. When someone we trust asks us to step into a new role, it’s less about self-expression and more about answering a need; this gave me a different perspective on what creative work can be. Growth often begins with saying yes, even if we don’t fully know what we’re getting into.

II.

Not long after, a close friend, foodie and blogger told me that my lifestyle images are among my strongest work. I had missed this myself. Her comment, dropped into a conversation over coffee and laughter, caught me off guard and got me thinking differently about what I should be doing.

Honest, well-timed feedback from those who know us can illuminate possibilities we haven’t seen.

III.

For a while, I imagined that building community meant formal things like starting a salon or getting involved with NGOs. But the serendipity of a partner’s commission and a friend’s candid feedback reminded me that connection can spring up anywhere. Maybe it starts with a conversation, a favour or an unplanned collaboration. The trick, I’m learning, is to stay open—to new people, new roles, and the accidental communities that form when you least expect them.

In the Spotlight

On assignment with T, I found myself dancing around the quick deals and easy banter of Singapore’s fresh produce traders at Tekka Market. Here, every transaction is a kind of performance, played at speed. There’s no room for hesitation: if you can’t bargain, you’ll pay for the lesson.

I prefer not to disrupt the lively choreography with my flash. Instead, I lean into the natural shadows and ambient light, letting a high ISO and a good portrait lens do the work. One moment, a student tries to barter carrots for tomatoes and is gently rebuffed. The next, the butchers, unhurried and sharp-eyed, grant me a little space for a close-up—hands moving with fluidity that never pauses.

As I work through the market, I become less a stranger and more accepted; by the time I reach the fishmongers, they’re already game. To get these images requires one to observe, develop rapport, and allow oneself to be folded into the market’s rhythms.

Lunch is a quiet moment at May’s Cafe, with Kopi O and a Danbury bowl. Later, when the heat on Arab Street is thick enough to chew, I find myself at Black Sheep & Co, decaf in hand, reflecting on how community isn’t always a grand gesture.

Question for You

How do you build community or socialise as part of your creative practice? How about sharing your thoughts in the comment section; or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say ‘hi’ or anything else that pops into your mind!

Warmly,

Johan du Preez

Artist

One of the strangest—and most strangely creative—periods in an artist’s life can arrive when those roles fall away. Not in drama, but in something smaller: a haircut grown too long. A shift in how we dress. A growing disinterest in appearing polished. A nudge toward a different kind of aesthetic entirely.

“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest.”

— Pema Chödrön

Much of what we think of as artistic voice is, in truth, what’s left behind after all the unnecessary has been shed. Sometimes that shedding is literal—clothes, yes, but also the quiet performances we adopt to appear composed, the subtle habit of tidying ourselves into acceptability. And sometimes it’s conceptual: a slow loosening of the assumptions about what counts as proper, appropriate, or serious work.

What’s fascinating is how often an artist’s work begins to lean toward the abstract later in their career. Not out of limitation, but as a turning inward, a shift in attention from the visible to the felt, from description to essence.

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”

— Sylvia Plath

This is part of why I’ve found myself drifting—quietly, curiously—towards conceptual images. Not the grand statement so popular today, but something more subtle. The kind of work Saul Leiter did so beautifully: figures half-glimpsed, reflections in steamed-up glass, moments that feel like they’ve happened just off to the side of real life. There’s a tenderness in that, an intimacy without intrusion. It’s early days for me in this space, but I can feel something shifting. A desire to reclaim space—literal, emotional, visual—without apology by noticing life more carefully.

None of this is a manifesto. But I do sense a quiet shift underway—a loosening of old forms, a new patience with ambiguity. The images I’m drawn to now are less about clarity and more about atmosphere, gesture, trace. There’s freedom in that: not so much breaking out as settling in.

In the Spotlight

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Johan du Preez

Photographer

Domo Arigato Gozaimasu!

You’ll know the well-worn adage: If it ain't broke, don’t fix it. But with the sun (finally) shining here in London, it feels like the right moment to ask you, my faithful reader, what’s working and what’s not. What do you love about The Other Two-Thirds? What do you secretly skip past? And what would you like to see more of?

So please — take a minute, scroll down, and tick whichever boxes best reflect your tastes. If I’ve completely missed the mark, well, there’s a box for that too.

One or Two Quotes

I

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it"

- Bert Lance.

II

"The time to repair the roof is when the sun is shining."

- John F. Kennedy.

In the Spotlight

Share

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Johan du Preez

Photographer

I

"Noon-day sunshine cinema-ized the site, turning the bridge and the river into an over-exposed picture. Photographing it with my Instamatic 400 was like photographing a photograph. The sun became a monstrous light-bulb that projected a detached series of “stills” through my Instamatic into my eye."

- Robert Smithson

II

“Lovely things begin with the sunshine.

Her rays illuminate faces

So that smiles can be seen.

Her love so bountiful

She shares with the world.”

- From a poem by Leslie Alex

In the Spotlight

It was late, and I was hurting. A few weeks earlier, I’d wrenched my ankle sidestepping a bike that came careering through a pedestrian crossing — one of those city moments you survive more by reflex than reason.

Walking — especially with Juno — is my favourite pastime, and it’s been agony ever since. There’s only so much Ibuprofen a person can take, and today its salving delusion had worn off hours ago, taking with it my ability to read the streets with any clarity or ease.

I found myself perched on a pot plant in Piccadilly Circus, thumbing half-heartedly through the day’s debris — the photos I’d taken, the ideas that hadn’t quite landed. It struck me then, as I sat there nursing both body and ego, that I’d have to change my approach. I couldn’t cover the miles anymore, not for now. The images would have to come to me.

Fate, ever the flirt, obliged. Looking up, I saw the most cinematic light pouring into the scene before me. Just gorgeous. All it needed was an actor or two.

So I waited. I sat, camera in my lap, composing the frame while bathed in that honeyed light. It wasn’t long before the scene assembled itself — almost as if on cue.

What drew me to it, you might wonder? Partly it was the bright cross-light striking the colourful food stand, bouncing off the pale Portland stone that clads much of central London. That light — both source and reflection — gave the whole setting a softness, a warmth. I chose this image from a series of six because of the woman’s smile: it mirrors the sunshine. And then there’s that splash of red in her outfit — a small, bright echo of the backdrop.

Reconstructing my creative practice around the act of not doing feels — in hindsight — long overdue. I could have chosen not to create at all, or to simply process the backlog of negatives I’ve stockpiled over the years. But the act of making has always involved some form of physical exertion — movement, momentum, pursuit. Now, the images arrive through something else entirely: presence.

It’s a different kind of seeing — slower, more attentive. The sort of gaze you might bring to a portrait sitting, or while waiting for the right wave to fold into a seascape.

And the resulting work has a different texture too: quieter, more grounded, at times even contemplative.

I’ve made other deliberate shifts as well. I’m rebuilding my black-and-white workflow. I’m writing more. And I’m planning a series of coastal walks where I’ll begin a new body of seascapes — not chasing the picture, but waiting for it to unfold.

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Share The Other Two-Thirds

Johan du Preez

Photographer

You’ll have noticed, I’ve been absent. Not for lack of material—never that—but due to two rather different, albeit related, forces.

The first is banal but necessary: I’ve been deep in the logistical labyrinth of moving johandupreez.com, along with this newsletter, to a new web hosting provider. A task that ought, by all accounts, to be “seamless,” “swift,” and other such lies peddled by the tech-industrial complex. In truth, it was neither; it swallowed more time than I’d budgeted and offered very little aesthetic nourishment in return.

The second reason, however, is altogether more stimulating—and far more aligned with the stuff of Fine Art photography. I’ve spent the past couple of months quietly reengineering my film workflow: from processing to scanning, and, eventually, to printing. The unifying theme of this overhaul? Creative control.

Much of my equipment, including some cherished and now irreplaceable tools, was lost in our last transcontinental move. The studio’s music system, gone. And with it, my beloved, by-now-vintage film scanner—a beast that rendered negatives with luscious 48-bit depth and took care of dust and blemishes without fuss or ceremony. An elegant solution to a problem I hadn’t appreciated until it was gone.

Replacing it was never a real option. The market for dedicated scanners has withered to a few feeble offerings, none of which hold up under scrutiny, let alone under a loupe. And so, like a gambler with no cards left, I found myself at the mercy of local vendors. Their workflows? Unconvincing. Their grasp of colour science? Let’s call it… impressionistic.

Over a stretch of months, I trialled the services of nearly every scanning house within striking distance. I spent money. I lost negatives—some to theft, others to sheer incompetence. And what did I get in return? Inconsistent, uninspired work that sapped my enthusiasm for film as a medium altogether. The image I spotlight below illustrates the depth of this frustration (more on that in a moment).

Yet, here I am, back in the land of grain and emulsion. Why?

Because there’s something deeply compelling—spiritually so, if I may risk it—in crafting a body of black and white work that captures my evolving relationship with this adopted island of mine. A return, if you like, to the roots of my photographic impulse: to pare back, strip away, and render the world not as it looks, but as it feels.

Anyone who’s ever spent serious time in a traditional darkroom—whether sloshing prints in trays of Dektol or finessing a dodgy highlight under an enlarger—will understand both the pleasures and the limits of that analogue realm. It demands craft, discipline, and a sense of scale—but it is, for many of us, no longer fit for purpose.

Meanwhile, the digital world has caught up and, in some respects, overtaken. Today’s small-format digital cameras can match the resolution of medium-format film, but only under conditions rarely encountered outside a lab or a studio. They are too often hostage to light. And I mean good light—not merely sufficient.

So: a hybrid approach. Enter a new generation of scanning solutions—modular, open-ended, often designed by obsessives for obsessives. I’ve spent the last stretch cobbling together a digitisation system that fits *me*—a system in which I get to choose the components, calibrate the results, and own the colour science from end to end.

At present, I’m producing scans that are more than serviceable for proof prints—and, just as importantly, I’m finally able to share images that resemble what I *saw* when I pressed the shutter.

The next frontier is scaling up: larger scans, higher bit depth, bigger prints. But I’m not in a hurry. This part requires stability—consistent development, controlled lighting, and a scanner that doesn’t shift its temperament every other day. I’m still experimenting with components, and that’s part of the fun.

In the meantime, I’m enjoying the quiet pleasure of walking the streets of London with a manual camera in hand. No screens, no shortcuts. Just the act of slowing down, looking closely, and making images the old-fashioned way—with intention.

News from the Studio

A small but, I think, rather meaningful milestone: the first print in The Space Between is now ready.

This series has been quietly taking shape over the past two years and marks a complete departure from where I’ve been as an art photographer. Here, place is not the subject, but the container—a kind of negative space in which relationships are glimpsed, not staged. Between people. Between people and place. And, inevitably, between them and me.

At first, the images lean observational—small acts, unspectacular moments—but as my own experience deepens, the work begins to shift. What was documentary becomes something more interpretive, sometimes abstract, sometimes only half-visible. A kind of map of emotional terrain.

The first of these prints is now available. It isn’t so much a launch as a quiet placing of the first stone. If you’re curious, or have simply been waiting for something new, you’ll find details here.

One or two Quotes

1.

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.

Scott Adams

2.

Creativity is thinking up new things. Innovation is doing new things.

Theodore Levitt

In the Spotlight

Here we have a pair of images—ostensibly identical, yet you’d be forgiven for thinking they were taken days apart, under entirely different light. One of these is what one gets from high-street (and, occasionally, back-alley) scanning services in the UK.

I tend to expose film to the right. It’s a habit born of both paranoia and pragmatism—keeping the image safely out of the toe and shoulder, giving myself room to manoeuvre when preparing a print. But nearly every scanning service I’ve used insists on “auto-exposing” the scan, despite explicit instructions to the contrary. Some dress it up as “image balancing,” others as a “value-add.” I call it what it is: image vandalism.

The darker of the two images, its blacks crushed and its midtones left for dead, was rendered by a reputable firm. The other—the one with nuance, with a tonal range that breathes—is mine. Digitised with minimal interference. It’s not perfect, but it’s honest. And it’s workable.

The next innovation, for me, is to achieve scans of sufficient bit depth and resolution to support large-scale printing without compromise. For now, I’m content with proof prints that bear some resemblance to what I visualised in the moment of capture. That, at least, feels like progress.

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Share The Other Two-Thirds

Johan du Preez

Artist

1.

Avoid making a commotion, just as you wouldn’t stir up the water before fishing. Don’t use a flash out of respect for the natural lighting, even when there isn’t any. If these rules aren’t followed, the photographer becomes unbearably obtrusive.

Henri Cartier-Bresson Tweet

2.

The only way to make good pictures is to push yourself out of your comfort zone.

Bruce Gilden Tweet

In the Spotlight

I’m shining a spotlight on two images – an environmental study and a portrait – that both rely entirely on natural light.

When I’m out photographing on the streets of London, I tend to walk in an arc from west to east, with its apex towards the north. This ensures the sun is almost always lighting the space or subjects in front of me, allowing me to capture ambient light that naturally illuminate my subject.

I prefer this approach. Street photography can feel intrusive – some might call it aggressive – so I make every effort to follow the law (which allows public photography without consent), treat my subjects respectfully, and keep the scene as authentic as possible.

Working in this manner requires a certain delicacy. Nobody likes feeling compromised, and a friendly demeanour goes a long way when you’re photographing strangers.

I’ve noticed that bringing in artificial lighting can significantly alter the mood. People may be caught off guard, and their responses can make the atmosphere tense in a way that detracts from the scene’s natural quality.

When clouds roll in, I change my style entirely – but that’s a tale for another day. Sometimes I’ll stay indoors, write a bit, catch up on studio work, or concentrate on portraiture.

That’s not to say I never use artificial lighting. I do, especially when it’s suited to the task at hand – for example, shooting client portraits or capturing images of birds of prey at dusk.

I’ve have studied the work of street photographers who never leave their studio without a flash. Their approach leads to a distinctly different look and feel, and they’ll often admit it can be quite confrontational.

In the end, photographers’ techniques reflect their own unique ways of seeing, which, in turn, mirror their individual personalities. There’s no right or wrong approach; it’s simply about choosing the tools and methods that best bring your vision to life.

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Share The Other Two-Thirds

Johan du Preez

Artist

1.

The whole point of taking pictures is so that you don’t have to explain things with words.

Elliott Erwitt Tweet

2.

Words and pictures can work together to communicate more powerfully than either alone.

William Albert Allard (National Geographic photographer) Tweet

In the Spotlight

There are countless photographs of the West Pier in Brighton, making it difficult to capture a unique shot of it. Not that I didn’t try, mind you! I returned several times, on different days and at various hours, determined to find something special.

In the end, it was the woman gazing out over the ocean, silhouetted by the setting sun, who told the most compelling tale.

It’s a clear spring day on the British coast. Because it’s March, the sun is hanging in the sky for a little longer, and the days are beginning to warm. Why is she sitting there alone at half past three on a Friday afternoon? What is on her mind? What journey led her to that precise moment?

We will never know her truth. Yet every time I look at this image and absorb the intricate textures—the sun’s glow backlighting her hair and the skeleton of the West Pier in the distance—I imagine a new story, an alternate reality.

This is why I began labelling my images only with a place name: it invites each viewer to spin their own tale!

There are, of course, other perspectives. Many documentary photographers, for instance, believe that words can enrich a powerful image or illuminate the underlying truth. In the end, it all comes down to intent and context—there truly are no rules.

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Share The Other Two-Thirds

Johan du Preez

Artist

A true friend leaves paw prints on your heart.

• George Eliot

You want a friend in Washington? Get a dog.

• Harry S Truman

In the Spotlight

The lunch hour was drawing to a close as I walked past the Sondheim Theatre for the fourth time—one of perhaps a dozen such walks during the autumn season.

The light was grey and diffused, enriching the autumnal palette of the English architecture. This predisposed me to getting close and framing shots, as the pure blue autumn sky was not present to balance the foreground tones.

My reason for frequenting Shaftesbury Avenue at this hour was the rather curious juxtaposition of posters adorning the Sondheim Theatre: Old Friend versus Slick, Sexy, and Sophisticated. They provided a backdrop for storytelling—perhaps of friendship, perhaps of love, or maybe both. All I needed was the right combination of characters.

The timing increased the chances of a story coming together, as I had both the lunch crowd and theatregoers to draw upon for my cast.

The narrative materialised on my fourth attempt. The protagonists took the form of an elderly gentleman and his faithful companion. Their interaction was heartwarming, showing the depth of their bond and affection through a fleeting exchange: the man reached to pat his friend, who sat patiently waiting for the traffic lights, his eyes fixed on the kind hand.

And then there were the supporting characters on this tightly cropped stage. They were full of life, and their interactions added visual depth to a scene framed by weathered English architecture, which had long since seen its heyday.

I’ll leave it there, inviting you to savour this story and its many layers.

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

Share The Other Two-Thirds

Johan du Preez

Artist

One of the things that I most believe in is the compose and wait philosophy of photography. It’s a very satisfying, almost spiritual way to photograph. Life isn’t knocking you around, life isn’t controlling you. You have picked your place, you’ve picked your scene, you’ve picked your light, you’ve done all the decision making and you are waiting for the moment to come to you.

• Sam Abell

In the Spotlight

How my characters interact with the space around them—and with each other—has become a bit of an obsession, truth be told. It’s all part of the stories I aim to capture—little snippets of life playing out on a grand stage.

The idea for this scene popped into my head while I was strolling along the generously wide pavements of Pall Mall East. There was something about the mix of bustling pedestrians and the charming clash of old and new iconography that got my creative gears turning.

All I really needed to do was set up the camera (fiddling with the focal point, aperture, and ISO—standard faff), frame the shot, and then wait patiently for everything to fall into place. A key ingredient here was having two characters: one snug in the booth, the other facing it.

And oh, how marvellously it all came together! There’s just a hand clutching the phone, the curve of a hip subtly hinted at by a coat—suggesting a woman—while he’s beaming away. It’s one of those rare moments where reality outdoes the plan, and you end up with a photo that’s a delightful surprise.

That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!

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Johan du Preez

Artist