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The Main Frame:

Photography is a bizarre beast. It reveals a world hiding right in front of us—things we can only truly see through a camera. It can also capture, with unerring clarity, people and places from our past, pulling us straight back into the very moments we once photographed.

Yesterday, I was at a funeral service, and—as often happens at times like these—I found myself thinking about my family, the moments of my life, and the people I’ve shared them with.

It reminded me of a trip years ago, when I took my family to Cape Town so Asher could visit his paternal grandfather. One day, we were up on top of Table Mountain. All around us, people were taking photographs of themselves with the city bowl spread out behind them. As a photographer, my instinct was to think about how I could make the best picture possible, to find the hidden photographic gems in such a visually spectacular place.

But then it struck me: what really mattered in that moment wasn’t the photograph at all—it was being there with my son and sharing that first experience of Table Mountain together. I could always come back and take a picture another time. But I could never again have that first time with Asher.
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I did record a little video at the time.

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Much of my photography often feels like this. I try to capture places and moments so I can hold onto them, so I can revisit them later. And yet, I wonder how many times I’ve actually missed the moment itself because I was too busy trying to photograph it.

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I think back to a family trip to France when I was a first-year student. The photos I took then were all “arty”—for lack of a better word. But none of them really hold a memory. None of them captures a simple, authentic moment that I can look back on and feel.

And that’s what worries me: that it’s becoming harder to know when a moment deserves to be carefully photographed—and when a simple snapshot would mean far more. When the photo is for the world, and when it should just be for me—for the memory, the resonance, the reminder that I was there, in that moment.

Occasions like funerals bring this sharply into focus. They make me think about the authentic power photography has—not just as images, but as anchors to the life we’ve lived and the people we’ve loved.

Inspiring Me This Week:

The Anonymous Project
​https://www.anonymous-project.com/​
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Of course, it's not to say you can't end up with awesome photos when capturing moments. The Anonymous Project is a collection of random photos by unknown people of little snippets of their lives.
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I find it incredibly captivating to see the images and try to imagine who these people were, what they did with their lives, and whether they ever looked back on these very images with fondness.
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It's one of my favourite photography books​
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In the end, that’s what The Anonymous Project reminds me of: that the photographs which resonate most deeply aren’t always the ones crafted with artistic precision, but the ones that hold life as it was—messy, fleeting, unposed.

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They carry the laughter, the awkwardness, the unnoticed details that make a moment real. And maybe that’s the greatest gift photography gives us: not perfection, but presence. A reminder that sometimes the most powerful image isn’t the one we set out to create, but the one that simply happens while we’re busy living.
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Alex
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​P.S. If you’d like to go deeper with your photography, I’m running a series of portrait workshops where we’ll explore not just how to take better pictures, but how to see people differently. These sessions are about connection, confidence, and finding your own voice with the camera. Spaces are limited, so if you’d like to join us, you can reserve your spot here: https://tpeppw.carrd.co/​
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