How this began
Viñales, Cuba - where it began
I didn’t grow up with dogs.
In fact, for most of my life, I knew very little about them.
That changed later, in a way I never expected.
What began as a simple experience volunteering with stray dogs became something much deeper.
It wasn’t dramatic at the time, just small moments.
Quiet interactions.
The way a dog looks at you, or chooses to sit beside you.
One of those dogs, Cashew, stayed with me.
Not because of what she did,
but because of how she made me feel.
Something shifted, and from that point on, I started to see dogs differently.
Not as subjects.
But as individuals, each with their own pace, their own sensitivities, their own way of being in the world.
Cashew was one of them.
What followed
When I returned home, I began photographing dogs in my spare time.
At first, it was simply a way to stay connected to that feeling.
Over time, it grew into something more.
Not just photography, but a way of understanding dogs, and the relationships they share with the people who love them.
I found myself wanting to understand them more.
So I began learning properly.
Canine behaviour.
Handling.
Even canine first aid.
That approach has stayed with me ever since, and quietly shapes every photograph I take.
Recognition, quietly received
Over time, this work has been recognised in ways I’m incredibly grateful for, including being named Pet Photographer of the Year at the British Photography Awards.
It’s something I hold with appreciation, though the work itself has never really been about recognition. It’s always come back to the dogs, and the moments we’re able to keep.
What photography means to me
There's a particular kind of quiet that comes with being alone with a camera.
Early mornings in London, before the city finds its noise. A sunrise breaking over a familiar street. The light doing something unexpected.
No brief. No deadline. Just the question of what's there, if you look closely enough.
That's where a lot of this begins for me. Those solitary hours of wandering, noticing, trying a new angle on a wall I've walked past a hundred times. It's the closest thing I have to meditation.
The ones who started everything
I'm not sure I can fully explain what happens when one appears in front of me. Something shifts. A warmth that rises before I've even raised the camera. It's physical, almost. Like my chest can't quite contain it.
I've stopped trying to explain it. I just know that it's there, every time, without fail.
Joy, in its most uncomplicated form. The kind that asks nothing of you, and gives everything back.
When I photograph a dog, I'm trying to hold onto something. The way they move through the world. The way they look at the person they love most. Those small, fleeting moments that pass in a second and are gone.
Photography is how I keep those moments alive.
I would love to hear about the dog who is your whole world.
