When Pretty Pictures Stop Being Enough

(And why I found myself talking to a ghost dog in the ruins)

'Forever Faithful' by An Di Prima

The Bigger Shift

Lately, I’ve been feeling a little… off. Not with my camera, or the dogs, or even my work. But with the “why” behind it all.

Everywhere I look, dog photography is becoming polished, perfect, and — if I’m honest — predictable.

It’s all beautiful, but sometimes I scroll and can’t tell one photo from another.

And I say this with no shade, I love beautiful things. I’ve spent years learning to create them. But something inside me has started craving more. A whisper that asks:

“But what does it mean?”

That whisper turned into a louder nudge the day someone explained the difference between an artisan and an artist.

An artisan can create something beautiful, over and over. A craftsman.

But an artist? They create something that makes people feel.

And I realised… I want that. I want to make people feel something.

The Ghost Dog

It hit me hard during a photography retreat with That Tog Spot. It was the second day of the retreat. Our group was sent off into the woods with a model dog to photograph. And I’ll be honest, I wasn’t feeling inspired. The trees felt messy, the light flat. It all felt… like it had been done a thousand of times before, by so many other talented photographers.

I’d been carrying this quiet ache for a while. A longing to create something more than just beautiful dog portraits. I wanted to say something. To tell stories. To make art. And there, in the chaos of the woods, I couldn’t see it.

Until I did.

We came across the ruins of an old schoolhouse. A pretty ruin waiting for us like a scene from a fairy tale. I walked around it like a moth circling a flame, until I peeked through a window and saw it: A fireplace.

And suddenly, it hit me like lightning.

A story slammed into my mind, fully formed. Not just a pretty pose, but a scene.

I turned to Rhys, dog dad and dog handler extraordinaire, and said, “I want Amber to look absolutely miserable in front of that fireplace. Can we do that?”

I must’ve sounded mad, with eyes lit up like a madwoman on a mission, but Rhys didn't bat an eyelid and was absolutely amazing with Amber.

No one else got my enthusiasm and my sudden burst of joy. I probably not only sounded mad, I must've looked mad, too. But I didn’t care.

This — this was bliss. This was why I picked up a camera in the first place.

I had one lens on me, my 135mm. Not exactly ideal for tight spaces. But I knew what to do. I took 26 frames and stitched them together later using the Brenizer method. And the second I pressed the shutter, I knew…

This one. This was it.

The image wasn’t just a photo. It was grief.

It was loyalty.

It was the ghost of a dog who stayed behind, waiting for her humans who would never come back.

That First Spark

That same fire, I now know, has flickered in me before.

The very first time I felt it was when I created this image of Skip, a podenco, leaping toward a window filled with orange balls. This image was part of my “Podencos In Scotland” book. A year-long labour of love that led me through rescue stories, adoption tales, and long road trips with my camera.

'Balls Are Life' by An Di Prima

It was the first time I didn’t just take a photo. I crafted a moment. A story. Something playful, a little odd, and full of character. That image opened a door in my brain. A before and after.

Why It All Matters

I guess what I’m trying to say is… I don’t just want to be another dog photographer.

I want to create images that haunt you, heal you, stir something in you.

I don’t want to chase trends. I want to chase meaning.

Even if others don’t see what I see. Even if they think I’m reading too much into things. Even if it means I stand a little outside the crowd.

Even if no one notices.

Because (and here is another quote someone told me about recently) 'Your truth doesn’t need an audience to be valid'.

And maybe that’s what I’m chasing now. Not just pretty. Not just perfect.

But truth. My truth.