On January 18th 2025, thousands gathered in London for the National Demonstration for Palestine, a movement calling for justice, peace, and an end to the ongoing genocide in Gaza. It was a day filled with passion, solidarity, and an unwavering demand for truth to be told. Despite the overwhelmingly peaceful nature of the protest, the event was marred by an aggressive and disproportionate police response, leading to 77 shocking arrests of non-violent demonstrators.

On the 22nd April 2025 I took my 15 year old daughter and her boyfriend on their first proper Urbex (urban exploration) mission, and what better place to kick it off than Grain Battery Tower?

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be an anarchist. It wasn’t a rebellion for rebellion’s sake, or some teenage reaction against authority. It was a slow realisation, built up over years of watching the same story play out over and over, regardless of which party had the keys to Number 10.

Politics has always had a flair for distraction. When the walls start closing in and the public begins to ask difficult questions, like why schools are underfunded, why hospitals are overcrowded, or why wages stagnate while the cost of living soars, the political elite reach for their oldest trick in the book: scapegoating.

On Saturday 19th July, I joined an estimated 80,000 people in central London for the National March for Palestine. The forecast promised torrential rain, and for once, it didn’t disappoint. From the moment I stepped off the train, the sky unleashed its fury, but not even relentless downpours could drown out the voices calling for justice and an end to the suffering in Gaza.

On Saturday 6th September 2025, the usually calm and welcoming market town of Faversham, Kent was shaken. For the past five years that I’ve called this place home, it has felt like a community rooted in acceptance and kindness. But this weekend, that sense of safety was put to the test.

There is a comforting myth many of us cling to in times of mass violence, that silence is safety, that saying nothing keeps our hands clean. It doesn’t. Silence has never been neutral, and it has never protected the vulnerable. It has only always protected power.

When people first learn that I specialize in black and white nude photography, they often assume it’s a stylistic statement. A creative flair. Maybe an attempt to be dramatic or artsy. And sure, I love the timelessness and honesty of monochrome imagery, but the real reason runs quite a bit deeper.

There’s something about fog that changes everything, and this weekend in Kent was a perfect reminder of why I love heading out with a camera when the weather is uncertain.

It dawned on me recently just how much of a privilege it is to work with models as a photographer. We often meet as strangers, spend only a few hours together, and then go our separate ways. Yet the images we create, and the memories attached to them, can last a lifetime. That imbalance of time versus impact is something I don’t think I’ll ever stop being humbled by.