As a paid subscriber, you can also find other tutorials and a couple of ebooks for download.

Thanks for joining me as I look to edit an image made a couple of years ago in the transition of seasons from autumn to winter. The combination of colour and conditions really helped bringing the picture to life.

For my editing workflow I use Adobe Lightroom, whic…

Read more

I love returning to places. Re visits to see how the landscape or woodland changes over time, across different seasons; different light, conditions, mood and colour temperature. The same place can evoke different emotions simply because the conditions have changed.

This little clearing is blessed with some wonderful trees, some quite old and textured, the bark full of history, etched in are the battles they have faced surviving here through the elements. Other younger birch trees, youthful, perhaps naive to what the years ahead may bring. They sit in an area of woodland that at the right time of day catches the light beautifully.

I’ve spent many moments walking this place. These two photographs, although showing the same view, project very different atmospheres. One is filled with warm sunlight, unstoppable light pouring into the woodland, creating a wonderful uplifting scene.

The second image, much quieter, cooler in tone, a more melancholic, perhaps a more reflective. The light was uniquely different on each occasion.

Each one carrying a different feeling and emotion.

For me thats the beauty of nature, no visit is ever the same. Of course most of the time you might call the light, ordinary, everyday light we experience without noticing. But sometimes it surprises me, elevates my soul, reminding me just how extraordinary it can be. That is the power of light, it’s something so simple, perhaps something we take for granted. However it has the ability to transform the familiar into something magical.

Perhaps that's why I return. Not to find a different woodland, but to discover a different way of seeing the same one.

Thank you for reading and your support,

Until next time,

Matt

www.mattoliverphotography.com

In post editing we can also help emphasie these colour and moods using white balance and colour temperature sliders. A simple tool to help convey an emotion to the viewer.

`

I have an exhibition coming up with photographer Andy Gray in August. Set in the beautifully restored Aqueduct Cottage on the Cromford Canal in Derbyshire.

Lots of new prints and framed work from around the Peak District.

Details Below.

The downside is that I come away with fewer photographs I’m genuinely happy with. Every now and then I have to remind myself not to get too fed up with that. I’d much rather end the year with a small collection of photographs that really belong together than hundreds that don’t quite hit the mark.

I’ve written before about the peaks and troughs that come with photography, and this feels like another one of those climbs. They’re never particularly enjoyable at the time, but looking back they’ve usually been the periods where I’ve learned the most.

This is one of the photographs I’m really pleased with this year.

It came from one of those mornings when getting out of bed felt like hard work. The forecast hadn’t suggested much, but as I walked into the woodland I was met with beautiful conditions that I hadn’t expected. I’d actually arrived later than I’d planned after too much procrastination. After berating myself for not leaving earlier I relaxed trying to achieve the right mindset for a morning of photography.

There wasn’t a breath of wind. Blue skies were beginning to appear and the air already felt warm, so I guessed the mist wouldn’t last long. It was time to stop thinking and start looking.

One thing that still amazes me about this woodland is that no matter how many times I visit, something different catches my eye. I don’t think it’s always because the woodland has changed. Sometimes I think it’s me. Every visit builds a little memory bank of ideas, and eventually the right conditions bring one of them back.

When I found this scene, I wondered if that had happened here. Maybe I’d noticed it before without really realising, and on this morning everything finally came together. By arriving later than I’d intended, I’d actually been there at exactly the right time. The sun had climbed over the hill, the mist was beginning to thin, and the warm light was just starting to catch the silver birch trunks. It gave them shape, texture and life.

I liked that the photograph seemed to sum up this little corner of the woodland. Young birches, old birches, straight ones, twisted ones, all growing together. It felt like the place was introducing itself.

Often the scene is already there, just waiting for me to be ready.

Thank for taking the time to read this piece, it is always appreciated !

Until next time,

Matt

Some mornings you walk into a woodland and you just know. The light is doing something, the mist is sitting right, and there’s a picture in there somewhere. This was one of those mornings. But knowing there’s a picture and actually making one, that’s a different thing entirely. So I want to walk you through what I was thinking when I made this image, it might be useful when you’re out with your own camera.

Where to Put Your Subject

The two oaks were always going to be the subject. No question. But I didn’t put them in the middle. I pushed them right, deliberately, so those branches could arc across the top of the frame and pull your eye into the wood behind them. It gives the trees room.

It’s worth thinking about this with any strong subject. Dead centre tends to feel static, the image is finished, resolved, nowhere to go. Off to one side, and suddenly there’s movement. The eye explores, then comes back. That back and forth is what keeps someone looking.

Tension, and Why It Matters

Tension doesn’t mean uncomfortable. In a photograph it means energy, something that stops the image from feeling too neat, too settled.

The oaks carry some of that. They’re big, they dominate, but their placement and the reach of the branches creates a pull toward the rest of the scene. I felt the real tension though is in the fallen branch in the foreground.

Read more

For me, it’s very much about being out in the elements, feeling and hearing nature, and the challenge of being creative. It’s the experience itself, scratching that creative itch. It gives me a sense of purpose and meaning, two things I think we all need. Of course, I’d be lying if I said there was no interest in recognition or likes, but these days that sits well down the list of reasons why.

There’s a brook I return to often, one I used to walk with my dad as a kid, at weekends. This photograph I made there isn’t a great one. It doesn’t need to be. It’s not really about the image. Standing there, listening to the water, I’m back beside him for a moment, a simpler time. I can almost hear the laughter of families enjoying the day, and still feel the cold water around my feet as we paddled in the brook. Distant memories replayed like an old cinema reel.

Perhaps that's what photography has always done for me. It connects the past with the present. The landscape becomes more than scenery, it becomes memory. A camera is simply a way of bringing the two together.

My own photography comes from an internal space, shaped by the thoughts, emotions, and life I’ve lived. The good and the bad, the highs and the lows. It’s why I’m drawn to stillness in the landscape, a quiet space to reflect, away from the noise. I've gradually stopped worrying about making work that fits neatly into what performs well online. These days I’d rather let whatever I’ve been through show up honestly, in the quiet, than smooth it into something more conventional.

So when I raise the camera, I’m not really chasing a photograph. I’m chasing that feeling of being present in a place that matters, and if an image comes from it, that’s the bonus, not the point. That’s the honest answer to my “why”. Not likes or recognition, but a quiet way of holding on to the places that shaped me.

Is there a place that takes you back, even for a moment?

As ever thank you for reading and being a subscriber. I appreciate your support and interest in my work!

Matt

The conditions are a little dark today. Heavy rain showers have been passing through, but the high winds are carrying the clouds at speed so it’s an ever-changing scene. Just beyond the howl of these gales, you can make out the comforting call of the skylarks or the wail of a grouse. It’s here among this landscape that I feel very much at home.

Taking shelter, in a little shallow as the coffee warms, I sit and watch the sun break through the gaps in the clouds, God’s rays touching the land. As the sun illuminates the landscape, making pools of light across the distant fields, the colours and textures change on the lichen-clad rocks. With conditions difficult, the camera has been tucked away as I am not really feeling the urge to make any pictures. On occasions like this, not taking a photograph, I used to think of these trips out as failures — not creating. Now, sitting here watching the light, they are far from that.

When I first began photography, I relied heavily on referencing the work of others to discover new locations. With time being a precious commodity there was a pressing need to optimise my efforts in order to amass a diverse collection of photographs. Embracing this approach paved the way for a steep and rapid learning curve, where minimal input yielded substantial early rewards. However, I must emphasise that my early endeavours did not necessarily boast a high level of quality. At the time, I basked in the illusion of their excellence, bolstered by kind words from family and friends. Looking back now, while I hold onto fond memories, I cringe a little when I revisit the outcomes. Nevertheless, each of these outings served as an essential stepping stone in my continuous journey of learning and growth. However, while my early efforts did bring a certain amount of enjoyment, I realise now I was just going through the motions, a tick list of popular locations. Looking back on these images, I feel they lacked something more personal. Taking my photography forward to a more individual and personal perspective certainly was a challenge. In doing this by moving out of my comfort zone, I would sometimes hit a wall and feel deflated, falling into a low with my work.

In his book The Dip, author Seth Godin describes almost everything in life worth doing is controlled by a “Dip”: “At the beginning, when you first start something, it’s fun. You could be taking up golf or acupuncture or piloting a plane or learning the harmonica or doing chemistry. It doesn’t matter — in the beginning, it’s interesting, and you get plenty of good feedback from people around you and plenty of early wins and progress. Over the next few days or weeks, the rapid learning you’re experiencing keeps you going. Whatever the new thing is, it’s easy to stay engaged with it. And then the Dip happens….”

Reading Seth’s thoughts, I believe what he presents perfectly relates to my photography. His words put into perspective the feelings and challenges I have faced in the ups and downs of my work.

Over the years, I have had many of what you might call “Dips.” I have often thought of them as peaks and troughs in my work. They have been tough to deal with and overcome. It would be easy to give up in one of these moments, but I have learnt to realise that more often than not they coincide with a change in my photography. If you have taken pictures for any length of time, I’m sure you have experienced similar feelings — the highs and lows, these peaks and troughs. Perhaps weeks or even months pass by without creating work of note. Nothing quite seems to come together, no matter how hard you try. In these moments, we can feel like we have lost our eye, questioning if the ability to see another picture will ever return.

The fear sets in and we can begin to question our skills and feel like a failure in our craft. These negative feelings can become all-consuming and we must learn to deal with them to progress.

In those earlier days of quick learning, we absorbed the details of shutter speed and exposure, drawing from the experiences of fellow photographers to propel our craft forward. As we gradually carve out our unique identities, we inevitably encounter these more demanding and transformative phases. Embracing this challenging juncture, known as the “Dip,” is paramount for our growth and progression in the realm of landscape photography. However, climbing from this shallow and into the next steep learning curve can leave us deflated as things start to become a little more difficult. Here, we can choose to stay in our comfort zone — give up — or push through the challenges we face. Opting for the latter may initially feel like a step backward to move forward, but embracing the challenge has the potential to open doors to greater creative rewards in the future.

Dealing with the “Dips”

So, in one of these moments, I have learnt to reduce my expectations. I still enjoy time out, perhaps even going without the camera. Head out in any conditions and without plans; take notes, write about the experience of the sights, sounds, and smells — slow down and really take in the environment. I’ve found removing the pressure to create opens my mind to view the landscape in much more detail.

Stop and ponder; study the light — the way it falls across the scene and how it reveals shape, texture, and form. There is so much we can learn from pausing. Let our inner curiosity take over. There is a valid and compelling rationale for embracing this approach regardless of the current phase we may find ourselves in, emphasising its heightened advantages during challenging times. I strongly advocate for immersing ourselves in the natural world, venturing outdoors, and relishing the moments spent connecting with the environment. In this slow lane, I believe subconsciously the cogs have been turning, processing these thoughts and feelings. Solving problems and building an understanding of ways to improve and see differently.

Take this image of a fallen branch photographed in a period of creative lull. Venturing out for a walk, this little scene caught my eye. The soft light revealed all the subtle textures, colours, and shapes. I knew this picture would not make a portfolio picture. However, by slowing down and studying, I spent an enjoyable time working on different compositions. I began to think about the life of this tiny environment, battered by weather, a square meter of the world teeming with life. Through quiet observation a subconscious connection was made to the place and conditions: learning more about the life of the woodland, in turn, re-invigorated my passion to create.

Through this process, I try to make more images that connect personally, perhaps away from popular locations. These may not be to the satisfaction of others and may even bring criticism. In a time of social media, it may not be surprising that seeking popularity, likes, and recognition are drivers for photography. However, does this come at the expense of stifling our own creativity and growth? My advice would be to remove such pressures; be brave when making images, experiment and see where this leads. Starting small projects also helps. I’ve found having focus really can hone our attention to a specific body of work. It can be a very personal thing, allowing us to experiment and build a collection of images based around thoughts, themes, or just our local environment. The collection of images may never be seen other than on the screen of your computer, and this is fine. However, be self-critical: analyse what works and what doesn’t.

Like these images of trees reflected in water. Wandering without intent became a chance encounter with a new location.

I created a series of pictures from this space. No expectations, enjoying the slow pace and quiet time, experimenting with shutter speed and composition. It was an enjoyable couple of hours, finding somewhere new and seeing images I hadn’t expected.

Looking for trees with a different perspective pushed me out of my comfort zone, challenging me to think creatively. The act of taking time really opened my mind to seeing and observing. With no pressure to come away with a photograph, it was a freeing experience.

I find that with no expectations, I really become absorbed by a scene. Noticing how the light falls, particularly at different angles and viewpoints. These subtle conversations with the subject always bring something new and increase my understanding of the subject.

I have used these methods frequently. I personally feel that I am still very much at the beginning of my photography and these techniques help my skills grow. This excites me as I know there is room to improve and see the world in ever-changing ways. I think, if we become static and safe, photography will become boring.

So, let “Dips” become part of the process. If we can learn to accept them — embrace them as changes in our work — and, when they arise, take the time out to reflect on where we are, I believe they can certainly help our thoughts and improvement.

Over time, I have learnt to not let the potential of what I used to see as failure — missed opportunities —overshadow the experience of just being out. If we can change our mindset to one of enjoying the privilege of being in nature, thereby removing the external pressure of pleasing others, we will open up to more creative and expressive image-making and better enjoyment of the adventure.

If we think of a missed opportunity in a negative way, that experience is often remembered as a bad or lesser one. Instead, we should take a positive approach and appreciate the fact that we were there in the moment of that exact time, embracing the lessons it brought, and using them to fuel future opportunities. By reframing our perspective in our peaks and troughs we can transform what initially seemed like a setback into a valuable learning experience, enriching our journey forward. Ride out the Dip!

Hello and welcome to In the Frame.

In this workshop I want to talk about something that us as photographers can often find quietly challenging, summer. We wait for it, and then when it arrives, we sometimes find ourselves a little lost. The landscape fills up with green, everything green, and it can all start to feel a bit… flat. A bit same-y. Where’s the drama? Where’s the contrast?

Its a practise I use to help me see creatively through the summer season.

Green can be an opportunity. And once you start seeing it differently, summer becomes one of the most rewarding times to be out in the landscape.

The Green Problem (That Isn’t Really a Problem)

In winter and autumn, the landscape hands us contrast on a plate, bare branches against pale skies, a palette of wonderful autumn colours. In summer we have to work a little harder, because the palette is narrower. But narrower doesn’t mean poorer. Think of a painter working with a limited palette. The constraints force a different kind of attention.

Summer green is actually dozens of greens. The yellow-green of fresh beech leaves catching the light. The deep, almost blue-green of conifers in shadow. The silvery sage of meadow grasses. The near-black of bracken in a hollow. These differences are subtle, but they’re exactly what gives a summer landscape its depth, if you learn to see them.

What to Look For

Light and Time of Day

The single biggest tool you have in summer is the angle of the light. Harsh midday sun tends to flatten green, it’s bright, it’s uniform, it’s hard to work with. But early morning and evening light is everything. When the sun is low, it rakes across the landscape and suddenly the greens begin to separate. Some are lit, glowing almost gold. Others fall into cool shadow. That’s your contrast, right there, not between different colours, but between light and dark within the same hue.

Overcast days are also worth revisiting with fresh eyes. The soft, diffused light of a cloudy morning is brilliant for revealing tonal differences between greens that harsh sun would blow out. You lose the drama of shadows, but you gain detail and richness in the colour itself.

Tone and Luminosity

Read more

When I first started photographing landscapes, every outing felt like an adventure. I’d leave home in darkness with no real idea what the morning might bring. There were no expectations beyond simply being there. Perhaps the sky would explode with colour, perhaps the mist would settle perfectly across the valley, or perhaps nothing remarkable would happen at all. It didn’t matter. The anticipation of discovering what the landscape might reveal was enough.

As photographers, however, our relationship with the landscape often changes over time. Experience brings knowledge, and knowledge can bring expectation. We learn to recognise conditions, anticipate compositions, and develop a clearer idea of the images we want to create. While these are all valuable parts of growing as photographers, they can also lead us away from the very thing that drew us to photography in the first place.

The pressure to create a successful image can slowly become the dominant focus. We arrive at a location already thinking about the photograph rather than the experience. We judge the light, analyse the weather, and compare reality against the image we had imagined beforehand. When conditions don’t align with our expectations, disappointment can follow, even when we are standing in a beautiful place witnessing something unique.

What strikes me when I revisit older photographs is that many of them would not meet the standards I might apply to my work today. Some are imperfect compositions, others were captured in fairly ordinary conditions. Yet they remain some of my favourite images because they carry memories that go far beyond the photograph itself. They remind me of how I felt, and that feeling was often rooted in curiosity, exploration, and a genuine connection with the landscape.

Photography has a remarkable ability to preserve more than visual information. A photograph can trigger memories of temperature, sound, atmosphere, and emotion. Looking at an image from a frosty morning, I can still remember the crunch of frozen ground beneath my boots and the anticipation of waiting for the first light to appear. Those experiences are inseparable from the photograph itself, and in many ways they are what give it value.

This is why I think it is important to occasionally remind ourselves why we picked up a camera in the first place. For most of us, it wasn’t because we wanted to chase perfection. It was because we were drawn to the outdoors, to exploration, and to the sense of wonder that comes from witnessing a landscape at its best. The camera was simply the tool that allowed us to hold onto those moments.

Whenever I feel myself becoming overly focused on outcomes, I try to return to that mindset. I remind myself that not every trip needs to result in a portfolio image. Sometimes the value lies in the experience itself: the early start, the walk in darkness, the solitude, and the privilege of watching a new day unfold. More often than not, when we stop obsessing over the photograph and immerse ourselves in the landscape, we rediscover the enjoyment that first inspired us to venture out with a camera.

The images we create matter, but they are only part of the story. Long after we’ve forgotten the technical details of an exposure or the number of likes a photograph received, we’ll remember how it felt to stand in that place at that moment. Holding onto that thought can help us stay grounded in our photography and, perhaps more importantly, help us rediscover the joy of simply being out there.

There’s a quiet poetry that runs through Lizzie Shepherd’s photography, a sensitivity to light, texture, and the fleeting moods of the British landscape. Based in North Yorkshire, Lizzie’s work captures both the grand and the intimate: from vast moorland vistas to the subtle interplay of light on woodland leaves. Her images invite the viewer to slow down, to see the natural world not just as scenery, but as a living, breathing space for reflection.

Over the years, Lizzie has built a reputation not only for her evocative imagery but also for her thoughtful approach to teaching and writing about landscape photography. Her workshops and articles encourage photographers to find their own creative voice, to look beyond the obvious and respond to what truly resonates with them

In this conversation, Lizzie shares insights into her creative journey, the emotional pull of the landscape, and the enduring power of curiosity and connection in her work.

You’ve built such a distinctive voice in landscape photography, gentle, reflective, often deeply rooted in the British countryside. What first drew you to explore the landscape through a camera, and how has your vision evolved since then?

Thank you – what a lovely thing for you to say. I’ve owned a camera of one sort or another since the age of 9, but I’d say my focus on the landscape, in particular, didn’t begin until many years later. I think it probably began in my earlier adult life, when we lived in Scotland, and I spent a lot of time out walking in the hills, albeit I have very few decent photographs to show for it. That, and traveling to some incredible places abroad; and then, in time, realising that photography just helps you to see so much more. I now see things I would probably have walked past in my earlier years and I love finding ways to give the quieter landscape a ‘voice’ – although I’m certainly not impartial to the odd grand scene as well!

Many of your images have a quiet, almost meditative quality. When you’re out in nature, what emotional connection are you seeking to express through your work?

In all honesty, I don’t really think of it in those terms. I just love the natural world and find it is a wonderful thing to be able to explore, and to find ways of revealing a little bit of what I see when I’m out there. It’s lovely to know that others connect with my work and I’m happy for everyone to take from this what they like to see or feel, but I’d very much hope it helps to make people realise what a special world we live in and perhaps want to do more to protect what we have.

Your compositions often find beauty in subtle details, textures, reflections, fleeting light. How do you train your eye to see those quieter moments that others might overlook?

Simply by truly looking at what’s in front of me, behind me, at my feet and so on. The extra little details you can see when you really do ‘look’ is amazing and I do think you can train yourself to do that. It was something I made a conscious decision to do, well over a decade ago now. I wasn’t happy just trying to photograph scenes that were considered classically photogenic. I wanted to find something I could enjoy photographing wherever I was, so it was really a mindset change as much as anything. And then, the more you look, the more you see and it just continues – it’s great!

Can you share a moment in your career when everything seemed to “click” either a turning point in your artistic direction or a photograph that changed how you see the landscape?

In reality, I’m sure it was cumulative but there was a day back in spring 2013 when I went out early to photograph a lovely stretch of wooded river, about half an hour away from me. I’d walked there many times and felt sure there were images to be made, but never managed to come back with anything that reflected what I was seeing. This time I did. It was quite a wet morning with lovely soft light and I spent a happy 3 hours or so just exploring, photographing and immersing myself in the landscape. I came back with some images that I was so pleased with and it’s probably when my love of ‘scruff’ was born!

The British landscape is incredibly varied, from the Yorkshire Dales to the Scottish Highlands. How does place and your connection to it, shape the stories you tell through your photographs?

I know many photographers feel place is not important and say it’s all about what you feel, not about what you see. I really don’t think in those terms. Place is hugely important because it’s the landscape that exists wherever you are. I’m not suggesting you should give a grid reference and label it accordingly of course, but the landscape is bigger than all of us and I see it as my role to try to reveal a bit about what makes it special. So, I try to understand a bit about the places I visit and there’s no doubt that the more familiar you are with them, the easier it is to make meaningful work. I wish I was a bit more knowledgeable about the things that shape our land as I think that really does feed into the work we produce. I just wish my memory was better and I could remember more of what I read!

Light is a defining element in your work, often soft, atmospheric, and painterly. How do you approach working with light, and what role does patience play in that process?

In my latest talk, I show examples of images produced in pretty much any kind of light – to show that you can work with whatever you get. Particularly when we are away traveling, we rarely have the luxury of waiting for the right light, so understanding what can work in different conditions are invaluable, as is a willingness just to give it a go and perhaps surprise yourself that you can make something work you thought might be impossible. Of course my preference is for soft light and I particularly enjoy constant and gentle light because I can just focus solely on composing the image and immersing myself in the landscape, with no distractions. I don’t often spend hours waiting for the perfect light in one particular spot – I’d rather keep exploring and take my chances – there’s usually something to be found.

You’ve taught and mentored many photographers. What common challenges do you see newcomers facing, and how do you encourage them to find their own voice in a crowded field?

I think part of the challenge is that you can, to some degree, take a few shortcuts these days, with the advantages and instant feedback that digital photography provides. Yet I think having at least a reasonable understanding of the technical side is important because it allows you to work more instinctively and focus on what it is you want to do or say. Finding your own voice takes a long time I believe, and I also don’t think everyone wants to do that. To me what is most important is to do what you love and enjoy and if that means you simply want to photograph classic scenes in an amazing place, without trying anything new or distinctive, that’s absolutely fine. I’d say in most cases people do want to go beyond this, but I don’t feel there should be a compulsion to do so – it must come from you and we are all different. I like to give people ideas, get them to focus on what it is that attracts them to a particular scene or environment and then see if we can work out together how to achieve that with the camera. For me, that’s what it’s all about and I love helping people to find fulfilment in this way.

In the past you’ve written beautifully about the joy of experimentation, with abstracts, woodland scenes, and different techniques. How important is creative play in keeping your photography fresh and fulfilling?

As above, I do think the same thing is not true for all people. I know that just visiting new places, or returning somewhere in a different season or different weather, these can all help to make fresh images. I think, for me personally, I place less emphasis on experimentation than I did, say, 10 years ago. Perhaps it’s just me getting old, but I find my biggest motivation is to photograph the things I love and to create work that reflects this. If that means repeating myself, then that’s what I’m happy to do. Perhaps that’s creatively lazy, or perhaps my experimentation is more to do with attempting increasingly crazy, complex compositions of crazily chaotic and scruffy woodland. As ever, it comes back to what you see and what speaks to you and finding ways of creating an image that reflects this. If occasionally I can succeed in doing so, that’s motivation enough.

Finally, after years of exploring and teaching landscape photography, what continues to inspire you to head out with your camera, and what keeps that sense of wonder alive?

That’s an easy one to answer – the natural world – it never ceases to amaze me.

You can see more of Lizzie’s beautiful work, including information for prints and workshops at:

https://www.lizzieshepherd.com

Subscribe to Lizzie’s Substack.

Lizzie Shepherd

Professional landscape photographer

Prior to going out with the intent to look for pictures, I can often get the "fear" that I won't see compositions, that I will have lost the ability to see. My last picture made, was literally the last! I'm quite an anxious person by nature, so these feelings generally can be common in my mind. Of course, this doesn't stop me from venturing out. We must fight the fear! Thus, I strap on the boots, pack the equipment, and head out into the unexpected.

The closer I get to the outdoors, away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, these feelings gradually dissipate. Once immersed in the environment, I find it curious that, after feeling the cloud of doubt, sometimes a picture can show itself. A few people have asked me how I find a picture, and it is such a difficult question to answer. It can depend on our mood, as some images reveal themselves more obviously than others. I always believe that we should let the landscape find us rather than trying to force it. It could be just a passing glimpse as we wander, suggesting that there is something worth exploring. Perhaps it's tangled up in a wider view, teasing us to stop and explore further. This is where the joy lies.

From the moment we become absorbed by the scene, stopping, slowing down, and living in the moment as if time is standing still, we realise that the landscape doesn't always give up the view easily. Sometimes, we have to accept defeat, at least for the time being. We can hope that maybe next time we pass this way, the view will become clear. However, just occasionally, we find the view that first showed itself, and our hearts beat a little faster. It is in these moments that the true enjoyment of photography lies, trying to work out the puzzle that the landscape presents us with.

Join me on a wander in the Peak District on another sound diary episode. As always, thank you for tuning in!

The beauty of this time lies in the silence. I’ve never quite been able to describe the feeling these early hours bring. The world feels asleep, as though the morning exists for me alone.

I love visiting this part of the Peak District, its dales and valleys endlessly beautiful. Dry stone walls meander across the landscape at gravity defying angles, climbing hillsides that seem almost vertical. I make my way down the valley, meadow flowers lining the path, birdsong and the first hint of warmth in the sky keeping me company.

As I enter the gorge, the sound changes. Towering fifty-foot walls close around me, and with them the atmosphere shifts too. The history of this place seems to engulf the senses. My footsteps echo from the stone, bouncing between the walls as I walk. In the dawn darkness the imagination can run wild.

I’m heading for a place called Parsons Tor, a rocky outcrop standing high above the valley. Legend says it was named after a local vicar who in 1776, late one evening, fell to his death while making his way home. It’s said that if you listen carefully, you can still hear his cries echoing through the dales.

In summertime, this place truly comes alive. Tall grasses sway among wild orchids, and every step must be taken with care so as not to damage the delicate flora and fauna that thrive here.

Unfortunately, by the time I reach my destination, the mist has all but vanished. Even so, the view is beautiful. Skylarks call overhead, their songs drifting across the still morning air, while the valley below lies silent and unmoving. Now comes the patient wait for the sun to creep over the hillside and slowly spill light into the scene.

As I frame the composition, I’m pleased to find the grasses and wildflowers glowing softly in the dawn light, grounding the photograph firmly in this fleeting season. Yet despite the warmth beginning to touch the valley, something about the tor still feels cold. The wind has disappeared completely, and every so often the silence feels just a little too deep.

I linger for a while, opening the coffee flask and simply taking in the morning. Somewhere beyond the rocks, a single sound echoes briefly through the valley, sharp enough to make me glance over my shoulder before the silence swallows it again. A cry from the Parson? not this time. Maybe he’ll make an appearance on my next visit.

I just wanted to send a quick thank you for subscribing and supporting my work. I truly appreciate your support and am grateful to have you here.

As a small thank you, I’ve put together a Landscape Photography Guide Book. A downloadable resource filled with tips, techniques, and insights from my experience behind the camera.

I hope it helps inspire your own photography adventures and creative process.

Thank you again for being here and supporting what I do.

Matt.

Read more

It’s a dark place at times, the light often filtered and subdued, and the trees grow close together, as if in small, tight-knit groups. They feel less like individuals and more like gatherings, cliques or tribes, huddled beneath a shared canopy. Within these clusters, I begin to see small narratives emerge, fragments of conversation, moments of tension or stillness, subtle interactions between forms.

I’ve been building a series of images here, and these particular photographs focus on the regeneration of spring. New leaves begin to appear, softening the starkness of the branches, and there’s a sense of life returning. This season draws me out early, rising before the day fully begins, to work in that quiet space where the light is gentle and the woodland feels most alive.

What keeps me returning is this sense of discovery. I wander without a fixed plan, searching for those small, fleeting scenes, incidents of place that suggest something more. In these moments, the woodland becomes less a landscape and more a stage, where stories quietly unfold.

This is a place for sharing my thoughts, reflections, and ongoing practice of landscape photography. Through images and words, I hope to explore the connection between place, light, memory, and the natural world.

I’m glad you’re here, and I hope you enjoy following along.

Right now, a small number of countries and an even smaller circle of people are determining the future of the human race. Behind closed doors, AI and even AGI are advancing at an astonishing pace, technologies that may reshape our lives in ways beyond our imagination. The people building these systems openly admit they do not fully understand the intelligence they are creating, some estimate a significant chance that this path could lead to catastrophic or even existential consequences.

And yet, none of us were asked whether we wanted this.
Will these technologies genuinely improve our lives?
Will they create a utopia, a paradise of abundance, convenience, and effortlessness?
A world where we never need anything, yet feel mysteriously hollow? It is precisely in the face of this emptiness that art becomes not a luxury, but a necessity?

In a time when technology promises to eliminate uncertainty, (although I feel this could be quite the opposite!) art invites us into it.
In a time when algorithms sort, predict, and optimise every part of our lives, art gives us permission to be contradictory, unresolved, irrational. Machines may one day replicate style, mimic emotion, or imitate creativity, but they cannot feel. They cannot doubt, surrender, yearn, or be undone. Art is the language of these inner states, the ones that make life bearable, meaningful, and real.

As artificial intelligence expands, the danger is not only technological dependence but psychological separation. Erich Fromm, in The Sane Society, warned that modern industrial systems risk producing individuals who are outwardly functional but inwardly estranged, people disconnected from feeling, spontaneity, and meaning. His critique feels even more urgent today. In a world increasingly mediated by intelligent machines, human beings risk becoming passive, efficient, and emotionally numbed. Art resists this numbness.

If AI shapes the structures of the future, the arts will shape what it means to inhabit that future. If we are not given a voice in the technological decisions that may determine our collective fate, then art becomes the space where we can still assert our humanity, where we can ask the questions machines cannot fully grasp

Who are we? What do we value? What do we fear?
What do we hope for? What do we refuse to surrender?

Art is how we stay human. Not because it is perfect, but because it is imperfect in the exact ways we are. Not because it is efficient, but because it is alive.
Not because it knows the answers, but because it helps us hold the questions.

This post was inspired by a recent documentary “Grayson Perry Has Seen the Future”. He explored these same tensions between technology, identity, and what it means to remain human in an AI-driven age. But beyond every prediction about the future lies a deeper truth, if we surrender the emotional, imaginative, and uncertain parts of ourselves in the pursuit of progress, then no technological advancement will compensate for what is lost.

Because the future may be artificial. But our humanity must not be.

I’ve been a commercial photographer for around 30 years, and I’ve experienced the impact AI is having on this sector of photography. I’m hopeful that, landscape and nature photography will be much more resilient to the advances of AI. As humans, I feel we seek something more real and something that we can feel and relate to.

How do you see the future, within photography, art and creativity? Has the advance of AI effected you or your process?

I’d love to know your thoughts?

Thank you for reading, Matt.

Mass Gathering.

What drew me to this view was the complete imperfection of nature. The beautiful Birch tree. Each one individual, curved and cranky, yet each one perfect in its own way.

First of all, a huge thank you for subscribing. Your support genuinely means a lot to me. I’m really grateful to have such an engaged group of readers who are interested not only in the final images, but also in the craft and decisions that go into creating them.

I have had a couple of people ask how I edit my work. Over the course of this year, I’ll be publishing more of these editing room sessions. While my main content will always remain available to all subscribers, I’m sharing these as something extra to say thank you for your support. The idea behind them is to take you behind the scenes and show exactly how I approach the editing stage of my photography.

Rather than only presenting finished images, I want to walk through the process step by step, explaining the adjustments I make, why I make them, and how those choices help shape the final look and feel of the photograph. I hope you find these sessions interesting and useful.

In this particular tutorial, I’m looking at a couple of woodland scenes and demonstrating how I edited them from the original files through to the finished versions. Woodland photography can often be quite challenging to process because of the complex textures, changing light, and the subtle balance between shadow and detail. In the video I talk through how I approach these challenges and how small adjustments can make a significant difference to the overall mood of the image.

Read more

A special woodland, this place, ancient and full of character. Twisted oaks rise around every corner, while a rocky gorge winds its way through the valley below. Many of these trees have likely stood for hundreds of years, each alive with a personality of its own. It is all too easy to lose hours here, and not a single minute feels wasted. Every visit reveals something new, the changing seasons, the shifting light, the endless small details that so often go unnoticed at first glance. After heavy rain, the water rages through the gorge, the sound filling the valley with a raw power that stirs the senses.

Having visited this place many times over the years, photographing it became a gradual process of understanding the light, learning when this wonderful tree would reveal itself at its very best. The scene is actually made up of several trees, each one playing its part in the composition, each adding balance, shape, and depth. As photographers, we often wish for mist, knowing how beautifully it can simplify a woodland scene and add atmosphere among the trees. But sometimes the real reward comes from working with the conditions we find, waiting patiently for the light to transform the familiar into something magical.

At certain times of year, when the canopy is bare and the rising sun reaches just the right angle, this little corner of the wood comes alive. Backlit by the morning sun, catches the air and illuminates a single twisted branch, drawing the eye. In that moment the woodland feels enchanted, as though this branch were a throne or resting place for some hidden mythical creature, revealed only briefly in the golden light.

It is these fleeting moments that make returning worthwhile, the chance that familiar ground might suddenly become extraordinary.

Old rig. Hardwick.

Stan used to sit right there, on that small, weathered wooden rig at the edge of the lake. You can almost see him still, boots planted, line cast, breathing in the quiet as if it were something rare and sacred. He never came here to catch fish, not really. He came for the stillness, for the way the world seemed to pause and make room for him.

Now the rig stands empty.

The wood has gone a little softer with time, the edges a little worn, but it waits all the same,faithful, patient, just as it did for Stan every morning he arrived before the sun had fully decided to rise. The water mirrors the trees like it always did, holding the sky and the branches and the silence in perfect balance. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has.

There’s a sadness here, gentle but undeniable. It lingers in the untouched surface of the lake, in the absence of ripples where his line once fell. It rests in the quiet where his soft humming used to live. The world carries on, but it carries him differently now. And still, there is something warm in it too. Because this place remembers him.

In the hush of the fog, in the frost clinging to the grass, in the patient stillness of that empty rig, Stan is not entirely gone. He is in the peace he loved, in the calm that wraps itself around the lake like an embrace. The quiet he cherished now holds him in return.

So the rig stands, not abandoned, but devoted. Waiting, remembering, honouring.And if you stand there long enough, listening, not just with your ears, but with whatever part of you understands stillness, you might feel it too. Not just the ache of absence, but the quiet, enduring joy of having been there at all.

Hello.

I’ve been working on a photography project that’s been particularly meaningful to me, and I’ve brought the work together into an ebook that I’m really pleased to finally release.

Before anything else, I just want to say a genuine thank you to all of you who support my work as paid subscribers. Your support makes a real difference, it gives me the time and space to pursue projects like this, and to continue sharing both the images and the process behind them. I don’t take that for granted.

The ebook itself is a collection of images from this recent project, along with some thoughts and reflections.

I wanted to make this available as a download as a small way of saying thank you for your support, and for being part of this community. I hope you enjoy spending some time with the images, and that it gives you a sense of the project as a whole. You can download a copy below.

The bracken uncurls

not leaf, not creature,

but something between.

A slow, deliberate geometry,

green spirals tasting the air,

as if remembering a world

older than names.

For a moment,

it feels almost alien

life arriving from elsewhere,

patient, unmistakably alive.

As always, I’d love to hear what you think. And there’s plenty more to come, I’ll be continuing to share new work, along with behind-the-scenes editing sessions and tutorials in the months ahead.

Read more

I often find that my photography year begins quite slowly. Like the seasons, or a bear emerging from hibernation, it’s a gradual process of acclimatising after the slumber of winter. These months are dark, and this year in particular has felt especially grey, very grey and heavy with rain.

As I sit here trying to gather a few words, it’s a glorious day outside, blue skies and unseasonably warm for early April. There’s a long list of jobs waiting to be done, and the garden is returning to life, buds forming, blossom appearing. It’s wonderful. With this seasonal burst of growth, I feel my own energy returning too. I enjoy trying to stay in sync with these changes.

As the weather warms and the humidity rises, the promise of a foggy morning is never far away. In a previous post, I wrote about embracing the bare nature of the landscape, the twisted forms of trees offering something quite different from the fullness of summer or the colour of autumn. Learning to understand composition in these stripped-back scenes is a valuable exercise, one that really opens the eyes.

On a recent foggy morning, with time and opportunity on my side, I headed out with Ralph to wander among the trees in a favourite spot. A place full of history and local myths and legends. It was completely still and quiet, not a breath of wind, which meant the conditions would linger, allowing for a calmer, more deliberate approach to the morning’s photography. Perfect for the feeling of this place.

I always find that once the first image is made, however good or bad, the rhythm of photography begins. My eyes start to see frames and images within the landscape. The distant calls of grouse and curlew added to the atmosphere, and I was lucky enough to have the place to myself, walking slowly, searching for pictures.

It became a matter of finding characters and relationships between the shapes of the silver birches. It’s a constant learning curve, but one that keeps drawing me back, a path of quiet improvement in this magical woodland..

As ever thanks for reading

Matt

For more info please visit www.mattoliverphotography.com

Prints available.

The more I learn and improve my photography, with light, with composition, with patience , the more I realise that story is an important ingredient in the process of creating an image.

This doesn’t have to be anything complicated or dramatic. Sometimes the “story” in a photograph is very simple. A fallen tree catching a shaft of light. A narrow path winding its way through a stand of trees. A patch of mist hanging between trunks on a quiet morning. These small moments can carry just enough suggestion to draw the viewer in.

For a long time, especially when I was learning, my attention was focused mostly on the technical side of photography. Light, exposure, composition, the fundamental building blocks of making a good photograph. Those things still matter, of course, and always will. But over time I’ve started to realise that technique alone rarely makes an image memorable.

Something else needs to be present. Something that gives the image a sense of purpose.

Particularly with woodland photography, there is a temptation to simply point the camera at a scene, a group of trees, perhaps, especially when the light and conditions look good. The forest can be full of atmosphere on the right day: soft light filtering through branches, mist drifting through the trunks, leaves glowing after rain. When you first encounter these moments it is easy to feel that the photograph is already there, waiting to be taken.

So we press the shutter. And sometimes that works.

But more and more I find myself slowing down and asking a simple question before I take the photograph: what’s the story here? What is it about this scene that caught my attention in the first place? What am I trying to show the viewer?

Often the answer is not obvious at first. Woodland scenes can be visually complex. There are branches crossing everywhere, layers of trunks, patches of light and shadow competing for attention. Without a clear subject the photograph can quickly become confusing.

That is where the idea of story becomes useful.

When I say story, I don’t mean something literal or cinematic. A photograph doesn’t need a beginning, middle and end. More often the story is simply a suggestion, something that gives the viewer a place to rest their eye and a reason to stay with the image for a moment longer.

Perhaps it is a single tree standing apart from the others. Perhaps it is the way a shaft of light isolates a fallen trunk against a darker background. Perhaps it is a path disappearing into the distance, inviting the viewer to imagine where it might lead. It could be the relationships of the trees together, how the shape and form respond within the scene.

These small elements create a sense of direction within the frame. They help guide the viewer through the image.

I remember standing in a woodland one winter morning when the light was soft and low. At first glance it looked like any other patch of forest, a tangle of trunks and branches, nothing particularly remarkable. My first instinct was simply to photograph the scene in front of me.

But after a few moments I noticed a fallen tree lying across the forest floor. A narrow beam of sunlight had found its way through the canopy and landed directly on the trunk, while everything around it remained in shadow. Suddenly the scene felt different. The fallen tree became the subject, almost like a quiet monument resting among the darker shapes of the forest.

That small shift in attention changed the photograph completely.

Instead of capturing the entire woodland, I focused on that single relationship between light and subject. The image became simpler, more intentional, and hopefully, more engaging for the viewer.

For me, this is where photography begins to feel more challenging, but also far more rewarding.

In the past I might have returned from a walk with dozens of photographs. Many were pleasant enough, but very few stayed with me for long. They showed what the woodland looked like, but they didn’t necessarily say much about how it felt to stand there.

Now I often come home with far fewer images. Sometimes only one or two. Occasionally none at all.

Searching for a story slows the whole process down. I spend more time looking, moving around a scene, waiting for the right balance between light, shape and subject. Sometimes the photograph never quite appears, and that’s fine. The act of observing more carefully is part of the reward.

The woods have a way of encouraging that slower pace anyway. Their beauty often reveals itself quietly, in subtle changes of light, in the texture of bark, in the way mist softens the distance between trees.

The more time I spend photographing in woodland, the more I find myself drawn to those quieter moments.

I may make fewer images that I’m truly happy with, but the ones that work feel more complete. They carry something beyond the technical details of exposure and composition. They hold a small sense of place, a fragment of atmosphere, a moment that felt worth noticing.

And increasingly, whenever I lift the camera in the woods, that is the question that guides me.

What’s the story here?