Exactly one year ago today, our first 52 Week Project post went public, and it was our self-portraits. Last week, the project concluded, again with a self-portrait, and this was my final image. It feels a little odd now, that this weekly commitment that seemed both exciting (to see what everyone else came up with, and how the images connected with each other), and at times demanding, has ceased. Still, sometimes it’s nice to have a sense of finality for a project, and if we left wanting more, that’s probably the right time to leave…




Almost a whole year ago, I started a 52-week project with a group of like-minded individuals/photographers. Once a week, we post a photo that responds to a theme that (most of the time) I have selected. It’s been an interesting, surprising, challenging, and rewarding experience – I love seeing how the others choose to interpret the theme each week.

This is my shot from last week – the theme was ‘A flower’. It’s one of my favourites. The images are different to those I normally share here on my personal blog – they are part of a longer process, a result of intention and creation rather than reaction and observation. I like that. I like the shift in thinking. I like the flexibility to work in both methods.

Most of all, I like the sharing, and the feeling of working together to create something. I generally feel as though I would keep taking photos even if I never shared them (and I have a backlog of several thousand unshared shots to provide weight to that feeling), but in reality, I’m not so sure… there’s something about growth through feedback, growth through motivation, growth through constraint.

Anyway, our year is almost over. I’m already starting to miss it…




Images alone
words alone…
they are threads;

They must be spun.

And when they have been thrown
around and around and around,
their colours weaving together,
then they are

And I could no sooner say
which thread came
than I could unravel them
from the very middle.

The beauty,
the tension,
the resolution –
it’s all there in the spinning.




I am still picking up the pieces
of what I imagined I would be.

Some of them are easy to find;
they are close by,
they shine brightly,
calling for attention.

They group together in clusters,
little galaxies of habit, pattern, routine.

But others are further away,
alone, quiet,
easy to miss.

They lie in the shadows,
dusty, dim, forgotten.

I am looking for those pieces,
before they are lost
to the winds
of forgetting,
spiralling away to aimlessness,
as the pattern is lost.