Before the Project Begins

Learning to Read and Write

The hardest thing I ever had to learn was how to express myself. I grew up in a “boys don’t cry” world where feelings were not spoken of, and because I rarely named what I felt, I never developed the vocabulary to describe it. English was my second language, and, as a teenager, I resisted it in school; that rebellion left my expressive vocabulary rudimentary at best.

Years ago, I took the first of a three‑part workshop that introduced photographers to the Language of Photography and, in doing so, to the wider world of art. We were asked to write, How does this make you feel? I froze. I could sense emotions but could not name them. Later I learned there is a term for this difficulty: emotional literacy—the ability to recognise, name, and understand feelings. And the act of putting those feelings into words is emotional articulation. I had neither skill at the time, and that moment forced a change: I began to practice not only looking more closely at images but also learning to put those responses into language.

Learning to name my reactions reshaped my relationship to art. I started to see how composition, small details, and the tiniest, seemingly unrelated elements alter meaning. I learned to read images more attentively and to write about what they do to me. That discipline made me a better critic, a more thoughtful competition judge, and ultimately a more deliberate photographer.

Writing followed naturally from that work. I used prose to expand my photographic vocabulary; poetry became a way to practice expressive language. Then, in late January 2020, when the first COVID hospital lockdowns began, my wife was hospitalized. She was nonverbal but could hear and understand. Writing poems about my feelings became essential; for three years I read them to her during daily visits until she passed in early 2023. I learned a lot about writing and poetry in those three years.

“Learning to read and write” is literal and metaphorical. I read widely—essays, research, poetry—and I write critiques, blog posts, and articles. But more importantly, as an artist, I learned to read and write emotions and to read and write the Language of Photography. Those three literacies—literal, emotional, photographic—are inseparable, and each enriches the others.

Studying photography’s language and learning poetry and English as tools for the arts changed how I title images. I already valued titles, but I came to understand how a thoughtful title can transform a viewer’s perception; a poor title can undo a good photograph, while a careful one can open new ways of seeing.

Emotional Literacy & Articulation in Long‑Form Projects

The Inner Architecture of Long‑Form Work

As I continued developing my practice, I realised that emotional literacy and emotional articulation are not just personal skills—they are foundational to building long‑form photography projects, or any artistic project. A project is not simply a collection of images; it is a sustained emotional inquiry. To understand what your project is truly about, you must be able to recognise the emotional thread running through your work. That is emotional literacy.

But recognising emotion is only half the work. You must also be able to articulate it—to name the mood, the tension, the longing, the unease, the tenderness that keeps appearing in your frames. Emotional articulation becomes the bridge between intuition and intention. It helps you understand why certain images belong together, why others do not, and what the project is quietly trying to say.

In long‑form work, emotional literacy guides your seeing; emotional articulation guides your shaping. Together they help you build projects that are not just visually coherent but emotionally resonant. They help you write clearer artist statements, choose stronger titles, and make more deliberate editorial decisions. They help you understand not only what you are photographing, but why.

And ultimately, they help you create work that speaks—work that carries the weight of lived experience, work that feels honest, work that invites the viewer into a deeper conversation.

Before the Project Begins

The Groundwork of What Comes Next

Before the project exists on a gallery wall or the page of a book, it must first exist within the artist.

In the end, learning to read and write—literally, emotionally, and photographically—became the foundation of my artistic life. Emotional literacy taught me to recognise what stirs beneath the surface of an image; emotional articulation taught me to give those stirrings shape, tone, and language. Together they form the quiet engine behind any long‑form photographic project, or any artistic project: they help you understand not only what you are making, but what the work is asking of you. As I continue the eight‑part series The Architecture of a Photographic Project, these literacies become the scaffolding—each post exploring how attention, intention, and emotional clarity build a project from its first instinct to its final form. The work of reading and writing, of naming and shaping, is the work of architecture: it is how a single image becomes a structure you can inhabit, and how a project becomes a place where meaning gathers and grows.