Why Ordinary Places Now Mean More to Me Than Spectacular Ones
By the time we arrived at Byron Bay Lighthouse, the car park was almost full.
The sky was a perfect blue. Visitors wandered between the lighthouse and the lookout, cameras and phones pointed towards the ocean.
Dolphins surfaced below the cliffs.
A fishing boat drifted across the bay.
The lighthouse stood exactly where every postcard says it should.
Returning home, I downloaded my photos and reviewed them. They look technically good. Almost like the postcard.
But they left me strangely unmoved.
On another occasion, we drove into Yandina to visit an art gallery they have in a historic house. After looking at the artwork, we drove to the main part of the town. As we came round a corner, we saw the remains of an old timber railway bridge still standing beside the new bridge.
We had to stop the car. Neither of us knew the old bridge was there. What caught my attention wasn’t simply its weathered timber, but the fact that it had been left standing after the new bridge was built.
Its continued presence felt almost like an act of respect.
I pondered what stories were hidden in its history.
I think we spent half an hour taking shots from different angles and different sides.
This set of images has quietly stayed with me. Whenever I look back on them, it brings a smile to my face.
The spontaneous stop to take the photos.
The marvel of how construction was done.
It took me years to realise I wasn’t looking for beautiful places anymore.
I was looking for honest ones.
Beauty Gets Our Attention. Honesty Holds It.
When I first thought about those two locations and the difference in my reaction to the photographs I made, I was surprised.
It puzzled me.
Surely the famous lighthouse should have produced the photographs I treasured.
Instead, I kept returning to the old bridge.
And slowly I began to understand the difference.
Whenever I visited a beautiful place, the impact was immediate.
Beautiful places impress.
Honest places invite me to stay. They welcome my return.
I have found that honesty unfolds slowly.
It’s the photograph of the peeling paint. A cracked footpath. The faded sign. Empty benches. Rusted fences. They aren’t perfect or beautiful.
And those imperfections create questions.
Questions create stories.
Stories create emotional connection.
Photography Changed the Way I Defined Beauty
Like all new photographers learning their craft, beauty was my benchmark for a good image. I chased the dramatic light.
The spectacular sunrise or sunset.
The grandness of landscapes that were in focus from foreground to background.
My photographer friends looking at one of my photos and admiring how tack sharp it was.
In many respects, my validation was based on achieving what others thought made great photography. Competition judges. Camera club colleagues.
For a while, I measured my photography by someone else’s standards.
Gradually, I realised I was no longer drawn to scenes that shouted for attention.
I became fascinated by things other photographers walked past.
Weathered timber.
Rusted bolts.
Faded paint.
The ordinary details that quietly carried the marks of time.
I realised I wasn’t photographing places anymore.
I was photographing character.
Honest Places Carry Their History Openly
Beautiful places often feel untouched.
Whereas honest places show they’ve survived.
And survival is something I respect.
I find something very special in being able to photograph old jetties or old wooden railway bridges. It’s like they invite me to imagine the lives they have witnessed.
Faded shopfronts are also fascinating. They stir my imagination about the lives they once held. I can see images in my mind of customers lined up at the door being welcomed by the shopkeeper.
Sandstone walls, worn timber and old fishing boats all carry traces of the past.
Each has been through many seasons and time has left its mark on them. Over the years, many people have walked across the weathered wooden timber verandah floor in front of the shop. The floor carries little parts of each of those people in the stories it holds.
Old fishing boats have fed many locals in that community over the years.
I am learning to understand how wear tells stories.
Just as wrinkles do.
Just as old friendships do.
Ordinary Doesn’t Mean Uninteresting
Marie and I have visited beaches that many would consider to be ordinary. They don’t have the spectacular features that the famous ones have. I enjoy walking around the shoreline with my camera and photographing objects such as small shells washed up on the sand. Patterns left on the beach by footsteps and the receding tide also catch my attention and feature in photographs I look back on fondly.
One time we walked into an empty café in a small town, and it felt like stepping back in time. The only reminders of now were the modern cash register and eft-pos machine for payments. The walls carried local artwork and community stories. We had coffee and cake there and still remember it fondly.
A place doesn’t need to be famous.
It simply needs to feel lived in for me to discover meaning there.
I’ve walked through spectacular places and forgotten them.
I’ve stood beside an ordinary river and remembered it for years.
Maybe I’m Really Looking for Honest Moments
My memories today are more around honest moments. And the photographs I look back on and treasure most have this quality too.
Perhaps I’m not searching for honest locations at all.
Maybe it’s really about what I am searching for in life.
I sometimes wonder whether photography has changed what I value, or whether getting older has changed both.
The older I become, the less interested I am in perfection.
I find myself drawn to authenticity instead.
Not just in photographs.
In people.
In conversations.
In friendships.
In myself.
My photography simply reflects that shift in my thinking and values.
Closing Reflection
I still enjoy visiting beautiful places.
But I no longer expect beauty alone to move me.
Increasingly, it is the weathered places that linger with me.
The places that have endured.
The places that wear their history openly.
Those are the places I return to.
Not because they are perfect.
Because they are honest.
Originally published in Full Frame, The Art of Photography