“Who do you work for?” If you’re a photographer, you’ve probably heard this question countless times. Over the past 4 Years, it’s a phrase that has followed me, asked by people with varying motives. Some are genuinely curious; others ask as if they’re trying to place you in a box, trying to label or judge your worth based on your answer.

But here's the thing—whether the question comes from sincere interest or thinly veiled judgment, it misses the point entirely.

Money and the Reality of Artistic Pursuits

To those outside the creative world, it may come as a surprise that photography—like many artistic fields—doesn't exactly promise financial security. In fact, you might be better off becoming a plumber (no disrespect to plumbers or photographers, of course). The irony of choosing a creative path is that while the work can be deeply rewarding, it’s often an uphill battle to make it financially viable.

For those who choose to stay the course, photographers are among the most hardworking and determined people you’ll meet. They hustle constantly, chasing gigs, managing their time, and striving to create something meaningful. Yet, the conversation always circles back to this: “Do you work for a major outlet like the BBC or ITN?” The answer, for me, is always the same: “No, and I don’t want to either.”

Why? Because for me, control over my work is non-negotiable. I don’t want to be told by an editor what to shoot or how to interpret the world through my lens. There’s an excellent clip by photographer Peter Lindbergh (you can find it on my IGTV) that sums up my thoughts on this perfectly. Photography, for me, isn’t just about making money—it’s about capturing moments in a way that feels authentic to me.

The Struggle Between Money and Creative Freedom

At the heart of it, the real question isn't "Who do you work for?" but rather "What do you work for?" It’s a balancing act—one that many photographers grapple with. Should you prioritize money, or should you fight to maintain creative control over your work? Achieving both is rare, and it often feels like only a handful of photographers, like the famous Tyler Shields, manage to pull it off.

This is where the dilemma lies. Do you sacrifice your vision for a steady paycheck, or do you cling to your creative integrity, knowing that financial success may be elusive? For me, the choice has always been clear: I work for my vision, not for the money. And while this might not be the most lucrative path, it’s one that keeps me aligned with my passions.

The Public’s Perception of Photographers: Assumed Motivations

One of the most frustrating aspects of working as a photographer, especially in public spaces, is the lack of understanding and trust from the general public. Whether I’m covering politics, social issues, or even something as simple as a local event, I’ve often been treated with suspicion—by both the public and the authorities.

There’s an unfortunate stereotype that if you have a camera in your hand, you must be part of the “media machine,” with all the negative connotations that come with it. It doesn’t matter whether I’m there to capture a moment of human connection or to document a significant event—more often than not, people assume I don’t belong, or worse, that I’m somehow exploiting the situation for personal gain.

This experience, of being treated like an outsider, has only strengthened my resolve to continue doing what I love. Yes, it can be disheartening to feel unwelcome in the very spaces you’re trying to document, but there’s something deeply rewarding about capturing these moments, even when the public doesn’t always see the value in what we do.

Why I’d Do This For Free: Unbounded by Money

The truth is, if the conditions were right, I’d do photography for free—forever. There’s something about this craft that goes beyond the need for financial compensation. Photography allows me to express myself, to capture fleeting moments, and to tell stories that might otherwise go unnoticed. It’s not just about feeding or sheltering myself; it’s about passion and purpose.

Don’t get me wrong—money is necessary to survive. But I’ve reached a point in my career where the driving force behind my work is no longer financial. If someone is hiring me, they’re not just paying for my time or skills; they’re paying for me—my perspective, my creativity, and my approach to photography. Anything else, quite frankly, doesn’t interest me.

This isn’t to say that I’ll never work for money. There may come a time when circumstances change, and I’ll need to reassess my priorities. But for now, my focus is on the craft itself—the artistry, the message, and the stories I want to tell.

You Can’t Buy Inspiration

It may sound clichéd, but it’s true: you can’t buy inspiration, creativity, or passion. No amount of money can fuel the drive I have to create meaningful work. Sure, money can buy better equipment or provide access to new opportunities, but it can’t replicate the fire that keeps me going.

My motivation comes from a deeper place—a commitment to my craft, a love for the philosophies and ideas behind photography, and the influence of those who have come before me. I draw inspiration from design and photography legends like Barbara Kruger, Massimo Vignelli, David Carson, Peter Lindbergh, Helmut Newton, and Nobuyoshi Araki. But just as importantly, I’m inspired by my contemporaries—my friends and colleagues who are pushing the boundaries of what’s possible in our field.

Photography as Social Commentary

In recent years, I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to social and political issues, particularly in my hometown of London. There’s something powerful about watching a story unfold in real-time, documenting it, and seeing how it captures the public’s attention—or how it quietly fades away. Being able to bear witness to these moments and contribute to the broader narrative is a privilege, one that money simply can’t buy.

Ultimately, photography is about more than just making a living. It’s about capturing life—its beauty, its chaos, its triumphs, and its struggles. And while the question of “Who do you work for?” may never go away, the answer will always be the same: I work for myself, for the stories I want to tell, and for the truth I want to capture.