There’s something about black and white that continues to pull me in, no matter how much the world leans into colour. As someone who works across sensual nude, portraiture, sport, street photography and more, I’ve come to appreciate just how timeless and powerful these two tones really are. Black and white isn’t just a stylistic choice for me. It’s a mindset. A way of seeing.
When I shoot in black and white, especially in my sensual portrait work, I’m reminded that the human body doesn’t need colour to be expressive. Texture, form, light, shadow, those are the real storytellers. Removing colour peels away the noise. What’s left is vulnerability, strength, softness and tension. All the contradictions that make us human. In many ways, it allows me to photograph not just what the subject looks like, but what they feel like.
Street photography in black and white hits differently. Without colour to seduce or distract, you see the grit of a city, the tension in a gesture, the geometry of a shadow falling across pavement. It feels more documentary, more direct. There’s no place to hide. I think that’s why I keep returning to it, because black and white feels like truth, even if it’s not always beautiful. Or maybe because it is.
Sport is fast. Chaotic. Full of adrenaline and movement. But in black and white, something changes. There’s a kind of poetry in the freeze-frame, a single drop of sweat, the twist of a body mid-air, the quiet before impact. The drama doesn’t need neon lighting or vibrant uniforms. It lives in contrast. In motion frozen just long enough to feel it.
I love colour. I use it often even though I am challenged by being colourblind. But there’s a certain kind of photograph that just demands to be in black and white. Sometimes I don’t even realize it until I see it that way. A shadow on a wall. A face in the half-light. A street corner at 5 a.m. Black and white has a way of turning the ordinary into something cinematic. Iconic, even. Like it’s always been waiting to be seen.
Some of the photographers I admire most, both classics and contemporaries, built their bodies of work in black and white. It’s a language with history. Referencing it in my own work feels like a quiet handshake with the past. It keeps me grounded, especially when I’m exploring genres as different as nudes and street. No matter the subject, black and white creates a thread between images. A throughline of tone and intention.
For me, black and white isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about impact. It’s about intimacy. It's about showing less but saying more. I use it not just because I’m colourblind, it’s because I want the viewer to feel something without being told what to feel.
In a world chasing more, more colour, more resolution, more everything, I find peace in less. And black and white reminds me that simplicity still speaks the loudest.
