Tag: travel

Snow Leopard of Mongolia Workshop Report January 2026

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In January of 2026, I ran an all-new Snow Leopard workshop in far northwestern Mongolia. This workshop ran from the 13th of January until the 23rd of January and took us into an all-new region in the Hungai mountains. This location is lower in altitude than the previous location we had been using and has significantly less hiking (although the climbing is still considerable and not for the faint of heart). Like my Pallas Cat of Eastern Mongolia Report, this trip report will be a little different to the norm and includes a number of daily video updates from the field. Due to my heavy travel schedule, I will come back later in the year and update this post with still photographs from the trip as time permits.

Our journey to the snow leopard began in the capital city of Ulanbataar, with a two-hour flight to Khovd in Mongolia’s northwestern region. From here, we then drove seven hours to our remote camp nestled amongst the Margaz mountains (a smaller area of the Hungai mountains) – our cozy home away from home for the duration of the workshop. Each Gyr, or Yurt, is equipped with a coal-fired stove for warmth, a bed, a wash basin, lighting and even wifi. Our base served as the perfect location to search the vast mountainous landscape for the snow leopard.

As fortune would have it, we never even made it to camp before our first encounter with a snow leopard. With our spotters and trackers already in the field, we took a short detour not far from camp to see a mother with two cubs our trackers had found high on a rocky mountain just prior to sunset. Although sunset was upon us and it was too late in the day to begin an arduous climb to attempt to photograph them, we still relished the experience. To find and see a wild Snow Leopard with her two cubs so early in our trip was an absolute blessing. The cherry on the cake was several Ibex that posed, silhouetted for us high on the precipitous mountain tops.


Finding and photographing the snow leopard is one of wildlife photography’s greatest challenges, demanding extraordinary patience, endurance, and respect for the harsh environments these elusive cats call home. Often referred to as the “ghost of the mountains,” snow leopards blend seamlessly into vast alpine landscapes, making even a single sighting feel like an extraordinary gift. Days can pass scanning ridgelines and valleys in biting cold and thin air, with no guarantee of success, which only deepens the emotional impact when a snow leopard finally reveals itself. Each encounter is a true privilege—a fleeting moment of connection with one of the planet’s most secretive predators that serves as a powerful reminder of both the fragility and the wonder of the wild. Every encounter is an absolute gift and is never to be taken for granted.

Over the course of the next eight days, we made daily sunrise and afternoon sojourns into the field in search of leopards. From our camp location, we were ringed by mountains, all of which had potential for leopard sightings (as well as Corsak fox and Ibex). Using our team of expert local trackers, we had multiple encounters with snow leopards during our trip. As luck would have it, the very best of these encounters was with a mother and three first-year cubs. We were able to spend most of the day photographing the cubs high on the mountainside with superb results. An encounter such as this is an absolute gift and very much a once-in-a-lifetime experience. In addition to snow leopards, we also photographed Golden Eagle and Little Owl.

Temperatures throughout our workshop were extremely cold, with lows consistently around -40ºC and highs in the afternoon often only rising to -25ºC. It was below -35º Celsius many mornings when we departed in search of the ghost of the mountains. This necessitated proper equipment and dressing to ensure protection against the cold. As we traversed the landscape in 4-wheel-drive vehicles, we stayed warm while searching for wildlife.

At the conclusion of our workshop, we packed up and drove roughly four hours to the nearest town for return flights to Ulanbataar and concluded our workshop in the evening of the 23rd of February.

Photographing Snow Leopard with us offers a rare opportunity to encounter one of the world’s most enigmatic wild cats in an ethical, immersive, and deeply rewarding way. Success with snow leopards is never guaranteed, and it is well worth remembering that even a fleeting sighting can be hard-won, making every potential encounter a very special gift. This is a carefully curated workshop built around our local guides’ intimate knowledge of the landscape, respectful fieldcraft, and small-group experiences that maximise both photographic opportunities and meaningful wildlife encounters. In the vast mountain environments where Snow Leopards live, we prioritise patience, conservation awareness, and time in the field—allowing photographers to move beyond fleeting sightings to genuine observation. The result is not just exceptional imagery of a seldom-seen species, but a richer understanding of its behaviour, habitat, and fragility, making the experience as emotionally powerful as it is creatively inspiring.

Who is this Workshop For? This workshop is designed for photographers who have a deep love of wildlife and a genuine passion for capturing it thoughtfully and artisically in the field. It is ideally suited to those who value time, patience, and observation over crowds and hurried encounters, and who thrive in a small-group environment where individual attention and shared experience matter. Whether you are refining your craft or seeking a more meaningful connection with the natural world, this workshop appeals to photographers who are inspired by rare species, remote landscapes, and the emotional power of storytelling through images, and who appreciate learning in an intimate setting alongside like-minded people who share the same respect for wildlife.

If you would like to photograph this incredible wildcat, please get in touch via email. We limit the workshop to a maximum of five photographers to ensure each has their own private room and to ensure we offer the best possible photographic experience. Groups larger than five are far from ideal for this experience if high-quality results are your goal. Our next planned workshop for the Snow Leopard is in 2028.

The Era of Zero Accountability: How Airline Travel Has Become a Masterclass in Disrespect

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Air travel was once marketed as a symbol of progress, efficiency, and global connection. Today, for many travellers, it has become an exercise in endurance, lowered expectations, frustration and ultimately quiet resignation. Delays, cancellations, missed connections, lost baggage, understaffed flights, and total corporate indifference have become normalised to the point where passengers are expected to absorb inconvenience as if it were part of the ticket price. The real problem is not that things occasionally go wrong—aviation is complex, and weather, mechanical issues, and logistics will always create challenges. The problem is that airlines increasingly operate in an era of zero accountability, where customers are offered neither meaningful compensation nor even basic courtesy when service collapses.

Recently, our outbound flight from Mongolia with Turkish Airlines was delayed by more than 6 hours. That single delay triggered a cascade of consequences: a missed onward connection to Stockholm and a fourteen-hour layover in Istanbul. Fourteen hours sitting in an airport terminal, overnight, with no hotel accommodation, no meal vouchers, no assistance, and not even a verbal apology. This was not a budget carrier ticket purchased on impulse. These were expensive business class seats. Yet the level of care provided was indistinguishable from indifference.

What made the experience especially galling was not just the inconvenience itself, but the complete absence of responsibility. No acknowledgment. No explanation beyond vague operational language. No attempt to mitigate the impact on passengers. The message was clear: your time and loyalty do not matter, and once we have your money, our obligation ends at the bare legal minimum.

This is not an isolated incident. It reflects a broader cultural shift within the airline industry, where corporate cost-cutting, shareholder priorities, and weakened consumer protections have combined to erode the passenger experience. Airlines have learned that they can routinely fail customers and face little consequence. Complaints disappear into automated systems. Compensation processes are deliberately complex and opaque. Responsibility is outsourced to fine print, weather clauses, “operational constraints,” and customer service chatbots that never truly resolve anything.

The emotional toll of this dynamic should not be underestimated. Travel already carries inherent stress: navigating airports, security lines, immigration queues, tight connections, and long-haul fatigue. When delays occur, travellers are already vulnerable—tired, jet-lagged, often far from home. In those moments, basic human decency matters. A simple apology matters. A hotel voucher matters. A meal voucher matters. Even clear communication matters. Instead, passengers are frequently met with silence, shrugs, and staff who are clearly overwhelmed and unsupported themselves.

There is also a disturbing double standard at play. Airlines enforce rigid rules on passengers with uncompromising efficiency. Miss a check-in deadline by a few minutes, and you may lose your entire ticket. Bring luggage that is half a kilogram overweight, and you will pay a premium fee. Arrive late at the gate, and you are simply abandoned. Yet when airlines miss deadlines by hours, cancel flights outright, or strand travellers overnight, the burden is shifted entirely onto the customer. This imbalance of power has become normalised to the point that many travellers barely question it anymore.

What makes this situation worse is that airlines continue to market themselves as premium brands offering “world-class service,” “luxury experiences,” and “five-star hospitality.” Business class cabins are advertised with flat beds, curated menus, and lounge access, but when operational problems arise, the promised premium experience evaporates instantly. At that point, it becomes painfully clear that the luxury is superficial. When things go wrong, everyone is treated the same: as an inconvenience to be managed rather than a customer to be cared for.

The fourteen-hour overnight layover in Istanbul became a symbol of this reality. No hotel was offered. No food assistance was provided. No proactive rebooking help was extended. We were simply expected to wait. To sit. To accept. This expectation—that passengers will quietly absorb corporate failures without complaint—is at the heart of the accountability crisis. Airlines rely on customer fatigue. They know that after a long journey, most people simply want to get home rather than fight for compensation. They know many travellers are unaware of their rights. And they know enforcement is weak.

In some regions, consumer protection laws attempt to address this imbalance. The European Union’s EC261 regulation, for example, requires airlines to compensate passengers for certain delays and cancellations. But enforcement is inconsistent, claims processes are slow, and many airlines actively resist payouts. Outside Europe, protections are even weaker. In many countries, airlines are legally obligated to provide almost nothing in the event of delays. This creates a global patchwork of accountability in which outcomes depend more on geography than on fairness.

Another troubling aspect of modern airline travel is the increasing automation of customer service. When something goes wrong, passengers are often directed to apps, QR codes, or chatbots rather than real human assistance. While technology can improve efficiency, it has also become a convenient shield. Automated systems deflect responsibility, limit options, and funnel customers into predetermined outcomes that benefit the airline more than the traveller. Trying to resolve a complex travel disruption through an app while standing in a crowded terminal at 2 a.m. is not innovation—it is abandonment disguised as efficiency.

There is also the issue of staffing. Airline employees on the front lines are often underpaid, overworked, and placed in impossible positions. They become the face of corporate decisions they did not make and cannot change. This creates tension between staff and passengers, further degrading the travel experience. The anger that should be directed at corporate policy is often absorbed by gate agents and call centre workers who lack the authority to offer real solutions.

What is particularly frustrating is that airlines know how to do better. When disruptions affect high-profile passengers, corporate clients, or media figures, solutions suddenly appear. Hotels are found. Meals are arranged. Flights are rebooked creatively. The resources exist. The systems exist. What is missing is the will to provide consistent care to ordinary travellers (those people that keep the airlines in business!).

Frequent flyers are especially sensitive to this decline because they remember when standards were higher. Loyalty programs once rewarded commitment with genuine benefits and recognition. Today, loyalty resoundingly feels one-sided. Travellers invest tens of thousands of dollars into airline ecosystems only to discover that status does not protect them from being stranded without assistance. When loyalty loses its meaning, trust erodes.

The psychological impact of repeated negative experiences should not be overlooked. Travel is often tied to meaningful moments: family reunions, creative projects, professional commitments, and once-in-a-lifetime trips. When airlines fail, they do not just disrupt schedules—they disrupt lives. Missing connections can mean missing weddings, funerals, business opportunities, or irreplaceable photographic conditions in remote environments. Yet compensation frameworks rarely reflect the true cost of these losses.

There is also an ethical dimension to consider. Airlines operate with enormous public infrastructure support. Airports are publicly funded. Airspace is regulated and maintained by governments. During crises, airlines frequently receive government bailouts. Yet when passengers face hardship, the same companies often retreat behind legal minimums. This imbalance raises serious questions about corporate responsibility in industries that depend so heavily on public trust and public resources.

So what can be done? Meaningful change will require stronger consumer protection laws, consistent international standards, and enforcement mechanisms with real consequences. Airlines must face financial penalties that outweigh the cost of neglecting passengers. Transparency requirements should mandate clear communication during disruptions. Compensation processes should be automatic rather than opt-in, persistent battles. Most importantly, customer care must be reframed not as a cost centre but as a core operational responsibility.

On an individual level, travellers are beginning to respond in the only way available to them: with their wallets. Blacklists are forming. Brand loyalty is eroding. Passengers are sharing experiences publicly, using social media and blogs to hold airlines accountable in the court of public opinion. While this is not a perfect solution, it reflects growing frustration with an industry that has grown too comfortable with mediocrity. For myself, my blacklist currently includes Jetstar, Aerolineas, and now Turkish Airlines (there are more; they have gone bankrupt or merged)

The experience with Turkish Airlines was the final straw for me. A six-hour delay. A missed connection. Fourteen hours in an airport overnight. No hotel. No food. No apology. No accountability. That combination is not just poor service—it is a corporate statement of values. And when a company shows you who they are, it is wise to listen.

Yes, this is a first-world problem. Yes, there are far bigger issues in the world. But acknowledging larger global challenges does not invalidate the right to expect basic decency from companies that charge premium prices and market premium experiences. Accountability should not be a luxury upgrade. It should be standard.

Air travel does not have to feel this broken. The technology exists. The resources exist. The expertise exists. What is missing is respect for the passenger as more than a seat number and a revenue stream. Airlines need to respect individual customers, not just the customer base as a whole. Until that changes, more travellers will reach the same conclusion: enough is enough.

Because at some point, frustration turns into resolve. And when that happens, airlines will discover that while customers may tolerate inconvenience, they will not tolerate being treated as invisible forever.

Pallas Cat of Eastern Mongolia Workshop Report January 2026

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This year’s workshop report for our Wild Nature Photo Travel workshop for the Pallas cat in the far east of Mongolia will be a bit different from usual. As I am travelling extensively over the next four months and have very little free time to actually process images from our trip, I am instead including the short videos (not in chronological order) I made on location throughout the workshop. As time permits, I will then come back and update this post with photographs once I get a chance to process them on my home machine with a high-quality display (likely later in the year).

This year, our workshop began in Ulanbataar on the 2nd of January with a seven-and-a-half-hour transit drive to our remote eastern base camp (our home for the duration of the workshop). We concluded on the 9th of January with a return drive to Ulanbataar. Our base camp consisted of sufficient Yurts for each participant to have their own private room, as well as a separate meals Yurt. Each Yurt is heated by a coal-fired stove and has power, a bed, a wash basin, and plenty of storage space. The Internet is provided through a Starlink system, making each Yurt a cozy home away from home.

During the course of the workshop, we encountered a total of six Pallas cats in the field; five of which we had the opportunity to photograph at close range, typically at sunrise and sunset, when the cats are at their most active (and when the light is at its best). Although I packed both my 600mm and 100-300mm lenses, I predominantly shot with the 100-300mm lens (as did all participants). Snowfall this year was slightly above average, but there were still quite a lot of grasses to contend with, which meant it was always preferable to get as close as possible to the cat to minimise distractions between the lens and subject. The Pallas cat is a small wildcat with short legs that keep it close to the ground. Its method of defence (from predators such as Golden Eagles and Steppe Eagles) is often to lie as flat as possible and hide in the grasses, which means it’s necessary to get as low as possible when photographing the cat.

Our typical day began with a hearty breakfast at 7am, and then we departed for the field at 7:30am (half an hour before sunrise). Typically, our local guides depart even earlier to find and locate a cat before sunrise (often spotlighting for them), in the hope we can photograph it in the soft light of pre-dawn. In the afternoon, we would take lunch at 1pm before departing for the field at 2:30pm. With sunset around 5pm at this time of year, we have plenty of time to scout before the soft light of evening. Success is never guaranteed with any workshop to find and photograph this endangered wildcat. With six cats in as many days, we had a superb result: each participant went home with a full memory card of wonderful images of this stunning cat.

Photographing the elusive Pallas’s cat is an experience charged with quiet intensity and deep emotion, shaped as much by patience and anticipation as by the moment itself. In the vast, austere landscape of this Steppe region, every sighting feels hard-won, heightening the sense of privilege and connection when a Pallas’s cat finally emerges, its ancient (and grumpy!) expression seemingly etched by time. The result is not just a photograph of a rare and charismatic species, but a lasting emotional imprint—one that speaks to wildness, resilience, and the power of being fully present in one of the planet’s most unforgiving environments.

Our next workshop for the Pallas cat will be in January 2027. The workshop will run from the 2nd of January until the 8th of January (seven days / six nights), and some places have already been spoken for. Full details are on our website at www.jholko.com/workshops

Photographing the Pallas’s cat with us offers a rare opportunity to encounter one of the world’s most enigmatic wild cats in an ethical, immersive, and deeply rewarding way. This is a carefully curated workshop built around our local guides’ intimate knowledge of the landscape, respectful fieldcraft, and small-group experiences that maximise both photographic opportunities and meaningful wildlife encounters. In the vast steppe and mountain environments where Pallas’s cats thrive, we prioritise patience, conservation awareness, and time in the field—allowing photographers to move beyond fleeting sightings to genuine observation. The result is not just exceptional imagery of a seldom-seen species, but a richer understanding of its behaviour, habitat, and fragility, making the experience as emotionally powerful as it is creatively inspiring.

Who is this Workshop For? This workshop is designed for photographers who have a deep love of wildlife and a genuine passion for capturing it thoughtfully and artisically in the field. It is ideally suited to those who value time, patience, and observation over crowds and hurried encounters, and who thrive in a small-group environment where individual attention and shared experience matter. Whether you are refining your craft or seeking a more meaningful connection with the natural world, this workshop appeals to photographers who are inspired by rare species, remote landscapes, and the emotional power of storytelling through images, and who appreciate learning in an intimate setting alongside like-minded people who share the same respect for wildlife.

If you would like to photograph this incredible wildcat, please get in touch via email. We limit the workshop to a maximum of five photographers to ensure each has their own private room and to ensure we offer the best possible photographic experience. Groups larger than five are far from ideal for this experience if high-quality results are your goal. This is a workshop I eagerly look forward to each year and is not to be missed.

Departing for Mongolia Pallas Cat and Snow Leopard 2026

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My time in Australia has already come to an end, and as soon as I finish this post, I am leaving for Melbourne airport, where I will make my way to Mongolia for both my Pallas Cat and Snow Leopard expeditions. The last two and a half months have gone by in a blur (Christmas makes this whole period crazy), and it is now time to hit the road again. I am very excited to return to Mongolia in Winter to photograph these two amazing wild cats: the Pallas Cat and the Snow Leopard. For the Pallas cat, we will be based in the far eastern steppe region of Mongolia. For the Snow Leopard, we will be based in the northwestern region. For these two workshops, I will spend the better part of a month (January) in Mongolia.

I had full intentions of doing a detailed packing list and a podcast on this departure, but time has gotten away from me, so in lieu of that, I am squeezing in this quick packing post. For these two trips I am packing 2 x Canon EOS R1’s with two spare batteries. I am taking a selection of lenses, including the 20mm f1.4, 14-35mm F4L IS, 100-300mm F2.8L IS, 600mm F4L IS and an RF 1.4 Teleconverter. Although this leaves a gap from 35mm to 100mm, I find I use this focal range very little when working with wildlife and tend to be either at the longer or wider ends. All of this will fit in my SKB Roller case and Gura Gear Chobe. In the field, I will use my Lowe Pro 600mm Trekker for hiking with the Snow Leopard. For the Pallas cat, we tend to shoot very near the 4-wheel drives, so equipment doesn’t need to be carried very far. I am also packing my DJI mini-drone, binoculars, and, of course, plenty of cold-weather clothing. See you in Mongolia for New Year’s! And P.S: The 2025 retrospective podcast I will be recording and releasing from Mongolia.

Why Photography Should Not Be a Competitive Sport – Op. Ed.

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Lately, I have been pondering the nature and real value of photographic competitions. Over my career, I have been fortunate to win and place in a great many photographic competitions, both national and international. But what does this really mean? Does a ribbon, trophy or a certificate, often granted by a panel of judges whose tastes may or may not align with mine, truly measure the worth of an image, or the depth of the moment in which it was created? Does it reward the photographer for how hard they worked in the field? The more I reflect on it, the more I question whether photography can ever be meaningfully ranked. After all, when an art form is rooted in emotion, interpretation, and personal experience, can it genuinely be distilled into points, scores, and placements without losing something essential along the way?

Photography has always lived in a curious space between art and documentation, between personal expression and universal communication. It is a medium built on interpretation, emotion, and perspective and not on quantifiable metrics or objective truths. Yet in recent years, photography competitions have multiplied (mostly as business ventures designed to make money), and with them, the idea that photographs can be ranked, scored, assigned points, and declared winners or losers. This trend raises an essential question: Should photography ever have been turned into a competitive sport in the first place?

For many, I suspect, the answer is no. Photography, by its very nature, resists the reductive frameworks of competition. It is not a discipline that benefits from podiums or score sheets. And more importantly, most competitions rely on judging panels that are frequently unqualified, or, at the very least, unprepared to meaningfully evaluate the depth and diversity of the work presented to them. Just imagine a judge who specialises in pet photography who has never been to Africa sitting down to judge your work of a lioness on the hunt. How would that feel when you have worked as a professional African wildlife photographer most of your life? What qualifications, or perhaps more importantly, what real-world experience do they have to judge your photograph?

The core problem is simple: photography is in the eye of the beholder, and the beholder is always shaped by subjective experience.

Art begins where scoring ends. A photograph is not a race, a timed event, or a measurable physical feat. It cannot be judged by speed, distance, or efficiency. It is not chess, where logic and mastery follow strict rules. A photograph (like a painting) is a translation of how someone sees the world, or how they want you to see it. To declare that one person’s vision is “better” than another’s is an act rooted in personal preference, cultural bias, and aesthetic conditioning.

Two people can stand before the same image and see two entirely different things: One may see a technical flaw, the other an emotional truth. One may see a messy composition, whilst the other sees a moment alive with movement and chaos. Who is correct? Who decides? And on what authority and on what experience?

Photography defies objectivity. Its impact varies with the viewer’s life experience, cultural background, emotional disposition, and even mood in the moment. Unlike sports, where the outcome is indisputable (the fastest runner always wins), art has no universal measurement of merit. Once we acknowledge that photography is inherently subjective, treating it like a competitive sport collapses under its own contradictions.

At the heart of most photography competitions lies a judging panel, and the judges are not qualified – and that matters. These judges hold the power to validate, dismiss, promote, or sideline a photographer’s work. Yet in many cases, the individuals chosen to evaluate images lack the experience, artistic depth, or cultural literacy needed to understand the work before them (sorry, judges, but it’s almost universally true). The majority of competitions rely on: Local camera club judges with limited real-world experience; Retired hobbyists unfamiliar with contemporary work or lacking professional experience; Industry personalities whose fame comes from social media rather than expertise; Editors or curators viewing thousands of entries in a rush; Sponsors or brand representatives with commercial rather than artistic priorities. The reality is stark: many judges are simply not qualified to critique a wide range of photographic styles.

A wildlife photographer may be judged by someone whose experience lies entirely in portraiture. A fine-art landscape photograph could be dismissed by someone who values saturated colours and hyper-sharp detail over subtle tonal work. A minimalist, contemplative image may lose out to a flashy, oversaturated one because a judge equates loudness with impact. And perhaps most troubling: competitions often favour what is fashionable rather than what is meaningful. If the judges lack breadth of experience, depth of knowledge, or the ability to appreciate artistic nuance, then the judging becomes arbitrary. Nothing more than a reflection of personal taste disguised as authority. This is evidenced again and again in judging panels by the rampant overuse of the word ‘I’. ‘I’ like it because, “I” dislike it because etc.

You do not have to look far to realise that Competitions Reward Formula, not Vision. When photography becomes competitive, it becomes predictable. Competitions, especially large public ones, tend to reward: Loud colours, Dramatic lighting, Easily digestible narratives, Familiar compositions, Trendy editing styles, Images with “shock value”, Photographs that look like past winners.

This creates a loop in which photographers shape their vision to win, not to express, and not to grow as artists. It fosters a culture of serial entrants who deliberately photograph in a particular style or with a specific approach for the sole purpose of entering a competition to try and win. The same types of images will inevitably rise to the top year after year. The subtle, the unconventional, the abstract, the brave, and the deeply personal often go unnoticed. Great photography frequently breaks rules. Competitions, however, enforce them. Innovation rarely wins awards because innovation is often misunderstood. And misunderstood work is almost always rejected by judges who are unwilling, or unable to engage with it on a deeper emotional level. To have any semblance of relevance, competition would require a panel of lifelong category-experienced judges willing to let go of the conventional, who can step away from their personal biases and who are willing (and capable) of engaging with each individual photograph on an individual emotional level. Such a judging panel simply does not exist.

Competition also encourages conformity and ego, not growth. Art flourishes in an environment of curiosity, experimentation, and vulnerability. When photography becomes competitive, something changes: Photographers stop taking risks. They begin shooting for approval rather than expression. The desire to win overshadows the desire to grow. Criticism becomes a threat rather than a learning opportunity. And this is the big one for a great many: The joy of creation becomes tied to external validation. That’s nothing more than ego folks.

Worse, competitions fuel unhealthy comparisons. A photograph that resonates deeply with its creator might receive a low score and be labelled mediocre by someone whose preferences have no bearing on the artist’s intent. For emerging photographers, this can be soul-destroying. For established photographers, it can distort direction. For everyone, it can turn a soulful craft into a sport of ego.

Photography is a human experience, not a contest, and it is not about winners. It is about connection to place, to subject, to emotion, to memory. It is about translating the world as we see it into something others can feel. It is about storytelling, presence, and perspective. A competition cannot measure: the silence of a moment, the trust between photographer and subject, the meaning behind the image, the effort, difficulty and courage it took to make it, or the emotion it evokes in someone who needs it. These things cannot be scored. They can only be experienced. Photography is at its best when it is a conversation, not a contest. When it invites reflection rather than comparison. When it opens doors rather than builds hierarchies.

The illusion of objectivity creates the myth of “The Best” in photographic competitions, and that is a very bad thing. When judges declare a winner, they present the outcome as if it reflects some universal truth: this photograph is better than all others. But what they are really doing is announcing their personal preference, shaped by their personal experiences, within the narrow confines of a specific moment. There is no “best” photograph. There is only the photograph that resonated most with a particular judge on a particular day. Meanwhile, some of the greatest images in photographic history were ignored, rejected, or misunderstood when first created. Recognition came later, often decades later, from an audience ready to hear what the work had to say. Competitions do not determine greatness. Time does. Culture does. Human emotion does.

The true value of photography lies outside the competitive model. Photography’s greatest gift is its ability to deepen our relationship with the world. It teaches us to see to really see and potentially see something in a new way. The adage is true: ‘Don’t show me what it is. Show me what else it is.’ Photography encourages patience, empathy, attentiveness, awareness, and connection. Photography is a vehicle to personal expression, emotional release, storytelling, discovery, exploration and the preservation of memory. These are all human experiences, not competitive ones. When we remove competition, photography returns to its essence. It becomes intimate again. Authentic. Curious. Brave. Free.

Photography belongs to everyone, and not to judges or a judging panel. Photography should not be treated as a competitive sport because it was never meant to be measured, ranked, or scored. It is an art form rooted in individuality, not conformity; in expression, not judgement; in emotion, not points. Competitions may have their place: as a learning experience, as entertainment, as community activities, as marketing tools (I have used them that way myself). But let’s be crystal clear that they cannot define the value of a photograph, and they should never define the value of a photographer. At its heart, photography is about what we feel when we create and what others feel when they see. And feeling cannot be judged. It can only be shared. When we let go of competition, we make space for what truly matters: authenticity, growth, curiosity, connection, and the thrill of seeing the world anew. Photography belongs not to judges, but to the beholder. To every beholder. And that is precisely as it should be.