HEADSHOTS, LIGHTS AND MILD DELUSION

In my first year of living in London, I found myself on a rather ambitious quest: to figure out how one might actually make a living with a camera.

Simple in theory. Less so in practice.

Looking back, my confidence may have bordered on the heroic or the downright hubristic. I truly believed, with the kind of stubborn optimism only a slightly broke creative can possess, that I could solely make a living from my art. Everyone else, of course, disagreed. Friends, family, acquaintances, and every man and his mother were keen to remind me that photography was “not a sustainable career”. Perhaps they were right. But I would have been damned if I didn’t try.

So I began searching for my so-called bread and butter in headshots and portraiture. Did I find it? Absolutely not. Did I attempt it with great enthusiasm and questionable planning? Damn right.

I had always enjoyed taking what I called “fun portraits”. These usually involved face paint, strange concepts, and the gentle but persistent dragging of my poor, endlessly patient siblings into various projects. When siblings were unavailable, I volunteered myself as the subject, which was both convenient and mildly concerning.

Those experimental years, chaotic as they were, convinced me that headshots would be a brilliant source of income. After all, students of the arts, actors, musicians and assorted creative souls must need headshots, surely. What could possibly go wrong?

Around this time I spoke to Paul, my wonderful mentor, to whom I have previously dedicated an entire blog post (and will likely mention again). I asked him if he knew of anywhere I could find cheap backdrops and studio lighting. As always, Paul came in clutch.

He recommended a small second-hand shop called Mr CAD Photographic on Upper Tachbrook Street in Pimlico. The lads in the shop were utterly fantastic, genuinely knowledgeable and alarmingly good at translating my vague ideas into actual equipment. I left with a second-hand backdrop, a large roll of black background paper, a tripod, reflector, studio light with dish, diffuser, honeycomb grid and stand, all for, if I remember correctly, under £350 (though I should probably fact-check that).

They were also kind enough to hail me a taxi when it became painfully obvious that lugging a portable studio back to Walthamstow on the tube would have become an endurance sport.

Eventually I made it home and got straight to work. Unfortunately for my sister, with whom I was living at the time, our living room slowly transformed into a semi-permanent studio. Furniture was rearranged. Walls were sacrificed. Domestic normality was suspended. She tolerated this with admirable patience while I attempted to make a go of producing headshots, occasionally venturing outside for shoots, a calm energy was a welcome contrast to my increasingly chaotic living-room setup.

Did headshots become my great financial breakthrough? No, not quite. But did they teach me something important about ambition, persistence, and the strange joy of trying anyway? Very much so.