Favourite photographers: David Doubilet

David Doubilet’s photographs fill me with an almost childlike sense of wonder. For me, no one captures the extraordinary underwater world of the ocean more beautifully—whether he is photographing the brilliant colours and teeming life of a coral reef or the cold, mysterious blue beneath the Antarctic ice. His images reveal a hidden world that feels vast, fragile and profoundly alive, making us see the ocean not as an empty expanse but as one of the most beautiful and miraculous realms on Earth.

I especially adore Doubilet’s split-level photographs, in which half the image lies above the water and half below. He has perfected this technique both technically and artistically, transforming the waterline into a threshold between two worlds—the familiar world of sky and land above and the secret universe beneath. I was introduced to his work when I attended a presentation he gave at the Sydney Opera House in 2014, and I was completely blown away. Seeing his images on that scale, while hearing the stories behind them from Doubilet himself, left an unforgettable impression on me.

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The artist at work, immersed in his medium

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Favourite photographers: Frank Hurly

Frank Hurley is one of my greatest inspirations as a photographer. He was the official photographer on Ernest Shackleton’s ill-fated Endurance expedition to Antarctica, which became one of the greatest survival stories ever told and has inspired generations. Yet I often wonder whether the story would have retained quite the same power without Hurley’s photographs. Shackleton’s leadership and the endurance of his men were extraordinary, but Hurley gave their ordeal a face. His images allow us to enter their frozen world, turning an incredible historical account into something immediate, intimate and unforgettable.

It seems miraculous that the photographs survived at all. After the Endurance had been abandoned, Hurley returned to the flooded wreck and plunged into freezing, slushy water to retrieve his glass-plate negatives. He and Shackleton then selected 120 plates to carry with them and smashed roughly 400 others because their weight threatened the men’s survival. Hurley sealed the chosen negatives inside a soldered metal container and somehow protected them throughout the ordeal. Considering the enormous cameras, glass plates and other equipment he had to transport, it is astonishing how inventive he remained—climbing the ship’s rigging, venturing onto the ice and photographing from extraordinary angles to create images of breathtaking drama. 

His photographs captured far more than the Endurance trapped, splintering and finally being crushed by the ice. Hurley also recorded the exhausting work of pulling sledges and lifeboats, but he was equally attentive to the quieter life of the expedition: the men reading, playing music and whiling away the endless hours aboard ship; the friendships and humour that sustained them; and the huskies, seals and penguins that shared their strange white world. These beautiful, intimate images give the story its humanity. Hurley was not simply documenting an expedition—he was creating an extraordinary visual portrait of people living together at the very edge of survival.

My appreciation of Hurley was deepened by a presentation Sue and I attended at the State Library of New South Wales in 2016. It also connected profoundly with my own journey to Antarctica in 2013 as a photographer for Upschool. We sailed past Elephant Island, where 22 members of Shackleton’s crew endured four bleak months while he attempted to return and rescue them. Seeing that desolate, windswept place made their survival seem almost impossible. That all 28 members of the Endurance party eventually returned alive remains one of history’s most remarkable testaments to courage, resilience and extraordinary leadership—but it is Frank Hurley’s photographs that allow us to feel the story, rather than merely know it.

Photos Hurly took in Antarctica

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First World War

Hurley carried that same courage and visual imagination into the First World War, serving as an official Australian war photographer on the Western Front. His photographs captured the almost apocalyptic horror of battle—the shell-torn earth, blasted trees, endless mud, smoke and exhausted soldiers moving through landscapes stripped of life. Yet he never lost sight of the human beings caught within that devastation. He photographed soldiers resting, caring for the wounded and finding brief moments of companionship amid the terror. This combination of horror and humanity makes his war photography so powerful: he showed both the terrible destruction human beings can inflict and the courage, tenderness and comradeship that can survive even in the darkest circumstances.

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Other photos

Hurley’s restless curiosity later took him to Papua New Guinea, where he photographed its dramatic landscapes, remote communities and richly varied cultures, before turning his camera closer to home and creating an extensive record of Sydney—its harbour, beaches, architecture and rapidly changing cityscape. I find it wonderful that I have also been able to photograph two places that held such fascination for him: Antarctica and Sydney. They could hardly be more different, yet both are deeply special to me. Knowing that I have stood with my own camera in places where Hurley once searched for beauty, drama and human stories gives me an even stronger sense of connection with the photographer who has inspired me so greatly.

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Anna Glynn 'Unbridled - The Year of the Horse'

Anna Glynn’s Unbridled – The Year of the Horse was a wonderful exhibition: exuberant, imaginative and full of life. Xenia and I were lucky enough to meet Anna and speak with her, and she was as warm and engaging as her work. Having grown up on a farm surrounded by horses, she brings an obvious affection and intimacy to her equine subjects; her love of Chinese art adds another distinctive layer of grace, pattern and movement. As someone who loves both horses and birds, I was especially drawn to the way she combined them in beautifully surreal, flowing forms—creatures that seem at once familiar and dreamlike, alive with freedom and spirit.

Memorable moments: The Buddhist Pizza

I went away for the weekend to a picturesque farm in Robertson, South Africa, with Russell and a great group of friends. It was an absolute paradise, set right beside a calm, beautiful lake.

Knowing in advance that the open-plan kitchen next to our sleeping cottages was equipped with a genuine, wood-fired pizza oven, we decided that night two would be dedicated entirely to homemade pizzas. Everyone was instructed to bring their absolute favorite toppings to contribute to the feast.

When it came time to prep, we laid everything out on a central table. My goodness, what a spread! It had every classic topping imaginable, alongside an incredible array of gourmet treats like caramelized figs, tangy blue cheese, sweet peppadews, and cured meats.

Standing before that glorious buffet, I was in absolute heaven. I simply could not find it in my heart to say no to a single ingredient. I kept layering and layering until my pizza base was piled so high it looked like a miniature model of the Himalayas.

Rob was on official oven duty that evening, carefully maneuvering the pizzas into the roaring fire with the wooden paddle and pulling them out when the crusts turned crisp and golden. When I proudly carried my creation over to him, he stopped in his tracks and stared at the towering mound of toppings in sheer astonishment.

"My God," Rob gasped, shaking his head. "It's not a veggie pizza. It's not a Hawaiian pizza. It's not a Meat Lover's pizza. It's not even a Deluxe pizza... It's a bloody Buddhist pizza!"

I looked at him, completely puzzled. "What on earth do you mean?" I asked.

Rob grinned and replied, "It's one with everything!"

Memorable moments: Mid-tackle realization

When I was in my early teens, I played a lot of rugby at school. Every Saturday meant a high-stakes match against a rival school, and to protect my teeth from the inevitable collisions, I always wore a fitted plastic mouthguard.

One afternoon earlier that week, I walked into the lounge at home and caught our family dog, Tina, enthusiastically chewing on something in her paws. I rushed over and pried it out of her jaws: it was my rugby mouthguard, dripping with warm, soggy dog saliva. Since I was in a massive hurry to head out, I set it down on the table and made a firm mental note to give it a thorough, heavy-duty scrub with strong soap later on.

Fast forward to Saturday morning. I was out on the field in the middle of a fiercely contested match against another school. The crowd was roaring, parents were cheering frantically from the sidelines, and the energy was intense.

I locked eyes on an opposing player charging toward me with the ball, dropped my shoulders, and braced myself to make a massive tackle.

Then, at the exact split-second before impact, my brain suddenly flashed back to the table at home.

Oh no. I forgot to clean my mouthguard.

It was sitting firmly in my mouth, right where it always was for a game. A sudden wave of utter horror washed over me, and it took every single ounce of my willpower not to spit the soggy piece of plastic straight onto the grass in front of everyone. But with an opponent flying at me and parents screaming from the sidelines, there was no time for sanitation protocols—it was far too late now.

Memorable moments: The sardine can miracle

During my school days at St George's, a student in the year above me named James was renowned for being a little eccentric. He was fiercely intelligent, but he had a habit of pacing up and down while muttering to himself, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. Whenever he became obsessed with a new subject, he would transform overnight into a walking encyclopedia, spouting forth intricate details to anyone within earshot. He was friendly enough, and I always quite liked him.

After school, James went on to the University of Cape Town, but our paths continued to cross at a local Christian youth group. By then, he had directed the full, laser-focused intensity of his intellect toward religion, rapidly becoming a formidable scholar on all things biblical.

When I eventually advanced to the University of Cape Town myself, James was already a legendary campus fixture, famous among the student body for his endless pacing up and down the iconic Jamieson Steps.

One afternoon, I stepped into the campus lift to head up to the chemistry lab, and by pure coincidence, James was inside too. We greeted each other warmly. As the lift ascended floor by floor, more and more students piled in, until the space became uncomfortably squished—a complete sardine can of packed bodies.

Just as the claustrophobia reached its absolute peak, James cleared his throat with great authority. He somehow managed to swivel around, looked out over the sea of trapped faces, and announced at full volume:

"I want you all to know that Jesus loves you. Praise His holy name!"

The moment the doors slid open at the very next floor, there was a frantic stampede for the exits. A complete mass exodus - half the lift emptied out in a split second, leaving behind a blissful expanse of empty space.

James turned to me with a brilliant, mischievous smile and whispered, "Praise Jesus! Works every time."

Memorable moments: The descriptive fallacy

I taught English for two years at an adult college in Sydney, and on the whole, I loved it. It was a wonderful break from the corporate world and a fantastic outlet for my creativity. But there was one specific incident that was deeply regrettable, incredibly challenging, and easily one of the most embarrassing moments of my professional life.

Every term, I would be assigned a new class of at least twenty students. Many of them had names that were difficult for me to pronounce or remember—particularly the Thai students—and remembering names has never been my strong suit. Since I was expected to know everyone's name within the first couple of lessons, I developed a mnemonic system. On the very first day, I would write quick, descriptive trigger words next to each name on my official roster to jog my memory: Bubbly Brazilian, Very Tall, Bright Red Glasses, and so on.

During one frantic first lesson, as I tried to quickly catalog twenty new faces, I hit a wall with one female student. I couldn't immediately spot a distinct clothing item or personality trait to lock onto, so in the heat of the moment, I hastily scribbled "fat face" next to her name.

Four days later, during a brief break in class, I stepped out to go to the toilet. In my haste, I stupidly left my folder sitting open on my desk.

One of the male students in the class was utterly obsessed with his attendance record, as his student visa strictly depended on it. Seeing his chance, he surreptitiously walked up to my desk, opened the folder, and began scanning the roster to check his marks. That was when his eyes landed on the handwritten note next to his classmate's name.

Instead of keeping quiet, he promptly blurted it out to the entire room. The class erupted into laughter, and the poor girl was understandably humiliated.

She immediately went down to the principal's office to lodge a formal complaint. When I found out what had happened, I felt absolutely sick to my stomach. I apologized profusely to both the student and the director, thoroughly horrified by the pain my careless shorthand had caused.

It was a brutal, unforgettable lesson. From that day onward, I made a strict rule never to write anything on my roster that wasn't overwhelmingly flattering. No student ever snooped in my folder again, but if they had, they would have been absolutely thrilled with what they found.

Memorable moments: The descendant of Fluffy

While traveling in Ecuador, my group ran headfirst into a classic culinary crossroad: the local delicacy was cuy—or, as we know it, guinea pig.

My travel companions were eager to try it, which immediately triggered a severe clash of values inside my head. On one hand, I’m a firm believer in immersing yourself in local cultures and trying every regional dish put in front of you. On the other hand, how on earth could I knowingly eat an animal that had once been a beloved childhood pet? How could I look myself in the mirror after eating a direct descendant of Fluffy?

Eventually, curiosity and my travel ethos won out. Why not? I reasoned. It’ll probably arrive neatly chopped up, swimming in a thick stew or casserole where it’s blissfully easy to forget what you’re actually chewing on.

We placed the order. Twenty minutes later, the waiter returned and laid the dish on the table.

My heart sank. There was no stew. There was no clever disguise. It was literally a whole guinea pig lying flat on its back with its little legs splaid out in all directions. It had been dehaired and roasted, and while it was thankfully decapitated, there was absolutely zero mistaking the distinct, unmistakable geometry of the animal.

Oh dear.

I took a breath, picked up my fork, and tried it. To my utter confusion, it actually tasted great, perfectly tender and coated in a delicious, savory marinade. But the guilt weighed heavily on every single bite.

The real fallout, however, arrived weeks later when I posted my travel photos online. My mum—who had personally doted on our childhood guinea pigs and cherished every memory of them—took one look at the blog post and was utterly horrified. She was deeply affronted that her own son could do such a thing.

Related posts

• Original post of the event
• Beloved pets

More views of and from the Harbour Bridge

Fort Dennison is one the remaining lighthouses in Sydney I have not photographed yet. I got some rather distant photos from the bridge. I will get closer photos from a ferry soon.