Nine days in Italy, and here I am on a flight back to London, reflecting on what just happened. Somehow, in the span of a week, I became one of the lucky ones.
This trip wasn’t just about wandering through picturesque Italian towns. It was a five-day photography workshop led by Richard Kalvar, a seasoned Magnum photographer. Truth be told, when I applied, I barely knew who he was—or much about Magnum, for that matter. My submission was a shot in the dark, fuelled by a mix of curiosity and self-doubt. When I got the acceptance email, I had no idea why I’d been chosen.
I’ve taken photos before—some for work, some for myself. Occasionally, I’d manage a shot that others liked or one I felt proud of. But becoming a professional photographer? Never crossed my mind. Photography has always been one of many interests, and I’ve never thought my technique or style was worth much.
Heading to the workshop, my nerves weren’t about facing Kalvar’s criticism. I was more afraid of confronting my own mediocrity.
Day One: Humour, Critique, and a Lesson in Close Observations
On the first day, I met my fellow attendees—ten photographers from all over the world, spanning different ages and backgrounds. Each had their own reason for being there, their own story to tell.
Kalvar started by reviewing our portfolios. His feedback? Brutally honest but disarmingly funny. “Get closer,” he kept saying. “Tell a story. Find something interesting.” He projected some of his own iconic images onto a massive screen. They were unlike anything I’d seen—worlds observed through a lens of humour, ambiguity, and human awkwardness.
“Style is personality,” an artist once said. The best work is always honest, an extension of who you are. Kalvar’s personality shone through not just in his photos but in his teaching. He spoke sparingly, with a certain detachment, but every word carried weight—and often, a dry wit that left me laughing.
After the critiques, we were sent off to shoot. The plan was simple: spend the afternoon capturing the world, then share our results the next morning. As I left the hotel, camera in hand, something shifted. Maybe it was the clarity of his advice or the camaraderie of the group, but I felt a quiet confidence. I didn’t know what I’d capture, but for the first time, I wasn’t afraid to try.
Finding Humour on the Shores of Sirmione
Sirmione, the small lakeside town where the workshop was held, isn’t exactly a street photographer’s dream. Tourists swarm the narrow streets, which are lined with souvenir shops. Beyond that, there are just a few parks, beaches, and historic ruins. Yet, despite its limitations—or maybe because of them—I found it fascinating.
I walked along the shore, drawn to the kids playing by the water. Children, I realised, are the best subjects: relaxed, full of energy, and naturally dramatic in their movements. Most of my first-day shots were of them.
One photo stood out—a child feeding stones to a swan. I’d have once snapped a single frame and moved on, satisfied with the novelty. But now, I knew better. Good photos demand patience, observation, and persistence. I stayed, watching the swan grow visibly annoyed before turning away in apparent disgust. That’s when I fired off a series of shots, capturing the humour of the moment.
Evening Reflections
That evening, over dinner, my classmates seemed a bit down. Dissatisfied with their work, some decided to head back out for another round of shooting, even though the town grew eerily quiet at night. Others retreated to their rooms to edit their photos.
I kept things simple. Using an iPad, I adjusted the lighting and cropped a handful of my favourite shots, aiming to highlight the story I wanted to tell. It wasn’t perfection, but it felt honest. By the time I finished, it was nearly 1 a.m. Another day in the bag.
Lessons Beyond the Lens
The workshop wasn’t just about taking better photos. It was about learning to see—really see—the world. Kalvar’s mantra echoed in my head: “Get closer. Find the story. Make it interesting.”
Sirmione may not have been a bustling metropolis, but its small-town quirks and quiet moments offered all the material I needed. What I once dismissed as ordinary became extraordinary through the lens.
And as the plane begins its descent into London, I think back to that swan, the annoyed tilt of its head. Photography, like life, is often about those fleeting, absurd moments that somehow tell a bigger story.
I came to Italy unsure of my place behind the camera. I’m heading home with something better: the courage to keep looking, keep clicking, and, most importantly, keep getting closer.
Some of the pictures I took on Day One:
