Expect the Unexpected: Tales from the Frontline of Photography Workshops
I thought running a photography workshop would be all sunrises, laughter, and Instagrammable moments. I imagined myself as a wise, camera-wielding guru, effortlessly guiding a small group of eager students to capture the perfect shot. How wrong I was. Reality, it turns out, is far less glamorous and far more… chaotic.
I remember my first ever attempt at running a workshop – I was sitting at the breakfast table of the Harris Hotel clutching my coffee like a lifeline, and a group of humans I’ve never met before staring at me, expecting expertise. Expertise I might have in my own head, but not in real life. I thought I was ready. I was not.
When I ran my first photography workshop eight years ago, I thought it would be simple. Gather a few eager photographers, show them some beautiful locations, share a bit of wisdom, and—voilà!—everyone would go home with perfect shots and a new sense of creative purpose. I pictured calm mornings, gentle laughter, and that satisfying click of shutters in the golden light. I even imagined myself looking effortlessly professional, the kind of person who always knows where north is and never forgets a lens cap.
It didn’t quite work out that way.
Eight years later, I’ve learned that running workshops is equal parts art, adventure, and controlled chaos. Every trip starts with a plan and ends with a story—often several.
I recently awoke (long may that continue) one early autumn morning to a WhatsApp message from a client I was expecting to collect from Inverness Airport in a few hours….her overnight flight from New York to London had been cancelled due to a storm over the Atlantic. She’ll try again tomorrow, which is helpful, except the workshop starts… today. Before I have time to digest this information, another client calls. He’s arrived at Inverness Airport, bright and cheerful—the only problem is his luggage is still in Copenhagen. I spend the next fifteen minutes reassuring him that yes, he can still participate, no, I don’t have a spare tripod, and yes, I’ll come and collect him from the airport and take him to buy some spare clothes
By the time the first coffee kicks in, I realise running a workshop is less about perfect photos and more about keeping a very small army of humans from panicking, crying, or staging a minor mutiny when the rain starts coming in sideways.
I thought it would be fun!
To my early surprise the participants continued to book my workshops…they arrived in droves, each with their own quirks. Every group has its characters, and mine were no exception. Each participant brought something different to the mix. Each group was a perfect microcosm of photography itself. One would arrive armed with enough equipment to film a Hollywood epic, another would be the technical master, measuring every exposure like a scientist, then there would be the dreamer, chasing the light rather than the rules. The storyteller, who saw beauty in small, imperfect details. And there would be the happy wanderer, drifting off every few minutes and reappearing somewhere entirely new, often in someone else’s frame. I loved it.
Each group is a new cast of characters—enthusiastic, unpredictable, and always teaching me something. No two workshops are ever the same.
Before my first ever workshop, I mistakenly considered myself a photography savant. A “savant” being someone who has remarkable talent in a specific field in stark contrast to other areas of their lives…an “island of genius” as one learned lecturer at my photographic college once coined it. He was a bit of a weirdo. But, I could talk about ISO, shutter speed, and aperture for hours…but only to myself. To convey this to somebody else…well, my confidence crumbled almost immediately when faced with actual humans who were equally confident in their own expertise, and then came the first session. Within minutes, someone asked how to change their Sony camera’s focus mode — a simple task, theoretically, especially if you were familiar with the Sony Menu Screen. I wasn’t – I had never seen one before. I smiled confidently, pressed a few buttons, and somehow changed the language to Japanese. The rest of the group watched me squint at kanji for ten minutes while I muttered about “creative learning opportunities.”
I’ve led groups through fog thick enough to erase the horizon, rain so horizontal it could exfoliate your face, and winds that turned tripods into modern art sculptures. I’ve watched people chase the light across beaches, climb hills in a downpour, and kneel in bogs for that one elusive reflection. I’ve also seen more than one person accidentally photograph their own boots—and proudly declare it their favourite shot.
Some of my favourite memories come from moments that went “wrong.” Like the morning a planned sunrise shoot was completely clouded over. Everyone looked defeated, but I convinced them to wait it out, this is Scotland after all and anything can happen – and just as we were about to leave, the light broke through for sixty glorious seconds followed by a snowstorm. The resulting images weren’t perfect—the horizon was crooked, the exposure questionable—but they were theirs, they were superb captured in that shared breath of wonder when everything came together, however briefly. And, I know that those images currently adorn the walls of the photographers homes.
Or the time I lost half the group to a spontaneous coffee stop while the other half discovered a rainbow over the beach. I sprinted between them, shouting instructions like a football coach in a gale. Somehow, everyone came away with shots they loved—and a new appreciation for caffeine as a compositional tool. Or when a female guest during a particular gusty Hebridean afternoon breeze, stripping down to her underwear to retrieve her tripod which had cartwheeled into the river 10 feet below.
In eight years, I’ve learned that my job isn’t really to teach people how to take perfect photographs. It’s to help them see—to notice the moments in between, the light that changes by the second, the tiny details that make a place unforgettable. I’ve become part photographer, part tour guide, part therapist, and occasionally part meteorologist.
Over the years, I’ve learned that adaptability is a most valuable skill. When the weather turns, we change direction without missing a beat. When a tripod collapses mid-shot, we improvise with rocks, backpacks, or anything else that will hold a camera steady. When flights are delayed, luggage goes astray, ferries are cancelled, or batteries die at the worst possible moment, we find a way forward together. Because the truth is, photography is rarely about perfect conditions—it’s about noticing the light, seizing the moment, and discovering beauty in unexpected places.
And somehow, despite the storms, the lost luggage, and the moments of quiet panic, everyone leaves with more than just photographs. They leave with images that tell a story, yes—but also with memories they’ll carry long after the workshop ends. They remember the laughter echoing across the hills, the collective gasp at a fleeting patch of light, the exhilaration of capturing something they never imagined possible. Most of all, they remember the feeling of being there—fully present, curious, and alive in the moment.
What surprises me most, even now, is how much these workshops have shaped me as a photographer. I’ve learned patience. I’ve learned to see the world through other people’s eyes. I’ve learned that creativity flourishes not in perfection, but in connection—in those shared moments when we forget about settings and simply experience the scene together.
Eight years on, the storms, lost luggage, the missed flights, the ferry cancellations and unpredictable light have become part of the rhythm. They remind me that this is a journey, not a checklist. And like any good journey, it’s the unexpected turns that make it worthwhile.
So yes, if you think you can run a photography workshop, you probably can—but don’t expect it to go to plan. Expect laughter, confusion, improvisation, and the occasional minor miracle. Expect your plans to dissolve in the rain and reform in the light of a sudden rainbow. Expect to learn as much as you teach.
And if you do it long enough, you’ll discover that the best photographs aren’t always the sharpest or the most technically perfect. They’re the ones that hold a feeling—the smell of the sea, the chill of the morning, the sound of laughter just out of frame. They’re the ones that mean something to the person who took them.
That’s what keeps me doing this, year after year. The gear will change, the weather will misbehave, and someone, somewhere, will always forget a memory card or a spare battery. But as long as people keep coming to chase the light with me, I’ll keep showing up — coffee in hand, heart open, and, like a child on their first day of school, full of hope. Hope that the day will surprise me, that the light will fall just so, that a fleeting moment will reveal something extraordinary. That same mix of nerves and excitement I felt on that very first workshop still rises every time we set out: a flutter in the stomach, a sense that anything could happen, and the quiet belief that magic is possible if we just pay attention. After eight years, I’ve learned a lot, but that innocent optimism never fades; it’s what keeps me curious, keeps me present, and reminds me that every workshop is a fresh experience, no matter how many I’ve led before.
Every workshop is a fresh adventure, and along the way, we build something even more valuable than photographs: friendships. Connections formed over shared laughter, shared challenges, and shared moments of wonder. In the end, it’s the spirit of friendship—between photographer, landscape, and fellow adventurers—that makes every chaotic, exhilarating day worth it.
Because photography, like life, isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. And if my guests leave with full memory cards, tired smiles, and stories they’ll still tell years later, then I’d call that picture perfect.
4 Responses
“So you think you could run a photography workshop…” is just priceless Dean! While reading it, memories popped up from the workshop with you and Shimona, Ann, and Philippe. And, what a wonderful workshop it was–the conversations, connections, laughter and images of the Uists, Barra, Vatersay and Eriskay repeat in my mind and bring a smile to my heart. Thank you!
That’s such a lovely message Jan — thank you! I can still picture those days in the Uists, Barra, Vatersay and Eriskay — the light, the landscapes, the laughter, and all the great conversations. It was a truly special workshop, and I’m so glad the memories still make you smile.
Your article made me smile – all so true. It also gave great insight into how your approach made our Uist photography tour so successful and enjoyable. Thanks Dean.
Thanks so much Ann! I’m really glad you enjoyed the article — and even happier that the Uist tour brought back good memories. It was a fantastic trip and a great group to work with!