Tag: Photography

  • Adorable Danger: Photographing Baby Masked Lapwings 🐤

    Adorable Danger: Photographing Baby Masked Lapwings 🐤

    Masked Lapwings (often called plovers) are a fascinating paradox of the bird world—part drama, part delight. As a wildlife photographer, I’ve long been drawn to their unapologetically loud personalities, their fierce devotion to parenthood, and the irresistible cuteness of their chicks. Over the past year, I dedicated myself to capturing this unique species in all its forms—through rain, wind, noise, and dive-bombing attacks.

    Adult Southern Masked Lapwing with visible spurs

    Regional Differences and That Curious Mask

    Not all Masked Lapwings look the same. There are two main races: the northern race (Vanellus miles miles), common in northern Australia, and the southern race (Vanellus miles novaehollandiae), found across the south and east. One key difference is the plumage—southern birds sport distinctive black shoulder patches, while northern birds lack these entirely, giving them a slightly cleaner look across the wings.

    Another fascinating feature is the bird’s namesake “mask”—the bright yellow wattles that drape from the face. At a glance, they look ornamental, almost cartoonish. But during preening, I managed to capture a rare moment: a bird lifting its mask in the wind, revealing that these wattles are actually made of bare, flexible skin. They move and bend, and their expressiveness seems to change depending on the bird’s mood or motion, adding a whole new layer to their personality.

    Adult Northern Masked Lapwing with the flapping mask

    Masters of Defence

    Masked Lapwings are known for their fearless defence tactics. Despite not building nests—simply laying their eggs directly on open ground—they become obsessive guardians the moment the eggs are placed. What they lack in architectural skill, they make up for in vigilance. The adult birds will patrol the area relentlessly, ready to defend their offspring from any perceived threat.

    And they don’t care how big the intruder is. These birds have been recorded attacking everything from photographers to emus, Australia’s largest bird, and even airplanes, which is why they’re considered a hazard around aerodromes. Watch them chase emus

    and a photographer trying to get too close

    They are equipped for combat, too—each adult has a yellow spur on its wing, which acts as a natural weapon during aerial swoops and strikes. I captured a close-up image of this feature, and it’s a vivid reminder that these birds aren’t bluffing when they come at you, screeching and flapping.

    Photographing the adults has been just as thrilling as challenging. One of my favourite moments was catching an adult Lapwing landing on the beach in a pose that looked like a mid-air dance—wings outstretched, body poised, almost balletic. In another photo, I managed to capture a bird in full flight, yellow wattles flaring and spurs also visible in mid-flight. These are birds of contrast: graceful in motion, yet unapologetically confrontational when they feel threatened.

    Masked Lapwing

    in flight

    Masked Lapwing

    Landing on the beach

    Fluffballs on Patrol

    Despite the noisy, aggressive nature of the adults, their chicks are pure joy—tiny, fluffy, and endlessly curious. They roll around in the grass like wind-up toys and look more like plush animals than wild birds. I had always dreamed of photographing them up close, but early attempts ended in failure, with protective parents launching immediate attacks any time I stepped too near. After several such encounters, I nearly gave up.

    But in 2024, I turned that dream into a personal project. I committed to capturing images of the chicks, no matter how long it took. I monitored a returning pair closely and waited patiently through two separate nesting attempts. Each time, the challenge began anew: how to get close without setting off the alarm.

    Approaching the chicks took days of slow, careful observation. If you try to get near too fast, you’re guaranteed a noisy and sometimes physical response. I had to earn their trust, moving closer each day until I could photograph the young ones without causing a commotion. Some days were overcast and gloomy, others rainy and wet. There were days I found myself belly-crawling through wet grass only to find the birds too far away. It required patience, timing, and a lot of mud.

    But the reward was more than worth it. I documented their journey from tiny fluffballs to young, feathered juveniles, watching the transformation week by week. Their personalities started to emerge, and I like to believe the parents slowly began to recognize me—not as a threat, but as a respectful observer.

    Below, you’ll find some of the results from this long-term project—images from the 2024 season that I’m incredibly proud of. They reflect not just the beauty and humour of the Lapwing family but also the patience and persistence required to work with wild animals on their terms.

    I’m hopeful the same pair will breed again this year, and if they do, I’ll be ready. Maybe—just maybe—I’ve become their unofficial family photographer.

  • Crossing the Line: My First Year Competing in International Wildlife Photography Contests 🏆

    Crossing the Line: My First Year Competing in International Wildlife Photography Contests 🏆

    Until 2024, I believed I was “just an amateur” — someone who took photos for the love of wildlife but never quite dared to think they were on par with the images that win international photography contests. I used to draw a mental line between “my photos” and “their photos” — the ones you see on magazine covers or award sites. This year, that line blurred. Or rather, it disappeared.

    The Leap Into the Competitive World

    This was the first year I submitted my work to international photo contests. It meant stepping far outside my comfort zone. Each contest came with its own set of submission rules — whether it was about the maximum age of the photo, allowed editing levels, or color accuracy. Learning these details felt like navigating a new language.

    One of the trickiest gray areas I encountered was understanding the limits of editing, particularly the acceptable degree of object removal. What counts as a “minor” object? A distracting branch? A blade of grass across the subject’s eye? Every contest seems to have its own interpretation. That’s part of the learning curve I’m still riding.

    A Shift in Mindset

    I owe a huge thank you to Sergey Puponin. He was the one who first looked at my work and said, “You belong there.” Without his encouragement, I might never have taken that first step. But I did — and I realized something powerful. I’m not just submitting to the world’s top photography contests. I am part of them now.

    This shift in mindset is deeply validating. It takes time to fully accept that your creative ideas are not only enough but can be embraced by international judges, respected peers, and upcoming photographers who might one day look to my work as a benchmark.

    Highlights from My First Year of Contests

    Here’s a quick look at how my first year in the contest scene unfolded:

    🐦 35AWARDS Theme Contest: Wildlife – Birds

    This was the very first contest I entered. Out of 4,269 photographers from 114 countries, I placed 12th. It was an incredible feeling — not just being among the top results, but knowing I was judged alongside such a diverse and talented global crowd. To view the best photos, visit the following link.

    🦋 35AWARDS Theme Contest: Winged Insects

    This time, I reached the Top 1% of 3,941 participants with a total of 14,815 submissions. My photos didn’t get lost in the crowd — they stood out, and that meant everything to me. To view the best photos, visit the following link.

    🌿 Nature Photography Contest 2024

    Here, my photo passed the preselection phase — an important step that filters out AI-generated images, overly edited work, and other non-compliant entries. Only winners are published, so I don’t know my final standing, but making it through preselection in a high-caliber contest is an accomplishment I’m proud of.

    🐦 Birdlife Australia Photography Awards 2024

    A photo series I submitted here was previously featured in my blog >>link<<. As a testament to the unique narrative captured in these moments, I submitted this series of images to Birdlife Australia for their annual wildlife photography competition. The sequence of the Osprey and the Silver Gull, with its mix of humor, elegance, and raw survival instincts, seemed to resonate with the judges. I was thrilled to learn that the series had made it to the final round of judging. While it ultimately didn’t win, the recognition itself was a rewarding acknowledgment of the story the images told. Below is a screen copy of the email I received from Birdlife Australia:

    I reached the final round of judging — again, an impressive milestone given the competition.

    David Stowe won in the portfolio category, but the feedback I got was humbling and reinforced my passion for wildlife photography. Sometimes, the joy isn’t just in winning, but in sharing a story that resonates with others — and in this case, even the journey to the final round was a victory in its own right. That said, next time, I’ll be back to claim my prize!

    🦜 Bird Photographer of the Year (BPOTY) 2025

    This is perhaps the most prestigious bird photography contest in the world. It takes six months to review entries. While I won’t know my ranking until November 2025, I was thrilled to receive a request for the RAW file of one of my submissions — a promising sign that it stood out.

    🌍 10th 35AWARDS International Photography Award

    This was the highlight of my year. Out of 112,771 photographers who submitted nearly 473,000 photos, I was selected among the Top 50 Wildlife Photographers of the Year.

    That number still blows my mind. To be ranked so highly among thousands of breathtaking images is a surreal, deeply affirming experience. It tells me that every moment spent in nature, every early morning, and every patient hour waiting for a perfect shot — it all matters. It all adds up. To view the best photos, visit the following link.

    Looking Forward

    Next year, I’ll continue submitting, learning, and pushing myself to grow. Wildlife photography is an endless pursuit — a mix of gear, technique, patience, and the unpredictable magic of being at the right place at the right time.

    To anyone out there wondering whether their work is “good enough” — let this be a nudge. Take the step. Submit. Learn. Improve. Someone out there might be waiting to see your perspective on the world.

    And who knows? Maybe soon you’ll be among them — or rather, us.

  • The Osprey’s Feast: A Dance of Desperation and Elegance 🦅

    The Osprey’s Feast: A Dance of Desperation and Elegance 🦅

    In the quiet, overcast light of a coastal afternoon, I was drawn into a scene that would blur the lines between frustration, persistence, and pride — a story unfolding not just through the lens, but through a series of powerful moments captured in real time.

    It all began with the Osprey, perched majestically on a jagged rock, its talons firmly clutching a fresh catch. The fish, still glistening despite the overcast sky, shimmered in the bird’s grip. The bird’s stance was composed, almost regal, against the calm, muted backdrop of the sea. The Osprey stood as the epitome of strength and self-possession, its eyes alert, its feathers rippling slightly in the cool afternoon breeze.

    But tranquility, as often is the case in nature, was fleeting.

    Next photo captures the tension as the Silver Gull made its presence known. Positioned just in front of the Osprey, the gull’s boldness was apparent — a smaller bird with no respect for the majesty of its larger counterpart. It wasn’t merely curious; it had its eyes fixed on the Osprey’s prize. The scene now had two players, each with its own intent: the Osprey, proud and protective of its catch, and the gull, driven by hunger and the instinct to snatch any opportunity it could.

    And then came the turning point. In a swift and unexpected motion, the gull launched forward and bit the Osprey’s tail. The Osprey recoiled in shock, momentarily stunned by the boldness of the attack. Its reaction was one of confusion and disbelief. For a fleeting moment, the Osprey seemed caught between instinct and restraint. But as the gull retreated, the Osprey remained frozen — unable to respond until it had finished its meal. Its talons remained firmly clutching the fish, its body tense with the knowledge that its victory was far from secure.

    The moment stretched on, and, the Osprey finally resumed eating. It took its time, as if deliberating over the next step. The fish, now stripped of its scales, was consumed in measured bites, the tail lingering as the final piece. With a quick, decisive motion, the Osprey swallowed the last of its prize, tail and all. There was no further conflict. The bird had claimed what was rightfully its own — and with that, the drama seemed to fade as quickly as it had come.

    But the story wasn’t over yet.

    In the next photo, we see the Osprey, its meal now complete, slowly descended into the ocean. The waves were small and gentle, not a dramatic splash but a quiet ripple of water that lapped against its feet. The Osprey waded into the ocean, taking its time to wash off the remnants of the meal, as if to cleanse itself after the tension of the moment. The soft, rippling water mirrored the calm that had returned, and the bird’s form, glistening in the dull light, seemed at peace after the brief storm.

    Finally, in the last photo, the Silver Gull is captured in a stark, high-key portrait. Dull sky matched the tones of the gull’s feathers — almost blending into the background, as if the bird itself were becoming one with the overcast atmosphere. Only the sharp red of its legs and the tip of its black tail stood out against the haze. The gull’s bill, too, was vividly highlighted in contrast to the subdued surroundings. In this image, the gull’s presence is faint, almost dissolving into the background, yet its persistence remains clear. The bill, the red legs, and the subtle blackness of its tail are all that remain of its earlier, brave — albeit failed — attempt to claim the Osprey’s fish.

    This series, told through six frames, is a testament to the unpredictable beauty of wildlife encounters. It’s a story of instinct, pride, and the balance between predator and opportunist. The overcast light, far from diminishing the drama, deepened it — providing a perfect canvas for the quiet intensity of nature’s rituals. From the initial, stoic pride of the Osprey to the gull’s audacious act of defiance, and finally, the resolution in the soft waves of the ocean, this sequence captures the rhythm of survival in all its raw, unrefined glory.

    What began as a moment of frustration turned into a tale of character — of patience, persistence, and the delicate balance that exists between creatures, even in the shadow of defeat.

  • Project Scorpion: The Glowing Escape Artist 🦂

    Project Scorpion: The Glowing Escape Artist 🦂

    How I Ended Up Photographing a Scorpion.

    It all started about a year ago, in 2024, while I was photographing a Noisy Pitta. I was fully camouflaged, sitting motionless in the undergrowth, when I heard footsteps approaching. Not wanting to cause a heart attack by suddenly materializing in front of someone, I stood up and revealed myself.

    The man was a city council worker collecting seeds in the area. We struck up a conversation about wildlife, and during our chat, he casually mentioned that just a short distance away, black scorpions could be found under almost every rock. That little piece of information lodged itself in my memory. I didn’t act on it right away, but when I finally invested in a macro lens, I knew I had a new project: photographing a scorpion.

    When I returned to the area he described, I was surprised to find fewer rocks than expected. I walked a two-kilometre stretch, flipping nearly every stone along the way — nothing. Just as I was about to turn back, having mentally set a limit for how far I’d go, I lifted one last rock… and there it was: the elusive scorpion.

    My initial vision was to photograph a scorpion in a desert-like setting — golden sands and stark shadows. Since I don’t live near a desert, I figured a local beach might do. I carefully transported the scorpion there, all while diving deep into research about Australian scorpions. I learned there are around 100 species in Australia. Thankfully, unlike their infamous African cousins, none are deadly. Still, their sting can pack a punch — comparable to a large bee or wasp—so I always wore gloves when handling the container.

    The beach shoot didn’t go as planned. The sand lacked those beautiful, rippling dunes typical of deserts, and the scorpion itself was covered in mud and debris from its rock hideout. I had no idea how to clean it — what would you do? A tiny scorpion wash-and-groom session wasn’t in my skillset.

    During my research, I discovered that scorpions fluoresce under UV light. Fascinated, I ordered a UV torch. Time was tight — I needed to release the scorpion soon, and I still hadn’t gotten the shot I wanted. I learned they only eat every few days, so I fed it bugs I caught myself, hoping that would tide it over.

    With the beach shoot a bust, I decided to photograph the scorpion in its natural environment — somewhere lush and mossy. I imagined it perched on a vibrant green rock. To keep it from scuttling away mid-session, I placed the rock in the middle of a creek, hoping the water would serve as a natural boundary.

    That was the plan, at least…

    Instead, the scorpion started running laps around the rock, dipping both pincers into the water repeatedly. At first, I couldn’t figure out what it was doing — until it suddenly leapt into the creek, latched onto the bottom, and began walking across the stream bed, fully submerged. That’s when it hit me: the scorpion had been using its pincers to gauge the strength and direction of the current, calculating the shortest and safest path to the shore before making its move. It was a remarkable display of instinct and problem-solving. And, to top it off, the little escape artist finally came out sparkling clean.

    The photo session that followed was… intense. Camera in one hand, gloved hand ready to gently place and reposition the scorpion, constantly squatting, stepping back to focus, and just as I’d frame the shot—it would move again. After 30 or 40 minutes of this cardio-intensive “macro workout,” I managed to capture just one usable photo.

    It was time to bring it back to where I’d found it. Camera in one hand, rock in the other, I began walking back. That’s when the scorpion decided it wanted to get to know me better — it started climbing up my glove. Within seconds it was just millimetres from my bare wrist. I panicked. I tried shaking it off, but it held on with impressive strength. I ended up flinging the entire glove. The glove flew one way, the scorpion the other, and my heart almost exploded.

    After catching my breath, I realized I’d accidentally released it several kilometres from its home. I felt a bit guilty — what if it didn’t like its new neighbourhood? To ease my conscience, I flipped a few rocks nearby to see if others lived there. Under the second rock – bingo – another scorpion. Hopefully, my little friend would have company.

    When my UV torch finally arrived, I returned to the new area at night. On a short walk, I found three scorpions. I picked the largest to be my model. That night, with a mirror set up and my son holding the UV torch, I finally captured the shots I’d been dreaming of. Under UV light, the scorpion glowed an eerie, radioactive green. The camera’s white balance went haywire in the darkness, rendering the photos a surreal blue. But honestly? Both versions looked amazing, so I kept and sharing them here. Let me know in the comments below, which photo do you personally like more?

    In the final images, you can even make out the tiny eyes of the scorpion — an incredible detail that most people never get to see.

    And now? I’m not sure how keen I am to return to that park at night, knowing just how many creatures are hiding beneath every rock. But again… things like this never stopped me before.

  • Falling for the Small Things: Discovering the Art of Macro 🪲

    Falling for the Small Things: Discovering the Art of Macro 🪲

    I often joke that I was born with a camera in my hands. Over the years, I’ve explored a wide range of photographic styles—panoramic landscapes, infrared scenes, long-lens wildlife work, and more. Each genre brought its own challenges and rewards, and I embraced them with curiosity and passion.

    But one area I deliberately avoided was macro photography. Not because it lacked appeal, but because I feared falling too deeply for it. The idea of spending my days crawling through undergrowth, chasing insects the size of a grain of rice, didn’t seem all that glamorous. I knew myself well enough to recognize that if I gave it a try, I’d probably get hooked—and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that kind of commitment.

    However, after years of wildlife photography—particularly after photographing over 60% of Australia’s bird species—I began to feel the creative itch again. As the opportunities for new and exciting avian subjects dwindled, I found myself in a lull. Boredom crept in. And that’s when I finally gave in and picked up a macro lens.

    What I discovered was a world more intricate and challenging than I’d imagined. Macro photography is intensely technical. The shallow depth of field demands that you get close—really close—to your subject. But that proximity often causes it to flee. Achieving tack-sharp focus is a constant battle. Stop the lens down beyond f/11, and images start to lose their crispness due to diffraction. Open wider than f/7, and the razor-thin depth of field forces you into the realm of focus stacking—a technique that requires shooting multiple frames at different focus points and blending them later. But stacking only works if your subject, and the environment around it, stay perfectly still—no easy task when you’re outdoors and every breeze becomes your enemy.

    As with any new photographic style, I started with the basics. My first macro subjects were the easiest and most forgiving—flowers. They don’t move, they don’t mind how close you get, and they’re full of colour and texture. I especially enjoyed photographing them after rain, when droplets clung delicately to petals and leaves, adding a layer of mood and detail. Those early sessions taught me how to handle the razor-thin depth of field, how to compose within such a small frame, and how to manage light and contrast on a micro scale.

    From there, I started to explore one of the most fascinating aspects of macro work—the ability to zoom in and keep zooming, revealing details invisible to the naked eye. One of my favourite series so far features a common house gecko. In the first image, you see an animal, perched against a neutral background. In the next, the frame tightens around its head, drawing attention to the texture and pattern of its skin. And in the final shot, I’ve zoomed in so close that you can see the reflection of clouds in its eye. That moment perfectly captured what I love about macro: the ability to discover entire landscapes in a single square centimetre.

    It took some time, and plenty of trial and error, but gradually my results began to improve. And, as I feared, the more I practiced, the more I fell in love with it. While bird photography remains my primary passion, macro photography has carved out its own irresistible niche in my creative life.

    I now find myself drawn not just to the tiny creatures themselves, but to the stories their environments can tell. To truly elevate my macro work, I know I need to focus more on composition and backgrounds—on creating images that aren’t just technically sharp, but also emotionally engaging. That will come with time and patience.

    One unexpected challenge I’ve encountered in this journey is the identification of the subjects I photograph. Unlike birds—where field guides and online databases make species recognition relatively straightforward—the world of insects is incredibly vast, diverse, and often under-documented. Many species can be nearly impossible to identify without expert knowledge or even microscopic examination.

    As a result, I’ve chosen not to provide species names for every photo from the set of photos below. My focus at this stage has been on exploring the art and technique of macro photography rather than diving deep into taxonomy. I hope you’ll enjoy these images for their visual storytelling, detail, and character, even without a scientific label attached.

    This collection represents the early steps of what I suspect will become a long-term fascination—and perhaps obsession—with the tiny, intricate world hiding in plain sight.

  • Jewel of the Jungle: Chasing the Elusive Noisy Pitta 🦜

    Jewel of the Jungle: Chasing the Elusive Noisy Pitta 🦜

    Where I live, Noisy Pittas are only seasonal visitors. They arrive in the winter months, staying for just a few precious weeks or months before vanishing back to higher elevations. As altitude migrants, they move between lowland and upland forests depending on the season—a behavior that makes encounters even more fleeting and unpredictable.

    Photographing the Noisy Pitta has never been easy. Last year, I managed to capture a pretty good photo—one I was proud of at the time. Here it is.

    2024 result

    But as soon as the moment passed, I knew I wanted more. This year, I made it a personal mission to improve on that result—to not only see the bird again but to create an image that truly honors its splendor and the intricate world it inhabits.

    That mission took time. Two weeks of early mornings, long hikes, quiet waiting, and careful listening passed before the opportunity finally arrived.

    To make things more difficult, this year’s wet season has been one of the wettest I can remember. The jungle was constantly soaked, trails were muddy rivers, and the sound of rain on the canopy was near constant. I often found myself working in conditions no typical photographer would even consider stepping outside in. But sometimes, that’s what it takes—embracing the discomfort, waterproofing your gear as best you can, and waiting, soaked and silent, for that one brief moment when the forest offers a glimpse of something extraordinary.

    After days of tracking their calls echoing through the dense undergrowth, I stumbled upon what felt like the perfect stage. A vertical root of a strangling fig tree stood like a natural sculpture in a small clearing, draped with moss and surrounded by lush, layered ferns.

    Strangling Fig Tree in the Jungle…

    …and this is where I thought the pitta will look nice

    ← Right there

    To minimize any impact on the bird, I took extra care to remain hidden and non-intrusive. I wore a full ghillie suit, blending completely into the forest floor, and positioned myself across a small creek, using the natural barrier as a buffer zone. With a long telephoto lens, I was able to observe and photograph the Pitta from a respectful distance, ensuring it remained relaxed and undisturbed in its environment. It was important to me that the image was not only beautiful, but ethically made.

    Took me time to find myself on this photo.

    The light in the jungle was almost non-existent—especially under thick cloud cover during the rain. It was a dim, moody atmosphere that pushed both my camera and my resolve to the limit. Shooting in such low light meant relying on high ISO settings and trusting that my gear could handle the challenge without sacrificing too much detail. But in a way, that darkness added to the mystery, making the moment the Pitta emerged feel even more surreal.

    Then, after all the waiting, all the soaked mornings and silent hours, it happened—the Pitta jumped up onto the stage I had imagined so many times in my mind. My heart started racing. In that instant, everything narrowed to the bird, the frame, and the light—or lack of it. I managed to get the shots not by luck, but because I’ve spent so much time out here, so many days behind the lens, that using my gear has become second nature. I didn’t have to think—I just reacted.

    And then, the moment became even more special. Because of the rain, tiny droplets clung to the bird’s feathers, adding a shimmer I couldn’t have planned for—a delicate, natural detail that elevated the whole image. It was a rare, perfect combination of timing, conditions, and preparation.

    It’s going to be extremely hard to beat these photos next time—but I’ll still be out there trying.

    Which photo do you like more—one from 2024 or from 2025? Let me know in the comments below👇