Nocturne

Night changes everything. It’s not just the absence of light, but a shift in how we perceive the world. Familiar shapes lose definition. Sounds become more pronounced. Our sense of control diminishes, and instinct sharpens. In most human settings, we push back against darkness—switching on lights, retreating indoors, seeking comfort. But in the bush, night is not something to resist, it is not an inconvenience. It’s a threshold. It alters what we see, and how we see it.

Through the South Luangwa bush after dark

This project has recently begun as an attempt to understand that shift. To begin. to observe and document the nocturnal lives of Zambia’s animals—predators, prey, and all that moves between. Something more interpretive than scientific. A series of impressions rather than exact records. The photographs that emerge are noisy, often blurred - less about anatomical detail and more about atmosphere. Some resemble charcoal studies or underpaintings—suggestive, unfinished, built on tone and movement rather than sharpness.

The images, like the nights themselves, are chiaroscuro: built from light and shadow in uneven measure. A lion caught in a narrow beam. The pale crescent of a chameleon’s belly hunting on a twig. The glint of a leopard’s eye through the tall grass. These aren’t clinical field images. They are tenebristic: moments held together by the dark.

The Role of the Tracker

Any real understanding of this landscape, especially at night, starts with the guides and trackers. Their knowledge is observational, passed down over years. A broken twig, a hush in the trees, the smell of damp earth after something heavy has passed—all become part of the narrative.

At night, when visibility falls away, their role becomes even more central. They navigate by sound, by scent, by logic. A guide may stop the vehicle and simply listen, tracing the call of a hyena back to a kill site, or using the sudden silence of baboons to infer the approach of a predator. It's an art as much as a discipline—closer to composition than calculation. Particular thanks to the exceptional Peter Milanzi, Mulenga Phirie and Stephen Mvula of The Bushcamp Company)

The Leopard: A Study in Minimalism

Leopards appear and disappear on their own terms. You don’t chase a leopard. You wait. The best you can hope for is a glimpse—a silhouette draped over a branch, or the sound of movement too heavy for the wind. In the camera, these cats resolve into gestures rather than portraits. The lines of their bodies are softened by low light and motion blur. It’s a form of visual abstraction. I’ve taken images where the leopard is barely more than a curve of spine and a glint of eye—but the feeling remains, even when form is elusive.

Lions: Mass and Presence

Lions are easier to see, but no less complex to interpret. At night, their calls become part of the environment - deep, resonant, felt in the chest before they’re heard in the ear. The guides recognise individuals not only by appearance but by posture, behaviour, rhythm. Observing lions in darkness is less about witnessing drama than feeling weight - both physical and emotional. There is tension before a hunt, communication in the tilt of a head, social cues exchanged in near silence. In photographs, their presence often dominates the frame, even when most of the body is lost to shadow.

Smaller Lives, Quiet Scenes

Not all subjects are large predators. Much of the night belongs to smaller, more secretive creatures: genets, civets, honey badgers, bush babies. A flap-necked chameleon asleep in the open is a perfect still life—its muted tones and curled limbs like a study in negative space.

Owls punctuate the scene with brief, silent flights. Aardvarks and porcupines emerge rarely and briefly—fleeting sketches that feel more like thumbnails than full compositions.

The Diurnal at Rest

Even the day-active species do not fully disappear. Elephants travel long distances at night. Giraffes rest awkwardly, folding themselves down like structures unsure of their own geometry. Hippos leave the water, trailing quiet paths through the bush.

Philosophy in Practice

This project remains unfinished by design. It’s not about compiling a complete field record or very far from a definitive portfolio as yet - undoubtedly it needs more time and devotion. It’s about sitting with the limits of visibility and leaning into interpretation. About accepting that the bush at night does not always yield clean answers—and doesn’t need to. Photography, here, becomes an act of listening as much as seeing. The high ISO grain, the motion blur, the blocked-up shadows are part of the language of darkness. In art terms, these are sfumato, the unfinished ground of a story still unfolding.

And so I keep returning to South Luangwa, to Wamilombe, to the Kapamba. Each night different. Each encounter partial. Each frame a small gesture toward understanding a world that begins when our own dims.