Chasing the Next Idea

I didn’t enter the Iris Awards in 2025 trying to win New Zealand Professional Photographer of the Year. I was chasing something else entirely, I was determined to become a Grand Master of Photography.

I’d been working towards it for years and I knew I needed two Gold awards to get there. That was my goal. Two Golds. I was completely focused on finally reaching that distinction and, if I’m honest, Photographer of the Year wasn’t really on my radar. And then somehow, I ended up winning it. It was incredible. Completely unexpected and something I am enormously proud of. But there was also this slightly uncomfortable thought sitting quietly in the back of my mind afterwards.

What if it was a fluke?

Everything had lined up. I’d had a great year, the judges had connected with my work and the right collection of images had come together at exactly the right time. Surely that couldn’t happen again. And suddenly I was in a position I’d never actually planned for. I’d reached Grand Master. I’d won Photographer of the Year. The two things that might have given me a big tangible goal for the following year had happened at the same time. So what was I entering for now?

A few people actually told me I shouldn’t enter in 2026. They weren’t being negative. Their reasoning made sense. It’s hard to come back the year after you’ve won. When you’ve reached the highest point you possibly can, there’s really only one direction you can go. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t cross my mind. There was pressure in entering again, but I don’t think it was pressure to win again. I never went into 2026 believing I was going to win Photographer of the Year for a second time. The pressure was probably more about putting my work back out there after having such an extraordinary year.

What if I had a terrible year? Would people look at 2025 differently? More importantly, would I look at 2025 differently? Maybe that little voice saying it had been a fluke would turn out to be right.

I could have stopped there. I had a pretty good excuse to. But then awards season started creeping around again. And so did the ideas.

That’s the thing I’ve realised about why I enter. I might have achieved the distinctions. I might have won the title. But neither of those things switches off the part of my brain that starts firing when Iris gets closer. If anything, that is the part I would miss most. Awards season is my time to create for me.

For most of the year photography is my job. I create for clients, I work within briefs and expectations, and there is a purpose behind what I’m producing. Then Iris comes around and I start going back through all those strange ideas I’ve collected. Often they’re not even new ideas, they’re the ones that didn’t work the first time. The ideas I tried once and failed at, but couldn’t quite let go because somewhere in my head I still knew there was a photograph in there.

My origami portrait this year was one of those. I’d had these origami birds for a few years that I knew I wanted to use in a photograph, and I’d attempted an origami-inspired portrait previously. It hadn’t come together, but the idea had never completely left me. Then a client contacted me about a very special portrait session. In Japanese culture, turning 20 is an important milestone and she wanted a traditional portrait of herself wearing their family kimono. It was so significant to their family that her grandmother flew over from Japan to be there. Of course, the traditional portrait was the important photograph. But my client was also open to creating something different and suddenly this idea I’d carried around with me had found the right person.

The koru newborn image had an even longer history. The pottery koru in that photograph were given to my husband and me as a wedding present twenty years ago. Last year I decided there was an image in them. I photographed them and experimented with all sorts of weird and wonderful textures, trying to make them look almost as though they were made from felt. It was an epic fail. And I was actually really disappointed because I could see the finished image in my head. I just couldn’t get what I had created to look anything like it. So I put it aside. Then this year a client came into the studio with their beautiful little baby, and that idea started nagging at me again. I wanted another go. And I think that probably says more about why I enter than any award ever could.

I like unfinished ideas. I like wondering whether I can make something work. I like coming back to something a year later with different skills, a different perspective or simply the right person standing in front of my camera.

Awards give me permission to do that. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it really doesn’t. Even in a year where I received three Gold with Distinction and three Golds across my top six images, not everything I entered reached those heights. Nor should it. Because I think if everything you make works, you’re probably not pushing yourself far enough.

There needs to be room to get it wrong. There needs to be an image where you wonder what on earth you were thinking. A category that makes you uncomfortable. An idea that you’re not quite technically capable of pulling off yet. You have to give yourself permission to be different, because once you start creating according to what has worked before you’re no longer really experimenting.

Perhaps that’s actually harder after you’ve had success.

I know what has worked for me. I know what a “Sarah image” looks like. Other people probably do too. But I don’t want to spend the next few years making versions of photographs I’ve already made. I’d much rather risk making something terrible while trying to make something new. Because during that process, something happens.

I become excited about photography again. Awards season seems to ignite this creative spark in me that is stronger than at any other point in the year. I’m no longer shooting for the client, or shooting for the pay day. I start seeing possibilities everywhere. Ideas pile up. I experiment. I stay up too late. I create problems purely so I can work out how to solve them.

And then, of course, there is judging. The adrenaline. The nerves. The sweaty palms. That slightly ridiculous feeling of knowing your image is coming up and desperately wanting to watch while simultaneously wanting to leave the room. Weirdly, I love it. Which is why when people ask whether I’ll enter again in 2027, my answer is genuinely: I don’t know.

I don’t have anything left that I feel I need to prove. I’m not setting myself the goal of winning it three times. And I certainly don’t feel as though I have a title to defend. I’ll decide when the time comes. I’ll see whether that creative spark starts firing again. Whether one of those old ideas starts annoying me. Whether something new gets lodged in my head and I need to find out if I can make it real.

There is, however, one thing working very strongly in favour of me entering. FOMO.

I genuinely don’t know how I’d cope sitting through Iris judging without having an image coming up. As terrifying as it is, there’s something addictive about that little adrenaline rush. The anticipation. The uncertainty. The possibility that something you’ve spent months thinking about is about to connect with five people – or completely confuse them. I’m not sure I’m ready to give that up.

So perhaps 2027 will bring another collection. Perhaps it won’t. I’ll know when the time comes. But if the ideas start keeping me awake at night again, I have a feeling I’ll find myself back there. Not chasing a title. Just chasing the next idea.

The photo gallery below is credited to Sarah McGregor