Low angle photography Allows You to See Eye-to-eye with your subjects

I have a hard drive full of photos that prove a disappointing truth.

For years, my pictures from wildlife hides all looked the same. They were sharp enough, but they were boring. They were photos of a bird, but they never felt like photos with a bird.

They were taken from above. Looking down. It's a perspective that puts a barrier between you and the subject. It’s the view of a distant observer, not a participant.

If you’ve ever come home from a walk, looked at your photos, and felt that same sense of disappointment, I've been there. It's the frustration of knowing that the picture on your screen doesn't capture the feeling you had in your heart. Sound familiar?

I found the solution not in a new lens, but on a cold, stony beach in Northumberland. It meant getting uncomfortable. It meant learning to see the world from a different level. I discovered low angle photography.

The View from the Wall

Up above the harbour wall in Craster, I spotted Turnstones foraging in a chaotic jumble of stone and seaweed below. From my standing position, even with a long lens, the birds almost vanished into the background.

I took a picture. It was fine. It was a record of a bird. But it was forgettable.

I felt that familiar, nagging sense that this was a missed opportunity.

I looked at the flat image on my camera screen and then back at the birds. It wasn't just the distance that was the problem. It was the height. I was a tall figure looking down from another world. The photo felt distant because I was distant!

My brain knew what it had to do, but my legs argued back. I knew I had to leave the convenient wall, head down the steep road, and eventually, haul myself back up.

The desire for a better photo was strong. But it was more than that. I wanted a better experience, and I knew I wouldn't find it from up on the wall.

A Change in Perspective

So, I went. As I reached the bottom of the hill and joined the slipway, the movement was too much for the birds. They noticed me and took to the air.

There was no way I was climbing back up straight away, so I sat on the cold stone wall to get my breath back. 

Surprisingly, it didn't take long for the birds to settle and return to their task, turning over stones to look for tasty morsels.

I remained still as they hopped over the piles of rocks. From here, I was much closer to their world. Surely this was low enough? I raised my camera and could see it was a huge improvement. I could see the sides of their bodies now, not just their backs.

But looking at the photos, I could see there was still a problem. Even from my seated position, the background was messy. Those stones, though slightly out of focus, made it difficult to see the birds clearly.

I knew there was a better shot waiting for me. This is the moment where the voice of past failures gives you a little nudge. It told me I had to get even lower.

My eyes drifted to the concrete slipway itself, but my mind instantly flooded with excuses. People would wonder what on earth I was doing. They might laugh when I tried to awkwardly get back on two feet.

No, I would settle for what I'd got. 

The Humility of a Low Angle

Later that day, I found more Turnstones on the shingle beach. This was my second chance. I slowly set my bag on the dry stones, took out a simple waterproof sheet to sit on, and got awkwardly down to the ground. 

People sit on the beach all the time I told myself. Here, I didn't feel so out of place.

My eye level was still above the birds.

I remembered my camera had a flip-out screen. Perhaps I could use that to get even lower? It certainly helped. The new problem was trying to see the screen without toppling headfirst onto the beach.

From this new position, the world looked completely different. The wind sounded different. I felt the damp cold through my coat. This, I remember thinking, is where patience really pays off.

By lying still, I stopped being a threat and became part of the landscape. Soon enough, one of the Turnstones ignored me completely, walking closer and closer.

My camera settings were already dialled in for the soft light; a shutter speed of 1/1250s to freeze the bird's quick movements.

The click of the shutter felt quiet and deliberate.

When I looked at the image on the back of my camera, I felt a jolt of satisfaction. The bird was perfectly sharp. More importantly, the messy background had melted away into a soft, out-of-focus wash of colour.

The photo wasn't just of the bird. It felt like I was with the bird, sharing its stony world. It was the difference between looking and seeing.

In that moment, I finally understood the connection that was possible. I understood what people meant when they said, "get low."

Low angle photograpy they called it and now I knew how low you needed to go!

Just to prove to myself that I had finally achieved what had felt impossible earlier, I lay on my tummy on the beach and waited for a sanderling to move closer.

It reminded me of a clockwork toy as it zipped across the sand at the water's edge before suddenly stopping to feed. 

By the time I thought about the struggle of getting back up, I realized everyone else on the beach was far away. Nobody would even see my inelegant movements.

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