Artist Statement

I see my work as a tribute to the natural world, an examination of the conspicuous, the beautiful, and the flawed.

I aim to create distinctive works showcasing peaceful nature scenes to bring tranquility into our busy world.

In the field, I use natural light and shadows to spark curiosity, capturing and sharing moments that inspire visual imagination and provoke thought.

I challenge the fragmented mindset and culture of sustainability complacency by revealing the gap between humanity and an idealised image of pristine

nature to inspire change. I delve into the essence of objects, going beyond the obvious to engage deeply with nature and infuse its meditative power into my work.

In my monochrome work, I utilise black and white shades to accentuate timeless authenticity, focusing on deep tones and highlights core to my work.

The rich blacks convey the intense emotions that attracted me to the subject.

When creating colour artworks, I skilfully balance and leverage colours to create balanced and strong artworks that inspires awe.

I respect patrons' personal interpretations of the art on their walls, as it should reflect their style and tell their own story in their space.

Peter Dooley

LET THE BLIND SEE

At just twenty years of age, the world exploded around me and my life split into before and after.

Our vehicle hit the landmine, and in that instant, everything I knew about my body, my future, my sight—everything changed. The burns came first, searing across my skin, but it was the darkness and severe shell-shock which followed that truly terrified me. My eyes, my vision—blurred and distorted by the burns, perhaps damaged beyond repair or lost forever. In those early days, I couldn't know what remained or what would return.

The pain was immense, but worse was the uncertainty. Would I ever see clearly again? What kind of life could I have?

The doctors said I was lucky to survive—given the severity of my burns and the delayed medical care. But luck wasn't what saved me. My twin brother David was.

The fear consumed me. Without pain medication, every moment was excruciating. For nearly two hours, my brother held me close during that endless journey to get medical help, his voice urgent and unwavering as he begged me to hold on. Even now, I can hear him—calm, steady, refusing to let me slip away.

I didn't fight just for myself. I fought for him. That day, he became more than my brother. He became the reason I'm still here, and he hasn't left my side since. I carry that gratitude with me every day.

Slowly, painstakingly, some sight returned. Not what I had before—never that—but partial vision, fragmented, distorted and limited. I learned to navigate a world that remained perpetually unclear, always just out of focus. For years, I adapted. I found ways to function, to work, to live. But there was always something missing, something I grieved quietly: the ability to truly see the world around me.

Decades passed. I turned forty, and something shifted inside me. Perhaps it was stubbornness, or hope, or simply the refusal to accept that my story with sight was finished. I discovered photography—or rather, photography discovered me. The timing was perfect. Camera technology had evolved in ways that seemed almost miraculous. Autofocus systems, digital viewfinders and large LCD displays, image stabilisation, zoom capabilities that could compensate for what my eyes could no longer do on their own.

I picked up a camera, and for the first time since I was twenty, I could see.

Not with my damaged eyes alone, but through the lens, through the technology, through this remarkable tool that became an extension of my vision. For the next few years, I dedicated substantial effort to mastering the technical aspects to maximise the benefits.

The camera showed me details I'd forgotten existed. Colours. Textures. Distances. The play of light and shadow. I could capture moments, study them, enlarge them, understand them in ways my limited sight never allowed.

Photography didn't just give me a purpose—it gave me back the world. And more than that, it gave me a voice. Through my images, I could share what I saw, how I saw it, this hard-won vision that cost me so much and meant everything.

People responded to my work, not despite my story, but because of it. My photographs carried something extra—perspective earned through darkness, beauty recognised after loss. They never truly understood why my photographs were so captivating, why these images had the ability to draw the viewer in, to see the world from a perspective that they did not understand or perhaps had never experienced before.

I'm sixty-eight now. Nearly fifty years have passed since that landmine stole my sight and tested my will. But I never gave up! That twenty-year-old boy, burned and blinded and terrified, somehow found the strength to keep going. And that strength led me here, to this unexpected gift, this second sight.

The camera in my hands feels like vindication. Every photograph I take is proof that trauma doesn't write the final chapter. That technology and determination and time can open doors I thought were sealed forever. That even distorted partial vision can see clearly enough to show others something beautiful, far beyond the violence and chaos of our world.

I lost so much that day. But I found something too—resilience I didn't know I had, and eventually, a way to see the world I'd dreamed of all along.

I shoot both Medium Format Hasselblad and Full Frame Canon