I bought an Olympus Pen FT half frame camera second hand a few years ago. I love its mechanical shutter noise - a precise and clearly audible clunk. I'd been interested in the diptych format for some time, inspired by Luke Fowler's 'Two Frame Films' photobook. The two pictures printed side by side on a single piece of photographic paper and divided by a slightly fuzzy black line (a thin strip of unexposed film) hovered somewhere between photography and film. Unless careful notes were taken it was almost impossible to predict which images would end up next to each other. I enjoyed the element of chance in this process. Other risks included the possibility of under or over exposing one of the images. This would directly affect the appearance of the neighbouring picture since an average exposure would be sought by the machine during printing. I was keen to recover a sense of occasion with each exposure, something that is often lost with a digital camera. I wanted to slow down and savour the moment. I wanted to make fewer images, think about them a little more before clicking the shutter.

I am drawn to the marvellous in the everyday. I believe in a kind of unconscious creativity, the kind that results in abandoned sofa sculptures, a bucket of snails, a driftwood shrine or taped-over sign. The act of taking/making a photograph is a second layer of creativity employing the language of time, frame and focus. A photograph is a container, a "parcel of time" to borrow John Szarkowski's brilliant phrase. A half frame photograph contains two parcels, possibly of differing durations. I like to think that the sum of these two images is greater than the parts. Each of the paired images relies on the other for support. Sometimes the pairings are sympathetic. Subjects, colours or shapes, for example, synchronise beautifully. Other pairs generate conflict. Some are complete failures, usually for some technical reason.

There is plenty of room for the happy accident.