All Questions Are Good Questions.

A good question is worth a million good answers." 

Albert Einstein

The interpretation and meaning of art is a fascinating subject. What appears obvious to one person can seem completely inaccessible to another, and neither viewpoint is any less valid. After all, art is subjective. Once art begins to drift away from the obvious and towards the abstract, things can become a little more complicated. For some, abstraction opens up endless possibilities; for others, it raises a single question: What on earth am I looking at?

Over the past few days, I was fortunate enough to have one of my photographs exhibited at the Four Corners Gallery in Bethnal Green, in London's East End. The exhibition showcased work from a selection of Falmouth University students and highlighted the breadth of talent across the photography courses. Documentary, natural history, editorial and fine art photography all sat side by side, making for a wonderfully diverse display.

My image firmly occupied the abstract fine art corner of the room, and the conversations it generated were remarkably consistent.

"Is it the sun?" was usually the opening gambit.

This was often followed by, "What is it?" and then, "How did you make it?"

They're perfectly reasonable questions, and I'm always happy to answer them. Yet after hearing them several times, I found myself wanting to move the conversation beyond the mechanics of the image and towards the image itself. More often than not, however, by the time we'd covered the technical details, the viewer had already wandered off to the next photograph.

It wasn't frustrating so much as surprising. The process seemed to hold more fascination than the photograph. My work is made with a great deal of passion and intensity, but unlike many contemporary discussions around art, I'm not particularly interested in telling people what they should feel. I'd much rather create images that allow viewers to discover their own emotional response. Hearing so many questions centred on the what, how and why did make me wonder whether the work was missing its mark.

Thankfully, I think I know the culprit.

Scale.

These photographs were always intended to be large. In many ways, scale was part of the concept from the very beginning. Seeing them printed at 1m x 1.5m was immensely satisfying, but I couldn't help feeling they still wanted to be bigger. Much bigger.

Abstract work often needs room to breathe. It needs space for the viewer to step back, slow down and spend time with it. Only then can the image begin to operate on a more emotional or atmospheric level. Questions about technique naturally fade into the background as the viewer starts to experience the work rather than analyse it.

Despite all the questions, the exhibition was hugely valuable. Hearing people's reactions, whether they understood the work, misunderstood it, loved it or were simply baffled by it was fascinating. Every conversation offered a small insight into how people engage with images, and those interactions have already started to shape ideas for my next body of work.

The next stop is the AOP (Association of Photographers) Student Awards next week, where I've been shortlisted for two collections of work. That means another trip to London and another long day spent navigating trains, tubes and crowds.

I just have one request.

Could someone please turn the temperature down a few degrees?