Matt Martin

With a little point-and-shoot I got when I was ten. I took pictures of my mates, just for fun. At seventeen it got serious: go out, shoot, print, and hold the picture in your hands the same day. That was magic.

Skateboarding and punk were my world. My room was covered in magazine pages, and I was fascinated by the behind-the-scenes images, the moments around the action.

Then I found photocopiers, and suddenly I could make things and share them with everyone. I went on to work at Doomed in Dalston and Photobook Cafe in Shoreditch, surrounded by amazing artists and books. Twenty years later, I opened Toner in Penzance, my very own gallery.

From my punk days, probably. I always loved getting a few bands together, inviting everyone we knew, and putting on a night where everyone had a good time.

I was on Flickr and Tumblr early on, when they were places to share work and find your people. We commented on each other’s pictures, and always kindly. If you had something bad to say, you kept it to yourself. That sense of community is the heart of DIY. It stands for “Do It Yourself”, but none of us could have done it alone.

In Exeter, when there wasn’t a space yet, we zip-tied our prints onto railings and made galleries in the street. I’ve even had a gallery in the hallway of my house.

Probably. The idea was simple: photocopy your photograph in black and white, on any machine you can find, and post it to us. Everything got exhibited, and anyone could buy a print for £5 without knowing who made it. No names, just the image. Everyone equal.

In ten years, we’ve shown more than 500 photographers that way, all through photocopies.

I’m from the Southwest, so I always felt I’d come back. In London I kept driving out to the countryside to work, so it made sense to live where I actually want to take pictures. Chris Killip said something along those lines: live where you enjoy making the work.

There’s a lot of strong work being made here, by Jack Whitefield, Ben Weller, Becky Tyrrell. Having grown up in a rural place myself, I wanted to give this community a home: a gallery for shows, workshops and books, a place where people come together.

When I feel stuck, I go out with a camera and walk for hours. Most of the time, everything falls into place afterwards. Some people get their ideas in the shower; I get mine wandering.

In LA, for book fairs, I’d walk for miles. Everyone drives there, so you’re alone on the pavement, in a kind of no man’s land. That’s when I discovered Robert Adams and Henry Wessel.

During Covid, still in London, I walked around Bow, along the Thames and the Lee Valley, with no map. I’d come home, edit, and make a zine named after the number of steps I’d taken that day. Twenty copies. If they sold, good; if not, it didn’t matter. What I love is watching an idea become an object in a matter of hours. I still work that way here.

I shot it on the 7th of August, in a small orchard behind a rugby field in Penzance. I stumbled on it while wandering, a kind of nature reserve in the middle of town.

Three benches carved with teenagers’ names and tags, bottle caps, cigarette butts, mouldy fruit under the trees, and the evening light coming through. It took me straight back to my own teenage summers. Everywhere I looked, there was a frame.

I shot twenty pictures, and somehow it felt complete. That night I edited and printed it. Not every project needs months or years.

Not far. Anywhere in West Penwith, from the standing stones of Lanyon Quoit to Zennor. The coastal paths there are extraordinary.

One day I’d love to walk the Japanese countryside. I once took the train from Tokyo to Osaka and watched the cities dissolve into rice fields, mountains and villages. But honestly, I’m happiest here, getting lost five minutes from home.

Film

Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas, which changed the way I see colour. Larry Clark’s Kids, for the skate and youth culture I grew up in, and Beautiful Losers, a documentary that changed everything for me. But my true favourite might still be Clueless.

Photography

Fay Godwin, for her black-and-white British landscapes and her fight to keep the land open to walkers. And William Eggleston, who shares that Wenders feeling: everyday life, colour, a quiet nostalgia.

Book

Jem Southam’s The Red River, which follows a Cornish river turned red by mining. I love the simplicity of it: find a river, a road, a path, and follow it with a camera.