craig broad

Waiting For The Bus 

I’ve recently been going out and taking shots just to work my 85mm in. The extra distance has afforded me the ability to take time with my shots (especially because the manual focus ring is so much nicer than on the 50mm) so hopefully people will see cooler compositions.

This shot works for me on many levels; the placement of the subjects, the rain splatted glass beside the idyllic advertisement shot of St Austell bay, and the symmetry of the stop itself.

The Dentist

A guy smiles eight times a day on average
but I’m sure you could get some more out of me.

You’re a masterpiece I’m sitting on, not sharing,
hoping it won’t break because
nothing should be this perfect.

Please, smash in my face
and rebuild it with porcelain plated teeth
then listen to me shake
every time you walk through the door.

You’re a Russian doll -
it doesn’t matter how many layers of clinical blue fabric
I peel off with eyes,
you’ll still look the same; flawless.

‘A guy smiles eight times a day on average’
I tell you with your hand so far into my mouth
I’ll be tasting knuckle for the next week.
'I’ve only seen you smile once’ she replies.

I remember with her, it’s always pulling teeth.


I shot Josh as part of a sexuality set that I’m working on, but after we achieved those shots, we just worked on some general portraits, and he got to show off his amazing coat!

Self Portrait

As I was finding it impossible to get a model for the last of my feminine shots, I had to do it. In order to warm up, I took a couple of semi-serious self portraits. This is the one I liked the most.

Genuine Moments

The camera lies. Photographers can create beauty or controversy where there is none, which is part of the reason why I like street photography. For most of us it isn’t staged or posed, and for most of us it is about capturing an honest emotive moment. I feel that this is one of those moments.

I Am Not Steve Buscemi

I do not have Steve Buscemi’s eyes; mine are worse, 
unrecognisable. My teeth, like his,
are crooked and still you don’t see me 
making cameos in the Hollywood movies.

Ugliness is subjective, 
all relative to the scene,
the character, the fiction 
that we were born to create.

I am not Steve Buscemi
because despite our similar appearance
my fiction is unimportant, unnecessary 
and undeserving of its creation.


She tells me that she has this thing
where even after she has let go of an object
she can still feel it on her fingertips
as if it were still pressed within her palms,

she tells me that it’s not very common 
asks if I know what she’s talking about and if it happens to me.
‘Can you roll your tongue,’ I ask her
'because damn, I can’t even roll my tongue
so what hope do I have in being uncommon?’

She looks at me and rolls her tongue.
'I can lick my nose,’ I tell her
trying to compete, 'but who wants to
in a British summer when all you get is colds?’

That night we held each other close
our hands hovering over the ravines of each others spine
a place we had never ventured before,
all I could think about
was that the moment she left, for me she was gone
but for her, even if it was just on her skin, I had made an impression.

The Sales Assistants

I picked up the book of short stories and took it to the counter, interrupting the two sales assistants who turned their attentions to my purchase.

‘Oh, this is a good book’ one of them said.

'Yes, I’ve heard this author is spectacular. If I read male authors, I’m sure he would be one of those I’d love’, the other cut in, and at this point I challenged myself to be more than an idle spectator to this conversation.

'Why don’t you read male authors?’ I asked, and both their eyes rose from the book, now cradled in a plain white plastic, to my face, my eyes, scorching a pinhole into me.

'Feminism’, they both said bluntly, simultaneously as if this response had been rehearsed well in advance.

I smiled and a hint of silent laughter seeped from between my lips.

'What’s so funny?’ one demanded, staring aggressively into me until I became convinced that my skin would peel off from the power of her anger.

We all stopped for a moment, silently taking in the situation. It was me who broke the putrid atmosphere.

'It’s just… if I only read male authors, I’d be accused a sexist. But you, you’re considered an idealist. It’s a funny world isn’t it?’

I paid for the book and left. When I got home I read the first short story. It was incredible just as they had been suggested it would be. For a brief moment I felt sorry for them, that they would never experience this, but then I kept reading.

Their loss.

Working To Live, Living To Work

Every time I go out shooting at night I often see people at work, looking stressed or fed up, still in their work place at beyond 8pm. I wonder, is this the world we live in now, do live to work or work to live?


My best friend Donna came down for the weekend and wanted some nice photographs of herself (as no-one takes photographs of her apparently).

We haven’t seen each other for two years, but she she is still as happy-go-lucky as ever!