23MARTIAN: A VOICE SHAPED BY RESTRAINT
In a sea of overworked images, the photographs of Martin Annand—known as 23Martian—hold a certain kind of superpower. They remind us—very clearly—that less is more. But this isn’t some intellectual exercise to ponder or debate. It’s immediately felt. His work quietly redefines what we expect from a photograph. There’s no need for the mind to analyze. Instead, the heart responds first, followed by the mind’s quiet surrender as the noise of the world begins to fade. A spaciousness takes over—both inside the image and within us.
Martin’s approach to photography has always been driven by a deep respect for simplicity. His compositions often feature lone objects, isolated in wide open spaces, asking nothing more than to be noticed. This focus on minimalism isn’t about stripping away for the sake of emptiness. It’s about giving space for each element to breathe and exist without distraction. Where other photographers might add more to their frame to capture attention, Martin understands that true power lies in what is left behind. It’s in the quiet of the image that the viewer finds room to reflect, and in that reflection, something deeper emerges.
This restraint is not just an aesthetic choice—it’s central to how Martin approaches his craft. He’s not interested in making a statement for the sake of making one; instead, he’s interested in what emerges when all the excess falls away. His photographs aren’t so much compositions as they are meditations—moments suspended in time, where every detail serves a purpose and every empty space is intentional. It’s in this subtlety that the work truly speaks—quietly, but with incredible depth.
We’re honored to share this conversation with 23Martian, exploring the path, practice, and quiet power behind his work.
THE NAME: 23MARTIAN
Your Instagram handle has always made me want to ask—what’s the story behind "23Martian"? Where did the name come from, and has it evolved for you over time?
The Martian part has come from a childhood spelling mistake when an addition of an extra "a" made Martin into something more otherworldly. Often associated with luck, synchronicity, and even conspiracy theories from some books I read as a teenager, the number 23 has always appealed to me and it's stuck.
When I first had an Instagram account it wasn't for photography, so it was just a name I used for it. Had I known it would have become a photography account, I may have gone the more standard route of "Martin Annand Photography" or something similar—but 23Martian it is, and I've run with it, so much so that it’s the name of my website too. I guess it's a little more intriguing than the standard.
It’s still just a happy accident in a lot of ways—a playful mask, really. It’s the representation of me online, which leaves a little separation from who I am in real life, and I quite like having that bit of anonymity. Putting myself out there doesn’t always come naturally, so doing it a little covertly helps. But at the same time, 23Martian feels like a real part of me now too.
BEGINNINGS & EVOLUTION
How did photography first take hold in your life? Was there a defining moment or a particular experience that made you realize this was something you wanted to pursue seriously?
I came to photography very late in life. I'm 53 now and have been into photography for around seven years. I've always had a creative streak and enjoyed art in my younger days, but it wasn't until I visited my sister in New Hampshire—who at the time had a Nikon D3500—that I discovered photography. I'd never picked up a "proper" camera before, but something clicked, and I became quickly obsessed with it.
I didn't know what the dials and buttons did, but I started in auto mode and just snapped away. At first, there was no attention to composition or subject matter—but it was the beginning of a relationship that's lasted. When I got home, I bought an entry-level camera and, with the help of books and YouTube, started to learn the fundamentals.
At first, I was just photographing anything and everything, but as I learned more—concepts like composition and the power of depth of field—my interest deepened. I started to understand how a camera could shape how we see, not just what we see.
Before long, going places to take photos turned into going places because of photography. That shift made a huge difference. And then, discovering photographers like Trevor Cotton, Noel Clegg, and Neil Burnell—with their long exposures and beautiful treatment of color and subject—helped me realize that photography didn't just have to document reality. It could be a form of creative expression. That realization gave me direction, and it's a journey I’m still very much on today.
How has your work evolved over time? Have there been particular turning points, influences, or experiences that have shaped the way you see and photograph the world today?
I live in one of the most landlocked counties in the UK, with most of my preferred locations being on the coast, so geography has definitely been a factor. It’s made me focus more on processing at home rather than always being out in the field.
A definite turning point was discovering long exposure photography and the use of filters. The dream-like effect that can be produced, especially in the water and sky, really resonated with me. I can remember the first shots I took with a 10-stop filter—after watching a YouTube video, I thought I was prepared. I headed to the coast and took some images of an old wooden pier. The results had varying degrees of success, but it was enough to get me hooked, and it's still a fascination for me today.
The results are never set in stone, which is part of the appeal. The idea of slowing things down and smoothing things out fits my character, I think.
Influences that made a real impact early on were Trevor Cotton, Noel Clegg, and Neil Burnell—photographers I still look up to. These days, there’s also a crop of photographers I admire on Instagram, like Julien Carcano and Rohan Reilly, among many others. They consistently produce beautiful work.
Winning the Minimalist Photography Awards in 2023 was something I never expected, but it was a great experience. I have my wife to thank for encouraging me to enter. Left to my own devices, I’m not sure I would have. It gave me a little confidence that maybe I was on the right track, and that others were seeing something in the work that resonated too.
PROCESS & PHILOSOPHY
When you head out to photograph, do you usually have a clear intention in mind, or are you more guided by what you find? And when you’re in the field, what tells you that a scene is worth committing to—whether it’s a new discovery or a familiar location you’ve returned to?
I usually do have a clear intention in mind. Time is a luxury I often don't have, so I try to plan as much as I can before I go. Checking tide times, weather forecasts, using Google Maps and social media to identify potential subjects—all of that helps make a shoot successful.
I try to find new locations from home first rather than heading out to discover them. I'm around two and a half hours from any coastline in the UK, so I try to have a clear plan to make the trip worthwhile. I think exploring and reacting to what you find can sometimes bring more original images, but it's not something I can do very often.
If I'm not satisfied with what I captured on the day, I'll return to a location as many times as it takes to get the conditions and shots I'm happy with. There has to be a certain element of a subject being photogenic—whether it's architecture, shape, symmetry, the materials it’s made from, or how it sits within its environment. All of that makes a scene worth committing to.
That said, you can still be surprised. Sometimes a shot that didn't grab you in the field has real potential when viewed later at home on the computer. You have to leave a little room for that.
Your work is refined and minimal, but it never feels cold—it carries a certain warmth and stillness. What’s your relationship with “mood” in an image? Is it something you consciously chase while you’re shooting, or something that emerges more during the developing process?
Whether I always succeed or not, I do try to bring a sense of stillness and calm into my images—although I don't think it was something I set out to do intentionally. It just evolved naturally. Removing distractions and simplifying the scene probably adds to that.
Minimalism, for me, always conjures a feeling of calm and space. I think you have to start in the field by getting the basis of what you want to achieve—it’s always something you chase in the field. Weather conditions are a big factor. Overcast, cloudy days with constant light and low winds are ideal for what I’m trying to create.
Sometimes you can lose the horizon completely with these conditions, especially on the coast, and that can make life easier if you want that seamless effect when editing. It's not always possible, but I try to create as much of the mood as I can in-camera, and then use the developing process to refine it.
You’ve mentioned that long exposure fits your personality—that slowing down, smoothing things out, feels natural to you. Do you find that photography has changed you in return? Have you become more patient, more observant, or more tuned in as a result of the practice?
Photography has definitely made me more aware of my surroundings—the weather, the light, and how it interacts with the world around me. You have to be patient to get what you want. Sometimes it may never come, but you have to be prepared to wait it out for that chance that everything will align and you'll get the shot.
At the same time, you have to have acceptance—that sometimes it doesn’t happen. But you keep the optimism that it will happen next time. I think these are traits and trials that all photographers become familiar with over time.
One thread I keep sensing in your work is this dance between preparation and surrender. You plan, you scout, you check tides—but you also leave space to be surprised. Has there been a shoot where the plan fell apart, but something unexpected revealed itself?
The shoot didn't quite fall apart, but there was one location I went to—a lighthouse in the southwest of the UK—where conditions were great. It was a particularly high tide, but something wasn’t quite clicking with the lighthouse. I'd been there before, and it felt like I was just getting the same shots again. Nothing was really making me excited.
But there was some driftwood that had been washed up on the shore. It was buried enough in the sand that it stayed put even as the tide lapped up over it. I quickly changed position and spent the rest of the shoot focused on the tide enveloping the driftwood instead.
My journeys to the coast are usually over two hours away, so I often have to pick obvious locations to increase my chances of coming away with something—but it was refreshing to come across a momentary subject like that. The lighthouse will still be there next time. The driftwood wouldn’t be.
With photography, it really is a case of—the more you’re out there, the more unexpected things you’ll come across. It was nice that it happened that day.
When I look at your body of work, I can feel a real sense of creative restraint. You’re not trying to say everything all at once—there’s a confidence in showing less. Where does that restraint come from for you? Is it instinctual, or have you had to work toward it over time?
Perhaps it's instinctual, because I don't think it was ever a conscious decision. The idea of showing less has come over time as my processing has improved and I’m better able to strip an image down to its essentials.
Part of it also comes from the constraints I have with my photography. I'm not always able to get to the locations I'd ideally like, so I've had to look at what’s closer to home. Often that means looking at more mundane subjects and finding ways to make them more appealing.
Through long exposure techniques—and sometimes just a little bit of water—everyday things like benches or handrails can be transformed into interesting, graphical images. I wouldn't say it’s confidence that allows me to do what I'm doing. I still question what I produce all the time. I still worry whether it's good enough.
That constant questioning can be quite constricting sometimes, but it also pushes me to want to be better.
I know you’re early in your journey with offering workshops. What’s drawing you to that? What do you hope people walk away with—not just technically, but creatively or emotionally?
It is early days, and I thought about it for a long time before deciding to give it a try. I believe I can pass on some knowledge to people who are looking to experiment more with long exposure photography and give them the foundation they need to go out with confidence—especially when it comes to using ND filters to achieve the images they want.
The technical aspects can be taught fairly easily—camera settings, filters, exposure times—but it’s also about understanding conditions and how to use them to your advantage. I want to pass on that side too.
More than anything, I’d like people to experience the same feeling I had when I first started doing long exposures—the feeling of uncertainty when the exposure is happening, and then the excitement when you see the results. I hope I can help others experience a bit of that joy.
And honestly, just being out in the elements, connecting with the environment around you—that’s good for the soul. If I can share even a little of that feeling, then it’s worth it.
Your relationship with social media seems to have evolved over time. You mentioned feeling occasional pressure to post just to stay "relevant." How do you navigate that tension now—between creating for yourself and creating for the algorithm?
Maybe it's age—or just time spent in photography—but my attitude toward social media has definitely changed.
When I first set out, I was just too keen to get images onto the grid. I didn’t always take the time to really assess the shot or the edit—I just wanted to get it out there. I was also quick to sign up for every new platform that promised to be the next big thing. But I quickly realized I couldn't keep up. I'm not a prolific photographer. I'm not doing this professionally. I can't compete with people who are always traveling, always posting, always shooting.
There is—and can be—a real pressure to keep up. Viewing incredible photography from anywhere in the world is literally at our fingertips now, and while that’s amazing, it can also be overwhelming.
I had to have a little talk with myself just to reset and remember why I started photography in the first place. As nice and affirming as likes and comments can be, it's about so much more than that. Photography is my hobby, my get-away, my "me time." Being by the coast, being in the elements, trying to capture a piece of yourself in your images—that's far more important than chasing numbers.
I'm on Instagram—and one platform is enough for me. I know I probably have my head in my phone too much as it is, so reigning it back has been no bad thing.
At the same time, there are two sides to everything. I find the photography community on Instagram to be, for the most part, warm, supportive, and encouraging. If you reach out, there are so many people happy to share advice—whether it’s about locations, kit, processing, or just sharing the journey.
Is there an image of yours that you think is under-appreciated—or maybe you under-appreciated it at first? Something you weren’t sure about at the time, but that stuck with you or gained meaning later?
My photography often has to fit into whatever else I'm doing. I don’t always have time set aside just for photography, so my camera comes along when I’m working or spending time with family.
One time, a few years back, I was working in Switzerland. The walk to the venue where I was working was along the banks of Lake Geneva. Quite often, my shots can be rushed because I have somewhere else to be, but I managed to get a few frames of a circular diving platform there.
The platform had real appeal—its symmetry, the wooden boards it was made of—and I snapped a few shots quickly. That image ended up winning the Minimalist Photographer of the Year award.
It’s funny. I'd love to say it took days of planning and careful research to get that shot, but it really didn’t. It was just being open to an opportunity on the way to something else. I guess the lesson is: never underestimate your images—however they come about.
CLOSING REFLECTIONS
If you could photograph anywhere, with no limits of budget or logistics, where would you go—and what would you want to capture?
I think anywhere with lots of snow. Seeing images from Japan in the winter months really draws me in. Snow isn’t something we get much of in the UK, and it transforms a landscape—the colors of a snow-laden sky against crisp, untouched ground would be amazing to capture.
I imagine it would be challenging with the cold and the exposure—but that’s part of the appeal. If I had no limits, I'd love to do a whirlwind tour of Japan, Canada, and Scandinavia—then maybe pop down to Venice to defrost and photograph the architecture and tides there too.
What’s one piece of advice you wish you’d received when starting out?
I actually did get this piece of advice, and it's something I've held onto:
Always look back at your earlier work.
If you're frustrated and feeling like you're not where you want to be, take a minute to look at the photographer you were a year ago. See how far you've come. You might not be exactly where you want to be yet, but you’ll see the growth—and it gives you the encouragement to keep going.
I'm not where I ultimately want to be yet, but I know that the photographer I am now is someone my younger self would have been thrilled to become. That perspective keeps me moving forward.
When you look closely at Martin Annand’s journey, certain truths emerge.
That time is not the defining factor of a voice.
It isn’t circumstance, or convenience, or proximity to the extraordinary that shapes the work—it’s the quiet persistence to keep moving forward, one frame at a time.
Seven years ago, none of this was inevitable.
It was simply the next frame, the next step, the next quiet yes.
We're grateful to Martin for sharing both his images and the space between them—the patience, restraint, and quiet clarity that carry through all he creates.
