Delaney's Journal: Stories from the Wild
Step behind the lens and into the narrative of each photograph.
Discover the rare moments, raw emotion, and artistic vision that define these timeless black and white artworks.
A Black and White Photographer's Dilemma: Five Colour Photographs
The Gladiator. The Godfather. Dune on Fire. Five colour photographs that forced a black and white photographer to rethink everything.
Showdown
Wildlife Photographer of the Year
The ones I couldn't convert.
I didn't choose black and white because it's fashionable. I chose it because it's honest. Strip away colour and what remains is texture, light, the weight of a gaze. For twenty years, that has been my answer to anyone who asked why I don't shoot in colour.
But the truth is more complicated.
There are images in my portfolio that never even tried to become monochrome. Not because I lacked the skill, but because the moment itself insisted on being seen in full. Colour, in these five photographs, isn't decoration. It's the subject.
Here they are. The ones I couldn't convert.
The Gladiator
International Photographer Award | National Geographic (Double Page Spread)
The Gladiator
Why some moments need yellow
Skirmishes erupted among the White-backed Vultures in the dry riverbed of the Nossob. It was deep into summer, the rains had yet to arrive, and the land was parched. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, borne of countless carcasses scattered across the Kgalagadi.
I stumbled upon chaos. Hundreds of scavengers fought for survival amidst the grim remains. The White-backed Vultures broke into violent clashes, kicking up a dust storm that engulfed them—heads, claws, wings appearing and vanishing in the maelstrom.
Then, silence.
One vulture backed off. He spread his wings, pushed his neck forward, and prepared to engage again. Ready for battle.
I pressed the shutter.
This photograph was a winner in the Wildlife Photographer of the Year and the IPA. It was published as a double-page spread in National Geographic.
Look at it. The palette is entirely yellow. The dry riverbed—sand. The vulture itself—brown, but brown is just shadowed yellow. The dust hanging in the air is yellow. The light itself—yellow.
Yellow is supposed to evoke calmness. It's a primary colour, steady, warm, peaceful. But this scene is the opposite. It's brutal. Immediate. A single vulture, having just fought over a carcass, gathers itself to dive back into battle.
Colour holds the contradiction. Black and white would have made it timeless, dignified, artistic. But this moment wasn't any of those things.
For those who understand that survival is never beautiful—until after.
The Godfather | Grey Ghost of Etosha
Shortlisted — Sony World Photo Awards
The Godfather
The almost-monochrome that only colour could hold
He stands in the middle of the veld, eyes half-closed, dozing in the winter afternoon. Around him, the ground is a mixture of sand and chalk, the grass bleached pale yellow by cold nights that sometimes freeze. He is calcrete in colour—that specific, ancient cement-grey that gives the elephants of Etosha their name: the Grey Ghosts.
I call him the Godfather.
It's two in the afternoon. The light is hard, the kind of light you're not supposed to photograph in. But this is winter in Etosha, and the sky does something it only does here: an ice blue. Not cold, exactly. Just pure. The kind of blue you can't describe to someone who hasn't stood under it.
He stands still before me in all his magnificence, raising his trunk filled with the red Kalahari dust. In one fluid movement, he sprays his forehead, and for one brief moment, he is covered in the magic of dust and light.
This image was shortlisted for the Sony World Photo Awards.
Look at it. The palette is almost monochrome—calcrete elephant against bleached winter grass. But that ice blue sky changes everything. Blue and yellow. A primary colour and its perfect companion. The moment you convert to black and white, you lose the conversation between them. You lose the thing that makes this moment specific rather than timeless.
This light, this elephant, this sky—they will never align exactly this way again.
For those who know that some moments are not meant to become timeless—only remembered.
Elephant Velvia Sunset
Etosha at Dusk
Elephant Velvia Sunset
The impossible sky
Winter in Etosha. The sunrises and sunsets are breathtaking. The lower atmosphere is filled with sand and white dust, creating a mesmerising red and orange hue in the sky.
In the evenings, a mist descends and adds to the enchanting atmosphere, giving everything a beautiful ethereal glow. The stillness and quietness of the surrounding environment were so profound that it almost felt deafening.
A Bull Elephant grazes on the edge of Etosha Pan.
Then he stops.
He has stopped grazing and, like me, watches the last rays of the day and Velvia glow wash over us.
I shot this on Fuji Velvia—film stock legendary for its saturation, its ability to make colour sing. The pink sky, the purple haze, the mist, the bull standing in light that shouldn't exist.
Some scenes are so improbable that only colour can make you believe you actually saw them.
For those who have stood in light that felt like grace.
Dune on Fire
Memorial Maria Luisa Competition — Recognised
Dune on Fire
The red that is the storm
Dune 45 is one of the most photographed dunes in the world. Capturing something unique is nearly impossible. The constant flow of visitors climbing from morning to late afternoon, leaves little room for solitude.
Late one afternoon, a sandstorm rolled in. Everyone fled for cover. Suddenly, the desert was empty.
I grabbed my 600mm lens—a choice shaped by years as a wildlife photographer, and who shoots landscape with a 600mm?—and crouched behind my 4x4 as the wind whipped sand through the air. The grains stung my face and eyes. But through the long lens, the dunes transformed.
They became a tapestry. Folds and shadows in shades of red, the late afternoon light carving depth into the sand. And at the base, the camelthorn tree. The most recognised tree in the world, sitting there like it had been waiting for this moment.
That red isn't a metaphor. It's actual. The sandstorm didn't create the conditions for colour—it was the colour. Convert this image to black and white, and you don't lose atmosphere. You lose the event itself.
This photograph was recognised at the Memorial Maria Luisa Competition. But what I'm proudest of is this: I created something unique in a place visited by thousands. The event itself is rare. It cannot be copied.
In my work, composition and timing must go hand in hand. A 600mm lens on a landscape? Nobody does that. But it gave me this—a moment when nature briefly reclaimed itself.
For those who find the divine in places everyone else has left.
Storm Over the Karoo
Mountain Zebra National Park
Storm Over the Karoo
The blue that carries the weather
The Karoo has always held a special place for me. Its vast openness and silence bring a deep sense of calm. Yet on a trip to Mountain Zebra National Park, that stillness was broken by a storm of almost biblical scale.
I had imagined this image for years. Dark clouds building over parched land. Thunder rolling across the plains. Lightning tearing through the sky. But nothing prepares you for witnessing such power firsthand.
It was winter. The grass had burnt yellow beneath that immense sky. Rain is rare in these parts—some areas of the Karoo wait months, sometimes longer. This is a harsh land where only the toughest survive. Storms like this aren't just weather. They are lifeblood. A reprieve from the intense heat of summer, when the earth bakes and the silence feels heavier.
What colour holds here is weight. The dark blues of that sky aren't just aesthetic—they carry the storm itself. The rain that hasn't yet fallen. The relief that hasn't yet arrived. Convert this to black and white and you get drama, yes. But you lose the particular gravity of a sky that is actually that colour.
Black and white would have given me timelessness. I needed you to feel what that storm meant to the land below.
For those who understand that some things arrive just in time.
Why This Matters
People often ask why I work in black and white. The honest answer is that it's the only way I know how to show what I actually felt in those moments. Colour tells you what something looks like. Black and white tells you what it means.
But these five images taught me something harder: when to leave it alone.
The Gladiator needed its yellow. The Godfather needed that ice blue sky to keep him from becoming timeless. Elephant Velvia Sunset needed to be improbable. Dune on Fire needed its red. Storm Over the Karoo needed its blue.
Black and white is my voice.
But colour, sometimes, is the thing I'm listening to.
For those who know that the hardest thing is not choosing—but knowing when to stop.
All photographs referenced in this essay are available as archival fine art prints.
A Life in Black and White: Ten African Animals That Shaped My Photography
From lions in the Kalahari to the last northern white rhinos, ten encounters in the African wild that shaped how I see the world through black and white.
Twenty years of this. Still feels like the first time.
I didn't pick up a camera in the African bush. I picked it up in London, in a bookshop, flicking through the work of Don McCullin. As an Irish immigrant who had spent fourteen years on the trading floor, something in that haunting black and white photograph stopped me cold. Completely.
I didn't know it then, but that moment quietly set the course for everything that followed. Night classes. Long hours in the darkroom. And eventually, a life spent photographing Africa's wildlife in monochrome.
Black and white photography does something colour cannot. It removes distraction and forces you — and the viewer — to look harder. Texture. Light. The weight of a gaze.
Over nearly two decades in the field, ten animals have shaped my understanding of what monochrome photography can reveal. Each one taught me something different.
Heart of Darkness
“True power is silent, relentless, and always watching.”
1. The Lion
I once watched a Kalahari black-maned lion hunting in silence. Just minutes before he came into view, an anxious mother and her cubs ran past me — so close I could hear their breath — completely unaware of the danger behind them.
When the male finally appeared, I understood their panic instantly. I followed as far as I could, photographing him as he moved with a slow, terrible purpose.
That photograph became "Heart of Darkness."
In black and white, the intensity of his gaze fills the frame with something primal. It is not a comfortable photograph to sit with, which is exactly the point. The lion does not ask for your admiration.
“True power is silent, relentless, and always watching.”
Bonds of Love
"For those who know family is the wild’s greatest strength."
2. The Elephant Family
There is a photograph I made in Addo National Park that I return to often. A herd surrounds the newest member of the family, a few days old— not in alarm, but in the quiet, deliberate way elephants have of saying: you are ours, and we are yours.
The newborn is barely visible beneath them. The adults form a wall of wrinkled skin and ancient intention.
"Bonds of Love" is what I called it.
In monochrome, the tenderness reads even more clearly. Stripped of colour, what remains is pure relationship — the kind that needs no explanation.
Observing elephants is one of the most moving experiences the bush offers. Their capacity for affection, grief, and fierce protectiveness mirrors something deeply human.
“For those who know family is the wild's greatest strength.”
Craig | Super Tusker
“For those who understand that true legacy outlives the moment.”
3. The Tusker
In Amboseli, we spent an entire morning with Craig — one of the last remaining super tuskers in East Africa. His tusks were so long that they touched the ground as he walked.
Behind him, Kilimanjaro rose through the morning haze, snow-capped and vast. It was one of those bucket-list moments that, even while it was happening, already felt like a memory.
The great tuskers are disappearing. Craig has since passed.
To have spent time with him, to have made his portrait, carries a weight that colour could never fully express. In black and white, he becomes something timeless — not just an animal, but a reckoning.
“For those who understand that true legacy outlives the moment.”
Leopard on the Prowl
Salayexe—the shadow that stalked Sabi Sands
4. The Leopard
In the Sabi Sands, within the Greater Kruger, there was a female leopard named Salayexe. Born in 2005, daughter of Saseka, sired by the formidable Mufufunyane — she ruled her territory with quiet authority.
I photographed her walking along a massive marula branch, one paw raised mid-stride, her gaze clear and utterly focused.
Salayexe passed in 2017, but her lineage continues through her cubs.
When you photograph a leopard like her, you are not simply making a wildlife portrait. You are preserving a chapter of wilderness history. In black and white, everything unnecessary falls away — leaving only form, intelligence, and presence.
“She asked nothing of the world. She simply ruled it.”
Sons of Rosetta | Ruka and Rafiki
“For those who understand true power lies in the relentless pursuit of life.”
5. The Cheetah
In the heart of the Mara, I found two brothers standing atop a termite mound. Ruka and Rafiki — sons of the celebrated female Rosetta — surveying the plains with the quiet confidence of animals who had earned their place.
One stood tall and watchful. The other rested below in calm repose.
Between them was a stillness that spoke of absolute trust.
The cheetah is often described by speed. But "Sons of Rosetta" is about something else entirely — the bond between siblings who have hunted together, survived together, and know each other completely.
In monochrome, their slender forms against the open horizon carry a quiet elegance that colour would only dilute.
“For those who understand true power lies in the relentless pursuit of life.”
Contemplation
“For those who see beauty in the silent yearning of the wild.”
6. The Chimpanzee
Trekking through Kibale National Park in Uganda, hours had passed with only distant glimpses of chimpanzees high in the canopy.
Then suddenly, as if a signal had been given, one descended from the trees. Others followed behind him like paratroopers. What followed looked unmistakably like a hunt. It ended as quickly as it began.
Later, I found Totti — an alpha male — lying on a fallen log. His hazel eyes were fixed on a female high above him. He had displayed, called out, and postured. She ignored him.
Eventually, he lay back, arms stretched above his head, staring upward in silence.
His longing was unmistakable.
I pressed the shutter.
That photograph, "Contemplation," won the Animal Portraits category at Wildlife Photographer of the Year in 2017.
“He taught me that longing has no species.”
Serendipity
“For those who find harmony in nature’s quietest moments.”
7. The Giraffe
On a storm-washed plain in the Mara North Conservancy, a tower of giraffes moved slowly across the horizon.
Five of them formed a living diagonal line beneath an endless sky. The central giraffe paused and turned toward me — a silent conversation between the wild and the witness.
I called that photograph "Serendipity."
“For those who find harmony in nature's quietest moments.”
Camelopard
“For the soul that finds calm in nature’s chaos.”
As the group moved on, one giraffe remained behind. She stood alone beneath a solitary acacia, completely unhurried.
That portrait, "Camelopard," was shortlisted for the Exposure Photo Gallery Awards. In black and white, the giraffe's towering form becomes almost architectural.
“For the soul that finds calm in nature's chaos.”
WIDOWMAKERS — The Herd
"For those who feel the charged silence before something unstoppable moves."
8. The Buffalo
They rise from the tall winter grass of the Mara like a wall of muscle and horn.
The grass is bleached pale by the dry season, almost luminous, and from it the herd emerges shoulder to shoulder. The lead bull fixes his gaze on you. Behind him, the others mirror the same unbroken stillness.
Nobody moves.
The cracked mud across their hides maps a thousand miles of survival.
The African buffalo has long been called the Widowmaker. No animal in Africa turns the tables more completely. In black and white the mud becomes ancient, the horns become architecture, and those steady eyes become something you feel rather than see.
“They do not attack. They simply refuse to yield.”
Najin: Last Hope
A living relic.
Under 24/7 guard.
She is the quiet Earth.
9. The Rhino
She walked toward me through the tall grass of Ol Pejeta — unhurried and ancient.
Her name is Najin. She is one of the last two northern white rhinos left on Earth.
The males are gone. The future of the species now rests on science — on preserved embryos and fragile hope.
Behind her, you can see fence posts — the boundaries of the world she now inhabits. Above the post, a small bird sits freely.
I have never made a photograph that asked more of the person standing before it.
In black and white, her dignity is complete. Her stillness is almost an accusation. And her presence — still here, still walking — is one of the most quietly devastating things I have ever witnessed through a lens.
“She carries more than her body should have to bear.”
Soulful Gaze
“For those drawn to the mystery of nature’s quietest gazes.”
10. The Zebra
It was raining softly on the plains when I found her. A zebra foal stood with her back to me, letting the rain fall across her mane.
Then she turned and glanced back over her shoulder.
Her eye stopped me. The delicate eyelashes. The raindrops caught in the strands of her mane — glistening against the grey light.
People often say zebras are natural subjects for black and white photography because of their stripes. And yes, those patterns can create striking graphic compositions.
But "The Gaze" is something else entirely. It is tenderness, not geometry.
A foal in the rain, looking back. In Black and white every raindrop carries the weight of the moment.
“For those drawn to the mystery of nature's quietest gazes.”
Why Black and White?
People often ask why I work in black and white.
The honest answer is that it is the only way I know how to show what I actually felt in those moments. Colour tells you what something looks like. Black and white tells you what it means.
Each of these ten animals gave me something unexpected — a moment of recognition that crossed the distance between species.
Africa's wildlife is extraordinary in colour.
But in black and white, it becomes timeless.
And for me, that has always been the point.