Finally spring arrives, and with it, that sacred alchemy of castor oil and falling cherry blossoms, aflame in the season’s first golden hour. When my old mate Kay at collectorscarworld asked me to write a regular column, it felt like a natural fit. After all, as a photographer, I’ve spent decades chasing the slow-burn classics: the patina on a well-worn pair of selvedge jeans, the peat-smoke bite of a Islay single malt, the guttural roar of a hand-built motorcycle. But the real magic lies in the people behind them.
I’ve been lucky enough to earn the trust of those people who’ve let me into their worlds,sharing their passion.That exchange, that raw honesty, is what fuels me. It’s not just about capturing a moment; it’s about listening, stepping closer, and turning those stories into something that resonates far beyond a single frame.
So where did it all begin?
The spark came in the early ’90s, when I apprenticed under the legendary motorsport photographer Rainer Schlegelmilch. Our days were a blur of studio shoots and location work, but the real thrill came during Grand Prix season. I’d unlock the studio safe, pack two Nikon F3 bodies and a arsenal of lenses—18mm to 500mm—into a shoulder Temba camera bag, then retrieve roughly 80 rolls of Kodachrome 64 from the fridge.Gear in hand, I’d watch as Schlegelmilch returned from races with thousands of photo transparencies (slides). His photos weren’t just about racing cars; they were about weaving human stories into every frame with portraits of the racing drivers, mechanics performing pit stops and the electric energy of crowds. Through his lens, I learned light is secondary – the primary exposure is always human trust.Years later, after photo college and relocating to the UK, I embarked on my first photography book: *I’m One: 21st Century Mods* Green parkas, vibrant scooters, and the occasional vintage car became my muses. That project became a gateway.
For over a decade, I’ve trailed Mod revivalists, Rockers, cyclists, and classic car devotees, each group bound by their own rituals and rides. I’ve roared down cobblestone streets with the Mean Fuckers M.C, played co-pilot as my mate raced his Porsche 550 against a Ferrari 599 on the way to Goodwood .I immersed myself in each moment, adapting to the rhythm of whoever I photographed. As an outsider, I’ve never shied away from stepping into unfamiliar worlds, earning trust to capture their essence.These projects double as anthropological studies, offering a lens into British society’s layered textures. By diving beneath the surface, I’ve found not just stories, but a deeper understanding of cultural belonging. These aren’t just photo essays; they’re excavations of British identity.
As a photojournalist I’ve always been drawn to the edges—places where trust is earned slowly, where the real stories live. And there is always more to discover .So here’s to the next chapter, the next bend in the road. The tank’s full, the light’s right— just pure .
Horst A. Friedrichs
