Framed print of Prague print in an Airbnb in South West London.

Many years ago, before I opened my gallery, I ran a small market stall on Northcote Road in South West London where I sold my framed prints every Friday and Saturday. I loved being part of that market community and the lively, everyday rhythm it brought. My stall was the last one in the row, directly opposite Tony’s café, and the neighbouring stall sold bath bombs — I could even hear them fizzing whenever it rained. After a while of selling my London prints, requests began to come in from customers. One day someone asked if I had any pictures of Prague. I told him I did, took his money, and excited about the chance to try something different, I set about creating my first commissioned piece.

A week later my new customer collected the print from my home in Battersea, and it suddenly occurred to me that I could turn this into a proper little business. Over the following months, trading under the canvas of my stall, more commissions started to appear and, slowly and almost without me noticing, I was building a modest reputation. I also kept working on my collection of Prague photographs so I would be ready whenever someone asked, “Got any prints of Prague?”

You can see this particular print here.

About five years ago — at least ten years since I’d sold that Prague print on Northcote Road — I noticed the picture above displayed in the window of a real estate agent. I recognised my print immediately. The property is now an Airbnb, and I love that they included their dog in the shot; it gives the image a warm, lived-in feel.

My Prague prints have been consistently popular over the years. You can view the Prague colour prints here and the Prague black and white prints here. The image above is a black and white taken from Charles Bridge; this particular print is available here.

I especially love the long shadows you get later in the day during summer, which give the scene a quiet, contemplative mood. This print is currently hanging in a home office in Poole, Dorset. I can still remember the leisurely breakfasts in Tony’s Cafe, though I don’t think it’s there anymore.

If I close my eyes and drift back to those days, I can almost hear the bath bombs fizzing away.