Martin Parr died just under two weeks ago.

It still feels strange to write that sentence. He was so visibly active, so present in the photographic world, that his absence landed as a shock rather than an inevitability. My first thought was not only of the work he left behind, but of his wife Susie, his family, and the wider photographic community that orbited him for decades.

Photography is inseparable from my identity. Two people shaped that more than anyone else. My father, who put a camera in my hands and encouraged me to use it. And Martin Parr, who showed me what a camera could do when it was pointed at the ordinary and taken seriously.

I first encountered his work around thirty years ago, while studying at college. The book was The Last Resort. I can still remember the feeling of looking at it for the first time. It was a genuine “Road-To-Damascus” moment. Up to that point, I was happily drifting towards commercial and fashion photography. I thought that was where ambition lived. Parr’s photographs quietly dismantled that idea. They showed me that compelling subject matter was everywhere, often awkward, often funny, often uncomfortable, and usually right under your nose.

From that point on, I followed his work closely. Not reverently, but attentively. He became, without much contest, my favourite photographer.

When Aoife and I got engaged in September 2010, she asked a question that most photographers dread being asked themselves. Who would you like as your wedding photographer? I said Martin Parr. Half joking. Half serious. I emailed him. To my amazement, he picked up the phone and rang me straight away. He was enthusiastic, curious, and very open to the idea. He mentioned that he had only photographed one wedding before.

He made one thing clear early on. He would not do family photographs. If we wanted those, we would need another photographer. In the end, we did not even do portraits. His coverage of the day was entirely documentary. I had told him to “go full Martin Parr” and not hold back. He didn’t.

I wasn’t nervous about getting married until Martin said he’d shoot it!

On the day itself, Martin got lost driving from Dublin. He missed the N7 turnoff on the M50 turn and headed south towards Wexford. He arrived about an hour late, hungry, apologetic, and instantly likeable. When offered food, he surprised everyone by knowing exactly what a Waterford blaa was. A small thing, but very Martin.

When he came into my house and wandered into my boxroom office. He noticed several of his own books on the shelves, asked for a pen, and started signing them without being asked. It was funny, generous, and more than a little surreal.

He was a huge hit with everyone. Everyone had a story of interaction with him. At dinner, I sat him in the middle of my friends. He loved the food. I barely spoke to him during the day but near the end, we managed ten quiet minutes together and had a proper conversation. He stayed on, shooting the dancing far longer than he needed to. When it was finally time to go, he came over to ask if it was alright for him to leave! He really put in a tremendous shift, I wasn’t expecting it.

The next morning, he was up early off to the airport for Paris Photo. I hope he didn’t take the Wexford Rd.

Martin taught me two things about wedding photography that day.

The first is that seeing your wedding photographs for the first time is a genuinely magical experience. Three days later, Aoife and I were in New York on a short minimoon. I got a text from Martin saying, “Your wedding photos are ready.” I had my laptop in my bag we found a Cuban restaurant, ordered mojitos, and sat down to look at them together. I collect Martin’s books, so seeing new work from him is always exciting. Seeing his take on our wedding was something else entirely. That experience shaped how seriously I now treat the first viewing for every couple I photograph.

The second lesson is more unsettling. Memories fade, photographs do not. Personally, I do not remember much of my wedding day now. When I try to picture it, what I actually see are Martin’s photographs. They have replaced my memory of the day. That realisation became the cornerstone of how I approach documentary wedding photography. My job is not to embellish what happened, but to record it honestly, because that record may outlive the memory itself.

One photograph from our wedding has taken on particular weight over time. It shows both of our grannies lighting a cigarette for one another. A spontaneous, mutual act of kindness and friendship. Smoking was normal for their generation. The photograph is touching and quietly funny. It has since become one of the most recognised images from the day. Both grannies have now passed away. The photograph carries far more than it did at the time.

Martin did not know I was a photographer before he arrived. When he found out, he was generous with his words (I do not think it was flattery). After that, he started sending prints and small gifts, reminding me that I had to call into his place in Bristol. One day, a large print arrived. A framed 20 by 30 inch detail from the wedding. It hangs in my office. I see it every day.

A year later, we too were at Paris Photo. We noticed a very large crowd gathered around a table. The biggest crowd of the day, all focused on a man sitting quietly signing books. It was Martin. In that moment, Aoife really understood the scale of his presence in photography. He was a big deal. He still is.

Martin Parr’s legacy is secure. His way of seeing changed photography, whether people liked it or not. My sense of loss is not personal in the way grief usually is. It sits more with his family, with his wifeSusie, and with the community that learned to look differently because of him. I was simply lucky enough to have him show up, get lost on the way, eat a blaa, and photograph my wedding exactly as he saw it.