The Man With the Golden Shutter: In Conversation with Normski
- Daria Slikker
- 8 minutes ago
- 9 min read
Before the bright lights of television and the desks of London’s underground parties, Normski was already capturing culture in motion. Born Norman Anderson and raised in a Jamaican household in North London, he built his first darkroom at twelve years old, teaching himself to develop film before most kids his age had even picked up a camera. Music and photography became his parallel callings. From early days at the London Rock Shop in Chalk Farm to being the go-to commissioned photographer for the renowned record company Music of Life, his lens chronicled the rise of British hip-hop with raw honesty and creative flair.
By the late ‘80s, his photographs graced the pages of countless magazines, immortalising moments from scenes that would soon shape global culture. Then came 1991 – the year everything flipped. Arriving on set as a photographer, Normski was asked to step in front of the camera instead, becoming the host of the BBC’s Dance Energy. His charisma and authenticity made him a voice for a generation discovering itself in real time.
Decades later, his work continues to resonate. His book The Man With the Golden Shutter acts as both a memoir and cultural archive, collecting the images and stories that defined an era from Queen Latifah on top of the Empire State Building to visiting Ice Cube at his mother’s house in LA. As a DJ, presenter, and lifelong documentarian, Normski remains as curious and creative as ever, still guided by his signature photography philosophy: ‘Take the shot.’
What follows is a conversation that dives into those defining moments – the beginnings, the breakthroughs, and the beautiful mistakes that shaped a career built on instinct, community, and the power of seeing things differently.
You started developing film in your own makeshift darkroom at just twelve years old. What first drew you to photography, and what did those early experiments teach you about seeing the world through a lens?
I didn’t start out wanting to be a photographer; it happened by chance. My mum took me to an auction to buy a bike, but they’d all sold out. The only thing left was a Kodak point-and-shoot camera. I took it home, and that changed everything. I was always a restless kid, more into making models than toys, and the camera gave me something new to focus on.
I became obsessed with understanding how it worked, buying film, learning about black and white versus colour. Around the same time, I discovered Photo Magazine in the local sweet shop. Each issue had lessons and illustrations of photographers’ work, and I got completely hooked. I actually ran into David Bailey and his assistant as I was walking down the canal in Primrose Hill and I found it exciting to see someone with such big cameras and gear that I’d only seen in magazines or shop windows.
Most of my friends were into football, but I was more interested in art and music. We had a band, I played drums, and we were a community of mates that played in the streets, went skateboarding and cycling. I had a friend Zak who also loved music and had a camera, and we’d go shooting pictures like how other people went fishing.
The first darkroom I ever saw was at Beehive Photography Centre near my secondary school. I wandered down it once and came across some people in the studio taking photographs before being quickly wheeled out. I took evening classes there to learn how to develop film and print photos. I was so eager that any excuse to advance my photography, I took it.
Growing up in a Jamaican household in London during the late 70s and 80s, how did your upbringing shape your relationship with music and visual culture?
I grew up in a proud Jamaican family: loud, musical, colourful. My parents were part of that first generation of Caribbean immigrants, and I was part of the first generation born into it here. In a way, I had this vision and ability of being a part of a lot more than just Black culture. Music was everywhere and my family listened to everything: reggae, soul, rhythm and blues, James Brown, whilst I was listening to this and groups like The Police, The Stranglers and UK Ska. Back then, album sleeves were everything. When you saw something printed, it was finished, and I loved that. I became fascinated with the connection between sound and image.
London in those years was a melting pot of punk, rude boy, reggae, and soul. It was a time where new music was being invented and the subcultures we had were still quite limited. Suddenly, you had a new generation of people from different backgrounds creating those new subcultures. Then hip-hop started when I was fourteen in 1978, and it just clicked for me. It had that DIY spirit I recognised from how my family lived, making something from nothing.
Before you became a familiar face on Dance Energy in the 90s, you were documenting the UK hip-hop scene from behind the camera. What was it like to suddenly find yourself in front of it instead?
If it wasn’t for photography, I never would’ve ended up on television. I’d been busy shooting for magazines and record labels, and one day I went along to a new dance music show thinking I could photograph on set. After chatting with the producers, they stopped me and said, ‘You’ve got a great energy. Have you ever thought of being in front of the camera?’ This was one of the first times that music had been given its own visual platform and attention was going to places it hadn’t really been before.
I’d never thought about being a presenter. My life changed completely because I went from having my eyes on everything, to all eyes being on me. They liked that I wasn’t a ‘TV presenter’; I was someone who knew the music and culture firsthand. That’s what made Dance Energy so unique. It wasn’t polished, it was real.
I was still shooting, too, taking pictures of guests on set. I loved being part of something that felt like it belonged to the streets, not a studio. Later, I did more radio and rediscovered my love for storytelling, whether through sound or image. Even now, whether I’m doing a DJ set, photo shoot, or modelling gig, it all comes from that same place: capturing a moment.
You were in Los Angeles photographing Ice Cube during the making of a hip-hop documentary. Can you tell me about that experience and what it revealed to you about the culture at the time?
That was a wild one. I was in LA as a presenter for Rapido TV, filming a documentary on the history of rap. We were interviewing Ice Cube at his mum’s house. He’d just moved back home after being ripped off by the NWA management, so he wasn’t living the glamorous rapper life yet.
He didn’t want us to shoot inside, but he wanted us to understand where he came from. He showed us his bedroom, his books, and all the real stuff behind the artist. I wasn’t there to take photos, but I always had my camera with me. I love those situations because they remind you that the best shots often happen when you’re not looking for them.
It also taught me that you shouldn’t do things just for money. Do it for the love, and the rest follows. I came from a family that didn’t have much, so I learned early to be resourceful: car washing, odd jobs, anything to afford film or gear. That DIY energy never left me.
Your book The Man With the Golden Shutter reads like both a memoir and a time capsule of a defining cultural moment. What did revisiting those photos – and that era – make you reflect on most?
Just how much I’ve lived. Looking back, I can’t believe how much I shot over those years. It reminded me how curious I was, always experimenting even when I didn’t have the best equipment.
Some photos, like the Miles Davis live shot, were taken when I didn’t have great equipment, but it was the experience that mattered. It made me appreciate how lucky I’ve been to do what I love.
I still have the Photographer’s Handbook by John Hedgecoe, the book that taught me everything about analogue photography. It’s full of diagrams, lighting setups, and experiments. I used to follow those exactly, setting up backdrops and lights even when I had no one to shoot. I was teaching myself how to see.
When things don’t go according to plan, like when the camera fails or the shot’s lost, how do you handle it?
You learn to recover and to laugh. Every photographer’s nightmare is realising there’s no film in the camera. It’s happened to me! Once on a shoot with Kenny Thomas, my assistant told me halfway through there was no film in one of the cameras. We redid it and he never knew.
Stuff goes wrong all the time: batteries die, film breaks, files corrupt. But you can’t panic. You just smile and say, ‘Let’s do another round just like that.’ That’s the spirit of analogue photography, mechanical, imperfect, alive.
At your recent talk at Iconic Images Gallery, you said, “If you’re not doing anything illegal, or potentially dangerous you need to take the shot.” Can you tell me about a time when taking that shot changed everything for you?
People tend to overthink and then miss the moment. I’ve had people try to stop me. Janet Jackson’s team pulled me up mid-shot once, and Prince’s people didn’t want anyone near him. But if you stop to ask permission, you lose the moment.
Photography is about creating that moment, and waiting for it. You have to train your eye to see beyond what’s obvious, to fill the frame, to bend the rules, to find that unusual angle that makes something feel alive. That’s the difference between a snapshot and an image. More than anything it’s also art direction – or really … eye direction.
Hip-hop in the 80s and 90s carried so much experimentation and discovery. Do you think that same sense of innocence and curiosity still exists in creative culture today?
I think creativity always reflects your environment – the energy, the chaos, or the calm of the times. Right now, it feels like being alternative has become normal, almost desensitised. Everything’s a bit saturated. It’s the same story, just told differently. That’s not necessarily bad, though. Artists have always had a duty to react to what’s around them and translate that into their work.
When I photographed De La Soul, who were known as the ‘Daisy Age’ rappers, they weren’t about gold chains or luxury. They were about peace, culture, and harmony. So I brought actual daisies to the shoot. I split a bunch of them between their hands, and they looked a bit rough, but the photo came out great. No one had thought to shoot them that way before. That’s what I love about connecting with a subject’s message and translating it visually.
Some artists are brilliant at that kind of collaboration. Björk, for example, works with people who experiment freely, and it shows in her music and visuals. It’s inspiring to see an artist who lets others bring their vision to life around hers. It’s like cooking – everyone can make a bolognese, but each version tastes different depending on who’s behind it. That individuality is what makes art exciting. When things get too manufactured, they lose flavour. Right now, we’ve got a mix of people fighting that blandness, pushing against the grey and boring. A lot of people adopt the ‘punk’ attitude without really being punk, but even then, that reaction is part of what keeps culture moving forward.
You’ve worn many hats – photographer, presenter, DJ. What keeps you creatively inspired now, and what advice would you give to young people who want to build a multifaceted career like yours?
Failure’s a great teacher. Things dry up, gigs get cancelled, but that’s when you find new inspiration. For example, I recently did a campaign shoot for Barbour & Baracuta clothing with artist Goya Gumbani where I was both the photographer and model. I stay busy; if I’m not shooting, I’m DJing or writing ideas down while the kettle’s boiling. I call it the “anti-work.” The less you force it, the more the good stuff comes.
Also, don’t chase trends. Put good energy out and it’ll circle back. Be open to unexpected opportunities, like my recent talk at Iconic Images Gallery. I wasn’t even represented by them, but the timing was right and they wanted to celebrate Black History month.
And remember: you’ve got to mess up sometimes. Everyone’s a content creator now, but few understand the rules they’re breaking. Learn the craft first, then break it beautifully.
