Titan: A Tribute
A tribute to a photographer who shaped how I see the craft, the work, and the people behind it. Steven Elphick was one of the giants of this city. This is a reflection on meeting one of those people, and what stays after they’re gone.
Some people you meet at exactly the right time.
Not because you planned it.
Because you needed to see what was possible.
I met Steven Elphick when I had just come back to Toronto after five years working up north as a portrait photographer. I was trying to break into the professional scene, figuring things out, taking whatever work I could get, and learning fast.
I landed at Headshots Rentals on Dundas near Carlaw.
I wanted the manager role. Didn’t get it.
They put me in rentals instead.
Best thing that could’ve happened.
Because rentals is where you see everything.
The gear, the workflows, the chaos, the real-world decisions.
And more importantly, the people.
Photographers would come through all the time. Some good. Some great. A few… different.
And then there were the ones you just knew.
Steven was one of those.
He worked upstairs.
Literally.
We were downstairs in rentals, learning the ropes, and he was one floor above us making the work.
I had seen his name on rental sheets. Heard it on calls. Either him or Paula, always clear, always sharp, always easy to deal with.
Then one day he walks in.
Great glasses. Not subtle. Statement piece.
And within about thirty seconds, you knew this guy wasn’t just another working photographer. He was operating on a different level.
He’d start talking with Ed, who was our in-house gear wizard, and they’d go deep. Lighting, modifiers, precision, outcomes. Not just “what light,” but why this light, shaped this way, for this exact result.
I remember standing there thinking:
this is what mastery sounds like.
The first time I went up to his studio, I was just helping carry gear.
Simple job. Move some heavy packs upstairs.
But walking into that space… that stuck.
I hadn’t come up through a formal studio system. I was more self-taught, thrown into it, figuring things out as I went. So stepping into a real working studio run by someone who clearly knew exactly what he was doing felt like walking into the future.
Tight space.
Multiple setups.
Everything intentional.
No wasted motion.
And upstairs, Steven and Paula building something real together. Commercial work, personal work, a life around the craft.
That image stayed with me.
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Over time, you get little glimpses.
A conversation here. A pickup there. Helping with a studio move across town one weekend for some extra cash.
That move was classic. U-Haul, long day, just a few of us wrapping up the last pieces. You learn a lot about people in those moments.
They fed us. We talked. You start to see the life behind the work.
And what stood out to me wasn’t just Steven.
It was Steven and Paula.
You don’t always see that in this industry.
Creative work can grind people down. Especially when you’re both in it. The lines blur. Work bleeds into life.
But my impression, and I’ll own that it’s an impression, was that they built something solid together.
She wasn’t in the background.
She was part of the engine.
And I think that matters more than people say out loud.
A lot of great men aren’t great on their own.
And a lot of great women are carrying more than anyone sees.
What I saw was a partnership that worked.
And that stayed with me.
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Steven taught me a lot, even in short bursts.
Not in a classroom way. In a this is how it’s done way.
One of the last conversations we had, I asked him what he would tell his younger self starting out.
He didn’t hesitate.
It all came back to the client.
The relationship.
That’s the work.
Not just the image. Not the gear. Not the technique.
The relationship.
How you show up.
How you understand what they need.
How you deliver value.
That’s the foundation.
And the more I’ve thought about it, the more I see it everywhere.
The marketplace isn’t abstract. It’s people.
You serve people well, you build something real.
Simple. Not easy.
What I didn’t fully understand until the end… was just how strong he was.
He kept working.
Through everything.
And when it was time, he didn’t drift into it.
He looked it in the eye.
And, in his own way, said:
fuck you. I’ll do it my way.
There’s something about that that’s hard to explain unless you’ve seen it up close.
It’s not denial.
It’s not bravado.
It’s authorship.
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The last time we spoke, he called me from the hospital.
I had reached out to grab a coffee.
He said he would’ve loved to, but he couldn’t.
We talked for a bit.
I got to say thank you.
That matters.
More than you think.
After that, I didn’t really know what to do with it.
So I did what I know how to do.
I made something.
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I had seen his instrument series, Quintets, not long before.
Beautiful black-and-white work. Strong shapes. Light, shadow, restraint.
So I set up a small shoot at home.
Photographed my bass guitars.
Kept it simple. Clean. Intentional.
In his spirit, but not trying to copy him.
Just… in conversation with it.
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Then I wrote a piece of music.
Or tried to.
Started on bass. Dark tuning. Heavy, low, grounded.
What I heard in my head was something between classical and metal.
Something with weight.
I used some new tools to build it out further than I could on my own.
Not to replace anything. Just to push the idea further.
The core of it stayed the same.
Bound, not defeated.
That’s what kept coming up.
That’s what it felt like.
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That whole process… it wasn’t content.
It was processing.
A way of dealing with it without numbing out or checking out.
And I’m grateful I had that.
One of the things I’ve been thinking about a lot is the community around all of this.
Photography can feel like a solo path most of the time.
You’re in your own space. Doing your own work. Grinding it out. Wondering if anyone’s even paying attention.
And then something like this happens.
And people show up.
Photographers. Art directors. Friends. People who crossed paths once or a hundred times.
And you remember.
This isn’t just individual.
It’s a network.
A quiet one, most of the time.
But strong when it needs to be.
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Steven was one of the giants of this city’s photography world.
No question.
And the thing about giants is… you don’t always realize how much ground they’re covering until they’re gone.
But their work stays.
Their standards stay.
And whether you realize it or not, you’re standing on something they helped build.
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So this is just to say:
Thank you.
For the work.
For the example.
For the standard.
And for showing, right to the end, how to do it your way.
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And to Paula—
What you built together mattered.
It still does.
And there are a lot of us out here who saw it, even if only in passing.
And we carry pieces of it forward.
Rest easy, Steven.
Titan.