Earth Photo awards and ocean trustees: how culture is redefining environmental accountability

When images expose the hidden hands of wildlife crime

The winners of this year’s Earth Photo awards, announced this week, do more than document landscapes—they reveal the quiet violence of environmental exploitation. Among the winning entries, a photograph by Britta Jaschinski stands out: a close-up of a turtle shell bearing the unmistakable imprint of a poacher’s hand. The image, captured using a forensic technique that highlights fingerprints on trafficked wildlife, is both evidence and accusation. It doesn’t just show an animal; it shows the human hand behind its suffering.

Jaschinski’s work is part of a broader trend in environmental photography, where artists are increasingly turning to scientific methods to expose crimes that might otherwise go unnoticed. The Earth Photo competition, now in its sixth year, has become a platform for this kind of investigative imagery. Other winners this year include a stranded seal pup on a Cornish beach, its body tangled in discarded fishing gear, and a portrait of a former oil worker in Aberdeen, his face lined with the weight of an industry he once relied on. These images don’t just depict nature—they demand accountability.

The awards come at a time when the UK is grappling with its own environmental contradictions. While the government has set ambitious net-zero targets, it continues to approve new oil and gas licenses in the North Sea. The tension between policy and practice is palpable, and photography like Jaschinski’s forces the public to confront it. As one judge noted, these images "don’t just show the world as it is; they ask us to imagine what it could become."

The ocean takes a seat at the boardroom table

In a small office in Oban, Scotland, a radical experiment in environmental governance is underway. The Scottish Association for Marine Science (Sams), one of the UK’s oldest oceanographic institutions, has appointed the ocean itself as a trustee on its board. The move, believed to be the first of its kind in the UK, is part of a growing global movement to grant legal rights to nature—a concept that has already gained traction in countries like Ecuador and New Zealand.

The decision didn’t come out of nowhere. Sams, founded in 1884 during the Scottish Enlightenment, has long been at the forefront of marine research. But as climate change accelerates and biodiversity loss accelerates, the organisation’s leadership felt that traditional governance structures were no longer sufficient. "We’ve spent 140 years studying the ocean," said Professor Nicholas Owens, Sams’ director. "It’s time we started listening to it."

The practical implications are still being worked out. The ocean doesn’t have a literal voice in board meetings, of course. Instead, its "interests" are represented by a rotating panel of marine scientists, legal experts, and local community members. Their role is to ensure that every decision—from research priorities to funding allocations—takes into account the long-term health of the marine environment. Early discussions have already led to changes in how Sams approaches its work, including a greater emphasis on community-led conservation projects.

The move has drawn both praise and skepticism. Supporters see it as a necessary step toward more sustainable decision-making, while critics argue that it’s little more than symbolic. But for Sams, the experiment is about more than just optics. "We’re not saying the ocean should have the final say," Owens clarified. "We’re saying it should have a say—period."

What’s at stake: culture as a tool for environmental justice

These two developments—one artistic, one institutional—highlight a broader shift in how Britain is engaging with environmental issues. No longer confined to policy papers or protest signs, the conversation is moving into galleries, boardrooms, and even television screens.

Take the Swedish drama Faithless, which began airing on Sky Atlantic this week. Based on Ingmar Bergman’s 2000 film, the series explores the emotional fallout of an affair between a film director and an actress. But beneath the surface, it’s also a meditation on regret, time, and the ways in which human relationships mirror our relationship with the planet. The show’s flashbacks to the 1970s, when the affair was at its height, are shot in a way that evokes the era’s environmental awakening—the first Earth Day, the rise of the modern environmental movement. The past isn’t just prologue; it’s a warning.

Meanwhile, the cancellation of heritage festivals at Sandringham, Audley End, and Englefield—announced abruptly this week—serves as a reminder of the financial pressures facing cultural institutions. Organisers cited "unforeseen financial challenges," but the timing is telling. As the UK grapples with the economic fallout of climate change, even events that celebrate history and nature are feeling the strain.

What connects these stories is a growing recognition that culture isn’t just a reflection of environmental issues—it’s a tool for addressing them. Whether through photography that exposes wildlife crime, governance structures that give nature a voice, or television dramas that force us to confront our own complicity, the arts and institutions are reshaping the debate. The question now is whether that shift will be enough to drive real change—or whether it will remain, like so many environmental conversations, just out of reach.