Legal Tips for Young Photographers

OPINION | There’s a growing army of young photographers transforming how we see the world. They tell powerful stories, shape visual culture, and give identity to moments that would otherwise be forgotten. But while their photos go viral, earn likes, and sometimes fuel entire ad campaigns, far too many of these creatives are working without legal protection—and without the basic legal education they need to protect themselves.

We don’t speak enough about the quiet legal erasure of young creatives. And when we do, it’s often too late—when the image has already been stolen, the campaign has already aired, and the photographer is left clinging to screenshots and outrage.

Across Uganda and many other countries, young photographers—most of them self-taught and working with minimal resources—are building promising careers. They are hired to shoot weddings, portraits, activism, music, commercial work, and more. Yet, in spite of the growing demand for visual content, most of them work in the shadows of the law—without contracts, without clarity on usage rights, and often without payment or recognition.

The irony is that the law is already on their side. Under Uganda’s Copyright and Neighbouring Rights Act, Cap. 222—and in many jurisdictions globally—copyright protection begins automatically the moment a photo is taken. The photographer owns that image. No registration is required. That ownership carries powerful rights: to license, to distribute, to control how the image is used, and to seek redress when those rights are violated.

But a right you don’t know you have is as good as no right at all.

Too often, young photographers only learn this when their work is used without their consent—by clients, by corporations, by campaigns. In some cases, their images are edited and repurposed. In others, their names are removed altogether. Some are promised “exposure” instead of payment. Others never hear back once the files are delivered.

These are not isolated grievances—they’re recurring stories, and the courts have begun to take notice.

In Asege Winnie v Opportunity Bank, a customer’s image was taken and used in the bank’s promotional materials without her knowledge. The court awarded her damages, citing a clear breach of her image and privacy rights. In Proline Soccer Academy & Others v MTN Uganda, the telecom giant was found liable for using photos of young athletes in a national campaign without any form of consent or agreement. In both cases, the courts sided with the individuals—not because they were famous or powerful, but because the law recognises the personal and commercial value of a person’s image and the creator’s ownership of the work.

Yet these disputes could have been avoided with a simple tool: a contract.

A written agreement between a photographer and a client isn’t just a formality—it is a practical shield. It defines what is being delivered, outlines payment terms, clarifies usage rights, and sets boundaries around how, where, and by whom the images can be used. It is the most basic form of respect for creative labour. But most young photographers have never been taught to ask for one, let alone draft it.

The same goes for model releases—documents that give a photographer legal permission to use someone’s image, especially in commercial or public-facing work. Without one, even a great photo can become a legal risk. Add to that property releases, licensing terms, and digital protection strategies—and it becomes clear just how much legal knowledge a working photographer needs to survive, let alone thrive.

This is why legal literacy must be a central part of creative education. We cannot continue to train the next generation of visual storytellers while leaving them vulnerable to manipulation. Photography schools, community arts programmes, and youth hubs should be equipping photographers with the same confidence to draft a licensing agreement as they would to frame a portrait. Knowing the difference between an exclusive and non-exclusive license should be as basic as knowing how to shoot in manual mode.

Of course, the responsibility isn’t only on the creatives. Clients—especially large corporations, government agencies, political actors, and NGOs—must stop hiding behind ignorance or informalities. They must lead by example. If you can afford to commission design work, branding, and events, you can afford to sign a contract with the person providing the image. Exposure is not payment. Giving credit is not the same as sharing ownership. And silence is never consent.

Young photographers must also begin to take themselves seriously. That means asking for contracts before the job begins, documenting their work, protecting their files, and walking away when an offer feels exploitative. Saying “no” is a professional response when the terms are unfair. Upholding your rights is not arrogance—it is survival.

The camera is a tool of power. But that power doesn’t end at the shutter click. It extends to what happens next: how the image is treated, how the creator is compensated, and whether the law is respected.

Behind every powerful image is a young creative who stayed up editing long into the night, who skipped meals to buy transport to a shoot, who poured energy, talent, and belief into their work. The least we can do is make sure the law works for them—not just when they sue, but from the moment they dare to create.

Blair Atwebembeire is a legal practitioner and advocate of the High Court of Uganda. He regularly advises creatives, entrepreneurs, and institutions on law, business, and sustainability.