I said I’d come back with the Kodak Ultramax 400. Instead I’m here with a Canon EOS 500 and a roll of AGFA APX 100. These things happen. This was the second time. Time to come back after my first visit.
It’s a warm Sunday in April and the Jardin is busy. Free to enter, free to stay; and people do. Blue sky, green everywhere, the sound of the waterfall carrying up from below. Two mothers nearby are talking about their children and about wishing they had more time to themselves. A group is eating at a table. Kids are in the sun. People are stretched out on the lawns.
I think: how lucky I am to have this time off. I mean it.
I find a spot at the rock climbing end of the park. There are people with helmets: cycling or climbing, I genuinely can’t tell from here. A little girl tugs at her mother’s arm: “Aller Maman, on va ailleurs?” She wants the paddling pool. They move on. Three friends arrive and settle at the table beside me, look around at the afternoon, and one of them says it out loud: “Ok est bien hein.”“Oui.” I agree, though nobody asked me.
I’m back in this spot with the Canon EOS 500. Last time it was the Nikon FE and Ilford Pan 100: a morning visit, birdsong, quieter. The EOS 500 is a different kind of company. It’s light, unobtrusive, asks very little of you; autofocus, auto-exposure, just gets on with it. For someone who’s spent years with a digital body, it eases you in rather than throwing you in at the deep end. You still get the 36 frames, the awareness of what each one costs, the not-knowing-until-the-scans-arrive. But you’re not also wrestling with a new instrument at the same time. It’s a gentle way back into film. I liked it.
The difference today is the 24–70mm, which I’m working through properly: 24, 35, 50, 70, and trying the macro too. It changes how you read the place; you reach into corners of the scene you’d otherwise just glance past. I’ve gone through the roll much faster than expected. The zoom will do that. The AGFA APX 100 has taken it all in its stride: fine grain, happy in the light, doing exactly what a slow film should do on a day like this.
Despite the sound of children somewhere behind me, it’s the 20-somethings who dominate this end of the park: sunbathing, climbing, sitting on the old quarry rock. It’s not disturbing. If anything it’s rather nice. At the base of the face, one of the climbers looks up at the crowd gathered above and says to nobody in particular: “Ya du monde hein!” There is. I got a photograph of one of them mid-climb. Somewhere behind me, for the second time: “On est bien là!”
I wonder what they make of me. Do they know I’m a foreigner? Or am I just a rotund gentleman with a white beard and a panama hat, keeping himself to himself in the sun with an old camera?
Isn’t it just nice to be out in it.
A robin lands near my foot, thinks better of it, and disappears into the bushes. He must have been spooked. I stayed a while longer.
Nice Sunday afternoon in Nantes. Free entry.
All photographs shot on AGFA APX 100, Canon EOS 500, 24–70mm. Developed [to complete], scanned on the Opticfilm 8100. Jardin Extraordinaire, Nantes. April 2026.
P.S. The Ultramax 400 is still in the fridge. Its turn will come.
P.P.S. As a little bonus for you, I started a new roll and walked away with a few more shots….
Birdsong in Black & White: A Morning at the Jardin Extraordinaire
I’d never been to the Jardin Extraordinaire before. And I’d never shot Ilford Pan 100.
Honestly? I wasn’t sure what to expect from either.
What I found was a place that felt alive — birds everywhere, water cascading down massive rock faces, people just being there. Reading on rocks. Walking along paths. Letting kids splash in the shallow pools. And if you look closely at a few of the wider shots, you’ll spot the Grue Titan across the Loire at the Hangar à bananes. It’s not in the garden, but it’s in the photographs. I like that. A small nod to the bigger story of this city.
The Jardin Extraordinaire is built on an old granite quarry in the Prairie au Duc. You can still see the rock faces where they cut into the hillside, metal walkways clinging to the stone, plants reclaiming what machines once carved out. And that waterfall — 35 metres of water pouring down the old quarry walls. Dramatic and peaceful at once, if that makes any sense.
What I didn’t fully register while I was shooting is how the garden fits into Nantes’ wider landscape of transformation. The Hangar à bananes, the Machines de l’Île, the whole Île de Nantes redevelopment — they’re all part of the same conversation about what to do with industrial space. The garden is the quiet, green chapter. The crane across the water is the bold industrial punctuation. When I got the scans back and saw the Grue Titan peering into a few frames, that clicked.
Full disclosure: I was the older gentleman in the Panama hat, moving slowly around the paths with a cane and an analogue camera. Taking my time. Stopping to frame things. Not in any hurry.
I watched the Nantais doing their thing while I did mine. A parent reading on a rock while children scrambled nearby. Couples strolling. And me, clicking through 36 frames like I had all the time in the world. Which I did. That was rather the point.
I did spot one other photographer — shooting with a very modern, very impressive DSLR. And I had to consciously stop myself from slipping into smug film photographer mode. Oh, you’re chimping your screen? How… digital. I held it together. Mostly. The honest answer is we were both just doing the same thing with different tools, and there’s room for all of it.
As for the Pan 100 — I’d heard it was contrasty, fine-grained, sharp. What I didn’t expect was how well it would suit this particular place. The Jardin Extraordinaire is all about contrasts: dark rock against bright sky, rough stone against smooth water, industrial metal against wild greenery. Pan 100 didn’t fight any of that. It leaned into it. I shot mostly between f/5.6 and f/16, trusted the FE’s meter, and when the scans came back I was — pleased? Surprised? Both. The images feel like the day felt.
My favourite shots aren’t the big dramatic ones. They’re the clusters of berries photographed close enough to see their star patterns, the metal butterfly on a gate, a single log on the path casting a long shadow. The things you almost miss when you’re moving too fast. With 36 frames and a roll that costs money, you look. You wait. You notice things. And then those become the photographs you actually care about.
I developed it at home, as always — Ilfosol 3 at 1:9, scanned on the Opticfilm 8100. No lab, no outsourcing. Just chemicals and patience. The smell of the developer, the little thrill of seeing what’s on the film. It’s all part of the same story.
I’ve got some Kodak Ultramax 400 in the fridge. Expired 2022. No idea what it’ll do. I think I’ll take it back to the Jardin and find out.
All photographs shot on Ilford Pan 100, Nikon FE. Home developed in Ilfosol 3 (1:9), scanned on an Opticfilm 8100. Jardin Extraordinaire, Nantes. The Grue Titan at the Hangar à bananes appears across the river, uninvited and welcome.
P.S. If you’ve been to the Jardin Extraordinaire, shot Pan 100, or you just love Nantes — drop a comment or send a message. Always happy to talk shop.
P.P.S. And if you’re curious about home development or scanning, ask away. Happy to share what’s worked for me.
P.P.P.S. And if you ever spot me at a photo spot with my FE and a Panama hat? Please gently call me out on the film snobbery. I’m working on it.
Continuing on from my last article about shooting in sub-par lighting, I’ll introduce my next roll of film—RPX 400 from Rollei. I usually like this film. This roll also marked the first time I really tried to use the Tone Curve tool in Lightroom. I’m still getting used to it. But I thought that with RPX 400, I might be able to make some ordinary prints somewhat less ordinary.
After forty years of doing this, you’d think I’d have it all figured out. You’d think I’d have a fixed workflow, a set of rules, a way of knowing exactly what the result will be. But this roll reminded me otherwise. There’s always something new to learn, or something old to look at differently. And I’ve started to wonder if there’s something honest in admitting that, rather than pretending the process is ever truly finished.
Pont Caffino on a February afternoon is exactly that kind of place. I’d never visited before, though I’d heard about it from other photographers. The sky was uniform. The light was flat. Nothing was going to jump out and grab me. So I loaded the Rollei, walked down to the river, and started looking.
The River
The water level was low—noticeably so. I knew this because not long before, I’d been at the Maine in St Hilaire de Loulay where the river had broken its banks completely. You couldn’t even see the weir there, just water spreading across the landscape. Here at Pont Caffino, the opposite was true. More of the granite banks showed through. More of the weir structure was exposed. The river looked different, and I found myself photographing it differently.
River surface with bridge in distance
When the light is flat, water becomes less about reflection and more about texture. You notice the foam patterns, the subtle ripples, the way debris catches on submerged rocks. RPX 400 handled this beautifully—there’s a softness to the water that feels accurate to how it looked that day, not how I wished it looked.
Water Level Gauges
The gauges became an unexpected focal point. They’re functional objects, not particularly beautiful on their own, but they tell the story of this place better than any dramatic landscape could. The reflection of the numbers in the still water added a compositional echo I didn’t plan but gladly kept.
Weir Structure
Where the water quickened over the weir, I had to be careful with exposure. Film handles highlights more forgivingly than digital, but I still metered conservatively. The fallen branch caught my eye—it’s the kind of detail you miss when you’re looking for the big shot, but it adds a diagonal line that pulls the frame together.
On editing the water: The challenge here was separation. When both sky and water are grey, they tend to merge into one another. I used subtle dodging to lift the highlights on the water’s surface, just enough to ensure the reflections didn’t disappear. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to guide the eye.
The Cliff Face
The granite cliffs that frame the Maine valley are dramatic even in bad light. They’re also popular with climbers, which adds a human element I hadn’t planned to capture but couldn’t ignore.
Climber on Granite Close-up
I haven’t shot rock faces like these on HP5+ before. The nearest I got to that was shooting in the Pyrenees mountains—different stone, different light, different everything. So I didn’t have a direct comparison to fall back on. What I noticed with RPX 400 is how it renders texture without aggression. Every crack and lichen patch comes through, but without the bite that HP5+ might have given. For this particular day, that suited the mood better.
Climbing Scene Wider
Seeing the climber and belayer together reminded me that landscapes aren’t empty. They’re used. They’re lived in. The rope creates a diagonal line through the frame, and suddenly there’s narrative—someone is trusting someone else, and both are trusting the rock.
On editing the cliffs: This is where dodging and burning did the most work. Flat light makes rock faces look two-dimensional, like cardboard cutouts. I spent time burning in the crevices and dodging the raised surfaces, essentially repainting the light that wasn’t there when I pressed the shutter. It’s not about creating drama that didn’t exist. It’s about revealing the dimension that the light flattened.
Details
I’ve learned to slow down on days like this. When the big vistas aren’t cooperating, the small things start to speak.
Catkins/Branches
The catkins hanging from bare branches aren’t dramatic. They’re not even particularly interesting as a subject. But they caught the light in a way that felt worth capturing. The shallow depth of field creates a dreamy quality, and the grain—more noticeable here than in the landscapes—adds character rather than detracting from it.
Water Edge Vegetation
Mechanical Detail
The mechanical detail—the lock gate mechanism, I think—was almost accidental. I was walking back from the viewpoint and noticed the bolts, the geared rack, the weathered metal. It’s the industrial counterpoint to all the natural elements. Sometimes you just stop and shoot because something looks like it has a story.
On editing the details: I was careful not to over-sharpen these. The natural grain of RPX 400 provided enough texture without needing digital enhancement. If anything, I pulled back on clarity rather than adding it. These images work because they’re soft, not in spite of it.
The Town & Viewing Platform
For the full perspective, I drove up to Château-Thébaud’s belvedere, “Le Porte-Vue.” It’s a striking piece of architecture—Corten steel extending 23 meters out at 45 meters above the river, designed by Emmanuel Ritz and inaugurated in 2020.
Walkway to Viewpoint
Walking out onto the platform, you feel the height. The steel underfoot, the railing at your side, the valley opening up below. There’s a figure in this shot—could be another photographer, could be anyone taking in the view. It adds scale and reminds you that you’re not alone in these places.
Le Porte-Vue Architecture
Framed View Through Steel
The Corten steel handled the flat light better than I expected. The weathered texture gave the film something to hold onto, and the geometric lines contrast nicely with the organic landscape beyond. The framed view through the steel structure became one of my favourite shots—it acknowledges that you’re looking from somewhere, not just capturing a scene.
River Valley Overview
This is the establishing shot. The full Maine valley from above, all the elements visible at once. You can see the weir, the cliffs, the tree line. After seeing the Maine at St Hilaire de Loulay with water everywhere, this view felt almost spare. The lower levels exposed more of the structure than I’d imagined possible. It’s the image that ties everything together.
Church Steeple
Village Street
The village itself grounds the landscape. The church steeple adds a human landmark to the valley. The quiet street with its leading lines and the number “28” on the wall—these are accidental details that add authenticity. This isn’t a pristine wilderness. It’s a place where people live.
On editing the architecture: I focused on straightening lines and ensuring the steel texture didn’t look too smooth. The flat sky was retained intentionally. I could have blown it out or added artificial clouds, but that would have been dishonest. This is the light I had. This is the day I experienced.
On Making It Less Ordinary
Looking down at the river from Le Porte-Vue, I thought about what I was actually trying to do.
This was my first time at Pont Caffino, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. RPX 400 felt right for this quieter, more exposed version of the valley. But the film alone wasn’t enough. The scans came back flat—accurate, but lacking the dimension I remembered from being there. That’s where the work began.
In Lightroom, I used the Tone Curve to add a gentle S-shape, nothing aggressive. Just enough to add punch without crushing the blacks. I lifted the deepest shadows slightly to preserve the atmosphere. And then I spent time dodging and burning—manually painting light into the highlights of wet granite, holding back exposure in the shadows of riverbanks, guiding the viewer’s eye through texture and tone.
I’ve only started using the Tone Curve with this roll of film. I’m still getting used to it. But I’ve found it offers basic yet subtle controls, as does the dodging and burning. It’s easy to feel like this is cheating. Like you’re admitting the photograph wasn’t good enough straight from the scan. But I’ve started to think of it differently. Dodging and burning isn’t about fixing mistakes. It’s about translation. It’s about taking what you saw and felt and finding a way to communicate that to someone who wasn’t there.
There’s a danger in thinking you know everything. Usually, that’s when you stop seeing. When you assume the light will behave, or the film will respond the way it did last time, you miss what’s actually in front of you. I’d rather be the one still figuring out the Tone Curve after forty years than the one who thinks there’s nothing left to learn.
The result isn’t dramatic. It’s not the kind of image that stops you scrolling. But it felt honest—a quiet enhancement rather than a transformation. And on a grey February day at Pont Caffino, that’s exactly what I was after.
Technical Note
Film
Rollei RPX 400
ISO
Shot at 400
Camera
Nikon FE
Lens
50mm f/1.8 Nikkor
Development
Ilfosil 3 (1:9)
Scanning
Plustek OpticFilm 8100
Lightroom Adjustments:
Tone Curve: Gentle S-curve, highlights lifted slightly, shadows preserved (First serious use of this tool for me)
Local Adjustments: Radial filters for dodging/burning on rock textures and water surfaces
Grain: No reduction applied
Sharpening: Minimal, applied selectively on details
Thanks for reading. If you’ve shot RPX 400 in similar conditions, I’d love to hear how you approached it.
Maybe I’m a little stubborn, just maybe, but I’m insisting on using my Nikon FE and for my health I have to get out. I had some Tri-X that needed using, and some HP5+ left over, so time to use it. And it does my mental health good too—getting out of the house despite the horrible light and rain.
“They” always say to go out in good light and use golden hour. We haven’t been blessed with good weather lately (understatement of the year contender 2026), and I always say just go out anyway and do it.
I shot two rolls that afternoon—72 frames total. Tri-X and HP5+, both at box speed. No pushing. I developed them in Fomadon LQN because it handles flat light cleanly: shadows stay defined, grain doesn’t get muddy even when the sky gives you nothing. When I scanned them, about half were ok enough to keep—36 frames that worked. Of those, maybe half a dozen were real keepers. That’s how it goes. Not every frame needs to be a masterpiece. Some just need to exist.
In Lightroom I only used the curves tool to pull a bit of separation between the wet stone and the grey sky. I wasn’t trying to manufacture contrast that wasn’t there. The rain had already done part of the work: cobblestones held texture because the light was even, puddles on the stairs created accidental reflections, and the streets were empty enough that I didn’t have to wait for tourists to clear the frame.
I won’t pretend I enjoyed standing in the damp. My shoes got wet. My hands were cold. But I needed to leave the house, and the camera gave me a reason to do it. The film was a deadline. The weather was irrelevant.
As you can see in the following photos, the light wasn’t fabulous, so we adapt. There are still interesting things to be seen.
Shot on Nikon FE with 50mm f/1.8. Kodak Tri-X 400 and Ilford HP5+ rated at box speed, developed in Fomadon LQN. Edited in Lightroom: curves adjusted for shadow separation only.
Have you ever had to make a difficult decision that you really had to think long and hard about, one that would have real-world consequences for you and your creative process? I have, and I’m going to share this first-world problem with you. Now, I know first-world problems are a joke, but this problem became very real to me during the run-up to the China Orchestra Tour: film or digital?
You all know about my fondness for the analogue process and the results I’ve been able to acquire. Judging by my recent stats and pages visited, this might just interest you.
The Allure of Film Photography
I’m not saying this was causing me the traditional anxiety that I have been known to suffer from in the past. But… I had to decide how I was going to record my trip and, therefore, what to take with me. I’ll give you a list of my ideal kit, and it might help you to understand my dilemma.
Camera 1 A recently acquired Nikon FE (my first ever Nikon) and black-and-white film, ranging from Fomapan 100 ASA right through to Ilford HP5 Plus, whose box speed is 400 ASA but can be pushed up to 1600 ASA and still provide great images.
Camera 2 A Mamiya C220, which is a beautiful piece of kit with various 120 format black-and-white films, HP5 Plus, Portra 400, with the addition of Kodak Tri-X.
Camera 3 (maybe 4) My Olympus Trip or even the Olympus Pen EE S half-frame camera, for those informal colour shots with some Kodak Ultra and even a roll of Portra 160 for that gorgeous vintage style.
So, you have my film cameras with the film that goes with them. They provide a photographic experience unlike any other. The slowing down of the process, the reflection on each shot taken, the satisfying sound they make when you press the shutter release button. And so much more. They also look pretty damned sexy just hanging there around your neck, and people will think you are a “real” photographer, and that old-school vibe just adds tonnes to your sartorial elegance. Yes, you become a real poser, but do I care? Absolutely not!
The Practicality of Digital
Camera 5 My much-loved Canon 6D Mark II, with a couple of zoom lenses – 24-70mm F4.0, and my 16-35mm F4.0 lens, and maybe even my nifty 50.
Camera 6 Fujifilm X100F, the travel photographer’s ideal camera with the 35mm equivalent F2.0 lens for that sexy bokeh. It’s the Internet that said it, not me.
Now moving into the digital world. Convenience, convenience, and in case you hadn’t realised, convenience. I love them both for the variety of shots they allow me to take, and as I learnt photography “back in the day,” I have still conserved the same approach that I had in analogue photography, i.e., not spraying and praying like I have seen some colleagues do.
It is easier to use a flash, and you have an image that can be transferred to your phone, edited in Lightroom CC, and rapidly shared in the China Orchestra Tour WhatsApp group. And people can see what a great photographer you are. Couple the Canon colours and the Fuji film simulations, and you can have all the creativity fixes you might need at your fingertips.
The film cameras were there to satisfy my love of the analogue process and the nostalgic film look that only film can give. The digital cameras for their practicality, lens effects of going really wide, and having the possibility of going right up to 70mm. Choices, choices, choices.
Reality Check
Now let’s get back to reality and look at the ever-growing list of constraints. First of all, I am going on tour as a musician and not as a photographer. One really has to make this important distinction, as it gives a sense of purpose to the trip as well as the implication of priorities.
I would be flying across half the world, and therefore have to follow the demands of the air travel industry and airline rules. That meant no more than two lithium batteries, and one in the camera, and not in your suitcase but in your hand luggage, or on your person. They don’t like the idea of these batteries exploding or causing fires mid-flight. And because we are respecting the zero BS rule here, I don’t fancy that either. I would be limited by weight for my suitcase: 23kg and 20kg for flights inside China. My priority was to be a musician first and not a photographer, if ever I needed reminding…
If I were going to the UK, I would just have to annoy my family in the car with it being loaded up with camera gear, but this is China we’re talking about. Not a jaunt across the Channel.
In my suitcase, I will need my clothes for two weeks, my suit for concerts, shoes for concerts, wash bag with all my toiletries, as well as my CPAP machine for my sleep apnoea (I have to think about my quality of sleep as well as not snoring for my unsuspecting roommate Corentin). My hand luggage would be my instrument, and as we didn’t need mutes, I might be able to get away with stuffing things up the end of my horn’s bell. Please note that I didn’t try to get a cheap laugh by using the word bell-end…
So here I am back at the beginning of this article, and yet now you might better understand my dilemma.
Tell us what you decided then!
Alright then, I will. Welcome inside my mind and my thought processes. The sheer weight of all the kit would have made tking everything completely impractical. I knew this and had come to terms with it. I really wanted to analogical, but then had to come to terms with the fact that airport scanners can damage undeveloped film. Also the Mamiya weighs a tonne and would have been impractical to lug around China, despite the wonderful images it provides. Carmer 2 out! Now for security check I had bought a metal film box for my films so that those charming people at airport security could check my films, making sure that I would not blow up the plane. Not really my style…
That would leave me with Camera1, 3, and 4. Cameras 3 and 4 are particularly sexy and Carmera 4 being a half frame camera, gives you double the amount of shots for your film. However it uses zone focussing, and the ISO setting only go up to 200ASA so you need lots of light. Camera 3 is similar in the fact that it goes only up to 400ASA so not good for lowlight shooting. Cameras 3 and 4 out.
That leaves me with Camera 2. Which is of course uber sexy and Aperture priotity, which I like, and has a larger ISO range, and one that I can focus accurately with. I had black and white film for it which I enjoy using and know how it reacts and what kind of shots I can get out of it. Very satisfying shots. It also doesn’t need lithium batteries to work, so that helps rule that danger out. But I would still have to contend with the possibility of annoying security staff, and annoying Chinese security staff, and as I speak no Chinese, that would be challenging. And yet it still had a chance of staying in the race.
Now lets explore the digital realm. Camera 5: The Canon 6D Mark II is a beast of a camera and one I enjoy using. It’s lenses are beyond compare, and it would offer me lots of choice in choosing my subjects. However it would be heavy, especially with those lenses, and despite being able to have my images straight away, would it really be worth that added weight. Camera 5 out.
Camera 6. The Fujifilm X100F. Probably my favourite digital camera, and the one I took to the UK this summer as a test for this Chinese trip. It’s small. Compact and silent. And yet despite being a digital camera, it has an analogue feel to it, and is also very sexy, so I can still pose with it and it will give that serious photographer look, and make make people wonder is he using digital of analogue… Hmmm. Sounds like a good choice. It’s downfall lies in its power consumption. I would need three batteries in total. Which would mean that I would have to entrust a battery to a friend..
The two cameras left in the race are the Nikon FE analogue camera with it’s 50mm F1.8 lens which doesn’t need batteries. 50mm was the lens I learnt photography on and would allow me to get some decent portrait shots. However with the Fujifilm, I could change ISO setting without the hassle of changing my film, create scenic shots, as well as environmental portraits, and I could transfer the photos directly to my phone and share them straight after editing.
The X100F: Why It Was the Right Choice
The X100F became the clear winner for several reasons. It’s compact and lightweight, which was essential for travel, yet it produces sharp, detailed images. The 35mm equivalent F2.0 lens allowed me to shoot wide-open for beautiful bokeh in portraiture and environmental shots. The range of film simulations, from classic Chrome to Acros, allowed me to quickly achieve the look I desired without extra post-processing.
Its hybrid viewfinder provided both optical and electronic options, letting me choose the right method depending on the shooting conditions. The controls are direct, giving me full control over exposure and depth of field, without the need to dig through menus. And though it’s a digital camera, it retains that analogue charm that makes shooting feel personal and intentional.
The only downside was battery life, but I managed to bring a few extra batteries, which wasn’t too much of an issue for the flexibility the X100F offered.
Conclusion
In the end, the Fujifilm X100F was the perfect balance between practicality and creativity. Its digital conveniences, combined with its classic photographic feel, made it the ideal camera for the China Orchestra Tour. The images you’ve seen in my latest China Series article were all taken with the X100F, and I’m happy with the decision I made and I hope you might be too…
After years of shooting film, here’s what photography has actually taught me about seeing, time, and what it means to pay attention. This is the closing essay of a series on the philosophy of photography — covering why we shoot, the emotions behind each frame, storytelling, identity, connection, and impermanence. It stands on its own, but it draws a thread through everything.
As we reach the end of A Photography Philosophy Series, I hope this journey has been as rewarding for you as it has been for me. Through these articles, we’ve explored the philosophy behind why we photograph—going beyond equipment and technique to dig into the heart of what makes photography so meaningful. Each theme in the series has shed light on a unique layer of photography, from capturing emotions to telling stories, reflecting identity, building connections, and even embracing impermanence.
We began with Why Do We Photograph?—a question that sits at the root of every image we capture. For some, photography is about preserving memories; for others, it’s about self-expression, documenting moments, or sharing perspectives. Over time, our reasons for photographing often shift and evolve, bringing more layers to our work as we grow. This first article set the tone for the series by reminding us that photography is a deeply personal journey, and our motivations shape each image we create.
Then we delved into The Emotions of Photography, exploring how images can carry feelings, from joy and nostalgia to solitude and contemplation. Photography allows us to express emotions that words often fail to capture, communicating through light, composition, and mood. Each photograph holds the potential to resonate with viewers in a way that feels both personal and universal, offering a window into the photographer’s emotional landscape.
The Art of Storytelling in Photography came next, where we looked at how images can create narratives—small windows into people, places, or moments that form part of a larger story. Photography has a remarkable way of capturing both detail and the bigger picture, allowing us to document stories that speak to shared experiences or unique perspectives. In a world full of words, photographs can often tell a story with a quiet eloquence.
In Identity and Self-Expression, we explored how photography offers a chance to express who we are and what we see. Our images inevitably reflect parts of ourselves—our backgrounds, our worldview, and our personal journey. For many, photography is as much a journey of self-discovery as it is a creative practice, helping us find our own voice and share it with others. Photography encourages us to see ourselves more clearly and to reveal something of that to the world.
Then came Connection Through Photography, a theme close to my heart. Photography, as we’ve seen, can forge connections—between photographer and subject, among fellow photographers, or with viewers who see something of themselves in the image. These connections remind us that we’re not alone in this world; they foster a sense of community, shared understanding, and empathy that goes beyond language. Photography has a unique power to unite us, even if only for a moment.
Lastly, we explored The Philosophy of Impermanence, where we reflected on the fleeting nature of each photograph. Every image captures a moment that can never be repeated, lending photography its unique poignancy. Impermanence reminds us to treasure the moment and see beauty in the transient. Photography, like life itself, is filled with unexpected moments, and it’s often the imperfections or mistakes that give images their authenticity and depth.
As we close, I invite you to reflect on your own photographic journey. What drives you to take photographs? Which themes resonate most with you—capturing emotions, telling stories, connecting with others, or perhaps embracing impermanence? These reflections aren’t just theoretical ideas; they form the personal philosophy that shapes how each of us approaches photography.
Ultimately, photography is about connecting with the world and each other through shared moments and meanings. If this series has encouraged you to think more deeply about your motivations, experiences, and the meaning behind your work, then I hope you’ll carry those reflections forward. Photography gives us a way to see, to understand, and to share in ways that words alone can’t.
Thank you for joining me on this exploration. I’d love to hear about your own experiences—what drives you, what connects you, and how photography shapes your view of the world. Let’s keep the conversation going and continue building a community of thoughtful photographers, one image at a time.
When we talk about a moment in time, that moment is no longer the present; it has become the past. We cannot repeat it, nor can we reclaim it. It has happened and will never come back. Photography is an art form that allows us to capture a specific moment and preserve it for all time. We know that it is impossible to capture exactly the same conditions in which the shot was taken. We can attempt a recreation, but it will never be identical. Time has moved on to the next moment.
As photographers, we are left with the task of capturing the present, knowing it is already slipping away. What does this mean for the way we approach our art? Will we constantly look back, regretting the passage of time, or will we, on the contrary, feel privileged to have documented it for the future?
This brings us back to the idea of preserving the decisive moment that Cartier-Bresson spoke of. Like comedy, it would appear that photography is all about timing.
When we capture that moment, we must decide how we want to portray it. Do we want to freeze the action with a very high shutter speed, or can we slow down and add a sense of movement to our image? How fleeting is the image we are trying to capture? What will this motion add to the image?
My approach
Over time, I’ve come to appreciate these fleeting moments in time and try to document them, whether in the big city or out in the countryside with my children—especially when they play together. I want the spontaneity of it all, to capture those precious moments of complicity. As any parent knows, our children grow up before our eyes, and before we can truly realise it, they are grown up. Even when they’re not together, and I look through these past moments in time, I get an overwhelming feeling of, “Where did it all go?” My son is 25, and my daughter is 15 already.
Embracing Mistakes: A Journey to the Image
I’ll admit, I’m not one to embrace mistakes easily. I’ve always strived for precision in my photography, seeking to control every variable and meticulously plan each shot. I don’t like leaving things to chance, and so, when things don’t go as expected, there’s often a twinge of frustration. A blurred shot, an overexposed image, or a missed moment—those mistakes are a part of the process I try my hardest to avoid.
But over time, I’ve started to realise something: these mistakes, as unsettling as they may feel in the moment, are often a necessary part of the journey toward the image I’m truly after. When I reflect on the photographs I’ve captured, it’s clear that the path to the perfect shot wasn’t a straight line. It was made up of trial and error, of learning how to see the scene in front of me not just through my lens, but also through the lens of my mistakes.
It’s the misfires, the accidents, that force me to reconsider my approach, to adjust my frame or my focus. They open my eyes to perspectives I might not have considered, angles I might not have thought of, and emotions I might not have expected to capture. Each mistake teaches me something new, something that nudges me closer to that elusive, perfect image. They’re not setbacks, but rather signposts that guide me, sometimes uncomfortably, to a place where I can see the photograph with fresh eyes.
I’ve come to understand that each imperfection is part of the journey. The photograph I end up with is rarely the first shot I took, or the second, or the third. It’s the culmination of countless adjustments, failures, and moments of doubt, all leading me to the image that feels right. In the end, I realise that without those mistakes, the image I’m truly after might never have come into focus.
So while I still seek control, I’ve learned that there is value in embracing the unexpected. It’s in the mistakes, the missed moments, and the misjudgments that I find the essence of my photography. They are just as much a part of the creative process as the moments of perfection, guiding me closer to the image that speaks to me—and perhaps even to the viewer—most clearly.
Conclusion: The Beauty of the Journey
Photography, at its core, is a celebration of the fleeting moments that pass us by in the blink of an eye. The act of capturing these moments is an acknowledgement that time is forever slipping away, and in that impermanence, there is both beauty and significance. As photographers, we are tasked with documenting not just what we see, but also what we feel—the raw, unrepeatable essence of time itself.
The pursuit of the perfect image is a delicate dance between intention and spontaneity, control and surrender. It’s a journey that, more often than not, veers off the well-trodden path and into uncharted territory. Along the way, mistakes become our teachers, guiding us toward discoveries we might never have made if we had stayed within the confines of our comfort zone. These missteps, rather than being failures, are integral to the creative process, pushing us to reimagine, reframe, and reinvent our approach.
In the end, photography is about embracing the imperfection of both the world around us and our own creative efforts. It’s in the mess, the mistakes, and the fleeting nature of the moment that we often find the most powerful images. And while the perfect shot may remain elusive, it is in the journey—the trial and error, the fleeting moments, and the lessons learned—that the true beauty of photography lies.
So, as we continue to document our world, let us not only cherish the decisive moments but also embrace the imperfections that make them meaningful. For it is through the transient, the imperfect, and the unexpected that we capture not just images but stories—stories that resonate with the heart and echo the passage of time.
I once read that if two Germans meet, they will form a club. I am not German, but they perfectly illustrate this universal need to belong. They are generally not the most extroverted of people, but even introverts have this need to form a relationship with somebody. As photographers, we have this same urge, but perhaps in a more subtle way. When I’m out on the street, I will always notice someone with a camera, even when I’m without one myself. I find myself looking to check the brand, possibly the make of the camera, and the type of lens the person is using. Even when we simply nod at each other, it’s a recognition of our shared enthusiasm for the art form. Am I judging them? Sometimes, yes, but to err is human.
When I see a film camera around someone’s neck, I am immediately drawn to it. When I venture out with the behemoth Mamiya C220, the camera is almost as much a statement as the actual image I’ll eventually take with it. People will come and inquisitively ask, “What kind of camera is that? Can you still get film for it?” or say, “Yes, my grandfather had one like that.” The obvious charm of a medium format TLR in this modern world.
Photography is sometimes seen as quite a niche activity, and film photography even more so. A film camera gives out a more exclusive vibe, telling the world that, yes, we actually are serious about this, and know what we are doing, as the camera isn’t doing anything for us. We are artists and therefore superior to you, at least that’s what we tell ourselves for validation… One could argue that there is a need for even more knowledge with film photography, and that the need to develop our films just goes to show our dedication to the craft.
Well, not always. But it does give a starting point to a chat, which invariably leads to a discussion about this shared interest, and gives us a common starting point to our relationship, however brief that relationship might be.
I also want to explore the relationship between the subject and the person photographing that subject. For a long time, I was petrified of using a model. I’m an introvert by nature, so the idea of having to make small talk with and direct a model was awful. I wanted to learn more about photographing a model and to break out of this comfort zone. Strangely, buildings won’t talk back at you or tell you what they think of your shot. People, on the other hand, are completely different.
I had learnt basic lighting technique and then had to find models. Luckily, I could rely on my daughter and wife as my first subjects, then branch out to include my son and his then-girlfriend. I then moved onto unsuspecting friends, fellow musicians, and eventually felt my confidence slowly building enough for me to photograph complete strangers by establishing that rapport between us. I discovered that sometimes they were as terrified as I was. Again, something we had in common…
I followed some advice from Sean Tucker, who specialises in portraiture. I simply had a conversation with my model, which seemed to put us both at ease. This allowed the model to detach from the shoot and just chat away.
Community and Collaboration
But connection isn’t limited to brief exchanges with strangers on the street; it can also be found in deeper collaborations with other photographers. As I said earlier, I am more of an introvert, and the idea of making an effort to be sociable is something I find exhausting. At parties, I have been known to chill out on the outer realm of guests and chat to the dog. Hey, we have great conversations together!
However, I have been known to make that special effort and even meet up with other photographers. If you’ve ever talked to me about photography and the merits of various pieces of kit, and actual cameras, you’ll know that I can talk about it until the cows come home—to the point that most people switch off after 30 seconds. But when you have a captive audience who actually cares and knows what you’re talking about, it just brings me out of my shell.
Sometimes one might think it’s a very blokey thing to meet up with other men and talk about, and participate in, some rather niche activity. That might sound a little suspect, but I assure you it isn’t.
I once had a meet-up in Nantes (the very first article on this blog), and it was so rewarding. It was a typical male bonding activity, and everyone, except for me, brought along their biggest cameras and most expensive lenses. It almost felt like a competition to see who had the most impressive camera. I just brought my relatively tiny X100F, the thinking man’s camera. Much like my car, it’s not the most inspiring thing to look at, but I enjoy using it, and it certainly gets the job done in a very satisfactory way!
I have also collaborated with Nantes Grand Angle, a collective of photographers that have outings in and around Nantes. In exchange for a free tour or free visit, we take pictures during the outings and write about them in our blogs or publish the photos on Instagram. I have done a couple of outings with them, and it’s always interesting to see other photographers in action. They are there seeing the same things as me, but not in the same way. That sense of belonging has a huge feel-good factor too.
A Shared Lens
Photography may often feel like a solitary pursuit, but beneath it lies a powerful thread of connection, weaving us together through moments captured and stories told. Whether it’s the subtle camaraderie exchanged between strangers with a simple nod on the street, the thrill of collaborating with others who share our passion, or the quiet understanding forged with a subject in front of the lens, these encounters remind us that we are never truly alone in this journey.
Through photography, we find not just a way to see the world but a way to be part of it—a community of like-minded souls bound by a shared appreciation for light, shadow, and time itself. In the end, our photographs are a bridge, linking us to others and creating a lasting connection beyond the mere act of pressing the shutter. For as long as we hold a camera, we’re part of something bigger, capturing fragments of life that, no matter how fleeting, will always connect us back to one another.
Photography doesn’t just record the world — it records the person behind the camera. The subjects you choose, the moments you wait for, the way you frame a scene: all of it is a form of self-portrait. This essay explores what photography reveals about identity, how a lifetime behind the lens shapes and reflects who you are, and why the most interesting thing in any photograph is often the photographer themselves.
Photography as a Reflection of Self
What could be a more contemporary expression of self than the modern selfie? For some, it represents a genuine connection, while for others, it becomes a carefully curated fantasy shared on Instagram in pursuit of self-importance—think #lifestyle, #ootd, or #memyselfandI. These representations can evoke mixed feelings about the authenticity of self-expression.
However, this is not how I view photography as a reflection of self. Photography is the only art form that allows the viewer to look through the lens just as I did when I pressed the shutter button. You see exactly what I saw in that moment, and, depending on how I edited the photo, you may catch a glimpse of the emotions swirling in my mind at that time.
Consider two people facing each other, a coin held up between them. One sees the heads side, while the other sees the tails. Each perspective offers only a partial view of the whole object, much like how each photograph can convey different meanings and emotions depending on the viewer’s interpretation. This highlights the importance of taking in the entire picture. But it’s not just this perspective that changes the way each individual looks at the coin, but all the personality and life experience that the person brings.
So, what about the expression of my identity and worldview? You might detect my state of mind through the subject matter of the photograph. If you see one of my photos taken during the anti-government demonstrations in Nantes, you might draw conclusions about my political leanings, when in reality, I was completely neutral about the situation. Here, the viewer adds their own interpretation to what they see, imagining this world and identifying with the picture in a way that is relevant to them. I think we all are guilty of that. My worldview, too, may show through—an insight into the world around me and how I choose to see and document it, since you are witnessing a moment in time as I saw it.
But why press the shutter button at a particular moment and not 1 second before, or 1 second after? Cartier Bresson talked about capturing the decisive moment. I try and make sure that I have no distracting elements. I try and get my subject right where I want them, or wait for them to cross the scene at a certain spot. Does this mean that I miss shots? Yes, but it’s all part of the game! Have I become a self-hating perfectionist? Fortunately, no. But do I try and make that extra effort? Definitely. I owe it to myself, but to the viewer of the resulting photo. Some might talk about a certain professional conscience, but if you’re going to do something, then try and do your best?
Personal Growth
This is a tricky subject, as I’m not entirely certain that my subject matter has evolved as I have. Am I still taking the same old photos as I used to? Possibly. Yet there are new techniques I’ve picked up along my learning journey. I may have started learning about photography over 40 years ago, but I’ve never stopped. In the last ten years alone, I’ve learnt so much, often with YouTube as my teacher. I’ve expanded my knowledge of film—how to use it and develop it—and I’ve learnt more about editing. I might just mention that I trained in “Desktop Publishing” back in 2003. Twenty years ago… time flies! Lots of Photoshop, Illustrator, and QuarkXpress.
New equipment and different lenses have allowed me to explore wide-angle photography and, as they say, “get it out of my system.” But is it really out, or have I simply explored it enough to satisfy my curiosity for the time being? I will, no doubt, revisit it again. This exploration has clearly shaped the way I view a scene, and I now know how to use the distortion it offers as another stylistic string to my bow. Wide angles enable me to alter how the subject is seen, making a more significant impact on the viewer, who experiences something distinctly out of the ordinary. It’s a small but meaningful addition to my work that could offer that extra something to a potential client.
I’ve grown more confident in my photography over time through consistency and practice. Getting out there with your camera is, without a doubt, the way to go. Some might accuse me of relying on gear, but I feel that I’ve genuinely put the hours in to master certain aspects of this craft and to have a certain self confidence in my abilities as a photographer.
Do I take the same photos that I did back in 1987 and now? In certain ways, yes. Because my personality shines through the photograph. However back in 1987 I was concerned just about nailing the exposure, and didn’t have the knowledge and photographic culture that I do today in 2024. I was also a 15 year old back in 1987, and am now over 50. The essential part of who I am remains, but my life experience has changed me, as it would anyone over 35 years.
Cultural Context
You might not know this about me, but I have lived in France for the last thirty years. More time than I lived at “home” in the UK. Has that affected my photography in any way? Maaaaybe…
France is the home of Cartier Bresson, and Doisneau, and their wonderfully crafted street photography. Yes, I have explored their work and have been amazed by it, and amazed by the simplicity in certain shots of theirs, but a deceptive simplicity that takes so much time to emulate. So yes, I have been influenced by French culture. It forms the way I look at the world around me, especially when in the streets of Nantes and I feel their influence accompanying me as I wander around the streets. It’s also the subject matter that changes from country to country. Just look at the difference between my two countries, the UK and France.
But it doesn’t stop there. I have been influenced by photographers that I see on the Internet. Names like Sean Tucker, Thomas Heaton, James Popsys, Mango Street, Peter McKinnon, and Jamie Windsor spring to mind and their videos have certainly been a huge influence on me. And there’s not even one Frenchman in that short list… It’s not that I reject French youtubers, but when at work I have to make the effort to speak French, when I am outside my house I have to make the effort to speak French, aso when at home I prefer to keep things in my mother tongue. It’s a me problem, and not a them problem.
Conclusion: The Lens of Self-Reflection
Photography, at its core, is about more than just taking pictures; it’s about capturing fragments of identity and moments of personal evolution. While the images we create may reflect the world around us, they also tell the story of how we see ourselves and the ever-changing lens through which we view the world.
What I’ve come to realise is that photography isn’t just a technical pursuit or a series of compositions—it’s a mirror. Through it, I’ve discovered not only the nuances of the world but the nuances within myself. From the early days of worrying over exposure to now, when the process feels more like a conversation with the scene, I have grown not just as a photographer, but as an individual.
Yet, this growth is never complete. Photography, like life, is a journey with no clear destination. The influences, the techniques, and even the subjects will continue to shift as I evolve. What remains constant is the intention: to connect, to reflect, and to capture not just an image, but a piece of time that speaks to who I am, and who I am becoming.
In the end, photography is an act of constant reinvention. Each shutter press is an opportunity to redefine the self and understand the world a little better, one image at a time.
When I first started out in photography, I would go and get my film developed by the photographer on Newland Avenue near where I lived, and the photographer would do what people called a contact sheet. Basically, the film was cut into strips, placed into a special frame to keep the negatives as flat as possible, and exposed directly onto a sheet of photographic paper. These “thumbnails” allowed us to see the photos of the outing in one place and we could decide which ones might be worthy of developing.
We have this digital contact sheet in Lightroom where we import our photos and decide which ones are worthy of being developed. It’s the same idea, just with different tools.
But what does this have to do with storytelling? Think of the contact sheet as the beginning of the story-crafting process. Just like a narrative needs a beginning, middle, and end, so too does our selection of images. With a contact sheet, we gain a bird’s-eye view of an outing—seeing not only the individual shots but how they relate to each other. Choosing which moments to develop isn’t just about technical quality; it’s about deciding which parts of the experience best tell the story.
This principle guides me when choosing photos to share here on the blog. Whether it’s capturing moments with my friend JD, the barber, or snapping a shot of my lunch before I dive in, each image plays a role in the day’s story, hoping that I don’t forget to take the photo of my dessert before eating it. Otherwise you just get a photo of the plate with some traces of cake or just some crumbs.
But lets’s get back to the idea of story telling with an arc that covers the outing. When I set out for the day, I begin with a few warm-up shots to set the scene. If I have a plan, great—but often I don’t. Instead, I focus on capturing the ambiance of my surroundings, whether it’s a café, church, or pub. Each photo builds on the last, creating a narrative of my day’s journey.
For events, especially when I’m hired to photograph, I’ll start by discussing the plan with my client. I want to know what’s important to capture, any specific conditions at the venue—lighting, mobility restrictions, etc.—and what moments they consider essential. Having this list of must-capture moments, like the classic Kodak moments that we talked about in a previous article, helps me stay focused and give me structure.
For the sake of arguments, I have a wedding to photograph, and I know that I will be taking shots of the bride before the ceremony. I know that I have to be at the venue before the happy couple arrives. I’d better get a shot of the rings before they appear on the couples’ fingers, etc. I’ll want environmental portraits of the guests, etc. This planning ahead allows me to be more serene during the day itself.
Just married
Not every story requires a series of images; sometimes, a single photograph can capture an entire narrative. Think of it as a self-contained story, a moment that holds not only what’s visible but also what’s implied—emotion, context, and sometimes, a sense of mystery.
For example, take a photograph of a lone, empty café table in the soft morning light, a half-full cup of coffee, and an open notebook on the table. This image can suggest solitude, introspection, or perhaps the moment right after someone has left. The viewer might wonder: Who was sitting here? Why did they leave? What were they writing? This photograph tells a story, inviting the viewer to step in and imagine the rest.
A single image can evoke different responses based on the viewer’s own experiences and emotions. In many ways, it’s a conversation between the photographer and the viewer. We as photographers might set the scene, choose the light, and capture the moment, but it’s the viewer who fills in the blanks, completing the story in their mind.
This approach also applies when photographing people. A portrait of a person lost in thought, gazing out of a window, can evoke curiosity about what’s on their mind, where they might be going, or what they’re experiencing at that moment. In these cases, the single image captures more than just a face or place; it holds an emotional narrative that transcends words.
Am I sure about this cake?
Storytelling in photography isn’t just about taking pictures; it’s about deciding which moments matter and capturing them in a way that communicates more than what’s on the surface. Whether we’re crafting a narrative through a series of images or capturing an entire story in a single frame, each photo we take says something about how we see the world and what we want to share with others.
Next time you’re out with your camera, think about the story you’re building, whether it’s a quiet day at a café or a bustling event. What do you want your viewers to see, to feel, to wonder about? In some ways, we’re all storytellers—stringing together moments, big or small, to create something meaningful.
So, go on—look through your images as if they were frames in a film, each one a piece of a larger story. You might find that your perspective shifts, and that’s when photography becomes more than just a hobby; it becomes a way of understanding and connecting with the world.
I’m going to tell you a story about an essay that was given to us by the music master at the beginning of my Music A level course. There were four of us studying music, and the lessons took place in his study, much like a tutorial at university. The title of the essay was something like describe the perfect piece of music.
Back then I described the Glenn Miller song, Moonlight Serenade. One of my fellow pupils described the Planets from Holst. In the following tutorial after our essays had been marked, I was criticised since the Master thought my piece was repetitive, had no particular musical merit, and was corny. I, on the other hand, argued that it was the way the piece made me feel.
With hindsight I should have just handed in a clean sheet of paper saying that there is no such thing as a perfect piece of music, as taste is purely subjective and that he should take his essay question and possibly reconsider his stance! I didn’t of course. But it certainly got me thinking, even to this day!
Subjectivity in Art
As in any art the appreciation of the viewer is purely subjective and we have to be so careful about reading an interpretation into a given work. There are effectively themes that are explored in literature that could be described as obvious. But in Photography, I maintain that any connection to a particular photograph is an emotional one first, before going any deeper.
The Essence of Emotional Connection
But what makes this emotional connection possible? And how do I go about achieving this in photography. I’m going to harken back to my musical training. My horn teacher in France would say, your concerto is your text. Your job is to recite that text to the audience. That is all you have to concentrate on. You’ve worked through your concerto, the techniques necessary to play it, and once the sound leaves the bell of the instrument, it is no longer yours. It belongs to the audience. They are the ones listening and they are the ones that will form the emotional connection.
Creating Meaningful Portraits
So how do I make this connection with my audience when it comes to photography? Well, in portraiture they say to focus on the eyes of your model. Eyes being the entrance to the soul. If I can capture that and have my model looking directly at my camera and therefore my audience then I’m well on the way to creating a meaningful portrait.
The Art of Street Photography
In my street photography, it can be about catching a detail that everybody sees but that nobody notices until they look at your image. You can go to my photography tutorials and look at the composition articles to learn about how we direct the audience to a particular point in our photograph by using leading lines, the rule of thirds, and emphasising our subject with our lighting, or by isolating our subject.
The Role of Colour in Evoking Emotion
We also solicit emotion through the colors we choose. Warmer tones can infuse images with energy and happiness, while cooler tones can make them feel peaceful or introspective. For example, adding reds and oranges to a portrait can evoke warmth and approachability, while blues and greens can give a landscape a calm, reflective quality. Considering these colours “in camera” can make the entire process more intuitive, helping you set the mood before you even begin editing.
The Power of Black and White
Shooting in black and white, using only tones of light strips away the influence of colour and presents us with the “essence” of a scene, and it’s one of the reasons I love shooting in black and white, be that on film or digitally. I aim for a timeless quality to my black and white images, and the emotion can be just as intense. Without color, we focus on texture, shadow, and contrast—elements that can evoke nostalgia, solitude, or contemplation.
Mindfulness in the Photographic Process
What I think I’m getting at is that to evoke an emotion we need to be so mindful of our photographic process. Sometimes taking that step backwards allows us to reflect before pressing the shutter button.
Conclusion
I don’t have all the answers of course, but in the end, capturing emotion in photography is as much about the heart as it is about the eyes behind the lens. Each photograph we create is a bridge between ourselves and our viewers—a connection forged in the moment but lasting beyond it. Just as a musician lets their notes drift into the silence, we photographers must let our images speak, leaving space for others to interpret, feel, and connect.
So, as you move forward in your own photography, remember to pause, to feel, and to let emotion guide your hand. Don’t be afraid to take a step back before pressing the shutter, and ask yourself: What do I want my viewer to feel?
I hope this reflection gives you a new perspective on how you approach your next shot. After all, photography, like any art, is a journey without fixed answers—one of constant discovery. Take time to explore, experiment, and, most importantly, to feel.
Cameras. Why? What is it that makes us pick one up? For me, a camera is not merely a beautiful object; it’s a tool—a simple box, with a lens through which light passes, creating an image on film or a sensor. Whether the box is a hundred years old or fresh off the production line, the same principles hold true. Even our phones are, in essence, an evolution of that same box. But beyond mechanics, what truly drives us to take a photograph?
The Kodak company told us it was all about “capturing that Kodak moment.” But what exactly is this moment, whether created by Kodak or any other company? Firstly, it was a stroke of marketing genius, associating a photograph with a personal, meaningful memory. Secondly, it gave us a compelling reason to pick up a camera and capture memories to share with others, possibly even sparking the first instances of FOMO (fear of missing out), which is now so prevalent in social media. Kodak cleverly linked photographs with significant memories, encouraging us to reach for our cameras. How kind of them.
Yet, let me assure you, it’s not a cure for FOMO, despite what Kodak or social media might suggest. Or at least, not entirely. I use my photography to document the world around me at a given moment in time. Photography is the only art form that allows you, the viewer, to see something through my eyes as I saw it. But while photojournalists capture our world, photography is not solely about documentation.
It’s about storytelling through images. A single photograph can hold an entire narrative within its frame, suggesting more than what’s immediately visible. But often, I find I need multiple images to fully convey a story. When I write my blog pieces, I aim to tell the story in both words and images. I guide you through a carefully curated selection, hoping that you might connect with them in the same way I did. This connection—between the photographer and the viewer—is, for me, one of the most powerful aspects of photography. Through our lenses, we offer others a brief glimpse into our world, our experiences, and our feelings. It’s a reminder that storytelling is more than just documentation; it’s about creating a shared space for interpretation and emotion.
Of course, beauty is also an integral part of why I pick up a camera. There’s something undeniably fulfilling about capturing a scene that feels, to me, perfectly composed. I like to believe I can craft a visually pleasing image and employ various techniques to do so. The idea is to present a scene so that the photograph conveys how I saw it, inspiring you to feel something. Photography is the only medium or art form that allows you, the viewer, to see something that only I saw, and because of the passage of time no longer exists.
It’s about creating art for art’s sake. In a world that constantly demands productivity and output, creating something purely for the joy of creating feels almost radical.
Then there’s the meditative side of photography. For me, the camera isn’t just a tool to create images; it’s a form of therapy. When I’m suffering from melancholia, or I’m lost in thought, stepping into the world as an observer through my camera often gives me a sense of calm. Looking through the lens allows me to disassociate from daily worries and approach the world with curiosity rather than anxiety. This small shift—seeing myself as a photographer rather than a participant—transforms the environment around me from something overwhelming into something inviting. The camera’s frame becomes a safe space in which I can explore without judgement or expectations. In this way, photography becomes a practice of mindfulness.
The process itself is deeply important. I often think of Vivian Maier, who left behind so many undeveloped rolls of film, underscoring the significance of the process itself. Born in 1926, Maier spent her life photographing the world without promoting her work. Of the 140,000 shots she took, only 5% were ever developed—a body of work unknown even to its creator. This fact alone astounds me. Perhaps she, too, was capturing moments for herself, deeply invested in the act of photography without any need for external recognition. Her legacy reminds us that the process can be as meaningful as the result and that photography has value even when the images are unseen.
In today’s image-saturated world, where everyone is encouraged to share, edit, and curate their lives, it’s worth asking if we’d still take photos knowing that nobody else would ever see them. For me, the answer is a resounding yes. Photography is more than a tool to impress, to document, or to share; it’s a means of expressing myself and, often, of making sense of my own experiences. Every image is a small act of discovery, helping me see the world more clearly or find beauty where I might not have noticed it before.
Ultimately, photography is a language, a form of communication that transcends barriers of culture, language, and time. A single photograph can capture something timeless—an unfiltered moment of life that can be understood and felt by someone across the globe. In this way, photography becomes a shared visual language, offering us a way to connect beyond words.
So, why do we photograph? Perhaps the answer is as varied as the photographers themselves, shaped by individual motives, experiences, and emotions. But whether we’re documenting, creating, or simply exploring, the act of photography invites us to see the world—and ourselves—with fresh eyes. And in the end, that might be the most compelling reason of all.
