Spotting other photographers
I once read that if two Germans meet, they’ll form a club. I’m not German, but it’s a fair description of something more universal: the need to belong. Photographers aren’t always the most extroverted bunch, but even the shy ones want to connect with somebody who gets it. When I’m out and about, I clock anyone carrying a camera before I’ve even registered I’m doing it. Brand, make, lens, all of it, filed away automatically. Even a simple nod between strangers is a small acknowledgment: yes, you too. Am I judging them while I’m at it? Sometimes. To err is human.
A film camera round someone’s neck gets my attention faster than anything digital. When I take the Mamiya C220 out, the camera itself becomes almost as much of a talking point as whatever I actually photograph with it. People stop and ask what it is, whether you can still get film for it, or tell me their grandfather had one just like it. That’s the charm of a medium format TLR in 2026: it still gets a reaction.
Photography, and film photography especially, has a bit of a niche, insider feel to it. Carrying a film camera says something: that you’re serious enough to bother, that you know what you’re doing because the camera certainly isn’t doing it for you. We’re artists, therefore superior, or so we tell ourselves for a bit of validation. There’s an argument that film demands more knowledge, and that developing your own rolls proves some kind of dedication. Sometimes. Not always. But it’s a decent opener for a conversation, and it usually leads somewhere, even if the relationship that follows only lasts as long as the chat itself.
There’s also the connection between photographer and subject to think about. For years I was terrified of using a model. I’m an introvert, so small talk plus directing someone plus trying not to make it weird sounded like a nightmare. But I wanted to get past that. Buildings don’t talk back or judge your composition. People are a different animal entirely.
I learned the basics of lighting and then needed someone to point a camera at. My daughter and my wife were the first, unwilling volunteers really, then my son and his girlfriend at the time. After that, unsuspecting friends and fellow musicians, until eventually I had enough confidence to approach total strangers and build that rapport on the spot. Turns out plenty of them were just as nervous as I was. Another thing we had in common.
I picked up some advice from Sean Tucker, who does a lot of portraiture: just have a conversation with your model. It sounds too simple to work, but it does. It puts both of you at ease and lets the model forget they’re being photographed at all, which is usually the whole battle.
Meeting other photographers on purpose
Connection isn’t only the brief kind, a nod on the street, a stranger asking about your camera. Sometimes it’s a proper collaboration with other photographers, which for an introvert like me takes actual effort. At parties I’m the one hanging around the edge of the room talking to the dog. Genuinely good conversations, the dog and I.
Still, I make the effort sometimes and meet up with other photographers. Get me started on kit, lenses, actual cameras, and I’ll talk until the cows come home, well past the point most people have quietly switched off. But hand me an audience that actually cares and knows what I’m on about, and something in me relaxes that doesn’t relax anywhere else.
I can see how it looks from the outside: blokes getting together to obsess over a niche hobby. Sounds a bit much when I put it like that. It isn’t, I promise.
The very first post on this blog came out of a meet-up in Nantes, and it was genuinely one of the better days I’ve had with a camera. Classic male-bonding stuff: everyone else turned up with their biggest body and most expensive glass, like it was some unspoken competition. I brought my X100F, small enough to disappear in one hand. The thinking man’s camera, if I’m allowed to say that about myself. Like my car, nothing to look at twice, but I like using it and it gets the job done without any fuss.
I’ve also worked with Nantes Grand Angle, a local collective that organises outings around the city. In exchange for a free tour or a free visit somewhere, we photograph the day and write about it or post to Instagram. I’ve done a couple of these with them, and it’s always interesting watching other photographers work the same scene. Same place, same light, completely different eye. There’s a genuine feel-good factor in that shared vantage point, even if we all walk away with different pictures.
Photography can feel like a solitary thing, and plenty of the time it is. But there’s more connection hiding in it than people give it credit for: the nod between strangers, the collaboration with other photographers, the quiet trust you build with a subject in front of the lens. None of that happens if you’re not paying attention to the people around you as much as the light.
I don’t know that photography needs to mean anything grander than that. Every so often it puts me in a room, or a street, or a Nantes side alley, with someone I wouldn’t otherwise have talked to, camera or no camera. That’s plenty.
Also in this series: Part I — An Introduction · Part II — Why Do We Photograph? · Part III — The Emotions of Photography · Part IV — The Art of Storytelling · Part V — Identity & Self-Expression · Part VI — Connection Through Photography · Part VII — The Philosophy of Impermanence · Conclusion