There’s something jarring about seeing “Jane Smith Photography” splashed across social media bios and business cards, especially when the portfolio behind it consists of a handful of unremarkable shots taken last month.
There is nothing wrong with taking photography seriously, I do. I spent countless hours studying how people take photos and practicing. But declaring you’re “photography” is telling the world that you’ve arrived, you’re an expert worthy of being noticed and your stuff is worth buying (that usually comes hand in hand).
When I was in my twenties, I owned almost nothing. Obviously, in your twenties you’re not rich, but I owned much less than my friends. An old car, two computers, and some basic clothes. That was it. I felt completely free. When I moved to a new country at 21, I just went. No storage units, no shipping containers, no belongings to worry about or sell. Just me and my few possessions, ready for whatever came next.
Not only I had little, but I also wanted little. I had what I needed. What I wanted on top of that wasn’t important and I didn’t care about it.
This wasn’t some philosophical statement at the time. I simply found that owning less meant worrying less. Each possession we acquire carries a weight beyond its physical form: the weight of maintenance, of protection, of responsibility. When you own little, you’re free to focus on experiences rather than things.
Years later, I’ve come to see how this same principle applies to photography. We live in an age of endless gear acquisition, where each new camera release promises to unlock creativity we didn’t know we had. I’ve been there. I lusted after the 5D when it came out and bought one very shortly after it was released. I drooled over some L lenses (but never bought them). But I’ve noticed something: the more equipment I acquired, the more my photography became about the equipment itself rather than about seeing and creating.
