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.
For me, the key distinction between a snapshot and true photography is intention. It took me about two years to undergo a significant shift in how I approached photography. I went from taking photos of whatever caught my eye wherever I happened to be, to having a specific photo in my head and seeking out the right time and place to create it. It was a gradual process, but one day, something clicked. I had a clear image in my mind of rocks in the sea, and I knew I needed to capture it.
In today’s world, it seems that every passion, hobby, or creative endeavour is often viewed through the lens of monetisation. Social media constantly bombards us with side-hustles, passive income streams, and the pressure to turn any skill into a money-making venture. This trend is particularly visible among millennials and younger generations, who often feel the need to transform everything they do into something “profitable.” But is it possible that something vital has been lost in this pursuit of financial gain? Where has the joy of doing things for the sheer love of them gone?
If you look at the distribution of subjects of youtube videos, blogs, and articles, an overwhelming amount is about hardware (some are barely disguised ads). While innovations in camera technology have undeniably made photography more accessible and easier, the idea that only the latest and most expensive equipment can produce great photos is nonsense. In fact, for most photographers and shooting conditions, any camera less than 15 years old can produce fantastic results. The real limiting factor in photography isn’t the camera, but the photographer’s ability, creativity, and understanding of the craft.
For me, photography is about capturing the moment.
Beach seen from the top of the cliff at sunrise, St Cyrus, Scotland.
One of the things that really marked me when I saw Blade Runner when I was a kid was Roy Batty’s speech at the end of the film: “I’ve seen things… You people wouldn’t believe. […] All these moments will be lost in time” (let’s ignore the debate about whether these are real human feelings, that’s not the point here) This is the sentiment I have when I take photos. Even mundane ones.
It doesn’t matter what kind of photos you take, landscapes, portraits, studio, street, even family snaps, it’s always about fixing a moment that will never happen again and that you might be the only human being to witness.
The way I think about things is that I write down what I think I think about something, then argue with myself over it as I tweak the text, until I agree with myself and I find no more changes to make. I’ve done that since I was in high school, when I discovered I liked writing.
