As I said before, I’m not a social media person. I often find myself questioning whether I should try harder to be on those platforms and what they could possibly give me.
In an age where photos are posted daily (hourly? Minutely? Secondly?) on platforms like X and Instagram, it’s easy to overlook the deeper intentions behind each image. I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on this: why people take the photos they do, how they approach it, and what they see in those images. And as I’ve navigated these thoughts, one platform has kept me coming back: Substack.
In the pursuit of photographic excellence, we often find ourselves trapped in a self-imposed prison of technical perfection. Sharp focus, precise framing, and optimal exposure become our jailers, limiting our creative expression and emotional connection to the images we create. But what if these supposed imperfections are not flaws at all, but rather windows into a deeper, more authentic form of storytelling?
I didn’t grow up with social media. I grew up in an era when computers were uncommon and the (public) internet didn’t exist. For example, at the end of high school, I chose to attend a computing exam as part of baccalaureate, even though I had never had a lesson, my high school didn’t have a single computer, and it was one of the first years this could be done, so there was very little material about what to expect (I got 95% without ever knowing why I didn’t get 100%).
Looking for perfection in photography, spending fortunes on the latest hardware and gadgets, pretending to be a photography god, are all nonsense. What counts as non-professionals is evocation. And sometimes it’s not something you can convey to anyone else.
There’s a weird trend among hobby photographers: the tendency to frame their passion as “work.” This simple word choice, while seemingly innocuous, fundamentally changes our relationship with photography and risks stripping away the very essence of what makes it special.
Photography has become stuck in an endless negative cycle of expectations. Everywhere you turn, there’s someone preaching about originality, creativity, and pushing boundaries. But here’s the truth: none of that really matters.
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?
