photography
Talent is great, a good camera helps a lot, and having the resources to travel is amazing. But no matter where we start, the gear, or the locations we have access to, the biggest factor for our work is time. There’s no shortcut, no substitute for showing up, over and over, year after year, decade after decade. And doing it in a sustainable way.
Trento, Italy, November 2019.
“The fact is that relatively few photographers ever master their medium. Instead they allow the medium to master them and go on an endless squirrel cage chase from new lens to new paper to new developer to new gadget, never staying with one piece of equipment long enough to learn its full capacities, becoming lost in a maze of technical information that is of little or no use since they don't know what to do with it” — Edward Weston
I’ve talked about consistency many times on this blog.
We need to give our tools and style some time to mature, we need to give ourselves enough room to grow with our current tools. Don’t try to photograph everything, focus on a few things.
In 1977, on the sidewalk outside his loft on Twenty-third Street in Manhattan, the fifty-eight-year-old W. Eugene Smith watched from a wheelchair as some two dozen volunteers—mostly young photography students paying homage—loaded his life’s work into two shipping trucks.
When the shipment arrived in Tucson, it filled a high school gymnasium and spilled into outlying rooms.
Included in the shipment were three thousand matted and unmatted master prints; hundreds of thousands of meticulous 5 x 7 work prints; hundreds of thousands of negatives and contact sheets. There were hundreds of pocket spiral notebooks and thousands of 3 x 5 note cards with scribbled notes; maps and diagrams from all over the world; and hundreds of boxes of clipped magazine and newspaper articles. Smith wrote hundreds of fifteen-page single-spaced letters to family, friends, and people he barely knew, and he mimeographed copies before mailing them. There were dozens of cameras, various pieces of darkroom equipment, trash cans and boxes full of loose lens caps, rubber bands, and paper clips. Smith also had 25,000 vinyl records and 3,750 books.
[Smith’s] death certificate read “stroke” but, as was said of the immortal jazzman Charlie Parker, Smith died of “everything.” He was flat worn out. He’d given up. He left eighteen dollars in the bank, and forty-four thousand pounds of materials.
Gene Smith's Sink: A wide-angle view
I’ve long argued that you need to be obsessed if you want to become great at something. But Eugene Smith took this to extreme.
We have to commit to our art with either intensity or longevity. They are almost mutually exclusive, as ferocious intensity can’t be maintained for too long. Even if your mind can hold, your body will eventually fail, as happened to Smith. He died at 58, leaving many years of potential growth and work on the table.
Consistency and a healthier balance over a long period of time are usually the wiser choice.
Fuji is getting a lot of attention thanks to the recently announced GFX100RF. What caught my attention from that camera wasn’t the fixed-lens, the medium format sensor, or the $5,000 price tag. It was the new “aspect ratio dial”.
This seems to be part of a new trend with Fuji cameras. Just a few months earlier, the X-T50 was the first to introduce a dedicated “film simulation dial”.
I celebrate when a manufacturer tries something new, but I can’t help but wonder what these new dials might be revealing about the times we live in.
Are photographers nowadays switching aspect ratios and film simulations so often that they need a dial for quick access?
It feels like a reflection of the modern creative mindset: constantly changing things, never sticking with something long enough to master it. There’s always a new, shiny trick that promises to change the game. Except it never does.
I’m starting to feel old-school when I advocate for consistency: the value of committing to a tool, a format, or an aesthetic for some time.
If one photo is 3:2 and color while the next is 1:1 and black and white, our work might end up feeling cluttered and directionless. It’s not just about cohesion in a portfolio, it’s about developing a personal vision.
A style doesn’t emerge from constantly switching things. It comes from working within some boundaries, constraints that force us to solve problems through creativity, instead of avoiding them.
Experimentation is good. But there’s a difference between thoughtful evolution and constant indecision. Sometimes, we just need to commit to something.
After months of absence, the fog finally returned to San Francisco last night. One of my favorite subjects in these conditions is the Golden Gate bridge, especially after sunset when the lights glow through the mist. So of course, I grabbed my camera and headed that way.
Oh, how I missed it!
The combination of fog, lights, and the low hum of fog horns echoing through the bay create an atmosphere that gives me goosebumps.
Standing there in those conditions felt similar to last week’s snowstorm in Yosemite, or to the time when Arches National Park became an otherworldly landscape, or to the fairy tale place that is Fanal in the island of Madeira. Those are the times that I live for, the ones that make photography so rewarding.
I’ve photographed the bridge in the fog many times before, and hopefully, I’ll do it many more times. These images never get much traction or attention, but that doesn’t matter: I love making them, being there makes me feel alive, and when I look at them later, the feelings rush back.
I’ll never get tired of photographing scenes that make me feel something. We have to chase what moves us.
I’m currently reading a photography book where the author lists their settings for every image. Normally, I’m skeptical about sharing that information, but an educational book seems like the one place where it might be justified to do so.
Many photographers seem obsessed with this kind of technical data, though. Not just the settings used but camera, lens, film stock, developing recipe, even the paper used for the final print. It’s not uncommon to see this information attached to photographs on social media; and even worse, in photo books.
The usual argument made for this is that it helps others learn how the image was made. But what do we really gain from knowing that a heavily compressed Instagram photo of a distant mountain was taken at f/7.1 and 1/250s?
If we truly want to offer insight into how an image was made, there are far more useful details we could share instead: Where and when was the image taken? Do those conditions happen often, or was it a rare occurrence? Tell me more about the story behind the shot: Why did you go there? Did you hike for hours, or did you pull over on the side of the road? If it was a hike, was it easy, or hard? What about the crowds? Seeing the original, unedited RAW file alongside the final image would also provide far more value. And most importantly: how did you feel when you were shooting your subject?
If the goal is to teach and inspire, this kind of information is infinitely more valuable than a list of settings.
Don’t get me wrong: settings matter. But most photographs could have been taken with different settings and they’d still look nearly the same. Because what truly shapes an image isn’t the aperture or shutter speed--it’s the light, the conditions, and the story told in the frame.
So why do we fixate on the settings?
I think it comes down to photography’s eternal struggle to be seen as an art. Some photographers might believe that sharing technical choices makes their work look more intentional, more serious, especially to those who don’t even know what they mean. The settings are the “secret ingredients” that the artist came up with to make the final result possible.
But photography isn’t a recipe. Greatness isn’t defined by the choice of ISO or shutter speed. A great photographer is insanely curious about the world. They notice what others overlook. They recognize beauty in front of them and know how to translate it into an image. They anticipate a moment unfolding and are ready to capture it.
You can recognize a great photographer not by what they say about their camera gear or settings, but by the passion in their eyes when they talk about their subjects.
Whenever I have a composition I like framed in my camera, before pressing the shutter I like to either zoom out, or take a step back.
While you can always crop in post (especially with a high-resolution camera), you can never “zoom out” after the fact.
By shooting wider than I need, I give myself room to fine-tune the framing later. Sometimes, I realize the composition needs more negative space; other times, a slight shift left/right, or up/down, makes for a stronger image.
Whenever possible, give your future self some wiggle room to experiment in post. They’ll thank you.
A couple of blocks from where I live, there’s a van built for the outdoors: rugged tires, gas canisters, solar panels... the whole package. I’ve seen the interior a few times as well, and it looks extremely nice. Everything is shiny and brand new.
The van has been sitting on the street since I moved here a year ago.
I’m sure it still has things that need work, but at some point, “it’s not ready yet” becomes an excuse.
Surely, a rig like that would make my photography road trips easier and more comfortable. I can’t afford it, though, so I make it happen with a $45 mattress and a big battery. I spent three months sleeping in my car in Norway, two months in Scotland, and have taken countless trips across the U.S. with that setup. Yes, it is challenging, even miserable at times, but the inconveniences fade over time. What’s left are the memories... and the images.
When I fall into the trap of over-preparation, it’s usually in areas of my life I’m less excited about. Procrastination becomes a way to avoid doing something I don’t really want to do. It’s easy to convince myself that one more thing needs to be done before I start.
But we need to ask ourselves: do we actually want to do it, or do we just like the idea of becoming that person who does things like these?
If we spend more time shopping for hiking gear than looking at maps -and actually hiking-, maybe we don’t love this activity as much as we think. Perhaps we just like imagining ourselves as hikers.
If we spend more time reading about cameras and lenses than exploring or looking for new subjects, maybe we don’t love taking photos as much as we think. Perhaps we just like the idea of being photographers.
The best way to know what we truly want is to start. Start small, with whatever you have now. Build momentum. Buy new gear as you need it, when your current equipment is really holding you back. Only by taking action do we discover what truly drives us, rather than chasing what others say should.
I believe that trying to be original for the sake of it is counterproductive, and ultimately impossible. Instead of worrying about what others have or haven’t done, we should focus on being true to ourselves and photographing subjects that resonate with us. If that’s an iconic location, so be it. If it’s something no one else has photographed before, that’s great. Perhaps it's a combination of both.
Outdoor photography gets romanticized often, but the reality can be very harsh for most of us. A dream job is still a job, after all.
In this video, I talk about why I took the step of quitting my job and becoming a full-time photographer, how to make money with photography, and some practical tips.
With TikTok facing a potential ban and Instagram ruining profile grids, many creators are questioning if building a presence on social media is worth the effort, given the uncertainty of the medium.
I’ve always advocated for personal websites and blogs: a platform you can truly own, free from the whims of tech billionaires. At the same time, though, I don’t shy away from sharing my work on social media.
These days, a website feels like opening a studio in a quiet, rundown part of town, while everyone is hanging out at the mall. It is flashy, lively, and all the cool kids are there. They even offer us a little corner for free, so we can speak our truths to the whole world.
That’s until the mall starts charging a fee and diverting visitors to the business placing the highest bids. Over time, you also realize that even though you got to interact with a lot of visitors, most of those interactions were fleeting. You’ve never seen those people ever again.
Yet, among the noise, meaningful connections still happen every now and then at the mall. While I’ve connected with fellow photographers through my or their websites, most of my relationships with people in this field have come through social media.
This has never been a case of the website or social media, but about embracing both the website and social media. The most beautiful, personal website is useless if no one ever visits; and your social media presence relies on whatever happens to please the owner that day of the week.
There’s no ideal solution to the problem of reaching an audience in this noisy, loud world. I believe that embracing both worlds is the best we can do.
This is an excerpt from my eBook Creative B&W Editing in Lightroom:
"If you follow me on social media, you may have noticed that I add white borders to the images I share there. The idea behind these borders is to maintain a consistent perception of the images across various platforms and viewing conditions.
I have very little control over how my images are displayed on platforms I don’t own. With the relatively recent introduction of a dark mode (night mode) on mobile devices and apps, the same photograph can now be presented against a white background during the day and a dark one at night, effectively altering the perceived tonality of the image.
By adding borders to my photographs, I can have at least some control over how the viewers will perceive the tonality, regardless of how the platform decides to present my work.
On the platforms I fully control —and that is, my website—, I publish my images without borders while still ensuring a consistent experience."
--
Sadly, Instagram is rolling out a change to the way it displays profile grids, so I might have to tweak my approach a little. But this change further proves the importance of controlling how your imagery is presented.
I believe these little details matter a lot, as they can significantly change how a photograph is perceived.
I had heard nothing but praise about Dan Winters’ Road to Seeing. So I was very excited when the only copy at my local library became available.
It’s a beautifully crafted book--thick, heavy, gorgeous print, with of incredible photography, including Winters’ own work but also other renowned photographers. Anyone who bought it for the retail price of $50 when it came out definitely got their money’s worth. The book is no longer in print, and secondhand copies can sell for hundreds of dollars.
But what about that road to seeing?
I appreciate when a photographer shares their influences because it helps contextualize their work and their way of thinking. However, I feel like this takes too much space in the book, especially because it features work by well-known photographers like Henri Cartier-Bresson, W. Eugene Smith, or Robert Frank, hardly new to anyone with some knowledge of photography. The same applies to the section about the history of the medium.
The rest of the book is great, though. At times, the book reads like an autobiography, where Winters shares parts of his life at first seemingly unrelated to photography, but always connecting everything back to his growth as an artist. In my opinion, this explains much more about the photographer than a dull, boring explanation of composition and technical details.
A substantial part of the book is dedicated to his incredible portrait work. It’s always interesting to see how some of the most celebrated pictures came to be.
But my favorite sections of the book are those dedicated to his personal projects, from photographing bees to his son. They show how Winters has embraced the camera not just to create beautifully crafted portraits of celebrities, but also to document his personal life, what he was seeing at the moment, and make it all a work of art.
This is the big takeaway of the book, in my opinion. Even though there are some actionable strategies shared in these pages -photograph often, pay attention, don’t forget to live life-, Road to Seeing is not a field guide on how to make better photographs. Dan Winters shows us instead how he carved his own path, and he encourages us to do the same. That beyond the craft and all the technical considerations, the artist must be curious, persevere (even obsess), and explore.
Recommended read if you can find a copy at your local library. Otherwise, you might be able to buy an electronic version of it somewhere.
After years of sharing my work online -my images, my workflow, my opinions, my successes and my mistakes- it still surprises me that most of the little “hate” I’ve received has been about how I treat my cameras.
This happens less now that I’ve switched to digital -apparently, no one seems to care about the fate of a soulless Sony camera. But it was a different story when I used to shoot film with my beloved Bronica SQ-Ai. You’d think I was committing some kind of crime whenever I showed that camera getting rained on. I probably caused some panic attacks the day I dropped it on a sandy beach.
And because the work I created with that beauty is still out there, every once in a while I get another message along those lines.
Whenever I get one of these messages, I think of something I read a while ago about books, which I’ve adapted to cameras: “buying books and reading books are two completely different hobbies”.
There’s nothing wrong with appreciating and loving the design of a beautifully crafted camera, even if it only serves as decoration on a shelf. Just don’t expect everyone to feel the same way towards devices that were meant to take photos out in the field, in the real world.
I like to say that instead of photographing a location, I capture the conditions. That’s why I often don’t go somewhere, I go there when something is happening.
That was the case for my last trip to Lake Tahoe. I had been there a few years ago, and struggled with the image-making. I knew the place had potential; I just needed the conditions that work best for me.
Several days before the trip, I noticed the forecast: up to a foot of snow in the Tahoe area. I have some of my favorite spots in the weather app, so I’m almost constantly checking the conditions around me.
Of course, long-term forecasts can be little more than educated guesses, especially when it comes to predicting the weather up in the mountains. So, I waited until the last minute to book a room, once it was pretty clear the snow was coming.
Luckily, prices not only didn’t go up... they dropped. Mid-December is low season in Tahoe. It’s cold for swimming and hiking, but too early for skiing and the holidays. I find that when conditions are bad for crowds, they usually make for good photography… and for finding relatively affordable lodging.
I am so glad I gave Tahoe another chance. After all, there are no bad places to photograph, only bad conditions.
When we walk with a camera in hand, we tend to focus on what's in front of us, to the sides as we pass by, or up and down for the more observants among us. But rarely do we look back.
No matter which direction we’re walking, the light is always different behind us. Something we might have dismissed at first glance could reveal itself as extraordinary when viewed from the opposite angle.
Looking back isn’t an easy habit to develop, but it's one that will pay off.
You might be wondering if this will make our walks longer. Absolutely. Much longer. But that’s the point.
I recently finished reading “The Zen of Creativity” by the zen master and photographer John Daido Loori. This mix of skills gave me hope the book would offer a new and fresh perspective.
The book does indeed give valuable insights into applying some of the Zen art principles to photography and other creative areas.
Here are the main takeaways I got from it:
Embrace a mindset free from preconceived ideas and expectations. In photography, this might mean taking the time to fully observe familiar subjects. Also, visit locations or subjects that you haven’t seen before, with no prior knowledge about them, or exposure to another photographer’s work of them.
The goal is to achieve a state of awareness devoid of distractions --achieved through meditation and consistent practice. I believe this is a very important aspect when it comes to photography, and that’s why I often emphasize the importance of practice. The more familiar we become with our equipment, the less it gets in the way, letting us to focus on what’s in front of the camera and on what we want to say.
Be mindful of what our senses, beyond vision, perceive and how we can communicate that through our photography. Evoking emotional responses in the viewer should be our primary objective. Even not on the book, I’d also like to point out here that those senses can trick us into believing our images are better than they really are. As photographers, we have a context the viewer does not have, and if the photographs are not strong enough to convey what’s necessary, then they’ll only speak to us.
Lastly, Loori emphasizes the significance of feedback. Not on technical aspects, but on the emotional impact our work has on the audience. He believes that most artists develop their career without truly knowing what their work means for their audience, if anything. They know what the art critics say, and whether the work is commercially successful or not. But beyond that, they are blind.
I go into much more detail on this book on my Patreon page.
I didn't follow the rules I've set up for myself... and I missed a couple of good shots.
For the past five years, I’ve been using high-resolution full-frame cameras for my photography -- starting with the A7Rii, and now the A7Riv. This choice might seem surprising, especially given the type of images I create.
The reason is very simple: cropping.
I crop every single photograph I take, even when I get the perfect framing in-camera. Creating square images means I “discard” a third of the pixels, every single time.
A7Riv’s 61MP let me crop even further, and I often do. Switching to APS-C mode gives that extra reach I sometimes need, effectively turning my 28-200mm superzoom into a 28-300mm, while still producing large, detailed files.
In fact, in APS-C mode, the A7Riv matches the 26MP of a dedicated crop-sensor camera like the a6700. This means I can mount a lens like the 70-350mm and get an equivalent 525mm focal length in a compact setup -- much smaller than the full-frame counterparts. Or mount a prime like the 35mm 1.4 and "switch" to 50mm with the press of a button.
So, it’s not about having 61MP images; I couldn’t care less about that. It's about the flexibility those megapixels give me: I don't have to carry as much gear; or I can shoot in bad weather and not have to worry about switching lenses to get the focal length I need. I like camera gear that gets out of the way, because I can focus on what really matters: subject and composition.
