journal
I've used all kind of cameras over the years, from medium format film monsters to smartphones. All of them taught some valuable lessons about this art, but the camera that changed my photography forever was a tiny compact one. I lost it years ago on a beach in Oregon, but now, we are reunited again!
This photo by photojournalist Evan Vucci is already an iconic image of our times. The amazing Imitative Photography YouTube channel has a great video showing how that photograph was made - a rare example of how great photography is done.
And yet, some still miss the point. “Right aperture / exposure / iso”, “there’s nothing special about being on this spot, they literally were right there” are some of the comments. Go figure.
Now, I have no idea what the exact settings were. Evan had much more important things to focus on, so it is likely that they were already dialed in for the conditions, or that he was shooting in some semi-automatic mode. In any case, he could've missed on some of those settings and the image would've still been as iconic as it finally turned out to be.
Indeed, the image is iconic not because it's perfectly exposed, it has no noise, or because the color balance is accurate. No, it's all about the story it tells. And making it might look easy, but it was anything but that.
What those commenters are missing is that the image was made because of Evan’s vision, who was able to anticipate what was going to happen next by moving to the right spots; the big balls it takes to point a camera at a presidential candidate when armed forces are looking for a shooter (who you don’t even know if is still active!); the experience it takes to frame your subject perfectly in a chaotic environment without thinking much about it; and the practice it requires to know how to use your camera as fast as Evan did, literally an extension of his body.
When something looks easy but yet only a few manage to do it, you know they are some of the best at what they do. Of course, there’s nothing especial to that shot, provided you are at the right spot, at the right time, ready and with the skills and experience required to make it happen. Other than that, nothing to see here.
I see coyotes very often during my morning walks. Some are shy, some let you get relatively close. This one was too busy looking for breakfast to mind my presence, so I was able to get quite near.
After taking dozens of shots, I witnessed something I’d never seen before: the coyote found a decently sized gopher and proceeded to eat it right in front of me.
This is why I love photography and getting out with a camera in hand. You just never know what you are going to find.
The feeling is always there, some days I’m barely aware of it; other days, it almost hurts: the desire to hit the road again. And yet, there’s no place I’d rather be than San Francisco right now.
It feels strange. I haven’t been in a situation like this in years. My “normal” is to be always on the move, nowhere for too long. But I keep scanning the map and I find nothing: there’s nowhere I want to go*.
The summer doesn’t inspire me. The bright sun and the heat make me feel miserable most of the time. I much prefer those gray cloudy days, slow rainy afternoons, and the magical foggy mornings. And of those mornings, I’m getting plenty here.
I spent the last two summers in Norway and Scotland, grayscale times I cherish now. I want that, I need that. So I’m learning to work on the same spots over and over, trying to find what I failed to see before. And while my desire to go somewhere is still there, I’m starting to love it. A project is building up here, I think. We shall see.
Come around September, though, I’ll be more than ready to hit that open road again. Where to, it doesn’t matter.
* By car, that is. I guess I could always take a flight to somewhere exotic on the other side of the world, but you know, I can’t afford that.
In a world that is constantly trying to sell us shortcuts and workarounds, it's important to realize that the road to great photography is rather unassuming and kind of boring. It is the accumulation of great work made over the years with hard work that we can start building a body of work. It is a very simple path, but not easy to follow.
In order to make great photographs, we need to know what makes them great in the first place. Developing a photographic taste is crucial, both internal (our own taste) and external (the objective truths of the medium).
In this video, we dive deep into this topic and talk about how we can get better as photographers by improving our taste.
As someone who hates the heat, and being surrounded by it, I have no option but to stay in the city for the time being. Not a problem, though, as I often get amazing conditions for photography right on my doorstep.
They say we "stand on the shoulders of giants": those have come before us paved the way, and so many people are carving new paths in the world of the photography today. There's a lot of amazing work out there.
This is how I find outstanding work, and how I collect it to inspire me in my own photography.
A lovely morning of photography near my new neighborhood in San Francisco.
I don’t believe in location scouting when it comes to landscape and fine art photography.
It’s not that I don’t find value in exploring a place before a planned shoot; it’s just that I don’t do it with the only purpose of “gathering information”, as it’s usually understood.
There’s only a first time for everything: you’ll only see a place with completely fresh eyes once. The second time you visit a location, you’ve already built some preconceived ideas about it. Over time, we may only be able to see a very limited amount of images in that location.
It is during that first time that our minds are most open. If we have a camera with us, we can play and experiment more freely; if we leave it at home, we prevent ourselves from even trying.
Deciding beforehand what the “right” and “wrong” time might be for a location we don’t even know can be a costly mistake.
After years of living semi-nomadically, we've finally settled somewhere. For a little white, at least. It all started with a total solar eclipse...
I used to think that good photographers consistently take great photographs, and only rarely they make something subpar. Surely, their “keeper rate” was much better than mine.
This was one of the most harmful beliefs I held when I was taking my first steps in photography. Because when you don’t allow yourself to fail, you play it safe; and when you play it safe, there’s no growth.
Making a bad photograph is not the risk: the lack of experimentation and play is the real danger.
Last stop in my spring road trip across the American West: the breathtaking Great Sand Dunes National Park, in Colorado. I only had a full day there, but so many things to capture and enjoy. From the howling coyotes that woke me up in the middle of the night under a full moon, to the relentless wind and menacing thunderstorms, this place is always a challenge. Which makes the images you make there the more rewarding.
How rude of me. I broke the news on my Patreon page but I totally forgot to announce it here.
Anyway, here it goes: after years of a semi-nomadic life, I finally find myself in a place I can call home. That place is San Francisco, where I expect to be for the next 1-2 years.
I’ve been doing tons of exploring in the last few weeks, most of it on foot. We chose the Outer Richmond neighborhood, and what a good call that was! I still can’t believe I’m just minutes away from so many incredible spots, all of them accessible without needing to drive.
But the weather hadn’t been the best. I was promised fog and chilly temperatures, and all I got for the first month was sun and warmth. Which is fine... but you know I love a little bit of weather when it comes to my photography.
So, even though I did make a few photographs here and there during the last few weeks, it was this past weekend when I was finally able to glimpse the magic this place has to offer.
On Friday morning, I woke up to foghorns for the first time. A very eerie sound coming from the Golden Gate bridge, aiding the travel of the many vessels that go under the red structure every day and night. And now, aiding me as well: they are the sound of the fog, the sound of something magical happening just outside of my apartment.
I made dozens of photos on Friday and Saturday, but there was one particular moment that will stick with me for a very long time.
This may be a very common occurrence here in San Francisco, but it’s not every day that I see a coyote casually walking through a golf course on a foggy and peaceful morning.
There is no way I’d be out there if it wasn’t for photography. Once more, the pursuit of making good images had put me in front of something that reminded me more of a dream than real life.
It was my first glimpse of magic since I moved here. I hope to get many more in the months (and maybe years) ahead, here in beautiful San Francisco.
Less than ideal weather and some upcoming major changes in our lives led me to cut my road trip short and head back home, in the Midwest. However, the gods of photography had a very different idea in mind for me. A series of circumstances led me to Moab, Utah, where I found the best conditions (and images) of the whole trip so far.
A few years ago, I discovered an art form that transformed my approach to photography: sumi-e, or the art of Japanese Ink Painting. This ancient art taught me to capture the world in a simpler, yet more powerful way. By studying sumi-e paintings, I learned to harness the power of suggestion and simplification in my own work, inviting viewers to engage and connect on a deeper level.
This sight may fade away from your memory over time, but you will never forget the way witnessing it made you feel.
Indiana, April 2024.
Weather and chance lead me to Central Oregon, the next destination on my road trip across the American West. But this leg of the journey wasn't going to be as smooth as I was hoping for.
There, far away from everything and everyone, I fight the elements and an even more powerful enemy: my inner demons. I doubt myself, my photography, and even my purpose. An accident that resulted in a broken lens didn't make things any better; neither did a very cluttered mind after spending several days trapped inside the car.
The isolation of the desert was another unpleasant layer, but as the days went by, and with no other option but to embrace it, it became exactly the medicine I needed. It was the gift of the desert.
After years of doing this, one thing is pretty clear to me: more gear, more problems. A lesson I should’ve learned a long time ago, and yet, here we are.
During my most recent road trip across the US, despite lugging around 8-9 lenses, I did most of my photography and video work with just 2 of them. Add a couple of primes and the telephoto for those rare images that needed them, and the math tells me I’ve got 4-5 too many lenses.
But it gets worse, because of all the accessories and other gadgets cluttering up my bag: from the neglected 360 camera to the wireless mic that my phone could easily replace. It’s all excess baggage.
So, it’s time for a spring cleaning. I went through my bag (and closet) and decided to part ways with a bunch of stuff. Letting go is the easy part, though. The real challenge will be to resist the temptation to fill those now-empty spaces back up with new and shiny objects. To stay light.
Because out there, when the hike gets tough, when the weather takes a turn for the worse, when you are tired and exhausted after hours of chasing the shot... less is more. Always.
I’ve talked about the scars of war before. How cameras and lenses are meant to be used rather than left on a shelf.
This belief of mine was put to the test during my latest road trip across the West. I got snow, heavy rain, intense winds, and storms. I shot along the coast, in the rainforest, in the high desert, amidst the red landscapes of Utah, and on sand dunes. It was exhilarating at times, frustrating at others.
Twice, I dropped my cameras.
The first incident happened at the Painted Hills in Oregon. My video camera (a7iv) took a bad fall while I was recording myself on a windy late afternoon. I was rushing everything and failed to properly secure the tripod.
My heart skipped a few beats when I turned around and saw the destruction. I feared I’d lost the camera. Fortunately, it was “just” the 17-28mm lens that broke on the mount.
Now, that lens lives in my a7iv as I use it all the time for my videos. So hastily, I purchased another copy (a used one) on eBay. It turns out that was another bad, rushed decision on my part. Because once I got home a few days later, I managed to put the “broken” lens back together, and it seems to work just fine! So now, I own two 17-28mm lenses.
That wasn’t the end of my gear related accidents, though. A couple of weeks later, in the Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado, I dropped my stills camera in the sand.
This was a rare accident. I don’t remember what I was doing with my video camera, but I thought that holding the a7riv between my legs was a good idea. I often do it without any trouble. However, this was a very, very windy day. I lost a bit of balance at some point and I instinctively tried to correct myself by shifting one of my legs, which made the camera fall into the sand. Thankfully, these cameras are well sealed and nothing bad happened. I cleaned it with the air blower, and that was it.
We are all one road trip older now -- my cameras and I. They bear new scars, and I probably grew some new gray hairs. We stumbled, we fell, but we stood back up. We are prepared for the next adventure. Unsure if any wiser than before, but certainly still strong enough.
