Taking Photographs

Or why I have been taking less of them

In my early teens, I dreamt of becoming a photographer.

I had a cherished DSLR camera, handed down to me, and would spend hours being an artist—often roping in my brother to model for my photos.

I was convinced I’d turn this passion into a profession. I was convinced of a future where I’d live off film photography and pursue an artistic life. The streets of New York seemed to be calling my name. I even applied to art school. Somehow, I ended up in law school.

Still, I carried some of that photographic inclination with me to university, this time focusing on preserving memories (see earlier musings on this). I wanted to capture my university years as vividly as possible, knowing one day my mind might fade. So, I bought a second-hand Sony camera and started documenting everything—from social events to the quiet, mundane moments of daily life.

I felt strongly about not using my phone to take pictures. Even though modern phones often have on par, or in my case, superior camera capabilities, there’s something about using a dedicated camera that feels more intentional. It’s as if I’m saying, this moment is worth remembering, and I want to honour it with just a camera.

Photos taken on a phone often feel fleeting, easily forgotten in the endless scroll. But using a camera makes the act of capturing feel deliberate, like the memory carries more weight.

And so I did, I captured lots of photos! Sometimes I’d point it at the pleasant skies.

Sometimes I’d point at my own face.

Sometimes I captured the people I love.

These days though, I don’t take many photos. For one, my old camera is starting to show its age. I haven’t treated it particularly well—the LCD screen is cracked, the lens cover doesn’t open fully (which often leaves me smudging it with fingerprints), and I have taken full creative liberty by trying very hard to remove any branding.

I don’t feel particularly inclined to buy another camera. There is something satisfying about making do with what you have.

When I was younger, I dreamt of owning the best cameras. I’d watch photographers compare models and imagine myself with a top-of-the-line Canon or a sleek mirrorless camera. But I’ve come to realise that having better gear doesn’t make you a better photographer.

The second reason is that I’ve become more self-conscious about taking pictures. I feel a real resistance to asking people if it’s okay to take their photo. I want my photos to feel candid and natural—I want to capture the moment without interrupting it. But I also know it’s important to get everyone’s consent first, which creates a tricky balance. When I ask, people often end up posing, and that’s precisely what I’m trying to avoid!

I think lot of this is in my head. Most people are perfectly fine with me taking pictures, and I could always state before an event is happening that I will take photos and if anyone is uncomfortable with it they can let me know.

I also deleted Instagram forever! I really liked that people could get snippets of my life, but all of those snippets were happy, never of the sadness and grief that life faces. I would post pictures there and was in some ways motivated to take pictures because I knew my friends would see I was having a good time. This is not a motivation I want for taking photos.

Carrying a separate camera around is not the most convenient thing and my attention span can forget to bring it along when things are happening. But I hope to restart this passion, and in writing this I’ve reminded myself why I love taking photos. It captures life, and that is what I love doing!