The most delightful moment for a photographer is when you put on a serious face, pretending to be a veteran shooter, and the other person knows you’re just playing the part of a master but doesn’t call you out. But it’s not just photography—how many serious things in life start with stumbling steps and a bit of posturing? That’s what makes street photography so captivating. It’s got a touch of missed focus, a dash of haste, and a sprinkle of solemnity, all coming together to make everything suddenly, beautifully alive.
In a childhood classroom, the teacher asked us, “What’s your favorite color?” It was the first time I’d heard such a question, and I was puzzled. Why would grown-ups care to differentiate colors? In a daze, I picked yellow, but later, as I mulled it over, I realized I didn’t dislike any color. Perhaps that’s how the habit of comparison begins—unintentionally sparked in moments like these.
Now, driven by material desires, I find myself comparing this lens to that camera, testing and reviewing endlessly. It’s overwhelming, cluttered, and exhausting. But I’ve come to believe every piece of gear has its own value. When we let go of comparisons and return to a childlike curiosity, photography becomes pure joy—like being a kid again.
The quest for the perfect lens—and the peace of mind that comes with using it—seems to be the ultimate goal for many gear enthusiasts. Yet, before that goal is even reached, the habit of acquiring new equipment often takes hold. There’s always a lingering feeling that the lens you don’t yet own might just be the flawless one you’ve been dreaming of.
Each brand’s lenses tend to share a consistent character, shaped by its design philosophy and principles. Buying multiple lenses from the same brand often means reinforcing a specific strength or compromising on a particular weakness. One lens might lean slightly more toward one advantage, another slightly less, but the core differences are usually minimal.
However, one key distinction stands out: lenses within the same brand often have different optimal shooting distances and ideal apertures. Instead of chasing the next purchase, consider mastering the lenses you already own. Discover their strengths and find their sweet spot—the distance where they truly shine. Let them serve your photography. That’s where the real joy of gear comes in, not in comparing which lens is sharper or which one handles bokeh better.
Canon 5d calssic with Leica R35mm f2.8 v1Canon 5d calssic with Leica R35mm f2.8 v1Canon 5d calssic with Leica R35mm f2.8 v1
What heaven doesn’t grant me, no matter how tightly I clasp with all ten fingers, will still slip away; what it gives me, I need only press a button with one finger to possess. This is photography.
Sharp photos are great—like classical music, they demand more attention, objectivity, and a discerning audience. Blurred photos, on the other hand, are like pop music: casual, subjective, and effortlessly appealing to the masses. I embrace both styles. Especially in this scorching summer heat, a bit of blur mimics the shimmering haze, amplifying that sizzling seasonal vibe.
I don’t like composition. I’ve been deeply afflicted by the rule of thirds—I always instinctively place the subject at the one-third point. But, admittedly, it doesn’t look bad… It seems that even though I want to be different, not all rules need to be broken.
Street photography is about linking the unrelated, or connecting the related. When they come together, I know the photo has bridged the gap—bringing you, in front of the screen, into my world.
Some critics claim street photography is outdated—”overdone,” “irrelevant,” and “just a shrine to dusty legends.” They dismiss HCB as a privileged dilettante, reduce Frank to a “hipster cliché,” and sneer: “Why buy photo books? Scroll online!”
But Time Doesn’t Exist, Does It? By their logic, history itself is obsolete—a moldy artifact unworthy of study. Yet to me, the “old” ways of seeing feel endlessly fresh. What’s so groundbreaking about the critics’ beloved “contemporary” or “avant-garde” photography? If anything, their worship of novelty reeks of insecurity. You mock my reverence for classics? I’ll laugh at your cult of ignorance.
Street Photography Isn’t Performance Art Flipping through a photo book—the texture of pages, the thrill of stumbling upon a frame that electrifies your nerves—is a ritual as intimate as losing yourself in a favorite song. It’s not about dissecting techniques or flexing intellectual muscles. If critics mistake this joy for pretentiousness, maybe they’ve forgotten what raw connection feels like. Sure, performance gets stale—it craves shock value. But street photography? It’s never been about the show.
Street Photography Is Photographic History A great street photo acts like a visual time capsule. It jolts you into pondering humanity’s quirks—the fleeting fashions, the quiet rebellions, the collective anxieties baked into an era. Take masks post-2020: imagine a kid in 2077 staring at these images, bewildered by our faces half-hidden. That’s the magic.
Street photography doesn’t just document life—it smuggles questions across generations. And if that’s “outdated,” then let’s stay gloriously behind the times.
I walked alone with my Minolta 100mm-200mm f4.5, the kind of lens that feels like an old friend—light, unassuming, yet always ready to show me something new. The sky was a deep, unblemished blue, the kind of blue that makes you think of forgotten jazz records spinning in a quiet room. I looked up, as I often do, and there it was: an airplane slicing through the emptiness, leaving two white contrails behind, like the faint traces of a memory I couldn’t quite place. Not far off, a flock of birds circled in the high air, their wings catching the light in a way that felt almost deliberate, as if they were writing a message I’d never decipher. I stood there, the shutter clicking softly, feeling the weight of the moment settle into me—a strange, gentle happiness, like the last note of a song fading into silence.
