Particular not precious

During the first few weeks of the pandemic I would walk for hours listening to books with my camera on my shoulder. I would take pictures of masks hanging off rearview mirrors and signs in windows thanking first responders.

I was using a camera that was, for all intents and purposes, not the right tool for the job. A small brass film camera produced around the year I was born and I loved every photograph I took.

Flashback five years, I worked in marketing and had every gadget imaginable. I started with cameras that they recommend for high schoolers exploring photography, and graduated to the monster-truck-robot-cameras they use for mainstream advertising campaigns because I thought it was validating and necessary.

I took it all so seriously, which lead to my diagnosis of an extreme case of GAS (gear acquisition syndrome).

After a few years of building measurable momentum as a photographer I decided to stop accepting commercial work. I wasn’t taking pictures for myself anymore, a lesson I’ve learned twice now, and more on that in another journal. Satirical as the diagnosis was, it helped me reframe why I took photos in the first place.

I sold all my gear and got an old film camera, yes the one from earlier, to use for only the photos that I wanted to take. It was fancy and awesome and I loved it. Was it overkill? Yep. Did it make me happy? Yep.

A younger version of me fell into the game of trying to keep up with gear and equipment, but through that experience I learned a valuable lesson:

You can be particular, without being precious.

I had spent years thinking that gear validated status, and that I needed it to look the part or be taken seriously. The pampering and attention I gave to my equipment and aesthetic was time I wasn’t spending on the craft or the intention behind a creative project.

I’m exploring commercial projects now but with a new perspective. The equipment does not validate the experience, but as I learned with my film camera, it can enhance it. Wisdom courtesy of time refines the distinction between tool and trophy. I am able to discern what drives progress and expansion, and what’s a distraction fueled by a marketing campaign.

I now work with one camera and one lens as much as possible. The equipment and how you treat it does not validate the work, the intention you carry with does.