Tag: Digital Photography

Reconnecting with the creative process, featuring the Apexel ATL T5-10x telephoto smartphone lens

Posted on Posted in Can You Make Art with It?, Digital Photography, lens review, Media, Phone Photography, Photography, Printing, Travel, Uncategorized, Wildlife PhotographyTagged , , , , , Leave a comment

Photography for Me, Not for Everyone Else

Just as well we have photography and video to memorialise our lives and leave a trace like digital skidmarks over human history. I’m not getting maudlin here, but I’ve been thinking about what photography will mean to me when I’m old. For some photographers, it’s about making art that is unique, groundbreaking and capable of saying something about the human condition that has never been uttered before. For me, though, I suspect I’ll be much more interested in opening an old album and looking at imperfect renderings of perfect personal memories.

That got me thinking about how I could get back to the roots of photography and make images for myself rather than for an imaginary audience. How could I create photographs that invoke the feelings of a particular time and place instead of becoming carefully polished artefacts designed to impress somebody else? The answer, I think, is to embrace imperfection rather than constantly striving to eliminate it.

A recent family trip to Sydney and southern New South Wales became an opportunity to experiment with exactly that idea. It was a low-key holiday, so I decided it deserved some low-key photography. I ended up approaching the whole thing through three pillars: printing, analogue journalling and using deliberately compromised equipment.

Printing Memories Instead of Leaving Them on a Hard Drive

The first of these is printing. How many of us actually go through our Lightroom catalogues years later and relive our experiences? I’ve had access to an A2 printer at work and occasionally printed photographs, usually putting them into cheap frames. Part of the problem is that the frames themselves can be rather underwhelming, but there’s also a lingering feeling that my photographs simply aren’t important enough to deserve that much wall space.

More recently, I’ve started thinking about printing in a smaller and more thematic way. I printed a series of Tokyo photographs that concentrated on little details around Shibuya rather than trying to capture the whole city. There’s something satisfying about taking something enormous and making it small enough to hold in your hands.

That eventually led me to a Kodak Mini Shot 2 Retro. It’s a camera, but it’s also a printer, which makes it particularly appealing for this sort of project. I bought mine second-hand because apparently I can’t resist buying photography equipment, but the real attraction is the ability to print photographs almost instantly. I also had a batch of 6×4 prints made at Officeworks, which is the Australian equivalent of Walmart for office supplies, and while they use inkjet rather than wet-lab technology, they’re inexpensive and perfectly adequate for this kind of memory-making.

A Cheap Phone Lens and a Very Bad Drawing

The second pillar was analogue journalling, which turned out to be considerably more frightening than I expected. My wife enjoys sketching and writing, so I thought it would be nice to document the NSW trip together on actual paper. Unfortunately, I can’t draw. My hands have the fine motor skills of a camel hoof, and that’s before we consider the neural spaghetti connecting my eyes to my fingers.

Still, that’s rather the point. This project isn’t about producing beautiful drawings. It’s about engaging with the process and accepting that the result might be terrible. There’s something strangely liberating about deliberately removing the expectation that everything needs to be good.

The third pillar was a tiny piece of equipment that actually prompted this whole experiment: the Apexel APL-T5-10X Variable Telephoto Lens. Apexel sent it to me free of charge and I get to keep it, but there were no conditions attached and my opinion remains entirely my own. The lens is designed to turn your phone into something resembling a 150–300mm telephoto camera, which sounds suspiciously ambitious for something that fits in your pocket.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t feel cheap. It’s a substantial little object with a nicely knurled metal exterior, glass elements and a multi-coated optical system. It weighs around 171 grams and has damped zoom and focus rings with a reasonably long throw. The phone adapter is also much more robust than the usual dog-clip contraptions I’ve encountered with smartphone accessories.

The results, naturally, aren’t going to challenge my full-frame Nikon or even my Micro Four Thirds cameras. There’s some softness, highlights can become a little bloomy and you have to contend with camera shake and a surprisingly narrow plane of focus. But when it gets things right, the images are actually pretty good, especially considering what this thing is. You certainly won’t be making enormous A2 prints from it, but for small prints or a journal, it works remarkably well.

Why Imperfection Might Actually Be the Point

Using the lens around wetlands was fun, although I quickly discovered that phones don’t particularly enjoy shooting telephoto video. A tripod helps, as does using the right camera on the phone, and there can be some circular vignetting if you attach the lens to a wide-angle camera. These are compromises, but that’s exactly what this project was about.

Back in Perth, I continued the journal, adding photographs and attempting to draw a bird that somehow transformed into what looked like a Liverbird on crack. It was not my finest artistic achievement, but it was mine. The important thing was that these imperfect tools forced me to slow down and actually consider what I was doing.

That might be the biggest benefit of all. The Kodak printer, the Apexel lens, the pen and the paper are all relatively cheap and accessible, but they also introduce friction into the creative process. You have to think, plan and physically engage with what you’re making. A blank page is intimidating, but somehow it becomes less intimidating when you give yourself permission to make something bad.

I’ve realised that reconnecting with analogue processes has made me feel creatively engaged in a way I wasn’t expecting. Perfection is highly overrated. The world is already full of perfectly manufactured objects and clinically perfect images that can sometimes feel more like products of mass production than things made by an individual.

When I travel, I’d much rather eat a home-cooked meal than a Michelin-starred dish, and believe me, when I cook, perfection is not exactly on the menu. But something made with love and consideration carries memories and feelings that have value far beyond any objective measurement.

That’s probably what I want from my photography too. I might not draw in this journal every day, and I may never become remotely competent at sketching, but when I return to it years from now, I’ll remember the trip. The crooked drawings, cheap prints and imperfect photographs will probably mean more to me than the technically flawless images ever could.

In a strange way, this also connects back to YouTube. Taking photographs, curating them and turning them into a story helps me relive my experiences, while sharing them allows those memories to become something communal. I’ve been thinking about doing something similar with my accumulated photographs from Japan, perhaps turning them into a book or zine around ideas such as wabi-sabi—finding beauty in imperfection—and ikigai, engaging with activities for their intrinsic pleasure.

Perhaps that’s where this whole experiment is heading. Maybe it’s a little bit of Shu-Ha-Ri: learning the basics, absorbing the experience and eventually finding your own creative trajectory. For me, at least, that trajectory seems to involve fewer demands for perfection, more tangible creativity and, most importantly, enjoying the process along the way.

Revisiting Sweden after 12 Years. Have I Become a Better Photographer?

Posted on Posted in Digital Photography, Photographic Editing, Photography, Photography Review, Street Photography, TravelTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Twelve years is a surprisingly long time. When I first visited Stockholm in 2013, my children were younger, my hair contained considerably less grey, and I approached photography with the kind of wide-eyed enthusiasm that only comes from exploring somewhere completely new. Returning for a brief 24-hour visit felt like stepping into a time machine—not just to revisit Sweden, but to confront an awkward question I’d been quietly avoiding: after more than a decade behind the camera, have I actually become a better photographer?

It’s the sort of question that’s difficult to answer objectively. Experience should bring improvement, but creativity doesn’t always follow a neat upward trajectory. As I wandered through the cobbled streets of Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s wonderfully preserved old town, I couldn’t help wondering whether my photography had continued to evolve or whether I’d simply become older, more cautious, and perhaps a little too comfortable with my own habits.

Getting Lost, Finding Perspective

My journey began in appropriately chaotic fashion when I managed to board a train in completely the wrong direction. While I’d love to pretend this was some profound metaphor about life and artistic growth, it really was nothing more than another demonstration of my famously terrible sense of direction. Fortunately, even mistakes can become opportunities, and the unexpected detour delivered a train station that looked like an 8-bit video game, complete with geometric tiles and an almost surreal atmosphere.

Eventually I escaped my accidental journey into Tron and arrived in Gamla Stan. Emerging from the station felt like walking straight into the 14th century, albeit one populated by tourists armed with smartphones and takeaway coffee. Stockholm itself hadn’t changed dramatically over the years, but my relationship with photographing it certainly had.

Looking back at my original visit revealed just how much both photography and technology have evolved. In 2013 my camera of choice was the humble Lumix GF1, a Micro Four Thirds camera whose autofocus could generously be described as leisurely. Today I shoot with a Nikon Z6 paired with a versatile 24-200mm lens, giving me vastly superior image quality and low-light performance, even if the autofocus still occasionally reminds me not to become too complacent.

Ironically, despite carrying far more capable equipment today, I’ve also embraced older photographic practices. My favourite camera doesn’t even shoot video or include a built-in light meter. In some ways, my technical journey has become less about chasing newer features and more about rediscovering slower, simpler ways of working.

Escaping the HDR Era

Perhaps the biggest difference between my old work and my current photography lies in the editing. Revisiting my 2013 images was a sobering reminder that I, like so many photographers of the era, was hopelessly addicted to HDR. Every image seemed determined to display every possible shadow, highlight and colour simultaneously, often resulting in pictures that looked less like reality and more like someone had dropped a rainbow into a blender.

To be fair, cameras at the time genuinely struggled with dynamic range, and HDR techniques often solved real technical limitations. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, subtlety was abandoned in favour of aggressively saturated skies, exaggerated textures and every filter available in software like Photomatix and the Nik Collection. If the software offered a dramatic effect, I was almost certainly going to apply it.

Thankfully, both technology and my own tastes have matured. Modern full-frame sensors capture an astonishing amount of information without elaborate processing, meaning there’s far less need to rescue an image in post-production. More importantly, I’ve come to appreciate restraint. Rather than chasing dramatic effects, I now find myself drawn to quieter, more natural edits with a gentle, almost Kodachrome-inspired warmth that allows the subject to speak for itself.

What Has Stayed the Same?

Not everything has changed, however. Looking through my old photographs revealed several themes that have remained remarkably consistent throughout my photographic life. I’ve always been fascinated by geometry, architecture and the patterns created by the built environment. Whether it’s staircases, railway stations or the narrow streets of an old city, strong shapes continue to draw my attention.

I’ve also always enjoyed finding humour and unexpected visual juxtapositions. Some of my favourite images are those that invite viewers to pause for a second and ask themselves exactly what’s happening. Street photography rarely hands you those moments on a plate, but they’re immensely satisfying when everything aligns.

One area where I have changed significantly is my attitude towards obvious tourist photographs. Twelve years ago, photographing famous viewpoints felt fresh and exciting. Today those same locations have been documented millions of times across social media, making it increasingly difficult to create something that feels original. It’s not that these places have become less beautiful—they’ve simply become visually familiar.

That realisation has encouraged me to search for smaller stories instead of iconic postcards. Rather than collecting landmarks, I’m more interested in collecting moments.

Growing as a Photographer—and as a Person

Comparing six photographs from my recent visit with those from 2013 produced an unexpected conclusion. Technically, my modern images are undoubtedly stronger. The compositions are cleaner, the editing is more restrained and there’s a greater consistency throughout the collection. Yet I can’t completely dismiss the older photographs.

There was an exuberance to my earlier work that I sometimes miss. I experimented more freely with unusual angles, slower shutter speeds and motion blur, unconcerned about whether everything fitted neatly into a recognisable personal style. Perhaps experience has improved my judgment, but maybe it has also made me a little more cautious.

One change genuinely stands out, though. My newer photographs contain more people, and those people feel less like decorative elements placed within an architectural composition. Increasingly, they have become the subject rather than simply part of the scenery. Their expressions, gestures and interactions bring warmth and humanity that my earlier work often lacked.

Photography has always acted as both a shield and a bridge for me. A camera creates distance, offering a comfortable excuse to observe the world without fully participating in it. At the same time, it can become a surprisingly effective way of connecting with people and making sense of the wonderfully awkward complexity of human interaction.

Perhaps that’s the real evolution after all. Maybe becoming a better photographer isn’t simply about mastering composition or choosing more tasteful editing techniques. Maybe it’s about gradually becoming more curious, more empathetic and more willing to see the people behind the photographs.

Of course, it’s entirely possible that in another twelve years I’ll look back at my 2025 images and cringe just as enthusiastically as I now do at my HDR experiments. If that happens, perhaps it will simply be proof that the journey is still continuing—and that’s probably exactly how it should be.