Grain in the wrong places: how I lost my eye trying to match someone else’s

I’m not a people person. Not really.

Which makes it a bit ironic that my camera keeps finding them.

Most of my photos are of people.

Portraits. Faces. Small moments that say more than words ever could.

That’s what I understand. That’s what I’m drawn to.

Telling stories through the people of the world.

Travel made that easier and harder at the same time.

Easier, because suddenly there were stories everywhere. New faces, new lives, new moments unfolding right in front of me.

Harder, because those stories didn’t belong to me.

You don’t know these people. You don’t know their boundaries. And walking up to a stranger, asking to capture something raw and real. It feels like crossing a line you’re not sure you’re allowed to cross.

And if I do ask… the moment changes.

It becomes posed. Filtered. A version of itself.

So I was left with two options:

Take the photo quietly… or not take it at all.

Most of the time, I chose not to.

And maybe that’s where it started,

because while I wasn’t taking the photos I wanted to take…

I started trying to take the ones I thought I should take.

Somewhere along the way, Andrew changed things.

He has this incredible talent for wildlife. Birds especially. The kind of patience and instinct you can’t really teach.

At first, I wanted to catch up. To meet him there.

To be just as good, but in his world.

But the truth is… I can’t.

And not because I’m not trying hard enough.

But because it’s not mine.

Andrew shoots on a Sony A7IV. Full frame. Sharp, detailed, almost painfully crisp.

I shoot on a Fujifilm.

And I chose it for a reason.

I like the softness. The vintage feel.

I like the grain most photographers try to get rid of.

But somewhere along the way, I forgot that.

I started removing the grain.

Adding texture. Pushing saturation.

Trying to make my photos look like his.

Cleaner. Sharper. Better… I thought.

Until I looked at my photos one day and realised.

They weren’t mine anymore.

Photos I used to take of my friends with my phone while travelling Australia.

I saw the elephant shots we both took.

His were powerful, detailed, technically perfect.

Mine… looked like I had tried to be him.

And that’s when it hit me.

I hadn’t improved.

I had just replaced my eye with his.

Photography is art.

And not everyone sees the same way.

Not everyone is supposed to.

But it’s easy to forget that.

Open any app and you’re flooded with perfect images. Sharp, colourful, cinematic. The kind of photos that make you question your own.

And suddenly it wasn’t just Andrew’s photos I was comparing mine to.

It was everyone’s.

Add a bit of insecurity into that mix…

and suddenly you’re not creating anymore.

I used to love this photo: a student playing chess with a homeless man in front of the train station. It had such a strong message. But shyness made me snap it quickly and leave. Ten years later, I still think about it.

You’re comparing.

And losing.

But realising that… that’s the first step.

I don’t need to take the kind of wildlife photos Andrew takes.

I don’t want to.

I need to find my way back to the things that made me pick up a camera in the first place.

The softness.

The imperfection.

The grain.

It’s okay not to be everything.

In fact, it’s better if we’re not.

Because instead of ten identical photos, we get two completely different perspectives.

And that’s worth more.

So while Andrew captures the sharp, perfect moments in the wild…

I’ll stand beside him.

Watching. Spotting. Filming, maybe.

And leaving space again,

for the moments that feel like mine.

The quiet ones.

The human ones.

The ones I was too hesitant to take before.

Now I just need him to step in front of the camera every once in a while.

Because somehow, between the two of us and all this gear…

we barely have any photos of each other.

Where’s my sister when I need her.

It’s been a strange stretch with photography.

But for the first time in a while, it feels quiet again.

Clear.

And I think I’m ready to find my way back.

To my eye.

My art.

My way of seeing.

Back to people.

Back to moments.

Back to the stories I almost told, but didn’t.

I hope you’ll stick around while I figure it out.

And in the meantime,

we can enjoy Andrew’s.