There are people who think what I do is stupid. Not in the existential, "what's the point of art anyway" way, but in the "why the hell are you wasting your time with obsolete gear when iPhones exist" kind of way.
And you know what? I'm okay with that.
Recently, someone I know vocalized the opinion that shooting film and vintage lenses was dumb. That it was a waste of time. That what I do (photography in general) doesn’t matter anyways because AI is taking over, iPhones are better, and tack-sharp photos are the only thing that counts. That stung. Not because I think he's right, but because it reminded me how misunderstood this craft can be.
So let’s talk about it...
Why do I shoot film? Why do I use vintage lenses that flare unpredictably and swirl the background like a fever dream? Why do I insist on hauling around gear older than me when I have a perfectly good Canon R5 paired with cutting-edge modern lenses?
Because nowadays everything looks the same.
Because I don’t want my photos to look like everybody else’s.
Because it's an experience.
Because there is so much beauty in imperfection, in softness, in grain. Because photography isn’t just about sharpness or resolution. It’s about feeling, about story, about meaning. I could edit a digital photo to look like film, but it just doesn’t hit the same. Shooting film and vintage glass makes me connect with the craft and its history in a tactile way that cannot be replicated. It's an experience.
I fell for dreamy, unconventional rendering about 10-15 years ago, after stumbling upon a video about the Lensbaby Muse. It’s not a vintage lens, but it opened the door to everything I now love about vintage glass—its unpredictability, its quirks, its character. It was weird and experimental and serendipitous. I couldn’t afford much back then, but I knew I wanted that. Fast forward to now, I have a growing collection of vintage lenses and cameras, and each one has a story and its peculiarities.
Lately I have been shooting film almost daily. Especially half-frame, for the storytelling possibilities. I use vintage glass during personal work and slower-paced portrait sessions. I try to bring that into client work when I can, especially when I want the images to have a bit of a fairytale quality.
But does it make me a better photographer? Actually, yes. Manual focus forces me to slow down. The quirks make me think more. The limits challenge me. The character these lenses bring is something people try to fake in post. But these lenses just do it. Naturally.
Vintage technology always pulls me into the why of things—how they work, where they come from, and why they were made the way they were. The deeper I dive into it, the more I understand not just photography’s mechanics, but its language. So many of the tools we still use today, like Photoshop’s “dodge” and “burn”, come from the physical processes used in darkrooms. I’ve learned how different light meters interpret exposure, how glass shapes light, and why the Petzval lens was a game-changer in portrait history. That kind of knowledge deepens my respect for the craft, and it influences how I see and shoot, even now.
Some people say any camera can take a good photo, and to a point, that’s true. Because for me it’s not just about what you capture, but also about connecting with your tools.
I don’t name my cameras. I remember them by their stories and the experiences we had together. And maybe that’s what this is really about. I’m chasing feeling, meaning, memory.
To some people, that’s stupid. But to me, it’s what makes me fall in love with the craft over and over again.
So no, I won’t stop shooting film. I won’t stop using vintage glass. I won’t stop experimenting. Because photography isn’t just my job, it’s how I make sense of the world. And if I can bring even a piece of that wonder to someone else’s story, then I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to.
