0.1.3_PHOTOGRAPHY
Last updated
Last updated
My relationship with photography began when I was 16 years old, ten years ago now, and it happened in a very organic and natural way. At the time, my favourite activity and main form of self-expression was basketball. But due to a series of injuries, I had to stop playing. That changed my life completely: I went from being a very active person, constantly in motion, to being forced to stay still, unable to move freely. And it wasn’t just the loss of movement; I had lost the thing I was good at, the thing that gave me identity. As a substitute, and a new form of expression, I picked up an old camera we had at home and began to photograph my surroundings.
Since then, I try to always carry my camera with me. It allows me to observe and capture the world through my eyes, and to preserve moments that, thanks to the image, I’ll be able to remember forever. Especially when working with analogue, because the photograph becomes physical, tangible, almost alive.
Once I had mastered digital photography, I quickly moved into the analogue world. My grandfather and father were photographers, and I had the privilege of using a camera that they themselves had once used. Technically speaking, analogue photography is far more stimulating: to achieve a good result, you need to understand and master the basics; framing, light, composition... The fact that you can’t immediately check the result, and that each roll only offers 36 shots (combined with the cost of film and development), means that each photograph is more considered, more cared for.
This also leads to a much clearer and more meaningful learning process. At the beginning, most of the rolls I tooked was unusable, but if you remembered what you had done wrong and compared it to the results, the next time you faced a similar moment, you could correct it and do better. For me, analogue photography wasn’t just a way to capture life, it became a game, a challenge, a visible evolution that motivated me to keep shooting, to become the best photographer I could be.
I also believe that analogue photography holds a special kind of magic that digital simply doesn’t. First, you form a unique bond with your camera: because it is entirely mechanical, you learn to listen to it, to understand its little quirks and characteristics. You recognise the sounds it makes, the light it needs, the settings it demands for each shot. A real symbiosis forms, a quiet companionship.
But beyond all that, analogue photography carries an element of uncertainty and randomness that, far from being a limitation, is one of its greatest virtues. Because film is a chemical medium, spots, light leaks, colour shifts or other imperfections often appear, things you can’t control. Sometimes it “ruins” the photo, but other times, it elevates it. The outcome is never fully predictable until the film is developed. And this is where, for me, the magic begins.
When shooting analogue, you never really know what you’ll get. And this waiting, this "not knowing", creates a special connection to the process. It’s as if, instead of trying to control everything, you have to place your trust in an unseen energy that collaborates in the creation. Sometimes I like to imagine the camera has a life of its own, that it chooses, with or without me, how the final image will look. It feels like each photograph is a collaboration between the outside world, my eye, and something beyond.
This connects me with something almost spiritual: the idea that the world doesn’t just allow itself to be observed, but that it also responds, that there is a subtle dialogue between what you look at and what looks back at you. With analogue, this dialogue becomes more visible, because time slows down, each image has weight, texture, meaning, and nothing is instant or guaranteed. It becomes a practice of presence, trust, and respect for what wants to emerge.
For me, shooting with film is a form of meditation, a way to be here and now, to honour the moment, and to accept that beauty doesn’t always lie in control, but in openness, in randomness, and in imperfection. It has also taught me to cultivate patience, to slow down my life, and to allow things to unfold when they are ready. It’s a way of seeing the world not only with open eyes, but also with an open heart. And perhaps that’s why every finished photograph feels like a small miracle.
