Discover the art of minimalism in landscape photography and learn how the deliberate removal of distractions can elevate your images. Join me as I share insights from my recent trip to Namibia, highlighting the beauty and purpose behind each frame.
Nearly everyone has a smartphone in today's world. They have come so far, and the technology inside them is extremely impressive. When you think back 20 years ago, they had a small screen and could only be used to make calls. Now, you can use them for pretty much everything: to call people, to listen to music, use them as GPS to get around, and in a lot of cases as a camera.
The photography business has a strange relationship with specialization. Almost every working photographer starts as a generalist. The first few years of paid work are a scramble: weddings on weekends, headshots during the week, a real estate gig when a friend asks for a favor, some product work to pay for a lens upgrade, maybe a few corporate events when the calendar is thin. The logic is obvious and reasonable. Early in a career, any paying work is better than no paying work, and saying yes to every request builds both experience and cash flow. That first phase of generalist scrambling is not a mistake. It is how most photographers who become successful actually learn their craft. The mistake is staying there.
When Olympus sold its imaging division to Japan Industrial Partners on January 1, 2021, the new company was called OM Digital Solutions. The OM SYSTEM product brand arrived later, announced in October 2021 as the name the company would put on its cameras going forward. Most of the photography press wrote the obituary in advance of either event. The division had been unprofitable for years. Olympus itself, after more than eighty years of making cameras, was exiting the business. Micro Four Thirds had lost the sensor-size argument in the public imagination to APS-C and full frame. The buyer was a private equity firm, not a camera manufacturer. The standard expectation was managed decline: a few years of catalog padding, a thinning lens roadmap, and eventual fade.
It seems everybody is retiring their gimbals. Every time I look at social media, I hear people talking about: does anybody use a gimbal anymore? Or you'll see videos where people are talking about gear they regret buying, and a gimbal is usually on that list.
There's a strange misconception in street photography: that more is more. More chaos. More layers. More subjects. More "decisive moments."
The Fujifilm X100VI has been supply-constrained for more than two years. The camera launched in February 2024, and as of April 2026, availability remains spotty: Fujifilm's own US shop typically shows it as "Notify Me" rather than in stock, and major retailers list the camera as temporarily out of stock with rolling expected availability windows rather than steady inventory. The company raised the US price from $1,599 to $1,799, and the camera still moves for above MSRP on the secondary market. Two years of reported shortages is not a production problem that got solved. It is a demand problem that Fujifilm is openly uninterested in solving.
If you produce short-form video for clients or your own brand, take a second and count the number of apps, browser tabs, and subscription logins sitting between the moment you have an idea and the moment you hit publish. There's the scriptwriting tool (or a blank doc you've been staring at for twenty minutes). The generation or editing platform. A separate captioning service you pay for monthly. Something for thumbnails, maybe a dedicated generator, maybe you're still screenshotting frames and adding text in Photoshop. A background removal tool. Possibly a video enhancer you bookmarked six months ago and keep forgetting to cancel.
I sold my Mamiya 645AFD, and I regret it every time I think about it, which is more often than I would like to admit. The film got too expensive, and the scanning costs added up, and I told myself the rational thing to do was to let it go and put the money toward something more practical. I was right about the math. I was wrong about everything else.
Somewhere around 2010, camera design stopped mattering to the photography industry. The DSLR era had produced bodies defined by ergonomics rather than aesthetics, and the first mirrorless wave carried forward the same logic. Cameras were tools, tools looked like tools, and any photographer who cared about how a camera looked was suspected of being a poseur. The mainstream press reinforced the assumption. Reviewers evaluated bodies by their grip comfort, control layouts, button feel, and weather sealing, and any discussion of aesthetics was treated as either irrelevant or faintly embarrassing.
After three decades as a professional filmmaker and photographer, I have learned a lot of things. Most of them, I learned the hard way.
Photography has a spending problem, and it starts early. The moment you get serious enough to move past the kit lens and the auto mode, the industry opens a firehose of recommendations pointed directly at your wallet. Better bodies, faster glass, studio lighting, editing software, bags, straps, filters, presets, printers, and accessories that promise to make your work look professional before you have figured out what "professional" means for you.
The 85mm prime is the rare lens that almost every working portrait photographer owns, eventually. It is the focal length that does the most flattering work on faces, the easiest one to recommend to a portrait beginner, and the lens most photographers reach for when they want to make a person look the way they want to be seen.
Let's get this out of the way: this is not nostalgia.
Wildlife photography is often associated with iconic species such as lions on the savannah, elephants crossing golden plains, or bears roaming in areas like Yellowstone National Park. These adventures are extraordinary, but they are also expensive and not always accessible to beginner photographers.
The Pentax K-3 Mark III was officially discontinued in Japan in January 2025. The Monochrome variant has been more complicated: B&H's original black Monochrome listing is now marked "No Longer Available," though it points buyers to a current matte-black Monochrome listing still shown as in stock. After roughly four years of production, the K-3 Mark III is being phased out in stages rather than discontinued cleanly, and the last major APS-C DSLR from a major manufacturer is winding down. By the standard industry narrative, this should be the end of the story. DSLRs are dead. Mirrorless has won. Move on. Except the story is more complicated than that.
There is a thing Leica does that no other camera manufacturer is willing to do, and it is the thing that makes Leica interesting even to photographers who will never own one. Leica refuses to pretend to be what it is not.
Most photography now lives online. In the feed, in algorithms, in a constant stream of images. This is where the idea of what a photographer is supposed to need gets formed. Cheap did not become better. It became sufficient.
When Nikon announced the Z9 in late 2021, the camera was treated by most of the photography press as Nikon's "we are still here" moment. The brand had spent the early mirrorless years getting beaten in feature comparisons by Sony, criticized for slow autofocus updates, and described in obituary-adjacent language by gear reviewers who had decided Sony had won the format war. The Z9 was supposed to prove Nikon could still build a flagship. It did. Then something more interesting happened over the next four years.
The article emphasizes the importance of slowing down and reconnecting with the joy of photography by creating a series of images of simple things that we admire. Let's look at photos of a remote Namibian railway station that show the beauty of decay and history through intentional composition.
A while back I was very focused on having complex lighting for my editorial work. I would often create precise setups with many light sources. Yet, as time went on, my setups became simpler. So much so that my recent editorial for Numéro was done with only one light. Here is how.
Insurance is the part of running a photography business that nobody warns you about, nobody teaches you, and nobody finds interesting until the day they need it. Then it becomes the most important conversation of your career, usually too late. Most photographers buy a policy because a venue asked for one, sign whatever the broker recommends, and never think about it again until something breaks, gets stolen, or generates a lawsuit.
There, I said it. Not bad. Not incompetent. Not untalented. Boring. And boring is far worse.
For the past six months, I've had the opportunity to thoroughly test the Hasselblad XCD 35–100 E — Hasselblad's brand-new all-around zoom lens. With this lens, I've photographed commercial campaigns for Hasselblad, documented a family wedding high up in the Alps, and captured my photo workshop in southern Spain — all without changing the lens even once. And honestly: the 35–100 E has impressed me in every single situation.
Most photographers treat the deposit as a courtesy request. A nice-to-have. Something you ask for politely, and if the client pushes back or seems uncomfortable, you waive it because you do not want to lose the booking. This is the standard operating posture of the photography industry, and it is costing working photographers thousands of dollars a year that they never see on their books, because the losses are invisible until you run the math.