Opinion

A well-known New York gallery fed one of the most famous photographs ever made into an AI model and offered the colorized result for $10,000 at a major photography fair. The Ansel Adams Trust was never told, and, according to the Trust, the gallery refused to take it down when asked.

There is a specific feeling that I am going to try to describe, and I am not sure I will succeed. It is the feeling of being nine years old in 1996, holding a plastic Kodak FunSaver on a wrist strap, with the flash recycling and the little red ready light blinking on and off, knowing that I had 27 chances to take a picture and that I would not see any of them until my mom got the envelope back from the grocery store a week later. It is the feeling of a camera that did not ask anything of me and did not promise anything in return, and it is the feeling I have been trying to recapture in pieces ever since.

There was a moment recently when I realized the digital noise became too loud. Influencers and brands constantly talking about the latest technology and how it can improve your image quality. Menus became complicated. Firmware upgrades necessary. Increasingly faster eye-tracking and endless focus modes you never asked for. At some point, you start to miss something simpler—something quieter. Something that feels like photography again.

I realized at some point that most of the photographs I was making came from leaving too early — not physically, but mentally.

There's a particular kind of photographer who becomes visibly uncomfortable the moment Juergen Teller enters the conversation. You know the type. They can explain sensor readout speeds like nuclear engineers. They spend three weeks comparing corner sharpness at 400%. They speak about cameras the way Formula 1 mechanics speak about engines. Their hard drives are graveyards of technically flawless emptiness.

Buying a camera because of its "color science" is one of the most common and costly mistakes in photography. Whether it's Fujifilm, Leica, or any other brand with a devoted following, the idea that one manufacturer has access to a secret color palette that others don't is worth examining before you spend thousands of dollars chasing it.

Street photography can be intimidating for those of us who usually stick to nature. But after spending years shooting landscapes, I've realized that the transition to the city isn't really about learning new techniques. It's about realizing you already have most of the tools.

Every January, the trend forecasts roll in. And every year for at least the last five, "authenticity" has appeared somewhere on the list, wedged between AI predictions and whatever retro aesthetic is cycling back. By now, it would be reasonable to dismiss it as an empty buzzword, the kind of thing that sounds important in a webinar and means nothing in practice.

There are photographs that seem to exist entirely on their surface.

For roughly a decade between 2013 and 2023, Sony defined where the camera industry was going. The original a7 and a7R democratized full frame mirrorless and forced Canon and Nikon to abandon their DSLR-protective hesitation. The a9 line proved electronic shutters could compete with mechanical at the highest level of professional sports. The opening of the E mount to third-party manufacturers reshaped the lens economy across every competing system. Sony was the brand that other manufacturers reacted to, and the photography press treated Sony announcements as bellwethers for where the industry would move next. Working photographers debated which a7 variant to buy because the relevant comparisons were among Sony's own bodies.

While overhyping new filmmaking and photography products is something of a spectator sport and phrases like "game changer" seem to be bandied about on a daily basis, it can sometimes come as a surprise which products actually move the needle.

For roughly twenty years, the working photographer's purchase logic was simple. The flagship body was the right answer for demanding work, and the mid-range body was the right answer for everything else. Working pros bought flagships because their work demanded it. Wedding photographers shooting in dim churches, photojournalists in unpredictable conditions, sports photographers tracking fast subjects, wildlife photographers waiting for a single decisive moment, commercial photographers needing absolute reliability across long shoot days. All of them needed something the mid-range bodies could not deliver, and the flagship was where that something lived.

Today, I'll have a look at the new Laowa CF 4.5-10mm f/2.8 Fisheye Zoom and share a few thoughts.

More cameras, fewer photographers. As this new day dawns outside my window, I pose a simple yet profound question: Is there still truth in photography?

Photography has spent most of its digital era chasing technical perfection. Sharp focus, clean files, controlled lighting, smooth skin, perfect exposure across the dynamic range. The pursuit was reasonable. Each generation of cameras and editing software made these standards more achievable, and working photographers who failed to meet them risked looking unprofessional. By 2020, a wedding photographer delivering a slightly soft image was apologizing for it. A portrait photographer leaving visible skin texture was risking client complaints. The technical-perfection ceiling kept rising, and the industry kept rising with it.

There is a kind of photography that pretends to be neutral. Flat surfaces, clean lines, ordinary spaces. Nothing dramatic, nothing loud, nothing that asks to be looked at twice. It's often dismissed as cold, detached, even empty. But that reading is too easy. What we call indifference is rarely indifference. It is a position.

In March 2026, the National Republican Senatorial Committee released an online ad featuring a minute-long video of Democratic Senate candidate James Talarico speaking into the camera, reading statements the real Talarico had not spoken on camera. The Talarico in the video was generated entirely by artificial intelligence, voicing content drawn from the candidate's old social media posts. The words "AI Generated" appeared in small text in the corner of the frame at the start, then faded into even smaller text that remained on screen while the fake Talarico continued to speak. 

Hunter S. Thompson is certainly one of my references — not because he ever cared about photography, but because he understood something most photographers avoid.

Today, I'll have a quick look at the new Allen Smart Suction Snap Camera Mount. It's a tool designed for mounting compact mirrorless cameras, action cams, and smaller DSLRs to smooth surfaces via a suction cup that can deliver dynamic moving shots.

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.

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.

Choosing a camera system means committing to an ecosystem, and for most systems, that means locking yourself into one manufacturer's lenses. Micro Four Thirds breaks that rule in a way that has real, practical consequences for what you can carry and shoot.

After three decades as a professional filmmaker and photographer, I have learned a lot of things. Most of them, I learned the hard way.

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.

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.

There, I said it. Not bad. Not incompetent. Not untalented. Boring. And boring is far worse.

For most of the past decade, Adobe was not a choice. It was the default. Lightroom and Photoshop were where photographers learned to edit, where the workflows lived, where the presets came from, and where the entire industry quietly agreed to standardize. The price hikes were annoying. The subscription model was annoying. But the alternative was unthinkable, because there was no real alternative.

It is happening quietly. Working photographers, the kind who built audiences in the 30,000 to 200,000 follower range over five or ten years, are deleting their accounts, archiving their grids, or simply going silent. There are no farewell posts. No dramatic announcements. The accounts just stop updating, and a few months later they are gone.

Photography has a money problem. Not a "there is not enough of it" problem, although that is also true for many photographers. A deeper problem: the photography community has developed a set of cultural patterns around money that no other professional industry tolerates, and those patterns are actively suppressing income for everyone in the field.

Shooting film won't make you a better photographer. The real argument isn't about film versus digital; it's about where creative intention actually comes from.

I realize that articles about older cameras don't trend nearly as hard as shiny new toys. But my recent purchase of the Nikon Zf has paid off in more ways than I could have ever imagined.

Photography has a generous supply of conventional wisdom. Some of it is earned. Some of it is repeated so often that nobody questions whether it was ever true in the first place. And some of it is actively wrong, kept alive by a community that confuses encouragement with honesty.

Many photographers produce abstract-looking images accidentally. Far fewer build abstract photography as a discipline.

Many photographers produce carefully crafted images and still struggle to gain attention. The problem is rarely a lack of skill. In many cases, the photographs simply belong to an earlier photographic moment.

Sit down with almost any photographer these days, and the conversation goes one of several ways: camera specs, gear rumors, and the perennial question: "What are you shooting with?" What would happen if we changed that conversation to something more?

Staging photos and calling them documentary work isn't a gray area. It's a breach of trust, and it's happening more visibly in travel and humanitarian photography at a moment when the credibility of the entire medium is already under strain.

We finally reached a weird point in photography where sharpness isn't even a goal anymore; it's given. Modern lenses are so good that "tack sharp" is basically a factory setting. And yet, scroll any comment section, and you would think sharpness is a whole sport. Not light. Not timing. Not mood. Just crazy sharp.

Choosing between black and white and color is one of the oldest arguments in photography, and most takes on it stay shallow. This video doesn't claim to settle the debate, but it does offer a genuinely useful framework for thinking about when and why each choice works.

If you are anything like me, you quickly figure out how to integrate a new camera into your workflow, habit patterns, and shooting environment, and then stop. If this sounds familiar, this video is a great reminder to utilize our gear to its full potential and stop making life harder than necessary.

The best concert photography happens in the pit and around the stage, with dedicated cameras and strict access. But when we go, most of us are just fans in the crowd. With a little intention, your phone can document the experience surprisingly well without turning the night into a photo shoot.

I've been covering protests for a long time, as a journalist and journalism professor, and one of the things I've noticed is that, at least in the Trump era of the last decade, more people are showing up with cameras to photograph these happenings than before. I've been trying to parse out why that is.

Two photographers. One has decades of experience and a full professional kit. The other is a tourist with an iPhone. On paper, no contest. But the tourist did the homework and found a better vantage point. The pro trusted experience and stayed put, confident that superior gear would carry the day in a space already crowded with photographers. In that moment, the advantage was not skill or gear. It was access.

Every photographer has heard it: use better light, tell the story, know your camera. None of that advice is wrong; most advice is just too broad, and it becomes useless. Are we giving photographers real guidance, or just repeating slogans?

Like many digital creators, I've always justified paying more for quality memory, whether that be SD cards, CFexpress cards, or SSDs. Higher-end memory storage is faster, more reliable, and widely trusted. But I never really stopped to consider why that trust exists. That changed when I recently traveled to China to visit Lexar's facilities as part of their 30th anniversary. Seeing the process firsthand gave me a completely new perspective, and in this article, I will share what I took away from that experience.

Street photography was built on proximity, on the unscripted moment when two strangers briefly shared the same space and the same gaze. In a world where every face is searchable, traceable, and legally accountable, that proximity no longer carries the same meaning.