One Week In
I’ve been taking photos with the Nikon Z F camera for a week now, and it feels like having a new companion in an old, familiar story. It feels intimate in the way I’ve been able quickly bring it into my life, easing into the flow of my creative practice. I love the dedicated black-and-white switch on the main dial. It’s become a portal of sorts, an entry point into seeing the world in light and shadow. It’s a simple feature, but one that strips back the noise of colour, an aspect of photography that’s slowly waning on me, allowing a more reflective focus. I’ve always been a reflective person, and it’s even more telling in the way I take my pictures.
On Sharpness
Sharpness has always been intriguing for me. I sometimes end up looked gawked at the near-clinical precision of digital detail. The sharpness is almost overwhelming, pushing the image into a realm that feels strangely untethered from reality. It’s as though the edges are too clean, too perfect, leaving no room for the messiness of truth to seep through.
But then there are those moments of imperfection. The accidental blur. The soft focus from a movement misjudged or a split-second lapse in decision-making. These flaws should irritate me, yet they pull at me instead, giving permission for the photos to have its own breath, more human, more honest. Perhaps this tension isn’t just about the images I create, but about the environment in which I create them. The digital medium has a way to subtly enforce its own set of unspoken rules. I wonder if I’ve internalised these to the point that I hesitate to accept the very imperfections I secretly yearn for. It’s a strange dialogue to have with yourself, this push and pull between clarity and imperfection, and I’m still finding my way through it.
On Colour
My history has more or less been written in monochrome. The black-and-white photography switch has been transformative, not only as a tool but as a reminder of where I’ve come from. Looking through this monochromatic lens, I find myself feeling more grounded, more intentional. As if the absence of colour strips away distraction and forces me to confront the architecture of a scene; the lines, the shadows, the subtle gradations of light.
This affinity for black and white is not new. It reaches back to my earliest days with a camera. I think of my high school art projects, where even with a basic Kodak digital camera, I was drawn to the simplicity and drama of monochrome. Later, during my visual arts training, I worked with film cameras, shooting the kind of grainy, imperfect images that captured the soul of our campus and eventually found their way into exhibitions. The Nikon Z F, with its effortless nod to that past, feels like a bridge between then and now, affirming both my history and my ongoing evolution as a photographer.
On Grain
Grain has become a language in itself for me, a means of infusing texture and imperfection into the sterile precision of digital imagery. I’ve been experimenting, layering noise and exploring LUT effects in post-production to recreate that visceral, tactile quality of film. There’s a delicate balance though that I have to tread closely, one that I’m still learning to navigate. Too much grain, and the image tips into artifice; too little, and it loses the rawness I’m chasing.
I remember a recent photo where I overdid it. It’s become a lesson in restraint, knowing when to let the image breathe. Post-production is where I feel most like a beginner, fumbling toward an authentic voice. And even so, this stage of exploration feels essential. I’m trying to find a rhythm, a personal cadence that allows my work to speak in ways only it can. I’m beginning to understand that these flaws are not mistakes after all.
On Transition
It’s been a week so far, moving from the tactile familiarity of film to the clean, boundless possibilities of digital. The Nikon Z F has become more than a camera in this process; it’s a partner in discovery. It invites me to pause, to study the light, to inhabit moments with more care and curiousity. Okay sure it’s teaching me to look outward, yes, but also inward. To recognise the ways my history shapes my present and to embrace the unknowns of what comes next.
There’s something profoundly energising this feeling, and the past week. The camera has become a kind of lens for my own reflection. It reminds me to stay attentive, to remain curious, and, most importantly, to keep seeking the beauty that lies in imperfection. After all, it’s in those flaws, those unexpected shifts, that photography, and I suppose life itself, feels most alive.