Why I shoot on a 7-Year-Old camera

I’ve gone through a lot of cameras and brands over the years, starting with my first analog camera, a Canon AE-1. Like many photographers, I went through the phase of wanting the latest body, the most advanced sensor, the newest gear. And at some point, you realize that photographers like Ansel Adams created timeless images without any of that.

I lived that phase fully. My partner used to call me “the tambourine man” because I left the house packed like a Sherpa heading for Everest — without the yak. Camera bodies, lenses, tripods, flashes, softboxes, accessories. The studio was impressive, everything was there, and yet something felt off.

Gear is fun. It can be useful, and sometimes the right tool really matters. But most of the time, it’s ego, fear of missing out, or the shiny object syndrome dressed up as progress.

A few years back, I cleared house and moved to Fujifilm. I still love my Fujifilm X-T3 and the few lenses I own. It works seamlessly with Godox and Profoto when needed, and for most situations I’m working with an 18mm, a 35mm, a 50mm, or a telephoto for sports.

Keeping things simple changed my photography completely — and the way I retouch. I’ve done heavy retouching and beauty work, and when a client needs it, it’s done properly with the right people involved. But it’s no longer where my instinct lives.

By limiting my gear, I can travel almost anywhere with a single 26-liter backpack. If absolutely necessary, I add two flashes — a Profoto B10 or a Godox AD300 Pro II — and that’s it.

My camera is seriously weathered. It’s been dropped, banged, scraped, dented. It’s no longer black all over, and that’s exactly why it’s perfect. It still delivers, doesn’t attract attention, and does everything I need. Sure, newer systems are tempting — more pixels, IBIS, better specs — but if I can already do the work without them, why chase it?

What I love is the simplicity, the lightness, the playfulness. With a 35mm mounted, it fits in my ski jacket pocket. It’s still the first thing I reach for every morning.

This camera forces me to be deliberate. Every photograph feels like a decision, not a reflex. When I look through the viewfinder, I’m not just framing — I’m committing.

The files aren’t clean, and that’s the point. Highlights blow out like sunlight on a slow, heavy morning. Shadows fall apart, rough and grainy. When I open the images later, they feel less like records and more like memories.

I’m not trying to photograph what things look like. I’m trying to photograph what it felt like to be there.

The outdoors moves — sometimes slowly, sometimes fast — and people move even faster. This camera doesn’t. It slows me down, keeps me honest, and brings me back to why I started photographing in the first place: to pay attention.

I don’t need the newest body or the cleanest files. I need a camera that pushes back, that makes me think and listen before pressing the shutter. That’s what this seven-year-old piece of metal still gives me — and I hope it sticks around.