So, I found myself in possession of a Pentax Espio P, a relic from the days when cameras had weight and film had character. Deciding to give it a whirl, I loaded it with some Kodak film I had lying around. Little did I know, the lens had a bit of moisture and possibly some fungus. The result? Images that were slightly blurry, imbued with a soft, dreamy quality. And you know what? I loved it.

Here’s the thing: the idea that a camera is a neutral tool, that it should capture reality exactly as it is, has always seemed absurd to me. A camera is an artist’s brush, a musician’s instrument—it interprets, it transforms. Just like a pencil or watercolors, different cameras and films bring their own unique flair. A Pentax Espio P with a funky lens gives you a hazy, nostalgic view of the world, and that’s its charm.

We’ve lost something precious in the transition to digital photography. Digital cameras strive for perfection, for the flawless replication of reality. But who really wants reality as it is? We crave stories, emotions, the intangible essence that reality alone can’t provide. This obsession with digital clarity—free of noise, with perfect white balance—is a product of commercial photography. Companies need their products to look pristine. But we are not products. I don’t want my photos to look like ads.

I aspire to create images that transcend photography, to capture moments that speak to something beyond what’s in front of the lens. I want my photographs to be more than just pictures. I want them to be pure expressions, conveying emotions and stories that go beyond the reality captured in that fleeting moment.