Like most photographers, I've spent years convincing myself that the next camera might finally be the answer.
A slightly better sensor. Faster autofocus. A few more megapixels than I'll ever realistically need.
GAS has a funny way of making us believe our creativity is hiding inside a piece of equipment we haven't bought yet. The irony is that every camera I've owned has been perfectly capable of producing photographs better than I am.
Yet here we are.
This latest episode has resulted in a Fuji X-Pro2 paired with the original 35mm f/1.4. Not the newest body. Not the sharpest lens. Certainly not the most sensible purchase.
Which is probably why I like it. The plan for this project is deliberately simple.
Black and white only. JPEG only. No RAW files. No editing.
No sitting in front of Lightroom convincing myself that moving a slider two points to the left has somehow transformed the image into art.
Just photographs. Whatever comes out of the camera is what gets published.
The idea isn't purity. I'm not interested in turning photography into some moral exercise. It's more about removing opportunities to interfere.
I've noticed that when every option is available, I start thinking too much. The photograph becomes a project. Something to improve, rescue or optimise later.
Film never gave us that luxury. You saw something. You pressed the shutter. A week later you discovered whether you'd got away with it. I'm not trying to recreate film exactly. Nothing digital really does that, no matter what YouTube tells you. But I do miss the commitment that film demanded.
The acceptance that the photograph was finished the moment it was taken. That's what I'm hoping this little Fuji gives me.
Not better images.
Just fewer decisions.
The X-Pro2 already feels slightly out of step with modern cameras. The autofocus isn't trying to read my thoughts. The menus aren't offering seventeen different ways to solve problems I don't have. The old 35mm f/1.4 has its own quirks too. It isn't clinically perfect and doesn't seem particularly interested in becoming so. There's a bit of character there. A bit of unpredictability. The sort of thing photographers spend years trying to eliminate before eventually deciding they miss it.
Perhaps that's why it appealed to me.
Most bouts of GAS are driven by the promise of more. More speed. More performance. More technology.
This felt like a step in the opposite direction.
Not backwards exactly, but simpler.
The sort of camera that asks you to pay attention rather than constantly reassuring you that it's clever.
This project won't be about hunting photographs. I've done enough of that. Instead I'm hoping it becomes more about noticing. Carrying a camera because it's there rather than because I'm on a photography trip. Picking up small moments while walking to work, waiting for a train, wandering through London or spending time with my family. Less chasing. More finding.
The photographs will live here on the blog under the title Monochrome Moments, and I'll share them on Facebook as they happen. No themes. No long-term plan. No pressure to create a masterpiece every time I leave the house.
Just a camera I didn't need, making photographs I probably wouldn't have taken otherwise. Which is slightly annoying really.
After years of GAS, it turns out the thing I was looking for wasn't a better camera. It was a reason to stop thinking about cameras altogether.
