Hopefully, by now, you know that—for many of us who live and breathe this craft—life and photography are flip sides of the same coin. Not separate. Not segmented. Not part-time lovers. But deeply entangled. Inseparable.
I don’t say that to sound like some crusty old relic, warbling on about the “good ol’ days.” I’m not here to romanticize the darkroom or fetishize film grain or pretend that carrying 70 pounds of gear through an airport terminal made you more of an artist. That’s not the point. And honestly, those so-called glory days? They were hard as hell. Expensive. Exclusive. Slow. Fragile. Inconvenient.
You had to earn your way into photography then. Every shutter click cost money. Every frame demanded focus. Every photo required intention.
But here’s the thing. Even in those clunky, chemical-drenched days, photography was something real. Something intimate. It was more about being there than being seen. More about seeing deeply than showing off. More about connection than attention.
Not anymore.
Today, photography—especially among the young—is mostly performative. And yeah, I said it. Performative. Not expressive. Not observational. Not even personal. But performative.
Photography, for a frighteningly large slice of the population, has become another goddamn stage. Another act. Another shiny highlight reel in the ongoing talent show of self-promotion.
And it’s fucking exhausting.
Because we’ve replaced seeing with signaling. We don’t take photographs to feel anymore—we take them to impress.
We’re so busy making content that we’ve forgotten how to make contact.
So let’s talk about it.
The Death of Intimacy
There was a time—not long ago—when a photograph meant something. Not because it went viral. Not because it got thousands of likes. But because it captured something real. A mood. A memory. A moment.
You could hold it in your hand. Tape it to your fridge. Stick it in your wallet. Frame it on your wall. It had weight.
But when your camera becomes a billboard for your brand, and your feed becomes a product showcase for your lifestyle, you start shooting not for yourself—but for the crowd. And intimacy dies.
Because real photography requires vulnerability. And vulnerability doesn’t perform well on social media. It’s not filtered. Not curated. Not composed for mass consumption.
Real photography whispers. Performance shouts.
The Tyranny of the Audience
We used to shoot for ourselves. Now we shoot for them—the invisible jury behind every scroll, swipe, and story.
Will they like this angle?
Will this color grade pop on their screen?
Will I get enough engagement to feel valid?
Fuck that.
Because the moment you start shooting to be seen, you stop shooting to see.
Photography becomes theater. Your lens becomes a mirror, not a window. And every photo is just another attempt to prove something. That you’re cool. That you’re creative. That you matter.
It’s not art. It’s advertising.
You’re not documenting your life. You’re marketing it.
When Did Cameras Become Clout Machines?
Let me be clear: I’m not anti-tech. I shoot with an iPhone for a living, for god’s sake. I love the ease, the access, the spontaneity. But what I don’t love is the addiction to affirmation. The way people chase views like junkies jonesing for their next dopamine fix.
Today’s cameras aren’t tools of expression—they’re clout machines.
You could have the most powerful photographic device ever made sitting in your pocket right now, and never use it to say anything real. Because the tech doesn’t make the art. The heart does.
But who the hell has time for heart when you’re busy playing algorithm bingo?
Performers vs Photographers
Let’s draw a hard line here.
Performers:
Shoot with the audience in mind.
Obsess over what others will think.
Craft images to impress.
Post for likes, not legacy.
Mimic trends, filters, poses, vibes.
Photographers:
Shoot with themselves in mind.
Trust their eye, not their audience.
Craft images to express.
Post if they feel like it—but not because they need validation.
Develop a voice, not just a look.
You can’t be both. You’ve got to choose.
And if you are a performer, fine. Own it. But don’t pretend it’s the same thing. Don’t call it art when it’s marketing. Don’t wrap it in creative language when it’s just a performance.
Rediscover the Magic
You want to know what the real flex is in 2025?
Silence.
Presence.
Wonder.
Putting your phone on airplane mode. Walking out into the world. Shooting something that moves you—and not sharing it with a single soul.
Just letting it be yours.
That’s magic.
Because the real power of photography isn’t in its reach. It’s in its revelation. It’s what it reveals to you about the world. About yourself. About what matters.
And that doesn’t require an audience. That requires attention.
There’s Nothing Wrong With Wanting to Share
Let’s not throw the baby out with the bathwater. Wanting to share your work isn’t a crime. Neither is caring about community, or hoping your work resonates, or growing a following.
But if that’s the only reason you’re making photos, you’re not a photographer. You’re a performer with a camera.
And that’s a dangerous place to get stuck.
Because your sense of self-worth gets hitched to metrics you can’t control.
Because your voice gets diluted by what’s trending.
Because you’ll stop taking risks that might not “do well.”
And before you know it, you’ll look up and realize you haven’t taken a single photo that mattered to you in months. Maybe years.
A Call to the Camera-Wielding Faithful
So here’s what I want to say to every photographer still trying to make something honest in this noisy-ass world:
Keep going.
Keep shooting shit that nobody claps for.
Keep photographing what breaks your heart, what saves your soul, what pulls you in.
Keep trusting your gut over the algorithm.
Because art doesn’t need applause to be art. Meaning doesn’t need metrics to be real. And photography—when practiced with honesty—will outlast every trend, every platform, every ego trip.
My Plea to the Performers
If you’ve found yourself on the performance treadmill, spinning out photo after photo just to stay relevant, I’m not judging you. I get it. This world rewards performance. It punishes pause.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s time to pause anyway.
Ask yourself: What would I shoot if no one ever saw it but me?
That’s where your voice is hiding.
That’s where your real work begins.
Final Frame
The world doesn’t need more content. It needs more contact.
It needs photographers who feel.
Who see.
Who listen.
So stop performing.
Start photographing.
And let the rest take care of itself.
Click.
Jack.
