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There is one thing splendidly sobering about listening to a terrific photographer communicate actually concerning the craft.
Not within the polished language of digital camera launches, exhibition notes, or rigorously written monographs, however within the plain, virtually brutal fact of somebody who has spent a lifetime chasing photos.
In a recent interview with Leica, road photographer Matt Stuart stated one thing that has stayed with me: “I have one second worth of success in photography, maybe 500 max good pictures.”
You can watch the total interview under:
That line stopped me in my tracks, as a result of if somebody like Matt Stuart, one of many best observers of on a regular basis life with a digital camera, can scale back his total photographic success to a handful of moments, then what likelihood do the remainder of us have? Or maybe extra importantly, why are all of us holding ourselves to such not possible requirements?
As photographers, we’re continuously surrounded by greatness. We take a look at the work of Matt Stuart, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Vivian Maier, Robert Frank, Elliott Erwitt, Joel Meyerowitz, and all the opposite giants of the medium, and we see solely the completed body.
We see the decisive second, the right composition, the humour, the unhappiness, the poetry, the split-second geometry of life organized in a manner that feels virtually not possible.
What we don’t see is the missed shot, the badly timed body, the incorrect publicity, the times the place nothing occurs, the rolls of movie or reminiscence playing cards full of pictures which can be, to place it kindly, nothing particular.
And but we evaluate ourselves to the masterpiece, not the method.
That, I feel, is the place a lot of the injury occurs. We take a look at a photographer’s life’s work and decide our Tuesday afternoon stroll towards it. We take a digital camera out for an hour, come again with nothing gallery-worthy, and by some means persuade ourselves that now we have failed.
I’ve executed this extra occasions than I care to confess. I’ve walked with a Leica around my neck, hoping that the world might offer me something worthy of a wall, a book, a gallery, or, at the very least, something that makes me feel like I am getting closer to the photographers I admire. More often than not, I come home with a handful of frames that are fine, maybe even good, but not quite the thing I had imagined.
And that is the trouble with photography. The picture in your head is often far better than the one on the contact sheet or screen.
Henri Cartier-Bresson is often quoted as saying that you are lucky if you take one or two good pictures a year. That sounds almost ridiculous in an age where we can shoot thousands of images in a weekend, edit them instantly, share them immediately, and receive some kind of response within minutes.
But perhaps he was right. Perhaps the real measure of photography is not how many frames we make, but how rarely the truly great ones arrive. The photograph that stays with people. The photograph that does not need explanation. The photograph that seems to contain more than the thing it depicts.
Because the more I think about it, the more I believe photography is not just about skill. Skill matters, of course. You need to understand light, timing, composition, exposure, distance, gesture and instinct. You need to know your camera so well that it becomes almost invisible in your hands. But after all of that, there is still something else. Something out of your control. Something that happens in front of you for a fraction of a second and then disappears forever.
Luck is a word photographers often dislike because it sounds as though it diminishes the craft. But I do not think it does. Luck only rewards the person who is there, watching, waiting, and ready.
The great photographers are not great because they are lucky once; they are great because they keep turning up in the hope that luck might pass by again. They place themselves in the path of possibility. They develop an eye sharp enough to recognise the extraordinary inside the ordinary.
That is where I think we, especially those still trying to find our voice, can be far too hard on ourselves. We expect every outing to produce something meaningful. We judge our work against books, exhibitions, and legendary names, forgetting that even the masters spent most of their time failing. Beautifully failing, perhaps, but failing all the same. Photography is built on failure. It is a lifelong exercise in nearly, almost, not quite, and try again.
I feel that deeply in my own work. I want, as I think many photographers do, to make images that feel worthy of being seen beyond the screen. I want to create photographs that could sit on a gallery wall and not feel out of place. I want to make work that says something, even quietly, about life, people, place, or time. But that desire can become a burden if I let it. It can make every frame feel like a judgment. It can turn the joy of looking into the pressure of producing.
And photography, at its best, should begin with joy. The joy of seeing. The joy of wandering. The joy of noticing a small human moment that most people would walk past without a second thought.
Not every photograph has to be great. In fact, most photographs will not be great. That does not make them worthless. They are practicing. They are visual notes. They are proof that you were looking.
Perhaps that is the lesson hidden inside Matt Stuart’s wonderfully honest remark. Maybe success in photography really does add up to seconds. Maybe a lifetime of work is not thousands of perfect images, but a tiny collection of moments where everything aligned. The right light, the right subject, the right gesture, the right photographer in the right place at the right time. And if that is true, then perhaps the standard is not unachievable after all. Perhaps we have simply misunderstood what the standard is.
The aim is not to make a masterpiece every time we pick up a camera. The aim is to keep looking, keep learning, keep failing, and keep being ready for the one second when the world arranges itself in front of us.
That thought is oddly freeing. It reminds me that I do not need to measure every frame against the masters. I can admire them, learn from them, be inspired by them, but I do not need to punish myself for not being them.
Their greatness was not instant, constant, or effortless. It was built through years of walking, waiting, missing, doubting, and occasionally, just occasionally, finding the frame.
So perhaps we should all be a little kinder to ourselves. Perhaps up-and-coming photographers, professionals, enthusiasts, and anyone chasing that elusive “good picture” should remember that the greats were not great every day.
They were simply devoted enough to keep going until the good pictures found them!.
And maybe, if we are lucky, if we keep our eyes open and our cameras ready, we might get our own one second of success too.
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