Make Photography Great Again

Like many of my colleagues in the documentary field—particularly those in my age group—I grew up in the analog days. I eventually transitioned into digital, and later embraced the mirrorless experience, each stage marking a milestone in the evolution of my craft. I enjoyed the ride. I can honestly say I was in the frontlines of change, using technology to advance my work as both a filmmaker and photographer.

My most recent technical leap came when I moved from Nikon to Sony, working with the FX3 for video and the Alpha 7cr for still photography. Armed with a range of prime lenses, I completed two major film projects over the last two years—one on the Piccirilli Brothers, the other on the art of Joy Brown. The tools served me well.

Somewhere in Indiana

But more recently—particularly over the past six months, after completing those two films—I entered a period of reflection. And in that space, digital technology found itself under renewed scrutiny.

For the last two months, I’ve been returning to analog photography. Not for interviews or narrative-heavy sequences (that would be impractical), but for transitions, establishing shots, and the poetic moments that so often pair well with the precision of the FX3. In motion pictures, I now find myself navigating freely between 16mm and Super 8mm. For still photography, I’ve once again embraced medium format, favoring the notoriously fixed 75mm lens on my Rolleiflex 3.5.

I’m considering adding a Hasselblad for lens flexibility—but I might just go for a 35mm Leica instead. I’m getting older—not old, but certainly no longer young—and if there’s a place in my life for a Leica, I’d better go ahead and make space for it.

Shooting analog versus digital comes with distinct advantages. One of the most refreshing? No hours spent hunched over Lightroom each night after downloading hundreds of files. In the analog world, the job is essentially done the moment I press the quiet shutter on the Rollei. The rest is logistics: I send the film to Color Resource Center in New York and wait for the high-resolution scans. Minor corrections, maybe. But more often than not, I leave the images as they are, learning from the experience and improving with each roll.

Analog film is organic. It breathes with every frame. If I’m truly invested in a subject, I might dedicate an entire roll—just twelve exposures—to it. That’s enough. I no longer need hundreds of shots. I don’t chew more than I can swallow. I breathe between bites. I taste every moment, then wait.

Will I return to digital still photography? That’s up for debate. I won’t say no. But for now, I’m eager to continue this new phase. Fewer trips. Longer distances. Slower rhythms. More pacing, more patience, and more presence. Maybe I’ll take 100 rolls to Patagonia or Alaska—and wait until I return to face the darkroom and the chemicals that make it all come alive.