There is something faintly embarrassing about realising that one has missed flowers. Not in the grand, poetic sense that poets pretend to feel, but in the quiet, practical way one notices an old habit has slipped away like a sock behind the washing machine. I used to photograph flowers rather often. They were patient subjects, never complained, and unlike people, did not insist on looking at the back of the camera immediately after.
And then, somehow, I stopped.
Perhaps it was distraction. Perhaps it was the seductive illusion that one must always chase something more “serious” in life, as though a cosmos has not already done enough work being a cosmos. Or perhaps I simply got lazy, which is usually the more honest explanation.
Enter the borrowed Canon R8.
Now, a new camera has a peculiar effect on the human mind. It convinces you, quite convincingly, that your artistic limitations have been entirely due to your previous equipment. This is, of course, nonsense. The camera arrives in your hands, sleek and promising, and you begin to imagine that masterpieces are now merely a button away. Reality, as always, waits patiently to correct you.
Armed with this technological marvel and a dangerously optimistic outlook, I wandered out to reacquaint myself with flowers. They, at least, had not changed. Still standing there, minding their own business, being quietly magnificent without any need for firmware updates.
The first few shots were… educational.
The camera has a lot of fancy features which sound helpful like in camera focus stacking and some dozens of focus points but I am yet to understand how to make them work so I completed ignored new features and functions and stuck to something I was comfortable with – manual settings like I would have used on any older DSLR.
It turns out that muscle memory in photography behaves very much like a retired government clerk. Once it has decided to stop working, it requires considerable persuasion to resume its duties. My focus was occasionally off, my framing a touch uncertain, and my understanding of the R8’s temperament still very much in its infancy. One might say the camera and I were engaged in a polite but firm disagreement about what constituted a “good photograph.”
And yet, there was joy in it.
Not the loud, triumphant kind one imagines when thinking of success, but a softer, more forgiving sort. The kind that comes from simply being present, crouching awkwardly in a garden, negotiating with light, shadow, and a mildly uncooperative breeze. The kind that reminds you why you picked up a camera in the first place, before megapixels and dynamic range became topics of serious discussion.
The flowers, bless them, were indifferent to my shortcomings. They allowed me to try again. And again. And occasionally, almost by accident, something worked. A frame would come together, light would fall just right, and for a brief moment, the camera and I would agree on something.
The images, if one must be honest, are not perfect. They carry the unmistakable signs of a photographer rediscovering his footing. But perfection, I have long suspected, is an overrated ambition. It tends to make one cautious, and caution rarely produces anything interesting.
What matters, I think, is that I had fun.
This is a slightly unfashionable thing to admit in the age of curated portfolios and algorithmic approval. We are often encouraged to take our hobbies very seriously, as though joy must be justified with measurable outcomes. But the truth is far less dramatic. Most of us will not make millions from our art. Not while we are alive, at any rate. And certainly not from photographing flowers that refuse to sign model releases.
And yet, we continue.
Because there is something quietly satisfying about creating, even imperfectly. About noticing small things. About spending some time chasing light across petals while the rest of the world rushes about doing far more important things.
I suspect I shall return to flowers more often now. Not because I expect brilliance, but because I remember how pleasant it is to try.
And perhaps that is enough.
Till someone calls the police in the assumption that I am indulging in some sort of illegal surveillance activity with a large camera and macro lens crawling around the neighbourhood.
