"Before the Likes: When a Photo Was Just a Photo"

There was a time when I took a picture just to take a picture.

No audience. No algorithm. No thoughts of reach or resonance or whether it would fit “the grid.” Just me, the light, and that moment I wanted to keep for myself. Maybe I’d show it to my wife—she’d smile, nod, sometimes say, You really see things. That was enough. That meant something.

Back in the '70s and early '80s, I’d walk with a camera slung low and loose. I wasn't hunting for likes—I was looking for wonder. A rusted sign in the desert. An old woman on a porch with the wind catching her hair just right. A cracked window with lace curtains lit up by the afternoon sun. That stuff hit me hard. It still does.

But now?

Now there are blogs. And websites. And Instagram feeds where everyone is a curator of their own tiny museum, carefully arranging pieces for the passing crowd. There’s a certain beauty in it, sure—but also a pressure. An unspoken list of do’s and don’ts: shoot daily, post often, engage always, stay consistent, stay relevant, stay visible.

Some mornings, I open my camera bag and feel nothing.

Not because I don’t love photography anymore. I do. It’s in me. It’s how I see. But lately, it feels like I’m carrying more than just gear—I’m carrying expectations. Somewhere along the way, this craft turned into content. The hunt for a shot became the hunt for dopamine. And when that happens, something quietly breaks.

There was magic in the way it used to be. You’d shoot, develop the film, hold that still-wet print under the light, and your heart would thump because you made that. That moment belonged to you. It didn’t matter if it got shared, sold, or scrolled past in a half-second blur. The act of making it was the reward

.

I miss that. But maybe I don’t have to.

Maybe the answer isn’t to quit or complain or vanish. Maybe it’s to reclaim the ritual. To make space for slow seeing again. To take the camera out not because I have to—but because the light looks just right on the side of that weathered barn, and I’d regret it if I didn’t.

Maybe it’s about remembering that a photo can still be complete without a caption. That a day without shooting isn’t wasted—it’s just one more lap around the sun with your eyes open, saving film for when it really matters.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s okay to share a photo with just one person. Slide it across the table. Watch their eyes light up. That’s the kind of feedback the internet can’t touch.

I’ll keep shooting. But I’m also going to start seeing again. Slower. Quieter. Less for the feed, more for the feeling. Because the best shots I’ve ever taken weren’t about being followed—they were about being present.

And I think it’s time to go back to that.