The lost art of taking A photo

There was a time when taking a photo meant something. It wasn’t about perfection or performance but about capturing a memory. A snapshot of real life, in all its messy, unfiltered beauty

I miss when taking a photo was special, when it wasn’t just about snapping a picture but about capturing a feeling, a moment, a memory that mattered. Photos used to hold weight. They were intentional, taken with care because film was precious, and so were the moments we chose to freeze in time.

But somewhere along the way, we lost that.

Whenever I visit home from Australia, my favourite ritual is flicking through old photo albums. Those pictures weren’t perfect; some were blurry, some were tilted, and some had that classic red-eye glow. But that’s what made them real. They tell a story, not just of what was happening in the frame, but of the people, the energy, the life behind the lens. I remember the feeling of those moments, the laughter, the awkward poses, the joy. And that was the point.

Now? I don’t want to take photos. And I don’t want to be in them.

Why?

Truthfully, I want to blame social media.

Maybe it’s just the Gen-Z in me, but taking photos has become a chore—a performance—a perfectly curated highlight reel. With the rise of influencers, it’s no longer about preserving memories; it’s about crafting an aesthetic and projecting an image. Every picture must be flawless: the lighting just right, the pose effortless yet intentional, the background clean, and the edits seamless. There’s no room for spontaneity, no space for imperfection.

The joy of capturing a moment has been replaced by the pressure to present a version of ourselves that fits into a feed.

Now, before I even take a picture, I hesitate. Not because I want to savour the moment but because I’m already assessing whether it’s “post-worthy.” When did we start taking photos for others instead of for ourselves?

Even when I try to take a candid shot, it turns into a production. I adjust the angle, shift the lighting, retake it again and again until the moment itself feels distant; manufactured rather than lived. The photo becomes an obligation, not an instinct.

And when I do end up in pictures, I scrutinise them in a way I never used to. Before, a photo was just me: windblown hair, an unplanned laugh, an outfit I might cringe at now, but that made sense that day. Now, it’s something to be analysed.

How do I look?
Should I have posed differently?
Does this need a filter?

Maybe I should just take another one.

Another ten photos added to the camera roll, all destined to be deleted in bulk.

I miss the simplicity of film cameras. The anticipation of developing photos, the excitement of seeing how they turned out. No retakes, no endless scrolling through near-identical shots, just a moment, captured once, exactly as it was.

Film from 2019

I don’t want to hate photos. I want to love them again. I want them to feel raw, personal, and intimate—a reflection of real life, not a performance. I want to take pictures because I want to remember, not because I feel obligated to document my life in a way that fits into a grid.

Maybe the secret is to go back. Take photos just for myself. Print them. Put them in albums. Keep them offline. Let them be a private joy, not a public display.

Maybe then, I’ll find my love for photography again.

xoxo