In Daido Moriyama’s Near Equal, photography is stripped back to instinct.

There’s something slightly uncomfortable about watching him work. Not because it’s chaotic – but because it ignores almost everything you’re told photography should be.

Images are blurred.
Contrast is pushed hard.
Frames feel loose, sometimes even accidental.

And yet it holds together.

Moriyama isn’t trying to make perfect photographs. He’s reacting to the world as it moves – quickly, instinctively, without hesitation. What you get is something raw, but honest. Not polished, not refined, but real.

Letting Go of Control

Most photographers tighten up when they pick up a camera.

Moriyama does the opposite.

He walks, observes, shoots, and keeps moving. There’s no overthinking, no waiting around for something to line up neatly. The moment appears, and it’s taken – however it comes.

Grain becomes part of the image.
Blur becomes movement.
Harsh contrast gives everything weight.

It would be easy to call it careless, but it isn’t. There’s intention in the way he works – it just isn’t forced. It’s built on experience, repetition, and a willingness to accept whatever the frame gives back.

More Than the Camera

Moriyama isn’t an Olympus OM shooter.

He’s most closely associated with compact cameras like the Ricoh GR – small, fast, and built for reacting rather than composing. That choice tells you everything about how he sees photography.

But it’s worth remembering – the Ricoh GR didn’t arrive until the mid-90s. Moriyama was already producing work long before that. Cameras like the Olympus Pen W and other compact rangefinders played a role in that earlier period.

And that’s where it becomes relevant here.

Because something like the Olympus XA sits right in that same space. Small, unobtrusive, always ready. A camera you carry without thinking – which is exactly the point.

It’s not about the system.
It’s not about the lens.
It’s about being there, ready, and open to the moment.

Whether it’s a Ricoh, a Pen, or an XA loaded with Tri-X – the philosophy doesn’t change.

Why This Matters

Moriyama is one of my favourite photographers for a reason.

Not because the images are technically perfect – far from it. But because they feel alive. There’s energy in them. A sense that they were taken in the moment, not constructed afterwards.

He gives you permission to:

• stop chasing perfection
• embrace grain instead of correcting it
• accept blur instead of fighting it
• take the shot and move on

There’s a freedom in that approach that’s easy to lose, especially when you start overthinking your work.

Take It With You

There’s a tendency, especially with film, to slow everything down and treat each frame like it needs to be right.

Moriyama cuts straight through that.

Go out. Walk. Shoot. Miss a few.
Let the frame fall apart a little.

Some of the most interesting images come when you stop trying to make something “good” and simply respond to what’s in front of you.

Watch Near Equal, then go out and shoot without overthinking it.

That’s where things start to become yours.

Want to learn more about Daido Moriyama and see more of his great photos then visit his official website.

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This short documentary follows Steve McCurry as he photographs with what Kodak presented as the last roll of Kodachrome ever produced. The premise is straightforward: a film stock that defined colour photography for decades is reaching the end of its life, and one photographer is asked to use it one final time.

The film doesn’t try to turn this into drama. There’s no countdown, no manufactured tension, and no attempt to create a definitive “last photograph.” Instead, it quietly observes McCurry at work – travelling, photographing people, and doing what he has always done: making careful, composed images without fuss.

What stands out is not the symbolism, but the behaviour. The pace is measured. Frames are chosen deliberately. There’s a sense of consideration that comes naturally when film is treated as finite and valuable. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels wasted.

Importantly, the documentary avoids sentimentality. Kodachrome isn’t framed as a relic or a martyr. It’s treated as a working material – loaded, exposed, and respected until it’s gone. The emphasis is on use, not mourning.

Reviews of the film often note this restraint. Rather than trying to summarise Kodachrome’s legacy or elevate the moment into a grand farewell, the documentary keeps its focus narrow: a photographer working carefully with a material that is no longer replaceable.

For film photographers, this is where the film quietly resonates. Not because Kodachrome is special – though it was – but because the process feels familiar. Limited frames. No safety net. Decisions that matter. The documentary doesn’t explain these ideas; it simply shows them.

It’s not instructional, and it isn’t nostalgic for its own sake. It’s a calm record of how photography behaves when materials are finite – and how little that actually changes the act of seeing.

Originally Released: National Geographic
Format: Short documentary film
Focus: Kodachrome film, photographic process, and working with limited materials

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This series is not interested in that.

Britain in Focus: A Photographic History is a three-part BBC documentary presented by photographer and journalist Eamonn McCabe, and it does something increasingly rare: it treats photography as something worth thinking about.

Slowly.

Rather than racing through cameras, techniques, or trends, the series steps back and looks at photography as a cultural force – shaped by science, circumstance, patience, and a great deal of trial and error. It assumes the viewer is capable of concentration, which already places it in a minority.

For film photographers in particular, it’s quietly reassuring television. No urgency. No optimisation. No thumbnails insisting you change your life in ten minutes.

Just photography, taken seriously.

Episode One – When Photography Was Still a Gamble

The first episode travels back to the 19th century, when photography was neither reliable nor especially convenient. Early practitioners were working with unfamiliar chemistry, temperamental equipment, and exposure times that rewarded optimism more than certainty.

McCabe explores the scientific foundations of the medium and the work of pioneers such as Roger Fenton and Julia Margaret Cameron, placing them firmly in their historical context. Photography, at this point, is not a hobby. It’s an experiment – one that might or might not work.

What comes through most clearly is how physical the process was. Plates. Chemicals. Light. Time. Failure. Photography had weight, consequence, and a very real chance of disappointment.

Anyone who has ever waited for film to come back from a lab will feel immediately at home.

Episode Two – Photography Learns to Pay Attention

The second episode moves into the early 20th century, as photography begins to look outward. Newspapers, magazines, and documentary work take shape, and photography becomes a witness to events rather than a curiosity.

McCabe traces the emergence of photojournalism through figures such as Christina Broom and Bill Brandt, and through publications like Picture Post, where images were expected to carry meaning rather than decoration.

What’s striking is how deliberate the work remains. Even under pressure – war, industry, social change – photographers weren’t taking hundreds of frames and hoping for the best. They were watching, waiting, and committing.

It’s an approach that feels surprisingly familiar to anyone shooting film today, long after digital removed the technical need for restraint.

Episode Three – When Images Became Easy

The final episode charts the rise of colour photography, mass circulation, and eventually the digital revolution. Cameras become cheaper, faster, and more accessible. Photography moves from something practiced carefully to something done constantly.

McCabe explores the work of photographers such as John Bulmer, Fay Godwin, Vanley Burke, and Martin Parr, each responding differently to a world saturated with images.

Viewed now, this episode lands on an uncomfortable but useful question:
when photographs become effortless to make, what makes them worth keeping?

It’s a question that quietly underpins much of today’s renewed interest in film – whether people realise it or not.

Why This Series Still Belongs Here

This isn’t essential viewing because it teaches technique.

It’s essential because it restores perspective.

Britain in Focus reminds you that photography has always been shaped by limitation – by what technology could do, by how long things took, and by how much attention a photographer was willing to give. These weren’t obstacles. They were the conditions that made the work meaningful.

That way of thinking sits neatly alongside film photography – and alongside systems like Olympus OM, which were designed to reward patience rather than speed.

Watching this series doesn’t make you want new equipment.
It makes you want to slow down and look more carefully.

Which is usually a sign that something is doing its job.

Originally Broadcast: BBC Television (March 2017)
Series: Britain in Focus: A Photographic History

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A gentle, practical reflection on portrait photography – rooted in simplicity, patience, and working with what’s close at hand.

In this understated daytime segment from Me And My Camera, renowned British portrait photographer Patrick Lichfield offers calm, experience-led advice on photographing people without fuss or pretence. Rather than presenting photography as something technical or inaccessible, Lichfield reduces it to its essentials: light, space, and human presence.

Filmed by Thames Television and broadcast on ITV on 14th September 1981, the programme shows Lichfield transforming an ordinary living room into a workable portrait studio. Chairs, windows, curtains, and walls become tools – not obstacles. The emphasis is on observation and comfort, not control.

He’s seen shooting with an Olympus OM camera fitted with the Zuiko 85mm f/2, a classic portrait lens that perfectly mirrors his approach: restrained, flattering, and purposeful. There’s no sales pitch here, just quiet demonstration by someone who understands why certain tools endure.

This isn’t a tutorial in the modern sense. It’s a composed lesson in seeing people clearly – and a reminder that strong portraits are built on trust, patience, and attention rather than equipment.

Originally Aired: 14 September 1981
Series: Me And My Camera (ITV)
Featuring: Patrick Lichfield
Camera: Olympus OM with Zuiko 85mm f/2

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And then, quite suddenly, it wasn’t.

This is a tale of golden empires, spectacular blunders, chemical magic, digital denial, and a phoenix-like resurrection no one quite expected. It’s also a love letter to grain, to Tri-X, and to those slightly smug moments in the darkroom when you realise: yes, film is still alive – and Kodak, for better or worse, is still part of the story.

Prefer your history with dramatic music and American voiceovers?

If you fancy a deeper dive, the excellent 47-minute documentary by FD Finance – linked above – lays out Kodak’s meteoric rise and Shakespearean collapse in gripping detail. It’s packed with boardroom blunders, bold predictions, and just the right amount of corporate chaos. Worth a watch – ideally with a cuppa and a biscuit.

Now, let’s wind the reel back and begin with how it all started…

Kodak Early Days

Kodak began in the late 1800s, when George Eastman – a man who looked like he’d never smiled in his life – decided photography should be as easy as making toast. Before Eastman, photography involved explosive chemicals, tripods the size of lamp posts and a level of patience most of us now reserve for waiting for software updates.

Eastman’s breakthrough was simple genius: pre-loaded, roll-based film cameras that anyone could use. His 1888 slogan “You press the button, we do the rest” could’ve been written by Steve Jobs. Except Eastman meant it literally – you posted the whole camera back, and Kodak did everything for you. Developing. Printing. Reloading. The works.

By 1900, the Kodak Brownie was the iPhone of its day. Affordable, portable, and wildly addictive. Your nan probably had one. Everyone did. And Kodak? It printed money. Quite literally, in some cases.

The Empire That Shot the World

Through the 20th century, Kodak didn’t just dominate photography – it was photography. They produced the film, the cameras, the paper, the chemicals, and the glossy ads with fresh-faced American families leaping off piers in matching sweaters. They even had a monopoly so strong it made Standard Oil look like a corner shop.

They also pioneered motion picture film. Every Oscar-winning epic from Casablanca to The Godfather was shot on Kodak stock. And when humans finally went to the moon in 1969, guess whose film they took?

(Kodak. Not Fuji. Never Fuji.)

By the 1970s, Kodak had 90% of the film market in the U.S. and a similar stranglehold elsewhere. At its peak, Kodak employed over 145,000 people and was one of the most recognisable brands on Earth.

They were, to borrow a Britishism, absolutely rolling in it.

The Digital Elephant in the Darkroom

And then, they invented their own downfall.

This is not a metaphor. In 1975, Kodak engineer Steve Sasson built the first digital camera. It looked like a toaster with a lens and recorded 0.01 megapixel black-and-white images onto cassette tape. It was, to quote Sasson himself, “a bit rubbish” – but it worked.

Kodak, in its infinite wisdom, responded like a Victorian aristocrat being asked to eat a Pot Noodle: they were vaguely curious, politely horrified, and then dismissed it entirely.

Because Kodak knew their empire was built on selling film. No film, no cash. And so, rather than embrace the technology they’d created, they buried it. For decades. The irony is Shakespearean.

Fast forward to the late ‘90s and the digital camera boom had begun. Kodak tried to catch up, launching early digital compacts (including some decent collaborations with Canon and Nikon). But it was too late. Their business model – based on people using more film than toilet paper – was crumbling faster than a Rich Tea biscuit in a hot brew.

From Glory to Bankruptcy

By 2012, Kodak filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. This was the company that invented the consumer camera and had once been richer than McDonald’s and Nike combined. Now they were flogging patents and office chairs.

To make matters worse, they had sold off key divisions – like their profitable chemicals and healthcare imaging arms – to stay afloat. It was like selling your central heating so you could buy more winter jumpers.

The decline was brutal. Kodak became the poster child for corporate complacency, often held up in business textbooks alongside Blockbuster and MySpace as a masterclass in how to spectacularly fumble the future.

Tri-X and the Ghosts That Refuse to Die

And yet – Kodak didn’t die.

Against all odds (and business logic), Kodak Film lives on. In fact, it’s thriving in its own peculiar way. The recent resurgence of film photography has seen Kodak’s name regain some of its old swagger, particularly among a younger generation raised on megapixels and Instagram filters but now obsessed with grain, imperfection, and analogue cool.

The real star here is Tri-X 400. If Kodak were a band, Tri-X would be their greatest hit, played on loop at every gig. Introduced in 1954, Tri-X has that perfect combination of grit, contrast, and subtlety that no filter can replicate. It was the film of choice for war photographers, jazz album covers, fashion shoots, and street snappers. It still is.

Shoot a roll of Tri-X today and you can feel the ghosts of Cartier-Bresson, Jane Bown, and Don McCullin in your fingertips.

It’s the kind of film that doesn’t just capture a moment – it feels like one.

Kodak Today — A Weird, Wobbly Survivor

So what does Kodak do now?

Well, it’s complicated. There’s still Kodak Alaris, who handle film production and consumer products (including film scanners and photo booths in depressing supermarkets). Then there’s Eastman Kodak, the parent company, which now dabbles in commercial printing, packaging, and other vaguely industrial things nobody fully understands.

At one point, they even tried launching a Kodak-branded cryptocurrency. Yes. Really. It lasted about as long as a roll of 110 film.

Yet, remarkably, Kodak film continues. Colour stocks like Portra and Ektar are more popular than ever (albeit more expensive than a round of drinks in Soho). They’ve even re-released Ektachrome, which is a bit like David Bowie coming back from the dead and releasing a new album on cassette.

Kodak is no longer a tech titan. But it is – somehow – a cultural brand again.

Final Frame: What Kodak Still Means

Kodak’s story is both a cautionary tale and a reminder of how hard it is to kill a good idea. They may have missed the digital boat (and then set fire to the dock), but they created something that transcended business.

They gave us a way to see the world. A way to preserve it. A way to remember who we were.

And even now, in an age of AI selfies and 4K drone footage, there’s still something magical about loading a roll of Tri-X into your camera, stepping into the light, and pressing that shutter.

Because as George Eastman might’ve said, in that no-nonsense way of his: you press the button… and the story begins.

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In this rare and reflective video, National Geographic photographer Sam Abell shares his philosophy of shooting — rooted in patience, restraint, and reverence for simplicity. Eschewing flash and favouring natural light, Abell’s approach is deeply connected to the emotional and architectural qualities of space. His voiceover is more essay than explanation, touching on themes of beauty, cultural memory, and the dignity of vanishing worlds.

The program revisits his earliest assignments, such as Newfoundland fishing villages, and journeys through Shaker communities, the South Pacific, and Tierra del Fuego — all captured with Zuiko glass and an Olympus OM camera by his side.

This isn’t a tutorial. It’s a visual philosophy class in motion.

Originally Released: Early 1990s
Narrated by: Sam Abell
Runtime: Approx. 30 minutes

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Through rare interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, and reflections from Avedon himself, the film explores the two poles of his work: the seductive brightness of fashion and the emotional weight of his portraiture. From his early days at Harper’s Bazaar to the haunting series In the American West, Avedon’s photography is dissected not just as image-making, but as a psychological encounter.

It’s a documentary about seeing — what we reveal, what we hide, and how a camera can reach beneath both.

Originally Aired: 1995
Produced by: PBS / American Masters
Directed by: Helen Whitney
Length: 90 minutes
Featuring: Richard Avedon, Doon Arbus, Mike Nichols, and others

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David Bailey doesn’t follow rules, and neither does this film. Instead of a neat chronology or a puff-piece retrospective, what unfolds is an unfiltered, occasionally abrasive journey through his art, his ego, and his archive. Featuring rare footage, studio sessions, interviews with friends and collaborators (including Johnny Depp and Damien Hirst), and Bailey’s own narration, this is portraiture by way of autobiography.

From the East End to Vogue, from the ‘60s explosion to modern minimalism, Bailey’s impact on fashion and celebrity photography is undeniable. But this documentary goes beyond his portfolio — it asks what it means to see, to obsess, and to never play by the rules.

Originally Aired: 2010
Produced by: BBC / Director: David Bailey
Length: 90 minutes
Featuring: David Bailey, Catherine Dyer, Johnny Depp, Jerry Hall, Jack Nicholson, and more

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From war zones to remote jungles, from scientific expeditions to intimate human stories, each photographer reveals what it takes to earn the shot — and the toll it sometimes takes to get it. These aren’t staged moments or studio portraits — this is photography in its rawest, most demanding form.

What makes this film so enduring is its honesty. It doesn’t glamorise the work; it reveals its cost, its calling, and its deep personal meaning. It’s a reminder that great photography is not about gear or gimmicks — it’s about access, timing, instinct, and trust.

Originally Aired: 1998
Produced by: National Geographic Television
Featuring: Steve McCurry, Sam Abell, Jodi Cobb, David Alan Harvey, Karen Kasmauski, William Allard, and more
Length: ~60 minutes

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