From Analog Photography to Digital and Back – A Journey to Find Meaning in Non-Professional Photography

In 2005, I picked up my first real camera: a Ricoh 500G. It had been lying around the house for years—it was the same camera my mother had used to take all the photos we have, or almost all of them. She bought it in the 1970s with one of her first pay checks and treasured it for years before life (including raising me) took priority, and photography slowly faded into the background.

When I first used the Ricoh, I was slightly underwhelmed. Many of my friends had inherited “better” cameras—mostly SLRs like Canon A-series or Nikon F-series models. The Ricoh 500G is a rangefinder camera, and at the time, that felt like a a lesser option compared to my friends gears. Yet now, looking back, that simplicity was its greatest strength. It had everything a beginner needed for film photography—and maybe even more. I might dust it off soon and try some street photography again.
Yes, it had limitations—manual settings for aperture and shutter speed were basic, and the fixed 40mm f/2 lens couldn’t be changed. But those very constraints forced me to be intentional with my shots. I had to step closer, or back away from the subjects, and frame my world through that single 40mm window. Just like a painter restricted to a limited palette, I learned to see creatively within boundaries although my chase for more gear was all but over.

As an eager, jealous teenager I still wanted an upgrade—and eventually got one from an uncle: a Canon AE-1 (non-program). Unfortunately, like a butterfly’s brief life, the camera lasted only a few days before its light-meter chip failed. At the time, finding spare parts was difficult (it still might be), so I turned to the internet. There, I found my holy grail: a black Canon A-1 in perfect condition (apart from deteriorated light seals), complete with a 50mm f/1.8 lens and an Olympic-branded lens cap. The whole deal costed just around €100—perfect for my teenage budget.

The A-1 was more complex than I expected, and it took time to get used to. But it became my go-to camera for years. Changing the lenses became a game on its own, regardless of having a good reason for it or not, and collecting new lenses became a habit which I now half regret.

Eventually, digital became too tempting to resist. Had prices been lower, I might have made the jump sooner. But with some savings, I finally bought my first digital kit: a Canon 20D with a 28–135mm F3.5-5.6 USM lens. At first, I treated every digital shot like a film exposure—careful and conservative, which helped keep my hard drive from overflowing. Over time, though, that restraint faded—especially after upgrading to a Canon 40D with a 24–105mm L lens (sadly stolen), and more recently to a Sony A7C with a few prime lenses.

Why do I tell you all this—assuming you’ve made it this far?

Because lately I’ve been asking myself why we take pictures. I don’t mean the ones meant to preserve memories or fulfil paid work. I mean all the other shots. The so-called “artistic” shots that don’t end up in museums and can feel awkward when hung in our homes. The one you like and you keep there hoping at some point to make a collection and send it to an editor. And for that specific kind of photography, is it worth having a digital camera where you may take 10 shots at the same subject just to get the horizon right?

In even more general and simple words; are we here for the result or for the experience?

So to conclude, my Canon A1 is back on the street with a new Canon 50mm 1.4 S.C.C. (with a close to dreamlike render for skin tone and bokeh) and I haven’t been so connected with a piece of gear since quite some time, probably since my first experience with the Ricoh 500 G more than two decades ago.

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