Sharp Lenses, Blurry Vision

The Gear Trap

Let’s get this out of the way: I love cameras. I love the tactile click of a shutter, the weight of a lens in my hand, the way glass and metal feel like potential. I geek out over old film bodies and quietly admire sleek new mirrorless builds. But here’s the thing—none of it actually matters. Not really. Not in the way we’re told it does.

We’ve been sold this fantasy, this polished idea that better gear means better art. That upgrading your body or dropping a grand on glass will somehow elevate your eye, your instinct, your ability to tell stories. And it’s easy to believe. Because we’re human. Because shiny things are tempting. Because in a world that constantly questions our worth, gear offers certainty in numbers: ISO, megapixels, aperture, autofocus points.

But art doesn’t work like that.

I’ve seen photos shot on disposable cameras that punched me in the chest. I’ve seen iPhone snapshots full of more soul than entire exhibitions filled with medium-format mediocrity. I’ve also seen people with the best equipment make the most forgettable images—clean, perfect, hollow.

You know why? Because gear is just a tool. It doesn’t feel for you. It doesn’t tell you when the light is right. It doesn’t chase the timing of a glance, or the way the world folds into beauty when no one’s watching. Only you can do that.

And yet, here we are—scrolling forums, watching YouTube reviews, comparing sharpness between two lenses that cost more than a holiday. We’re measuring art with technical graphs. Hoping that this next purchase will fix what we’re not ready to face: that the real work is internal. That growth is uncomfortable. That vision has nothing to do with how clean your sensor is.

Don’t get me wrong—gear can help. Of course it can. If you’re shooting wildlife or sports or commercial gigs, you need the right tool for the job. But for most of us chasing something emotional, something real—it’s not the gear holding us back. It’s fear. Perfectionism. Self-doubt. Comparison.

The truth is, I’ve deleted thousands of photos chasing that elusive “perfect” shot. Sharper, cleaner, more “professional.” But the ones that stay with me? The ones that really matter? They’re not perfect. Some are blurry. Some are grainy. Some are off-center or oddly lit. But they feel honest. They feel like me.

And that’s what gear can’t give you. It can’t give you you.

So use what you have. Love what you have. Know your tools, sure—but don’t worship them. Don’t let them become the excuse you hide behind or the crutch you lean on. Because the best camera you’ll ever own is the one that doesn’t get in the way of your vision.

Remember: the world doesn’t remember what camera you used. It remembers what you saw, and how it made them feel.

That’s the point. That’s the power. Everything else is packaging.