The other day, I unearthed an old camera, intending to capture a few moments.

It had been so long that even the basic operations felt foreign. Eventually, I just flipped it into "Point-and-Shoot" mode. Like a complete novice, I began to re-examine the light, the composition, and the "breathing room" within the frame. In that moment, I realized how absurd my former self had been.

I used to be obsessed with the "Optimal Solution": mastering the machine, tweaking settings, and dissecting every technical feature. In doing so, I overlooked the most fundamental truth:

The machine doesn't matter at all. It is merely a tool.

What I truly desire has never been a specific mode, a lens, or a set of parameters. What I want is for the image to grow into a certain vision to express a story. As long as the result is reached, the tool is interchangeable.

On the quest for aesthetics, we often exhaust our attention on the tools themselves, as if picking the "right" one will cause beauty to manifest automatically.

But I’ve come to see that aesthetics aren't determined by the caliber of your equipment. They are hidden in the tiny details we often ignore: how a person speaks, where they pause, the angle at which they view the world, and what they choose to keep versus what they discard. One's manner, temperament, vision, and taste none of these need to be performed, yet none of them can be hidden.

Aesthetics aren't a show for others; they are naturally exposed in every gesture and movement.

By stripping the camera back to its simplest state, I understood more clearly: I don't want to "know how to use it"; I want to "be able to see."

True aesthetics never reside in the tool. They live in how I exist, how I choose, and how I engage with the world.



—— 🎐 XC Scribbles · 壹佰參拾肆 CXXXIV 📷