When I first picked up the Hasselblad 907, I thought it wouldn’t feel too different from my Leica. Both are old-school, both manual, both make that nostalgic “click” that feels like time folding.
But after actually shooting with it, I realized—they’re nothing alike.
Leica starts with a point. Light falls here, and the story grows outward from that spot. It’s like picking up a moment.
Hasselblad starts with a surface. A full square frame, quiet and demanding, asking me what to remove and what to keep. You don’t “grab” a story, you curate it.
And that color… Hasselblad images have this gentle, sleepy vintage tint, as if the photo itself remembers something. A little yellowed, a little soft, like memory waking up slowly.
To most people, the photos look the same. But anyone who knows will instantly recognize it: That’s the breath of a Hasselblad. That’s the heartbeat of a Leica.
Sometimes I feel these cameras are two kinds of eyes. One sees the spark; the other sees the whole sky.
And through both, I’m slowly learning to see myself.
