From Brushstrokes to Shutter Clicks: How I Found My True Art Form

How I Fell in Love with Photography

As a child, I wanted to be an artist. I was utterly captivated by the Renaissance—by the way painters could create something so lifelike, so deeply emotional, with nothing but pigments and a brush. I was fascinated by the time and patience it took to bring a piece to life, every detail carefully considered, every brushstroke a small piece of a much larger vision. I imagined myself standing in a grand studio, working tirelessly on a masterpiece that would outlive me, something timeless and evocative.

But there was just one small problem.

I couldn’t paint to save my life.

For all my love of fine art, my ability to translate what I saw in my mind onto a canvas was... lacking. I tried, I really did, but the skill just wasn’t there. No matter how much I admired the artistic process, I couldn’t seem to recreate it in the way I envisioned. And as I got older, I started to drift away from that childhood dream, unsure of where I fit in creatively.

So, I explored other paths.

For a time, I wanted to be a forensic anthropologist, drawn to the idea of uncovering history through the physical remnants of the past. Then, I considered criminal psychology, fascinated by the complexity of human behavior. Both fields required intense attention to detail and a deep curiosity about people—two things I already carried with me from my love of art. But while these interests intrigued me, they never truly fulfilled me. Something always felt like it was missing.

And then, I found photography.

Not just any photography—black-and-white film photography.

The first time I developed an image in a darkroom, I felt something click into place. There was a kind of magic in the process, a patience and precision that reminded me of painting. Unlike digital photography, where an image appears instantly, film required care. It forced me to slow down, to be intentional with every frame. And the best part? The darkroom process gave me that same tangible satisfaction I had always craved—the feeling of creating something physical, something real.

I spent countless hours in that darkroom, learning the ins and outs of film development, experimenting with exposure and contrast, pushing the limits of what I could create. And the deeper I dove, the more I fell in love—not just with photography itself, but with its history.

That’s when I discovered pictorialism.

In the early days of photography, the medium wasn’t considered an art form. Painters feared that cameras would replace them, that their centuries-old craft would become obsolete in a world where anyone could “just press a button.” In response, photographers began intentionally creating images that mimicked paintings—soft-focus, ethereal, dreamlike. They wanted to prove that photography wasn’t just about documenting reality; it was about interpreting it. It was about emotion, storytelling, and craftsmanship.

That realization changed everything for me.

Photography wasn’t just about capturing a moment—it was about creating art. It was about using light the way painters used pigment, shaping an image with composition, tone, and texture, crafting something that felt intentional and deeply human.

I knew, without a doubt, that this was what I was meant to do.

As I deepened my love for photography, I found myself drawn to the work of Henri Cartier-Bresson. Before he became one of the most influential photographers in history—the so-called father of street photography—he was a painter. Like me, he initially saw art through the lens of traditional mediums, fascinated by composition and form. But eventually, he transitioned to photography, bringing his painter’s eye into a new medium.

He pioneered the idea of the decisive moment—the concept that in photography, there exists a single, fleeting instant where all elements align perfectly to create an image that is both spontaneous and profound. Unlike painting, where an artist can refine and adjust their work over time, photography requires an almost instinctual understanding of timing, composition, and human nature. It’s about seeing the world as it unfolds and knowing when to press the shutter.

This resonated deeply with me. Photography isn’t just about documenting life—it’s about engaging with it. It’s about forming a relationship between the photographer and the subject, between the person and the camera. Cartier-Bresson didn’t just take pictures; he observed, he anticipated, he felt the moment before it happened. And that’s something I strive for in my own work.



So, I threw myself into it completely. I experimented, I refined, I spent late nights in the darkroom, covered in the smell of chemicals, watching as my images slowly came to life. (And let me tell you—there is nothing romantic about that process. It’s messy, tedious, and, historically, even a little dangerous. Some of the early chemicals used in photography were explosive, and photographers had to be incredibly careful not to poison themselves. Thank goodness for modern safety standards!)

But beyond the technical side of things, I also discovered something even more meaningful—the art of human connection.

Because photography isn’t just about light and composition. It’s about people. It’s about trust. It’s about making someone feel seen, about capturing the quiet moments that might otherwise go unnoticed. It’s about taking a fleeting second and preserving it forever, about holding onto the things we’re most afraid of forgetting.

And that’s what I do now.

My photography is deeply rooted in my love for traditional paintings—the romance, the storytelling, the artistry—but with the understanding that photography is its own unique form of expression. It’s not about imitating other mediums; it’s about embracing what makes it special. It’s about painting with light and allowing emotion to take center stage.

Looking back, I realize now that I never really gave up on my childhood dream of becoming an artist. I just found a different way to create. And in doing so, I found something even better—an art form that allows me to capture the real and the raw, the fleeting and the forever.

So, while I may not be standing in a grand studio with a paintbrush in hand, I am still creating art. And for me, that’s more than enough.