You wouldn’t walk into an art gallery, point at a painting, and say, “Oh, you just moved a brush around, anyone can do that.” But do the same with a camera, and suddenly you’re a fraud. “You just pressed a button,” they say, as if all the composition, timing, and wild contortions to get the right angle were just a happy accident—like tripping over a cat and discovering a masterpiece.
This is the problem with photography. People think it’s cheating. They think because the thing you photographed was already there, you didn’t really do anything. It’s like accusing a chef of not cooking because the ingredients existed beforehand. “Oh, look at you, arranging those carrots. How artistic. Did the oven do all the work too?”
But here’s the thing: photography is art - in its own way. Except it’s art that’s shackled to reality like a prisoner on day release. You have to work with what’s in front of you—the light, the weather, the odd bloke in shorts and sandals standing right where the magic should be happening. You can’t just paint him out. (Well, you can, but then the internet comes for you with pitchforks and cries of “Photoshop!”)
And yet, somehow, within those constraints, you’re expected to make something beautiful. Something moving. Something that says: “Here. This moment. This sliver of time. It mattered.”
It’s not just pressing a button. It’s seeing before you press the button. It’s standing in the rain because you just know the light will be right in seven minutes. It’s crouching in a car park to photograph a puddle while people look at you like you’ve lost a contact lens and your dignity.
It’s noticing. Framing. Waiting. Fiddling with dials that never seem to do what the manual claims they do. And yes, occasionally—pressing a button. But only after doing all the things that make that button press mean something.
And that’s the twist. Photography tells the truth. It captures what was actually there. But the photographer chooses how to show it. Which angle. Which moment. Which blink in time that sums up a feeling, or a place, or a day.
It’s like writing a haiku using only the words already lying around in your garden shed.
So next time someone tells you it’s not art because you didn’t paint it from scratch, smile politely. Then tell them you’ve decided to take up abstract sculpture instead—using only frozen peas and passive aggression.
Because photography isn’t just clicking a button. It’s telling the truth with style.