Not Everything in Photography Is Photography
The first time I heard that phrase, I felt it touched something deep—something I had sensed but never quite put into words. Over time, and with the sea as the main subject of my photographic work, that idea has taken shape and become a quiet truth I carry with me every time I head out with my camera.
Because yes, you can spend years studying technique: understanding light, exposure, the rhythm of the waves, the shifts in color depending on the time of day or season. You can master every camera setting to catch the precise instant when the foam breaks or the sun sinks below the horizon. And yet, sea photography—the kind that actually says something—goes far beyond that. It doesn’t reside only in what is seen or how it is seen. It lives, above all, in what is felt.
The sea is not just another subject. It is movement, time, memory, mystery. Sometimes it appears as a soft mirror, other times as a roaring threat. Photographing it is almost an act of listening, not controlling. Because the sea doesn’t let itself be tamed; it offers or denies itself, and all you can do is be there, present, open to receiving. And in that gesture—in that partial surrender of the photographer to something greater—there’s much more than technique: there’s humility, contemplation, connection.
I’ve taken hundreds, maybe thousands of photographs of the sea. Some of them turned out “well,” technically speaking. But interestingly, the ones that mean the most to me aren’t the most perfect. They’re the ones where something slipped in: an emotion, a sense of absence, a memory, even a state of mind of mine that found its way in without my realizing it. Those images speak of more than water and light. They speak of a moment, of why I was there, of what I needed to see at that time.
Over time, I’ve come to understand that photographing the sea is also a way of speaking about oneself without saying a word. It’s not about representing what’s in front of you, but about exploring what it stirs inside you. And that’s where the "non-photographic" enters with force: the silence, the waiting, the intuition, the inner dialogue. All of it becomes part of the final image, even if no one sees it in the frame.
That’s why I’ve grown wary of the perfect shot. I’m more interested in photographs born from real moments, from genuine connection with a place, from a personal need to look and to understand. Because the sea doesn’t lend itself easily to capture. It suggests, it hides, it constantly changes. Photographing it is, in some way, accepting that you’ll never completely grasp it. But in the attempt—if it’s honest—something might emerge that transcends the image: a shared emotion, a poetic truth, a small revelation.
“Not everything in photography is photography.” When it comes to the sea, perhaps even less so. Because what stays with you long after the photo is taken is not the image itself, but the echo of what was lived, sensed, or felt in that fleeting moment when the sea and you coincided.
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