Too often, perfection is paralyzing—particularly in creative pursuits.
As artists, writers, performers or photographers, we are our own harshest critic. We obsess over the quality of our work and can become weighed down in every detail.
And while an eye for improvement is necessary to refine our craft, it can limit our output. It’s simply safer not to share our ‘imperfect’ art with the world—so we don’t.
I’ve written before on the blockade that perfection can impose on those who seek it:
I once believed that the aim of landscape photography was perfection. The perfect sunrise. The perfect waterfall. The perfect wave.
And after (many) years of chasing perfect landscapes, I failed. I came close, achingly so. Yet the problem with that ideal is that anything short of ‘perfect’ is, by definition, a failure. It only takes one flaw to dethrone an image from being perfect.
To shake that mindset, I proposed a more humble approach:
The trick to overcoming the paralysis of perfection is to give yourself the freedom to fail. And then to learn from it. When we take a step back to treat our photography as a lifelong pursuit—one full of ups and downs—only then can we escape the mirage of perfection.
Because nature isn’t perfect. It’s rugged and raw. It’s chaotic and wild. It’s unscripted.
And so taking my advice to heart, I invested in imperfection.
I bought a Fujifilm X100V. On specs alone, it’s an inferior choice than my current Sony A7RIII, sporting:
A fixed 35mm lens (which is neither wide nor telephoto)
A smaller APS-C sensor (which is both unstabilised and noisier in low-light)
Weaker dynamic range and cumbersome RAW files
Sounds like a landscape photographer’s dream camera, right?
In the studio, technical specs are front and centre as we pixel-peep to compare sharpness. We push the lighting conditions to the extremes to test noise and dynamic range.
But out on the street, in a forest or with loved ones, those specs fade away.
What matters is how we use the camera. Does it inspire us to view the moments unfolding around us in a new light? Does it amplify our creative expression—rather than becoming a barrier to it?
So how does the Fujifilm X100V stack up? Put simply, I’ve found it a delight to use.
Its retro design isn’t a mere statement. It transforms the camera from a hi-tech tool into a crafted object—that beckons to be held and played with. One that just looks cool. One that invites you to pick it up and bring it along for the ride.
Likewise, many words have been written on Fujifilm’s pleasing colour science. And every word is justified.
For the past five years I’ve taken all my photos in RAW format. Yes they’re more flexible and have greater range to be pushed and pulled in editing, but the inherent flat profile is less than inviting. It fails to capture the essence of my experience in the moment.
Enter Fujifilm’s infinite colour profiles.
There’s a range of film simulations to suit your style. And beyond the vintage film looks, I’ve found the black and white stocks to be particularly punchy. (Acros is 👌). Stripping out the colour propels me to focus on subtle tones and forms.
Then there are the endless recipes (around which a vibrant online community has developed). I can tinker with the grain, shadow detail, colour tones and more. What I see through the viewfinder becomes an extension of my creative vision for the scene I’m experiencing.
Fujifilm’s JPEGs are rich and engaging straight out of the camera—needing little, if any, post-processing.
And because of the camera’s technical ‘shortcomings’, it fosters the freedom to fail.
Why? There’s no harm and no risk in experimenting with new ideas. To consider new angles. To try shooting directly into the sun. To embrace high dynamic range scenes with heavy shadows.
To have fun again.
Because there’s no cost in firing off a few frames to see how the capture might turn out. It might not be perfect, and likely won’t be, but it will be an accurate capture of that scene at that time as I lived it.
So that’s what I’ve been doing. While our current lockdown has prevented me from hiking through lush forests or getting my feet wet down by the coast, I’ve explored the streets and suburbs within our 15km bubble.
From Williamstown to Yarraville to North Melbourne, the X100V has given me the spark I needed to get out and create again.
Not to pursue tack-sharp, exposure bracketed, epic sunrises. But to simply document my life and my experiences. A snap at a time. Not to overthink each scene. But to hold the camera up to my eye, frame up the shot and click the shutter.
And it’s given me a fresh lens (see what I did there?) to view and appreciate the world around me as it is. Passing glances on the street. Manicured front yards. Cutting-edge architecture next to Victorian terraces from yesteryear.
While the Fujifilm X100V isn’t going to supplement my Sony A7RIII for grand landscapes, it’s going to compliment it. To help me capture the moments in-between the sweeping vistas and the tranquil waterfalls.
Because life takes place as much during the fleeting moments. That’s where our memories take hold.
These moments are often raw and unscripted. But they’re ours.
