Learning to Love Photography (and My People) Better
By Ramadhan Karali
February always shows up dressed in red. Roses, hearts, romance everywhere. But lately, I’ve been thinking about love less as performance and more as practice. The quiet kind. The kind you return to when motivation fades. The kind that stays when things feel boring, heavy, or unclear. That’s the kind of love I want to bring back into my photography. Because photography, at its core, isn’t about cameras. It’s about attention. About how long you’re willing to stay, about who you choose to see.
Frame from a shoot I did called “Kibandaski Love”
I’ve been noticing something uncomfortable about myself. Sometimes I love outcomes more than process. I chase good frames instead of good presence. I move fast when something in me is asking to slow down. But love doesn’t rush. Some of my strongest images didn’t come from chasing moments. They came from sitting in them. From staying longer than necessary. From listening past the first story. From letting silence do some of the work. From not lifting the camera immediately, or sometimes at all. So lately, I’m choosing fewer frames and more intention. More conversations before photographs. More patience with moments that don’t reveal themselves on schedule. I want to make work that doesn’t just look honest, but feels honest to the people inside it.
The internet rewards urgency, spectacle, and drama. Love moves differently. I’m learning to ask myself harder questions before pressing the shutter. Am I taking this because it’s meaningful, or because it’s impressive? Is this image serving the person, or just serving my portfolio? Am I documenting, or extracting? Not every powerful moment needs to be photographed. Some moments need to be protected. Some stories need trust before lenses. Some truths need time. Loving photography better, for me, means choosing dignity over drama, relationship over reach, care over clicks.
This month, I’ve also been thinking about how we celebrate people, especially our friends. We celebrate celebrities we don’t know. We quote them, defend them, build shrines to strangers whose lives don’t touch ours. Meanwhile, some of the most gifted artists I know, my friends, are quietly building, struggling, creating, doubting, trying again, unseen. And somehow, we wait. We wait until they make it. We wait until the world validates them. We wait until it’s obvious. But love doesn’t wait for proof. Your friends are already celebrities in your life. Already brilliant. Already doing hard, unseen, necessary work. The fact that they haven’t blown up yet doesn’t make their work smaller. It makes their journey braver. Don’t celebrate your friends only when they arrive. Celebrate them while they are walking. Say their names in rooms they are not in. Share their work without being asked. Buy their art. Attend their shows. Give people their flowers while they can still smell them.
A note to self. It’s hard to see ourselves clearly. The more I think, the less I seem to know. But bits and pieces, what I notice, what I’m drawn to, what I keep returning to, start to feel like evidence. Not of who I’m trying to be, but who I’ve always been. You can’t sit around waiting for someone to tell you who you are. You have to write it. Photograph it. Live it. Do it. So here’s me, trying.
This February, my personal challenge is simple. One intentional shoot per week. Not for clients. Not for social media. Not for validation. Just for the relationship between me and the camera. No posting pressure. No genre expectations. Just curiosity. After each shoot, I want to ask myself what I noticed, what surprised me, and what stayed with me. This isn’t about masterpieces. It’s about remembering why I picked up the camera before anyone was watching.
And for the community, here’s my challenge. Take a photograph of a friend. Not content. Not branding. Not collaboration. Just them, as they are, where they are, becoming who they are becoming. Then send it to them. Print it if you can. Tell them why you chose them. Tell them what you see when you look at them. Make them feel held by the image. Do it. Don’t overthink it. Make them feel special. Because sometimes the most powerful photograph you will ever take is the one that reminds someone they matter.
Loving photography better isn’t about passion. Passion fades. Love is discipline with tenderness. Love is staying when it’s boring. Love is protecting the people inside the frame. Love is building with others instead of competing with them. This February, I’m choosing slower work, deeper relationships, louder appreciation, more care, and more community. Not because it trends, but because it lasts. And that, to me, is real love.
