I’ve always had a savage appetite for cars, a deep, growling passion for the sleek beasts of the road. But the notion of being an automotive photographer? That kicked the whole obsession into manic overdrive. I was swamped with delusions of grandeur, imagining myself capturing the kind of jaw-dropping shots you’d plaster across your walls, the kind that make petrolheads weep.
Yet, there was a monstrous hitch in this glorious plan—I was a photographic ignoramus. I knew about as much about photography as a cat knows about astrophysics. Then, in a burst of what might be called misguided enlightenment, it dawned on me: I needed to buy a damn camera. That was the first real shot fired in what would become a full-blown war with reality, armed only with ambition and sheer, blind enthusiasm.
In the neon-drenched chaos of Tokyo, 2005, I snagged a Canon 350D—the only piece of gear my thin wallet could stomach. It came shackled with an 18-55mm kit lens, hardly a sniper’s rifle in the world of photography, but it was a start. Armed with this basic arsenal, I marched over to the Tokyo Auto Salon, my heart hammering like a drum solo as I breached the gates of this automotive spectacle.
The place was a madhouse, throbbing as if there were a thousand revving engines. I made a beeline for the Nissan stand, eyes set on the GTR prototype. But snagging a clean shot was like trying to scribble notes in a mosh pit—every angle was blocked by the swarming masses. This wasn’t the photographic nirvana I’d imagined.
Undaunted but growing desperate, I darted toward the Bugatti Veyron, only to meet the same human barricades. In that crush of bodies and metal, as I jockeyed for position with a camera too basic for the job, a stark realisation hit me: I needed better access, an insider’s pass to this mechanical feast.
Then, zapped by a second surge of rogue wisdom: I needed press credentials. Yes, that would be my golden ticket, my backstage pass to automotive excellence.
When I dragged myself back to the dank shores of the UK, I concocted a wild scheme to infiltrate the ranks of a UK-based journalist union. Surprisingly, they bought it. I forked over the 20 GBP—a pittance for a gamble—and within days, a shiny press card landed in my mailbox, my golden ticket to legitimacy, or at least the illusion of it.
Armed with this freshly minted facade of legitimacy, I wasted no time and applied for a press pass to the 2006 Geneva Motor Show. Like magic, approval came crashing down the same day. When the press day arrived, I was on an early flight out of London, hurtling towards Geneva, the city of peace turned automotive mania for the duration of the show.
I remember that day with crystal clarity—a mad rush of adrenaline as I queued at the Palexpo to claim my press credentials. There I was, awash in a sea of motoring scribes, the very writers whose words I devoured each month. I was starstruck, fanboying silently among the legends.
The show itself was a revelation. With my press badge swinging from my neck, I navigated the labyrinth of luxury autos like a veteran. I was no longer a mere spectator but a player, brushing shoulders with the pros who wielded their cameras like swords, each capturing the gleaming steeds of Porsche, BMW, Lotus, Ferrari, and Mercedes. They moved with frantic precision, courteous yet fiercely focused on their craft, very much unlike my fumbling self..
There I was, camera in hand, firing away with a giddy zeal, intoxicated by the proximity to these mechanical beauties that had once seemed so distant. The power of the press pass was palpable, a key unlocking worlds I had only dreamed of. I was overwhelmed, engulfed in the raw thrill of my newfound status and access.
This mad journey rolled on: Paris, Tokyo again, Geneva again, Frankfurt, and even Essen. I mingled with the rogues and renegades of the freelance photography world, those wild-eyed shutterbugs who lived and breathed the motorshow circuit. They all swore by the Canon 1D series, so I plunged into the madness and picked up a 1D MK2. I didn’t stop there—I splurged on two monster zoom lenses, the 24-70mm and the 70-200mm F2.8.
The gear was immaculate, the kind that made lesser men weep. But the harsh reality? My skills were a sad shadow of the high-end arsenal I carried. No matter—I embraced the chaos, living by that desperate credo: fake it till you make it.
I was revelling in my globe-trotting charade, strutting around the world pretending to be something I wasn’t. The Walter Mitty in me was thrilled with my Canon setup, living the dream. But, as we all know, the grass is always greener on the other side of the lens. Nikon unleashed the D300 and D3, and the enchanting pull of new gear became too much to ignore.
Did I need them? Not in the slightest. A potato could’ve captured the same mediocre shots I was getting. But that’s when I first felt the insidious grip of Gear Acquisition Syndrome (GAS). Off I went to a shop in London, returning with both Nikons and a couple of high-end zoom lenses. It cost me a fortune, but maintaining appearances has its price.
I now owned both Canon and Nikon cameras, juggling two heavyweights in the world of photography. Were the two brands radically different? Absolutely. But I was a swindler, so what the hell did I know? To me, the Nikons were just shiny new toys. Holding them felt exhilarating, a rush of faux legitimacy.
At the next show, I strutted in with my new gear, soaking up the admiring glances from the real photographers. I put on a show of humility, but inside, I was smirking like a cat in a creamery.
I maintained this elaborate charade for a few years, masquerading as a seasoned automotive photographer. But the thrill began to fade, and maybe, just maybe, I was starting to grow up. The whole act started to feel hollow, like a bad script. My entire existence seemed tethered to the perceptions of others, a farcical dance to impress the faceless masses. The substance? Nonexistent. The meaning? Void.
At the last show I attended, I was a ghost, drifting through the motions, utterly disconnected. Photographing cars had lost its spark, its allure. Flipping through my portfolio, I saw the harsh truth—I hadn’t sharpened my skills or honed my eye for composition. I was a dud, plain and simple.
I stopped going to the shows, opting instead to wrestle with my disillusionment. Then came my third light bulb moment: I purged. Everything went on eBay, every last piece of gear. And for the next few years, I didn’t touch a single camera. I walked away from the whole damn circus.
Jasper.
streets in motion 