2012 was the year the Mayans had on their calendar as a global game over—apocalyptic hysteria at its finest. In my own universe, I hadn’t even thought about a camera in years, having been swept up in the relentless undertow of life: love, career upheavals, existential crises, the whole catastrophe. I was certain that my photography days were dead and buried—a glaring testament to my self-delusion.
Then, as fate would have it, I stumbled upon an article or a video—doesn’t matter which—about a beast called Street Photography. This wasn’t just photography; this was raw, unfiltered chaos captured on film. It screamed of potential adventure, a perfect storm of chance encounters and candid snapshots, a true rebirth of gonzo journalism with a digital twist. I thought, “Hell, why not?” and pictured myself as some rogue journalist armed with a lens instead of a typewriter.
This wasn’t just a mild curiosity; it was an all-out obsession. I devoured everything related to street photography like a starved animal—articles, documentaries, endless photo galleries. My weapon of choice became the Fujifilm X-Pro 1, touted as the street photographer’s Excalibur. “Ideal,” they said, because of its rangefinder style, a callback to some golden era of photography I had yet to appreciate. I was clueless about Leica’s heritage at the time, but that didn’t curb my enthusiasm.
Our first true venture onto the streets was a madcap spree of indiscriminate shooting. I was capturing everything—a chaotic baptism by fire into the world of street photography, believing that this was the essence of it all. Returning home, I’d unload my digital catches of the day into Lightroom and tinker until what I saw on the screen matched the adrenaline I’d felt on the streets.
Feeling somewhat audacious, I submitted a handful of these early experiments to an online street photography forum, seeking validation or perhaps a masochistic thrill. The critique was as subtle as a sledgehammer—“dull, aimless, devoid of any narrative or soul,” they said. It stung like hell because it rang true.
But pain has a funny way of morphing into fuel. Every chance I got, I was back on the streets, camera in hand, the X-Pro 1 becoming less of a tool and more of an extension of my eye. I immersed myself deeper, studying the legends—Bresson’s decisive moments, Maier’s secretive genius, Leiter’s colour symphonies. Their craft transformed into my gospel, their concrete jungles into my unhinged academies.
I sought out instruction, paying for wisdom from seasoned street savants. My tutor, Brian Lloyd Duckett, told me to focus my chaos, to shoot with intention. “Think of projects, not snapshots,” he advised. This wasn’t just about capturing life but about telling stories through imagery. The idea resonated deeply, and while I struggled to consistenly apply this, the philosophy gradually began to transform my approach.
Despite the ups and downs with street photography, my drive didn’t wane; it intensified. I was hopelessly, madly in love with this Fujifilm system. It wasn’t just a camera setup; it was a full-blown affair of the heart—a mechanical bromance that got me high on every click, every frame, every perfectly imperfect moment it captured.
But brand loyalty? Forget it. I was a gear polygamist back then. When Sony dropped the A7 MK1, I couldn’t resist its irresistible lure—those seductive specs like full-frame sensor, better autofocus and a beastly megapixel count lured me away from my beloved X-Pro 1. Yes, I strayed, venturing into the arms of Sony for a taste of that high-tech coquettishness.
Let’s not mince words here: the A7 is a monster of a camera, objectively superior by every technical standard that counts. But damn it, the thing had no soul. It was a cold, calculating machine—too sterile, too precise. The menus were a labyrinth, an endless scroll of options and settings that felt more like piloting a spaceship than capturing life on the streets.
And here’s the kicker—the A7 was so brutally effective that it magnified every clumsy mistake I made. Every misplaced focus, every botched exposure—there it was, in ultra-high definition. I was staring down the barrel of my own inadequacies, and let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty.
What I needed was a camera as flawed, as gloriously imperfect as I was. So when the X-Pro 2 was announced, upgrading was a no-brainer. It wasn’t just about the added megapixels or the enhanced dynamic range; it was about continuing the journey with a tool that felt right in my hands.
Even the chaotic circus of Brexit couldn’t sour my spirits for the game. The rallies and protests that erupted in its wake were just fuel for my fire, perfect excuses to hit the streets, camera in hand, ready to capture the raw, pulsing heart of the upheaval. I bought more Fujifilm bodies, the XT-3 and then the X100F. Each excellent in its own right but none quite capturing the magic of the X-Pro series for me.
2019 marked the end of that wild decade. I dived headfirst into a documentary photography course with Stuart Freedman, a real maestro of the craft. He pulled back the curtain on the intoxicating world of photo essays, and that course—it wasn’t just an education; It elevated my understanding of street and documentary photography.
I found myself haunted by the pages of Life Magazine, especially entranced by the “Country Doctor” photo essay. It was hypnotic, a narrative so piercing and profound it shook my core. I was desperate to craft stories that powerful, to capture snapshots that spoke volumes.
My anticipation for the future was electric. I had projects queued up like rounds in a revolver, each one ready to fire off into the world, and a network of contacts eager to share tales that were screaming to be told. Just as I was gearing up, Fujifilm threw fuel on my creative flames with the release of the X-Pro 3.
2020 was primed to be the year I broke through, the year I’d churn out content that mattered, that resonated. But then, I didn’t. I couldn’t. COVID hit like a freight train, and you all know how that story goes. Suddenly, there were bigger fish to fry, more pressing matters on the global stage, and everything else—every grand plan I had—had to park itself on the back burner in this bizarre new reality.
My then-fiancée lived in Hong Kong, and we had dreams of tying the knot there come November. But as the pandemic raged like a wild beast, all our meticulous arrangements were hurled out the window. How long was this chaos supposed to last? Weeks morphed into months, and the future became a murky, uncharted territory.
Yet through it all, my wife stood as a pillar—no, a force of relentless nature. She navigated through the storm of ever-shifting pandemic protocols, soldiering on with the wedding plans with a fierceness that could bend steel. Thanks to her unwavering spirit, we pulled it off. We got hitched as intended, and every moment of lockdown solitude in a hotel for two weeks proved its worth.
Post-vows, we faced this stark reality. With no end to the pandemic circus in sight, the notion of living oceans apart was untenable. It was clear what I had to do. I would move to Hong Kong. The decision was as wild as the times, but necessary. Yes, it was a total upheaval. Yes, Hong Kong was a sauna, steaming hot and sticky humid on its best days.
But for a camera junkie like me, Hong Kong was the promised land—a veritable paradise. The city teased with its temptingly lower prices, no sales tax, no import duties, just pure photographic bliss. The streets were awash with high-quality used gear, a treasure trove that whispered sweet nothings to anyone afflicted with Gear Acquisition Syndrome.
In Hong Kong, GAS wasn’t just tolerated; it was a celebrated ritual.
Jasper.
streets in motion 