There’s a metaphor that comes up often in street photography discussions: hunting versus fishing. I’ve seen it framed as technique, mindset, even personality type. The longer I’ve spent walking the city with a camera—particularly with a 28 mm field of view—the more I’ve realized this distinction isn’t about right or wrong. It’s about intent, presence, and how you relate to time on the street.
This isn’t a technical debate. It’s a way of understanding how photographs actually happen.
What People Mean by “Hunting”
Hunting, in street photography terms, is movement-driven. You walk. Constantly. You scan. You react. You’re alert to gestures, juxtapositions, expressions, collisions of people and space that appear for a fraction of a second and vanish just as quickly.
This approach aligns naturally with photographers like Garry Winogrand, whose work was built on relentless forward motion and an appetite for chaos. The hunter trusts instinct. There’s no waiting for perfection—only fast decisions and acceptance that most frames will miss.
Hunting works well when:
- You’re learning situational awareness
- You want energy and unpredictability
- You respond well to speed and pressure
It’s the mindset behind a lot of classic street advice: walk more, shoot more, don’t overthink it. And early on, it’s an effective way to build confidence.
But there’s a cost.
Hunting can become reactive rather than intentional. You’re always chasing moments instead of shaping them. It’s easy to mistake volume for progress—something I’ve written about indirectly when discussing the difference between a snap and a photograph on my site.
What People Mean by “Fishing”
Fishing is the opposite posture. You stop walking. You choose a spot. You read the light, the background, the flow of people. And then you wait.
This approach is often associated with Henri Cartier-Bresson, though I’ve argued elsewhere that he’s often misunderstood. Fishing isn’t passive. It’s deeply active attention. You’re not waiting for something to happen—you’re waiting for the right thing to enter a space you’ve already pre-visualized.
Fishing works when:
- Light and geometry matter more than chaos
- You want layering and structure
- You’re thinking in terms of sequences or essays
This method aligns closely with how I now think about building bodies of work, whether that’s environmental portraits or abstract street projects constrained by season and light. Fishing is slow, deliberate, and patient. It forces you to commit to fewer frames—and therefore to stronger intent.
The 28 mm Lens Changed the Equation for Me
When I committed to a 28 mm field of view, something subtle shifted. Hunting became harder. You can’t “pick off” moments from a distance. You have to be close. Present. Accountable.
Fishing, on the other hand, became more natural.
With a wider lens, the frame fills itself only if you understand the space. Backgrounds stop being passive. Distance becomes a creative choice rather than a technical limitation. This is where fishing shines—especially when paired with walking as a practice, not a commute.
I’ve written before about how walking the city isn’t just exercise; it’s how vision develops. Fishing is what happens when walking slows down enough for seeing to take over.
It’s Not Either / Or — It’s a Continuum
The mistake is treating hunting and fishing as mutually exclusive identities.
In reality, most meaningful street photographers move between them constantly:
- You hunt to explore, warm up, and stay alert
- You fish when something about a place asks for patience
Some days the light is flat and the city feels quiet—those are fishing days. Other days everything collides at once, and hunting becomes unavoidable.
What matters is knowing which mode you’re in.
If you’re hunting but expecting fishing results, you’ll be frustrated.
If you’re fishing but acting impatient, you’ll miss what’s forming.
Why This Matters for Projects, Not Just Images
Single images forgive chaos. Projects do not.
As I’ve shifted toward longer-term bodies of work—abstract street, environmental portraits—I’ve noticed that fishing produces cohesion. Hunting produces variety. Both are useful, but they serve different ends.
Fishing helps answer questions like:
- What does this series feel like as a whole?
- What visual language am I repeating intentionally?
- Am I responding to the city, or imposing myself on it?
These are the same questions that surface when thinking about portfolios, sequencing, and publication—not just social media engagement.
Where I’ve Landed (For Now)
I still hunt. I always will.
But when I look at the photographs that stay with me—the ones that feel considered rather than accidental—they almost always come from fishing. From standing still long enough for head, eye, and heart to align. From letting the photograph form instead of forcing it.
Street photography isn’t about speed. It’s about awareness. Hunting sharpens reflexes. Fishing sharpens vision.
The city gives you both opportunities.
The discipline is knowing when to move—and when not to.