Lately, my photographic world has been defined—almost rigidly—by the 28 mm field of view. It’s the lens through which I’ve learned to walk the city, to stay close, to remain present, and to commit to a single way of seeing. That discipline has been essential. It’s shaped my voice, clarified my intent, and anchored my urban photography practice in something honest and repeatable. But discipline, when leaned on too heavily, can quietly turn into pressure.
Today wasn’t about rebellion. It was about permission.
Feeling mentally burnt out rather than creatively blocked, I allowed myself a deliberate detour. I left the 28 mm at home and reached for the most opposite tool I own: a 200 mm prime. Compression instead of context. Distance instead of immersion. Observation instead of participation. If the 28 mm demands that I step into the world, the 200 mm asks me to step back and watch it unfold.
The self-assigned constraint was simple: make a three-image set about something. Not a portfolio piece. Not a project with longevity. Just three connected frames that needed to speak to one another. The location emerged organically rather than by design—the streetcar ride from Union Station to the Centre Island ferry dock. A liminal space. A pause between destinations. A moving room full of unspoken narratives.
Two of the images were made head-on, direct and unflinching, compressing the space between subject and background until context became suggestion rather than explanation. The third image was quieter: a reflection in the streetcar window. Less literal. More ambiguous.
This short sequence wasn’t about abandoning the 28 mm philosophy—it was about stress-testing it. Stepping away from my usual field of view made its strengths clearer, not weaker. It echoed ideas I’ve explored before: how walking the city sharpens awareness, how constraints fuel intent, and how projects—no matter how small—benefit from structure. It also quietly connected back to recent experiments under Friday night lights, where longer focal lengths and compression taught me different lessons about control, distance, and timing.
In many ways, this three-photo set felt like a palate cleanser. A reminder that seeing is a practice, not a prison. That even within a long-term commitment to a single way of working, there’s room to step sideways, look differently, and return with renewed clarity. The 200 mm didn’t replace my 28 mm worldview—but it refreshed it.
Tomorrow, I’ll happily go back to walking close, wide, and present. Today was about standing still on a moving streetcar, watching the city slide past, and remembering that growth sometimes comes from choosing the long way around.