Gear, Gear, Gear‑Freeze!

How gear does matter and how not to care about it

Hello walkers, flâneurs, and fellow hay fever-affected, teary-eyed fur-balls—I feel you. Springtime walks are beautiful yet punishing, aren’t they?

Like a reliable alarm clock on March  1, my body reminded me of its extreme sensitivity to pollen—and that perhaps I’ve been in Japan for too long. Since then I’ve been battling hay fever and ingesting every combination of pills and eye drops just to function.

Gear, Gear, Gear

Recently, a few friends stumbled onto my Mercari page and joked that I’ve owned every piece of film gear ever produced. From the outside this revolving door of equipment might look like indecision or obsession, but there was method in the madness.

There’s a phrase you hear constantly in photography circles: “Gear doesn’t matter.” I agree with the spirit behind it—better cameras don’t automatically make better photographs—but gear, like any tool, still matters; just not in the way most people think.

In my universe, tools address human needs by amplifying human capability. Every tool has two interfaces. The first meets the problem; the second meets the operator.

A chisel has a sharpened edge to solve the problem and a handle that fits the craftsperson. A camera has a lens and sensor to make an image, and everything else—grip, shutter button, viewfinder, menus, strap lugs—exists to fit the photographer. Spend ten minutes in the YouTube/forum photosphere and you’ll see how much energy goes into discussing the image‑making side, and how little into the operator side.

I’m glad those channels and forums exist; they make it easy to understand what a camera can do. What they can’t tell you is how that camera will feel in your hands.

After a very long pause from film I decided to return. In my earlier life I owned only two film bodies: a beautiful Nikon FM loaned by a dear friend, and a clumsy Soviet tank—Zenit SD. The latter came with the newfound Hollywood darling, the Helios 44‑2/4. I’m sure 18-year-old Toto’s photos looked very “cinematic.”

Early in 2024 I set out to find my film camera and tackled the problem head‑on: I bought every model I’d ever dreamed about, one after another, and used each in the field. Living in Japan helps; the second‑hand market is healthy and you can resell gear for the same price or a small loss.

Hence the revolving door.

But I’m not telling you this just to suggest “try everything.” The crucial step is what I call the gear‑freeze.

The Gear‑Freeze

Once I made my decision, the next step became clear: the Gear‑Freeze. Choosing was just half of it; the real work began in committing fully to this choice.

For me, this meant stepping completely away from distractions. I unsubscribed from gear channels, stopped visiting forums, and deliberately ignored news about new releases—after all, what’s the point of endless reviews when I’ve already found my tool?

The exploration phase was essential, not a detour. It was a deliberate, guilt‑free search for the tool that feels right and matches the workflow.

Gear‑Freeze isn’t about settling or resigning yourself to limits; it’s about clarity—a definitive choice. After questioning assumptions and testing biases, you commit to a single setup (overal, or per project). It’s a self‑imposed contract that says, “This is it. I’ve found it. Now, make.”

This is actually my second Gear‑Freeze. Back in 2017, I committed fully to what was then my dream camera—a Leica M‑D paired with a 50 mm Summilux. Over six productive years and tens of thousands of frames, it became one of the most meaningful chapters of my photographic journey.

Early in 2024, the chance arose to rent a bigger studio and build a darkroom there—something I’d wanted to do for a very long time. I decided to switch back to film—a new chapter that naturally demanded a new Gear‑Freeze.

All this to say—we’re all susceptible to tinkering and chasing gear, especially now when technology feels more like a bland touchscreen with a forgettable interface rather than a tactile, delightful piece of equipment like an old Sony stereo with tactile buttons and satisfying, clicky sounds.

Unless gear distracts you from your work, I’d gently suggest finding a tool you genuinely enjoy using—spend time on this, guilt-free—and then stick to it. In my experience, that’s the way to eliminate distraction in the modern, consumerist world.

Photos above are from my trip to North East Georgia this past September, 2024—Stepantsminda.

This was the first and possibly last time I wrote about the importance of gear and my opinion on it.

Until next time,
—Toto