Day Two: Focus, Failure, and Finding the Story
The second morning of the workshop was another round of critiques. Before this, I’d never had my photos displayed in front of a group, let alone watched their immediate reactions. It was equal parts nerve-wracking and fascinating.
When my shot of a child defecating in public appeared on screen, the room erupted in laughter. For other people’s strong images, there were audible gasps or murmurs of approval. And for the weaker ones? Well, the pursed lips and subtle shrugs said it all. It was raw, unfiltered feedback—the kind you rarely get but always need.
The Swan and the Stone
Then came the moment for my personal favourite: the “swan and the stone” shot. A reserved classmate from Bulgaria broke the silence, pointing at the screen and asking, “Is that a stone?”
It’s the kind of question that deflates a joke. Once it’s explained, the humour evaporates.
Kalvar, however, loved it. “It’s a brilliant little joke,” he said, leaning in to scrutinise the image. “But,” he added after a pause, “you’ve focused on the wrong thing.”
He explained that the focus should’ve been on the duckling in the background. In that moment, I realised how much more the photo could’ve been. Kalvar wasn’t just critiquing what I’d captured—he saw beyond it, envisioning a more layered, dynamic story that I hadn’t even considered.
Getting Closer
Most of my submissions from that day were well-received, though the recurring critique was predictable: “You need to get closer.” Without proximity, he explained, the images lacked tension and power.
Kalvar’s advice wasn’t just technical; it was a challenge. To capture something great, you need to master focus, composition, aperture, and shutter speed—all in a split second. His precision made me want to push myself further, to go beyond my comfort zone and find something truly remarkable.
The Struggles of Day Two
Some of my classmates were already growing tired of Sirmione. They talked about heading to a nearby historic town for fresh inspiration. To me, that felt like giving up. Blaming the location for a lack of compelling images seemed like a cop-out. If anything, the challenge lay in conquering the mundane.
I retraced much of the same route as the day before, but the lively children and playful swan were gone. What I found instead were moments that felt almost interesting but just fell short. It was like casting a net into the sea and coming back with nothing but scraps—not enough to call it a good catch.
That evening, as I reviewed my shots, I felt the weight of my disappointment. If I wasn’t impressed with my work, how could I expect anyone else to be? But I reminded myself: failure is part of learning.
The Allure of Mystery
On the third morning, Kalvar’s critiques revealed something I hadn’t noticed before. Beyond humour, he valued a sense of mystery in a photo. A good image doesn’t have to tell a complete story; sometimes, the unanswered questions are what make it captivating.
He singled out two photos I’d dismissed as uninspired. To my surprise, he appreciated their subtle storytelling. They hinted at something larger, something unresolved. It was a valuable lesson: a photo doesn’t have to scream for attention—it can whisper and still hold its audience.
The Obsession Behind the Lens
Kalvar also shared practical advice: in bright daylight, always use a smaller aperture and a faster shutter speed. It was simple, obvious, and yet I realised how little I knew about my own camera. For years, I’d relied on its automatic settings. If I wanted to take photography seriously, I’d have to start understanding the fundamentals.
But what struck me most wasn’t his technical knowledge—it was his relentless dedication. He showed us contact sheets, revealing the process behind some of his iconic images. Frame after frame, he worked a scene, experimenting, adjusting, chasing the perfect moment.
It was a revelation: great photos don’t just happen. They’re the result of persistence, of being willing to fail again and again until you get it right. Kalvar’s obsession wasn’t just admirable—it was infectious. He knew that the moments he sought were rare and fleeting, and he fought to capture them with everything he had.
The Takeaway
By the end of the day, I’d come to appreciate that photography isn’t just about skill or luck. It’s about vision, patience, and a dogged determination to make the ordinary extraordinary.
And as I packed up my camera that night, I felt the smallest flicker of hope. I wasn’t there yet—not even close. But maybe, just maybe, I could learn to see the world the way Kalvar did. To look closer, dig deeper, and never stop chasing the story.
