Day Three: Hands, Dogs, and the Art of Letting Go
Watching my classmates interact with Kalvar was almost as fascinating as the workshop itself. It reminded me of stories about martial arts students struggling to accept their limitations. Many of them resisted critique, instinctively defending their work as if a spirited argument could somehow improve their photos.
Kalvar, a veteran with over 50 years of experience, wasn’t interested in debates. His feedback wasn’t just opinion—it was distilled wisdom, born from decades of getting too close for comfort and capturing the moment anyway. He could look at a photo and imagine the photographer’s position: whether they could’ve stepped closer, adjusted the angle, or waited for a better shot.
Students often insisted that getting closer would’ve blown their cover or been risky. Kalvar would smirk, shrug, and remind them that in all his years behind the lens, actual danger was rare. Like Bruce Lee once said, “How can a cup that’s already full receive new water?”
When the debates dragged on, Kalvar would sometimes soften his tone with a playful, “You know, it doesn’t look so bad like this, either.” It wasn’t a surrender—it was a way to let them save face. And surprisingly, many seemed content with that.
Waiting for a Hand to Tell a Story
The afternoon was ours to shoot. More students decided to escape Sirmione, bored of its gelato, tourists, and ducks. My partner and I considered joining them, but the bus never arrived. Instead, while waiting, I captured a few unexpected moments.
Later, we visited the town’s small castle—a modest historic site that might disappoint anyone expecting grand opportunities for street photography. Determined to make the best of it, I climbed a steep, narrow staircase to the tower’s top. There, I noticed something: everyone gripped the handrails with an odd mix of caution and tension.
Inspired by a faint sense of suspense, I adjusted my camera and waited. I wasn’t looking for just any hand—I wanted a hand with a story.
Finding Flow and Reflection
That day felt productive. I even experimented with Kalvar’s signature use of reflections, capturing distorted yet intriguing perspectives. By the evening, I returned to the hotel with a sense of accomplishment and swapped stories with classmates over a casual chat.
I’ve come to believe there’s a link between adrenaline and great photos. The moments when I felt the most alive—the anticipation of being discovered, the fear of missing the perfect shot—were the ones that yielded the best images. Conquering that fear, channelling it into the shutter, brought a satisfaction that no staged or easy photo ever could.
Validation and Growth
By the fourth day’s critique session, Kalvar’s feedback landed like a jolt of electricity: “Some photos are good. Some are just OK. But the good ones? They’re really good.”
It wasn’t just a compliment—it was a recognition of progress. In the short span of a few days, I’d sharpened my eye for composition and technique. Even the abstract shots I’d hesitated to submit earned his approval. For the first time, I felt truly understood as a photographer.
Falling for Sirmione
Somewhere along the way, I’d grown attached to this little town. Its winding streets, familiar faces, and slow rhythms had etched themselves into my days. My partner knew the locations and schedules of every church service. We recognised the dynamics between the gelato shop owner and her employees. Shopkeepers began greeting us like old friends.
Even in the repetition of daily routines, there were surprises to be found. That day, I spotted two identical dogs followed by twin boys eating gelato. Along the coastline, I photographed couples, passersby, and the elusive “neatly aligned ducks” I’d been chasing all week.
Later, I found myself in front of a quiet residential home, camera in hand, waiting for the perfect shot of a dog peeking through a window. It felt almost meditative—a return to childhood days of fixing mistakes in schoolwork. I stayed until I captured what I wanted: a perfectly focused dog, framed in its moment.
The Takeaway
This workshop wasn’t just about learning photography. It was about slowing down, paying attention, and finding stories in the small, overlooked corners of the world. Every hand on a railing, every twin eating gelato, every waiting dog—it all had meaning if you were patient enough to see it.
And as Sirmione began to feel like a second home, I realised something: the magic wasn’t in escaping to a new location. It was in learning to see the extraordinary within the ordinary, over and over again.
