Trent Parke said it about the practical mechanics of not drawing attention—about moving so you don’t affect what’s happening around you. I try to practise the same approach as a photojournalist as much as I can.

And that’s the point, really. Not “stealth” as a trick. Not invisibility as a game. But presence without disturbance—being close enough to feel something, and light enough not to bend the scene by your own gravity.

Henri Cartier-Bresson put the ethic into plain words decades ago: don’t make a commotion; don’t stir the water before fishing; otherwise the photographer becomes “unbearably obtrusive.”
That sentence still lands like a small bell in my pocket. It’s not about fear. It’s about respect. It´s about present life in the streets in an honest way.

This post is my attempt to describe what I mean when I say “just be there”—and why that idea sits at the heart of my workshops.

Invisibility isn’t hiding. It’s refusing to take over the room

It´s not camouflage and spycraft.
I think of attention: where it goes, how easily it moves, how quickly it sticks.

Cartier-Bresson loved the idea of working à la sauvette—“on the run”—like a small “photo thief” who doesn’t set up a stage, doesn’t announce a performance, and doesn’t ask reality to repeat itself.
He also leaned on the fisherman metaphor: you don’t throw stones where you want to catch fish.

Morten captured by Stefan Lalkovski in the streets of Berlin at a workshop.

That’s the kind of invisibility I’m after:

• I don’t want my camera to become the main event.
• I don’t want my body language to rewrite the moment.
• I don’t want the street to start “posing” because I arrived.

The irony is that this kind of invisibility doesn’t come from shrinking. It comes from being calmly committed—moving with purpose, observing with patience, and shooting with decisiveness.

Cartier-Bresson famously defined his approach as a split-second alignment of meaning and form:
“To me, photography is the simultaneous recognition, in a fraction of a second, of the significance of an event as well as of a precise organisation of forms…”
That’s not timid. That’s rigorous.

Henri Cartier-Bresson as a case study: quiet feet, sharp mind

If I need a reminder of what “being there” can look like, I look at Cartier-Bresson. Because his practice clarifies the principles.

A few anchors from his life and working method matter here:

• He worked small and mobile, mastering the miniature 35mm Leica early and using it to move through real situations rather than building scenes. I use a 50mm but potato potato.
• He co-founded Magnum Photos in 1947, shaping a model of independent photojournalism, and then spent decades travelling on assignment, watching history and daily life with the same alertness.
• Later, he stepped away from the pace of photography to focus on drawing and a different temporality.

What I take from that isn’t just nostalgia. It’s a good working reminder: The street is already full of meaning. Our job is not to amplify ourselves; it’s to recognise what’s already around.

Magnum’s writing about his practice captures something I’ve always felt: he wasn’t someone who “set a whole thing up.”

That restraint is not a limitation. It’s a discipline.

Where I lean toward myself: how I try to “disappear” on the street

I’m not Cartier-Bresson. I’m not Parke. And I’m not trying to be.

I’m there and I’m gone. …I just want to capture things as they are without influencing the action in any way.”

That’s close to my own internal brief. And over time, it’s translated into a handful of practical behaviours and small things that add up. You can disappear in more ways. One hit to enter the scene quietly, take the shot, and walk away as silent as you entered.
Another approach is to stay on a scene and just observe. In between, the camera is up, shot taken, camera down again. Works the same way.

I keep moving (even when I’m “waiting”)

Standing still broadcasts intention. Movement dissolves it. Parke says the same thing bluntly: standing still attracts attention.
So even when I’m working a corner, I’m shifting position, changing rhythm, letting my presence feel normal.

I choose unremarkable body language

If I look guilty, people look at me. If I look like I’m hunting, people feel hunted.
I try to look like I belong: relaxed shoulders, patient pace, no sudden lunges. Invisibility starts in posture.

I shoot less, but with more certainty

Cartier-Bresson talked about how taking multiple frames can create trouble—one picture can pass, two or three can change the temperature.
The goal isn’t “spray and pray.” The goal is to be so ready that one frame is enough.

I respect the “water”

That old line—don’t stir the water before fishing—reminds me that flash, drama, and showmanship can turn observation into intrusion.
Even when the law allows it, I ask myself: Is my method respectful of the moment I’m borrowing?
That question matters more than any setting.

I accept that the street owes me nothing

Sometimes the picture disappears. Sometimes it never arrives. Cartier-Bresson’s career is basically a long lesson in patience meeting chance—a belief that the world will offer something, but not on demand. My job is to stay receptive without becoming noisy.

Three exercises I use (and teach) to practice “being there”

These are simple, and that’s the point: you can do them on any street, in any city, with any camera.

Exercise 1: The five-minute “no-camera” scan

Set a timer for five minutes. Don’t lift the camera once.
Just watch: gestures, spacing, light transitions, micro-stories. You’re training your eye to recognise the moment before you reach for the tool—aligning with that idea of recognition and form.

What it builds: patience, anticipation, and a calmer presence.

Exercise 2: The one-frame rule

For ten minutes, you are allowed one frame per situation.
No second chances. No burst. No negotiating with reality.

This echoes the idea that too many frames can start changing how people feel about you being there.

What it builds: commitment, timing, and a lighter footprint.

Exercise 3: The “don’t stir the water” walk

Walk a familiar route and pay attention to what your presence changes.
Do people glance? Do they stiffen? Do they perform? If yes, reset your rhythm: soften your pace, stop “aiming” with your body, let the camera be less of a flag.

The principle is old and still useful: don’t create commotion; don’t become obtrusive.

What it builds: ethics as muscle memory.

Why this leads directly into my workshops

I teach workshops because this craft is hard to learn alone—not technically, but behaviorally.
You can master exposure in a weekend. But learning to:

• move without broadcasting,
• see without grabbing,
• enter a scene without taking it over,

…that’s slower work. And it changes fastest when you’re walking with someone who can observe you back.

Cartier-Bresson’s practice shows how deep this goes: the famous “decisive moment” isn’t just timing—it’s a whole way of being in the world, where meaning and form meet in a fraction of a second.
Parke’s line shows the modern equivalent: if you linger too long, you start affecting what happens.

In my workshops, that becomes concrete:

• We do slow walks where we practice presence first, photographs second.
• We run constraints (one-frame rule, no-camera scans) to build instinct.
• We review work with the question: did you witness, or did you interfere?
• We talk openly about the ethics of distance, permission, and respect—because “invisible” should never mean “entitled.”

If you’ve ever come home with photos that feel technically fine but emotionally thin, this is usually the missing piece: not settings, but the quality of your presence.

And that’s teachable.

A small invitation

If this idea resonates—the wish to be there without becoming the story—then you’ll feel at home in my workshops.