Most of the time, I walk out there and see what happens. No fixed destination. No detailed idea. No storyboard in my head. I do not know if the day will be in colour or black-and-white. Often it is both.

That is one of the things I like about street photography.
You can leave home with almost nothing except a camera and a willingness to pay attention.

Some days I need the freedom of not knowing. I need to walk without a plan and let the world come to me in fragments. A wall in late afternoon light. A person crossing a frame at the wrong, or maybe exactly the right, moment. A small gesture. A shadow. A colour that suddenly makes sense because another colour appears beside it—nothing in particular, and then something.

In no particular order.

But not planning does not mean photographing without intention. There is a difference between being open and being careless. I may not know what I am looking for, but I know how I want to work that day.

A photo not tack sharp may be worth keeping. Maybe the soul of that particular photo rests in that specific expression.

Sometimes I give myself a restriction. Not because restrictions make photography easier, but because they stop me from repeating myself too comfortably.

I might decide to shoot everything at f8, whatever happens. Bright light, low light, close subjects, distant scenes. f8 and no discussion. It forces me to think in layers: distance, timing, and depth. It changes how I move. It changes what I notice.

Another day, I might decide to shoot fast and think less. Not spray and pray, but react before the inner critic has time to ruin everything.

There are days when too much thinking makes the pictures stiff.
The street moves quickly. People hesitate, turn, disappear, enter the light, leave the light.
If I think too long, the picture is gone.
So I work on instinct and accept the mess that comes with it.

Other days, I might shoot wide open no matter what. Even if it is risky. Even if the focus is difficult. Even if the depth of field is thin and unforgiving.
The point is not technical perfection. The point is to see what happens when the world becomes softer, when the background dissolves, when one small detail has to carry the photograph.
Unlike many think, a blurred background is not to hide things away. I look at it this way: I use shallow depth of field to dim down the background, but keep it. As if I shot at f8.

Restrictions can be freeing

That sounds like a contradiction, but it is not. Too many choices can make you lazy. Or safe. Or predictable. If everything is possible, it is easy to fall back into the same habits. The same distance. The same type of subject. The same way of framing. The same way of waiting.

A restriction removes some of those choices. It gives the day a shape.
Today, this is how we play.

This is also something I like to bring into my street photography workshops. Not as a fixed formula, but as a way of helping people discover how differently they can see when one option is taken away. A workshop is not only about learning camera settings or finding better compositions. It is also about changing energy. Changing rhythm. Learning how to stay alert when the street does not immediately give you what you hoped for.

Sometimes, during a workshop, I may suggest a simple exercise. Shoot only at one aperture. Work only with colour. Work only in black-and-white. Stay on one street corner longer than feels comfortable. Move faster than usual. Get closer. Step back. Follow the light. Ignore the light and look for gestures instead.

The point is not to make everyone photograph in the same way. Quite the opposite. The point is to create a situation where habits become visible. Once you see your habits, you can decide whether they still serve you.

And once the rule is set, I think it is important to keep it for a while. If I change the rule every time it becomes inconvenient, it is not really a restriction. It is just a preference.

The real value comes when the rule starts to bother me a little. When I see a picture that would be easier with another aperture.
When I wish I had more depth of field, or less. When I want to slow down, but the rule says keep moving.

When I want to control everything, but the day is asking for something rougher.
That is where the learning begins.

In workshops, this is often where something interesting happens. People may start the day wanting to make “good” photographs, sharp, balanced, well-composed, and technically correct. There is nothing wrong with that. But somewhere along the way, another kind of picture may appear. A picture that is less perfect, but more alive. A picture that comes from attention rather than control.

The point is not always to come home with technically perfect photographs.
The point is to come home with photographs that have life in them.

Photography does not have to be technically perfect to be interesting. Sometimes the story is hidden in the imperfectness. A slightly missed focus can feel more human than a clinically sharp frame. A bit of motion blur can carry the energy of the street better than freezing everything. A strange crop can make the photograph feel like something seen in passing, not something arranged for approval.

Of course, there are days when I want control. Days when the mood is slower, more deliberate. I may look for clean backgrounds, careful compositions, balanced colours, and precise timing. I may wait longer. I may reject more. I may work the same corner until the picture finally gives itself up.

That is also part of it.

A workshop can hold both approaches. There is room for the careful photograph and the instinctive one. For colour and black-and-white. For technical decisions and emotional reactions. What matters is that the photographer begins to understand the difference, and learns when to change the mood.

The important thing is not whether the day is loose or controlled. The important thing is not to stay the same if it is no longer interesting.

Change the mood.

Change the energy.

Change the way you respond.

If you always walk slowly, try moving faster. If you always shoot from a distance, get closer. If you always chase strong light, spend a day in flat light. If you always work in black-and-white, let colour disturb you for a while. If you always rely on colour, take it away and see what remains. If you always aim for clean compositions, allow some chaos into the frame.

Do not change everything at once. Change one thing and stay with it.

That is the useful part. A restriction is not a gimmick if you commit to it. It becomes a way of listening differently. It gives you a problem to solve, and sometimes that problem leads you somewhere better than comfort would have taken you.

Street photography is full of accidents, but it still asks something from us. We have to be present. We have to notice. We have to accept that most of what happens will not become a photograph. We also have to accept that the best pictures are not always the ones we would have planned.

Maybe especially not those.

This is why I enjoy teaching street photography in the streets themselves. You cannot fully explain it from a chair. You have to walk. You have to react. You have to miss pictures. You have to make decisions while the city keeps moving. A workshop becomes a shared way of paying attention, but each photographer still has to find their own response.

When I walk out with a camera, I do not need to know exactly what the day will bring. I only need to begin. A camera, a lens, a mood, maybe a small rule to make things harder in the right way.

Then I walk.

Colour or black-and-white.

Fast or slow.

Controlled or instinctive.

Perfect or imperfect.

In no particular order.

And then I see what happens.