I am currently working on a photo essay called Nostalgia. It’s been a mission to get it done between work and everything else. Part of the essay is articulating the thoughts that came with the images on the pages. I’ve done everything in my power to procrastinate this part because a piece of me feels cringe about writing my thoughts down. While it is scary to put myself out there, it is therapeutic. There’s something about putting your work out to live somewhere, so I figured it would take away pressure if I pre-released my thoughts via Substack before printing them out in a “magazine” issue.

The extract below (after the divider) was inspired by a photo I took of my little brother studying for his high school finals. I was originally there to tutor him on probability and trigonometry. He sent me some of the practice tests he struggled with so I could do them beforehand. Admittedly, I was so busy with work I only got through the probability questions. We’ve had a run in with extra math classes and private tutors but no one was getting through to him. The thought of him not passing math or the school year filled me with anxiety and guilt that I wasn’t doing enough. I had to get over myself; my actions alone weren’t going to solve this. My role isn’t to control the final outcome, after a certain point you’ve just got to stand back and hope for the best. Like walking past a “Mural”, on a building wall: love it or hate it, it’s there, and it happened. If he fails, I’ll be there to tell him it’s not over. If he passes, I’ll congratulate him. That quiet support is all I truly needed in his position, and now I get to relieve that moment through him.

(As an Easter egg, “Mural” is also a song from Lupe Fiasco, heralded as a dense, word painting, 1373 word essay that is overwhelming in imagery.)

Murals

Hightop fades, He Say She Say, Joga Bonito, Jesus Saves, Chuck Taylors, Carlton Banks dancing meme, DatPiff Mixtapes, Riders on the Storm, Russian Beer, Toyota Yaris, Thriller, Snapbacks, Super Saiyan, SSX Tricky, Mini Lagos: Sunnyside, Megan Good, Old Trafford, Vernac, Bunker beds, Belt buckles, Isolation, and MTV create small snippets of a childhood.

If you’re still here after my last two rather random and abstract articles, thank you. It has been fascinating to flesh out photo essays and editorials for Noey. Hence the “building in public” tag on those articles. To be honest, it feels more like looking for my own unique voice in an already loud crowd.

Back to the topic

This article strikes a completely different chord. I previously wrote about characteristics of photos I typically feel drawn to. One of those characteristics is obscurity. That is, I tend to grey out or hide details. This is the practical follow-up on how I achieve that effect. I’ll share a selection of my images here, then discuss the specific patterns and habits behind them individually.

P.S. Consider this also a simultaneous preview of never before seen images!

Hidden Figures: Back Towards the Camera

I often downplay the figures nearest the camera to create visual depth. My methods involve either using shadows to turn them into silhouettes or patiently waiting until they have completely turned away from the lens.

Action in the Background

As you may have already noticed, the hidden figures in the foreground are often there to frame the actual subject. Lying in the background is the main action or the protagonist that initially caught my eye. It is a “looking through people to see a person” effect.

Fun fact: In the 17th century, nostalgia was considered a disease. Swiss physician Johannes Hofer coined the term to diagnose soldiers who were longing for home, a condition that was once believed to be fatal. It's a jarring thought, being told that your emotions are not natural but a sign that something is fundamentally wrong with you. The title of this article is very similar in that regard. "Yonkers" is a song by Tyler, The Creator that had a similar effect on me. Like Johannes Hofer, I was quick to diagnose Tyler, thinking, "Whoa, something is wrong with that guy!". It was his breakout single, controversial due to its dark subject matter, graphic music video, and abrupt ending of Tyler committing suicide.

Yonkers

There is this human trait we find in ourselves (some experience it more than others). It comes with a negative connotation, so if you’re lucky, you only felt it for a brief moment before it just passed you by. It is more typically displayed as “lashing out”, but even the calm feel this slow, brewing type of feeling within themselves: a spirit of rebellion.

What does defiance look like? What sound does disruption make? It looks like silence, and it sounds like compliance. That’s the most dangerous form: the rebellion that never makes it to a song lyric or a public square. It’s the feeling that brews slow and deep, staying hidden until it hardens into something unbreakable, something far more disruptive and unnatural than simply “lashing out”. You can’t diagnose what you can’t see. That is the true illness: the invisible cultural diagnosis we accept when we stifle the urge to make noise and choose to function over feeling.

Let's start with the good news. I've found someone to handle the graphic and art direction for my magazine project. The bad news is that while they work on that, I need to provide the copy for the first issue, titled "Nostalgia." As the first issue, it's my job to set the tone and define the rules for the magazine. It's a classic example of world building.

I have decided to use Substack as a vehicle to complete this without overthinking it. This means the article below will be an extract from the "Nostalgia" issue (meaning it come across as incomplete at times). If the magazine ever materializes, you'll likely find similar text or thoughts in the physical copy; Substack is just a way to get these ideas out beforehand.

I've also included images that inspired this train of thought, hoping the physical magazine will manifest in a similar layout. The photos in this article are from the World Battle breakdancing competition in Porto, Portugal. I unknowingly arrived during the junior competition and was immediately struck. Their distinct fashion and charismatic personalities made it clear this was a culture someone had to introduce them to, those kids we imitating something they had seen before. And yet they wore it all with a confidence that made me think, "It's so nice to be young.". Their willingness to immerse themselves so fully in this niche zeitgeist of dance is what inspired the heading and perfectly reaffirmed the thoughts I was already having.

Bend a little, but don't fold.

You are simply a collection of everyone you've tried to be along the way. A reflection of a community: our parents, teachers, and friends. Even an arch nemesis leaves a mark. This constant exchange is how you find your own unique footing in the world. What you call being yourself is simply your interpretation of all these influences.

None of this is a groundbreaking thought. It’s as fundamental as learning about gravity. Once you understand the rules, you put away any hopes of flying and get on with the business of walking. Just as your body knows gravity through muscle memory, your very being remembers your upbringing: every twist, every turn, and every identity crisis. No one had to explain what being rejected felt like; that sting will live with you longer than any words could.

Our youth is a constant act of imitation, where we bend to the communities and surroundings that shape us. But our identities are not found in those acts; they are found in the feelings we carry from them, feelings our bodies remember long after the details fade. To fold, then, is to ignore this muscle memory, to deny the deepest longings that anchor us to who we truly are.

My summer vacation was spent in parts of Spain and Italy this year. Outside of beaches and romantics sunsets, I spent a lot time in museums and fancy old villas. Time well spent, if you ask me. I was overwhelmed with all kinds of interior design, sculptures, paintings and photography. I started noticing what I genuinely tend to gravitate towards vs what was great art. I guess the internet's a bit of a mixed bag; everything's right there, so we kind of build these internal filters for what actually sticks with us.

It got me thinking about what I try to accomplish when I take my own photos and if I could figure out the characteristics of photos I've taken that truly stick with me. Note: I'm intentionally not using words like good, bad, or great photos here. I want you, the reader, to focus on something else, something less absolute in opinion. Even if you disagree with me, it's at least going to get you thinking about the characteristics of images that make a photo stick for you.

When I think about what makes my photography tick, here's the sweet spot I'm always aiming for:

• Raw but polished enough to come across as professional

• Documentative. It's about ensuring the photo's intention and the story it tells are truly genuine.

• Obscure. I like to leave out enough detail to leave room for imagination.

I can sum this all up with the title of this article: Photos based in reality. That feels extremely vague, right? I've watched tons of videos breaking down rules of thirds, color, contrast, composition, and so on. However, I see them all as a means to an end. That end could be anything, depending on who you ask. For me, it's the three points listed above.

I'm elated when a photo nails all three points. Here are a few examples of images that come close.

1. Gessica on Film

Take this one, for instance. I took it during a film photoshoot in a rented studio, aiming to get the cover for my upcoming zines. This particular photo didn't make the cut for the cover, but it's still my favorite one from the session

• Raw: It's a really tight crop of the model. I'll admit, I was far too close on the first shot. In the moment, I noticed it, stood back, and retook the image to get enough breathing space on the sides. Here's a pro tip: telling someone to just "do that again" usually makes it even harder to replicate, and sure enough, I could never truly replicate this exact gaze, unfortunately. But even with this tight crop, her gaze gives the photo enough room; it feels immediate, not confined.

• Documentative: This photo just gets the model. Even though I don't know her all that well, this image perfectly captures the impression I have of her: a unique mix of confident and shy at the same time. It's like a visual summary of that personality.

• Obscure: This is the funny part. The feeling from the "Documenting" point really lends itself here because it was a moment we couldn't replicate, so it left me thinking: what was going through her mind in that moment? It holds onto a little secret, and that's what makes it stick.

2. Hats Off to the Heat

• Raw: It feels genuinely plucked from a moment. It's got that grainy texture, the bright, almost blown-out sky, and the slightly off-kilter perspective of someone just trying to grab a scene as it happens.

• Documentative: The photo just screams "tourists season!" which is exactly what it was. It perfectly captures that feeling of being one person among many, all looking at something. And the detail of one person without a hat in a sea of them – initially, I hated that detail and even thought about using AI to add one in. But over time, I started wondering if it looked intentional or like a happy mistake. Like, maybe I actually took that photo because there was one odd person out subconsciously?

• Obscure: Why wasn't she wearing a hat on such a sunny day? It's a small detail that makes me pause and think, adding a layer of mystery to an otherwise straightforward scene.

3. Defiant

• Raw: Gritty and real. The harsh sunlight, the shadows, the grain from the film – it all adds to this unfiltered, in-the-moment vibe. Honestly, I've yet to truly dive into editing this one because I'm so scared I'll just ruin the vibe I already get from it.

• Documentative: The shot perfectly captures a specific kind of swagger and attitude. The guy's stance, the shadow on one side of his face created by his hat, the setting with the graffiti wall and industrial background – it all comes together to document a very particular urban energy. It’s like a snapshot of a character in their natural habitat.

• Obscure: The casual, almost defiant posture leaves a lot unsaid.

Quick thoughts

I hope the two readers on here don’t think I gave up. I've actually been actively working on Noey, from the photography and art direction to the first issue. Unfortunately, I just haven’t cared enough to share it on Substack. No, don’t worry, this is not, yet another, article ranting about the pitfalls of social media and how Substack is EVEN worse than instagram. That would be a mere rain drop into a sea of existing complaints, wouldn’t it?

While I am torn on how to best share news, sharing my goals publicly comes out of necessity. I use the internet as my accountability partner; a tool to shame me when I am slacking on something I promised myself. However, it’s always followed with vein metric watching, seeing others receive tons of likes and subscribers makes you forget why you share online in the first place. You inadvertently start running the social media rat race; create fast, post frequently and follow all the clickbait trends. Honestly, I've just accepted that I'm not really built for the 'content creator' hustle. My pace is more like one of these articles every month or two, tops. I, so often have to step back to remind myself not to get caught up. The hiatus was me touching grass!

PS: I might move this whole thing to a personal blog soon. Substack's really gone wild with the email digests of notes, making them feel less focused and more algorithmic. If I do jump ship, I'll leave a big goodbye message right here!

Anyway, back to the topic…

The last few months…

Last night, I read a text from a group chat that read “I think I need a personal assistant”. On the surface, everyone in the group read it as subtle flex - “Look at this guy, he can afford a PA?!”. But deep down we all knew that just meant “work-life balance is kicking my ass right now”. I relate to that all too well. Recognizing this, I sought out help. A lot of it! I shot a couple of emails out to designers I knew to help me shape out Noey and create a visual identity and reusable zine template. The responses were positive and almost everyone was keen to step in and lend a helping hand. All of the work would be paid, of course. Much to my dismay, life happens. A few folks had more pressing projects to work on, some were too pricey and others misaligned with the project's scope.

Despite all the back and forth, I still took photos! The ideas changed, but my camera remained the constant, and I was always snapping away. Cycle trip? Pack your camera. Meeting with friends? Don't forget your camera. I feel naked when I don't carry my camera. Eventually, it clicked (pun intended): all that really matters are the photos. In a perfect world, there would be a beautiful marriage between the photos and the execution of art direction (typography, à la graphic design). Yes, I can build some patience and wait for the right individual to work with.

Ironically, with every passing month, I started to care less and less about the presentation of it all. I no longer wanted to view this from the lens of an exhibition or sales perspective. It felt like the same relentless 'rat race' I so often complain about with social media. Essentially, I was just getting in my own way, trying to create a process, make a product, collaborate with others, and document it all at the same time. What's that saying? We put our pants on one leg at a time? All that to say, this realization led to the decision to simply do as much as I could, as often as I could, on my own, and hopefully the right people and ideas will fill in the blanks.

Issue #1: Nostalgia

I find myself being a lot more reserved than I used to be. Notifications off, eyes fixed resolutely forward in public, a deliberate retreat into myself. Lately, I've simply been sitting with memories, feelings, and my inner child, which explains why I've had a lot less to say around friends and family. As summer arrives, I can't help but just want to sit under the sun and do nothing of importance. I've been chasing down old Walkmans, filming on Super 8, and romanticising VH1 and cassette tapes – I'm feeling nostalgic.

Initially, I thought of some pseudo-intellectual meaning and title for the zine, thinking it would give these feelings enough depth. But the truth is, it's not that deep (shrug). It is what it is. Every element of this issue is just something that took me down memory lane or brought back an old feeling. So I am naming the first issue that, Nostalgia.

When I say 'I’m feeling nostalgic,' I'm not exaggerating. As a generally tech-savvy dude (if I do say so myself), it's pretty wild to find myself cutting out letters for 'NEOY' just to visualise how the first issue will look. It transports me straight back to preschool, to the slow, careful snip-snip of clumsy scissors on paper.

I guess I’m learning to relax some of my expectations. Photography feeds my soul, but it is just a hobby right now. The upside is it doesn't feel like work (most of the time). I'm trying to lean into that feeling as much as I can. I know I’ll have the zine done before the end of the year. I know I’ll need help reviewing the layout and design, but for now, I’ll just keep shooting and editing the zine as much as I can. There is no use in just being stuck, and no point overstating my intentions with this new zine, so here are some of my favorite shots for the rest of the article. Hopefully, I don’t go too long without writing another one of these.

A Mini Introduction to Me

31, software developer. Slowly emerging from a haze of burnout and a semi-depressive spell tied to compulsive drinking. I could tell you I’ve been sober for over a year now, but honestly, that’s not what feels like an accomplishment. I’ve never wanted to define myself by what I abstain from—by what I don’t do. Instead, I’d rather focus on how close I am to becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be.

The tricky part? I’m not entirely sure who that person is.

What I do know is that building better habits and learning to embrace delayed gratification has been helping me inch closer to understanding myself. Not curing, not running—but learning.

Not Enough Words

Here’s the thing: I’m a good talker. Give me a stage, a microphone, or even a room full of people, and I know how to keep them entertained—heck, some might even throw out "charismatic." I’ve been speaking publicly since my early years, though back then it might have looked more like cracking jokes as the class clown. (Public service, wouldn’t you agree?)

So you’d think I’d have no issues expressing myself. But you’d be wrong.

There’s a difference between sounding good and truly saying something meaningful—something that's me. When it comes to the latter, I struggle. Why? Maybe it’s my pesky tendency to please people. Maybe I’ve been too focused on how others hear me instead of how I hear myself.

But before this veers into a full-blown therapy session, let me bring it back to my photography.

I’ve always loved photography, but I never quite knew what to do with it. Platforms like Instagram don’t feel right for me—I’m not knocking Instagram, I just find it’s not a medium where I can fully articulate what my photos mean. Like I said before: there’s a difference between looking good and saying something. And my photos? They deserve to say something.

Zines: The Right Number of Pages

Here’s what I’ve learned: I’m long-winded. Always have been. Not enough words can be frustrating, but not enough pages? That’s where it gets interesting.

I found myself gravitating toward creating photo essays, or more precisely, zines. These short collections of images tell stories—stories that can’t be captured in just one or two photos, or a snappy Instagram caption.

I don’t know why this feels natural to me, but it does. Maybe it’s because I’ve fallen in love with the process of collecting fragments—pictures, thoughts, emotions—and piecing them together into something bigger.

To borrow a line from J. Cole:

"My mind's quite depressed if I don't write these, I'm Spike Lee of the audio."

I’m no Spike Lee, but that line hits home. Without alcohol or other distractions to numb the edges, life has slowed down significantly for me over the last year and a half. And in the stillness, I’ve had to find new ways to express myself. It gets lonely sometimes—hell, most of the time—but journaling every morning has been one of the most therapeutic habits I’ve picked up.

This same need for expression has spilled over into how I see my photography: not as disjointed snapshots, but as long-form articles with space to breathe. Zines have become the perfect medium for me.

Bringing Zines to Life

Creating my first zine was a major learning experience—equal parts exciting and overwhelming. I quickly realized just how much goes into bringing something like this to life: the layout, the design, the pacing. There’s an art to making everything flow seamlessly, and I had no idea where to even begin.

I was lucky enough to have friends who stepped in and handled the design work pro bono. They brought my photos and words to life in ways I couldn’t have imagined. But as grateful as I am, I know I can’t rely on favors every time. Without a solid, replicable design system, every new zine feels like starting from scratch.

That’s where NOEY comes in (pronounced 'noh-ee' like 'Joey' but with an 'N' instead of a 'J').

I want to build something that gives me the tools to plug and play my ideas, a system that lets me focus on the storytelling while still ensuring everything looks and feels cohesive. I’m intentionally not calling it a magazine.

NOEY stands for “No One Else’s You,” and it’s a constant reminder that only you can express your true self—your unique voice, your story, your perspective. And whatever form that expression takes—photography, zines, writing—NOEY is the umbrella under which it all lives. I know it’s a bit corny and cheesy, but I’ve been playing ‘cool’ for so long that maybe that’s why I’ve had such a hard time truly expressing myself.

Building in Public

Ideas don’t really come to life until you speak them into existence. Nothing feels real until you hash it out with a friend over coffee or put it out there for someone else to hold space for.

That’s what this is. That’s what this article is. A spoken attempt to bring NOEY to life—through words, photography, and honest musings about the process.

Every now and then, I’ll write updates here about how it’s going: the wins, the stumbles, the "what-ifs." Maybe this fails, and it becomes nothing more than a fond experiment. Maybe it sees the light of day. Either way, this is NOEY’s story from inception.

So, wish me luck. Because at the end of the day, no one else is you, and no one else is me. I’m not even sure what that’s supposed to mean, but I’m hoping it sticks.

Cheers,

Hermen

Nothing ever goes as planned. Much like the irony of titling my first photography zine Be There in 5 Minutes—and taking over a year to finish—my debut solo exhibition came together through a mix of missed deadlines, rushed decisions, and unexpected breakthroughs. Yet, somehow, it all finally came together with intention and heart, turning a string of missteps into an experience I couldn’t have imagined when I first started this journey.

How It All Began

It wasn’t long after I shared my digital zine online that I was approached by the owners of The Hidden Space, a multi-purpose space designed by Séverine Morizet and Paul Victor known for championing emerging and unconventional artists. They asked if I’d be interested in translating Be There in 5 Minutes into a full exhibition. The idea seemed both thrilling and daunting. I didn’t know what a “gallery-ready” version of my work might look like, but their enthusiasm made the decision easier.

We were offered the option of giving ourselves plenty of time to prepare, but we decided to work on an unusually tight timeline—partly because we wanted to keep the momentum going and partly, to be honest, to avoid the dreaded overthinking and perfectionism that had slowed down the zine’s release in the first place. Learn from your mistakes right?

The Zine’s Evolution

The zine’s online iteration was born out of instinct and spontaneity, but even that took twists and turns. For example, the online version doesn’t have any text on its cover. This wasn’t some high-concept design choice—it simply didn’t happen. Life got in the way, and we never got around to it before sharing it digitally.

When it came time to print physical copies, we could have easily designed something more polished. Yet, while working with the printers to cut and bind the pages, we realized we actually liked its simplicity. So, we made the intentional decision to leave the front cover title-less (without any text on the cover). Instead, we decided to write directly on the cover by hand, letting the imperfection speak for the personal nature of the project.

That one decision sparked an idea. Why not let the handwritten aesthetic carry over throughout the entire zine? That’s how it evolved into a special edition version, where all the text was handwritten onto the pages instead of digitally printed. It felt more in line with what Be There in 5 Minutes had become—a celebration of mistakes, detours, and the beauty of less-than-perfect execution.

From Zine to Art Space

But translating the zine into an exhibition was an entirely different beast. One of our early challenges was realizing that the tone of the zine—fun, casual, and lighthearted—felt completely out of place in a traditional white-walled gallery setting. The photos didn’t hold the same energy when displayed behind pristine frames.

Instead of forcing them to fit into that world, we went the opposite route: we embraced a DIY aesthetic that honored the zine’s origin. We covered 7 meters of gallery wall with grid mesh, creating a massive collage-like backdrop. Mounted on top of the grid, the photos felt raw and dynamic, almost as if they were pinned to a teenager’s bedroom wall—a chaotic flood of thoughts, memories, and moments.

The Final Touches

The path to completion wasn’t without its growing pains. There were definitely moments of doubt—days spent staring at an unfinished grid that looked more like chaos than cohesive art. But then, there were also these small accomplishments along the way: the grid finally coming together, the handwritten zine covers turning out better than we’d hoped, and seeing the space start to feel like a living, breathing extension of the project.

Ultimately, the feeling of accomplishment didn’t hit until the very last moments before we opened the doors to the public. While adding the final touches, I stepped back and realized—it was all there. The work didn’t feel like someone else’s creation displayed in a gallery; it felt personal, imperfect, and unapologetically real.

I’ve always had a knack for picking challenges that sound cool in theory but quickly spiral into chaos in practice. Case in point: my latest endeavor to film my entire year on a Super 8 video camera. That’s right—this isn’t just nostalgic; it’s downright impractical. If you’re not familiar with Super 8, imagine strapping yourself to technology from the 1960s and lovingly hand-feeding film into a camera while constantly worrying it's jammed. It’s quirky, it’s unpredictable, and it sounds like the kind of thing people say they’d try but don’t, because they like their sanity. Naturally, I dove in headfirst.

This isn’t my first rodeo with self-imposed creative chaos. The year prior, I limited myself to only shooting in black and white. Why? Mainly because I thought it’d look artsy and mysterious—spoiler alert: most of it just looked like I forgot how to use my camera’s settings. But the experience was illuminating in its own way. Throw in a few comedy standup gigs from last year, and not only was I out of my comfort zone, I had triple-somersaulted out of it. Somehow, I survived. Which brings me to this year’s challenge: embracing the grainy, cinematic imperfection of Super 8 as a way to push my storytelling further.

Let’s be clear: I’m not trying to become some kind of auteur filmmaker or cinematography wizard. I’m not even aiming for “good.” The goal of all my creative shenanigans—from photography to standup—is to simply become a better storyteller. Whether it’s a joke that lands with a laugh, or an old-timey film reel flickering with nostalgia, it’s all about the story. Super 8 just happens to be my tool of choice this year, mostly because it forces me to slow down, plan ahead, and worst of all—be patient. Do you know how hard it is for someone who’s constantly late to be patient? It’s like asking a cat to enjoy a bubble bath.

So here I am, armed with rolls of film and more optimism than is probably advisable, documenting the year in all its unfiltered glory. Some shots will turn out poetic. Others shaky and overexposed because I forgot to adjust the light meter (again). But the beauty of Super 8 isn’t the perfection—it’s the grit, the charm, the unpredictability. Will this project be another epic saga stretching way beyond its original timeline? Absolutely. But that’s kind of my brand at this point, isn’t it? Stay tuned—this reel’s still spinning.

I believe that photos have lives of their own—not just the ones printed and framed, but all of them, even the rejects sitting in old Lightroom catalogs. They breathe, they shift, they demand more from you as time stretches on. Sometimes, they’re like strangers you met once at a party who suddenly feel familiar years later. That was the case with a photo I took in 2021 in my little one-bedroom apartment in Porto, using nothing more than a cheap Yongnuo flashgun. Four years later, that same photo—forgotten, almost discarded—found its way to the One Shot Award in Berlin. It’s part of the top 50 longlist, displayed on an enormous digital screen for everyone to see. Wild, right?

It feels strange because, back then, I didn’t think much of it. At the time, it felt… good but nothing incredible. Probably because I was too close to it—both literally and emotionally. When you’re staring at a brand-new photo, scrutinizing every pixel and making judgment calls in that moment, it’s like standing nose-to-nose with a painting. You can’t take it all in. The details overwhelm you; the flaws jump out. But when you let it sit, create some emotional space, that’s when things start to change. My 2021 self couldn’t see this photo the way I do now, let alone imagine it would hold its own in a Berlin gallery. Sometimes, we just need to step back to see the bigger frame.

The reverse is just as true though. Some images you initially fall in love with don’t age well. You know the ones I’m talking about—the photos you were ready to print immediately, only to cringe at later. They burn bright and fizzle out fast. It’s proof that first impressions can be deceiving when it comes to your own work. Patience doesn’t just help your photos catch their breath; it helps you recalibrate your perspective too. It’s a kind of creative time-travel, revisiting moments with fresh eyes and, if you’re lucky, a little more wisdom.

So maybe the best thing we can do for our photos is to leave them alone for a while, forget about them, let them age like wine instead of milk. You might come back later and discover the unnoticed magic in a shot you were once too close to. Or, if nothing else, you’ll see the ones that can’t hold up and give yourself permission to move on. Either way, time always tells the truth—about everything, including your photos.

I’ve always been late for everything—meetings, deadlines, even coffee with friends. It’s a hallmark of my personality at this point. Naturally, my first-ever photography zine—aptly titled Be There in 5 Minutes—is no exception.

What was supposed to be a quick and fun project, taking just a few weeks, somehow stretched into an epic, year-long odyssey. Along the way, I learned a lot about the process (and myself). So here I am, rushing to finally put this out into the world. The irony is not lost on me.

But let’s talk about the journey and the lessons learned while creating my very first zine (only available digitally).

That “new, shiny” Side Project

It all began with a simple idea: a photography zine documenting my life and, well, my talent for being perpetually late. The concept felt personal, punchy, and fun. In my mind, putting this together would be straightforward—a quick passion project to launch into the world after just a couple of coffee-fueled evenings behind my laptop and printer.

And of course, I immediately overestimated how simple printing your own zine actually is. From choosing the right photos to figuring out layouts, covers, and even fonts, I quickly realized this wasn’t going to be a weekend project. And then...life got in the way.

Overthinking Kills Momentum

One of the biggest hurdles? My own brain. I got caught in the cycle of what-if.

What if it looks too amateurish?

Are these the perfect photos, or are there others I should consider?

Should I experiment more with color schemes, paper types, and typography?

I redesigned Be There in 5 Minutes not once, not twice, but countless times—hence the decidedly unpoetic final filename: be_there_iteration_jeremy_03.pdf. Yep, you can tell from the title alone how indecisive I’ve been. Jeremy is a friend of mine who I chose to bug this time. Thank you, Jeremey.

Overthinking not only delayed the project, but it also dampened some of the initial excitement. The charm of a zine is in its rawness, and here I was, striving for perfection in something that’s inherently about imperfection.

Printing: A Challenge of Its Own

Once the design was finalized (and by finalized, I mean I forced myself to stop making tweaks), reality hit. Printing is a whole other beast.

Options like size, binding, and paper texture became their own mini rabbit holes. Do I go glossy or matte? Should I print it myself or seek professional help? And oh, the cost! When you’re printing in small batches, every decision adds up. Plus, since I wasn’t running with a publisher, I was figuring it all out solo.

It was humbling, to say the least, but also gave me newfound respect for independent creators. I’ll elaborate in a lot more detail in a future article.

Final Thoughts

Making this zine has been a whirlwind. What started as a quick project spiraled into a comedy of errors, overthinking, printing woes, and second (and third) guesses. But in the end, it’s here. And much like me, it showed up late—but it did show up.

Here’s to the creative process: messy, imperfect, and totally worth it.

If you’re as late to projects as I am, or if you've ever overthought something to death before finally letting it see the light of day, I hope this little zine resonates—and maybe gives you permission to embrace imperfection in your work too.

You can grab a copy of Be There in 5 Minutes here: https://betherein5minutes.byhermen.co

A special thank you to my friends (Jeremy K. White & Mariana Gomes) for your talents and patience with me.

Introduction

Color is suffocating. At least, it was for me. I have a tendency to overthink and color demanded too much attention to detail. Reds too red, blues too blue... Would this shade of yellow work with that shade of green? Was the saturation too high? Every scene a chaotic explosion of hues; a constant source of anxiety.

This led to endless debates with myself, endless deleting of photos I wasn't sure about, and a crippling fear of post-processing. Ultimately, color was killing my joy for photography. I needed to simplify, to strip things back to the essentials.

I needed a way to break free from the tyranny of color, and so, I embarked on a year-long challenge: to shoot exclusively in black and white. What I discovered during this year of monochrome was nothing short of transformative.

Rules of engagement

My gear of choice for this year-long experiment consisted of two cameras:

• Leica Z2X: This rangefinder, loaded with black and white film (primarily Ilford HP5 and HP4), would be my analog companion, forcing me to slow down and consider each shot carefully.

• Fujifilm XT2 & XE2S: This mirrorless camera, utilizing Fujifilm's exceptional Acros and Monochrome film simulations, would be my digital counterpart, allowing for greater flexibility and experimentation.

While both cameras offered distinct approaches to black and white photography, the core rule remained the same: no color.

Disclaimer: I made a few exceptions. I couldn't completely abandon color, my friends just would not allow it. Therefore, I continued to shoot color when needed, such as weddings and the vibrant and colorful Portuguese celebration of São João. May the monochrome gods forgive me.

Before the purge

I've loved photography since I was 15, but somewhere along the way, the joy faded. Everything about it felt like a distraction. Color felt like that brat tapping their pen on the desk during an exam, constantly interrupting my focus. Here's a glimpse of what my photos looked like before this journey began.

So it begins…

Achromatopsia and chromophobia (the opposite of Tyler, The Creator's album) aside, this isn't simply about the aesthetic of color versus no color. This is about my artistic and personal growth in 2024. I want to bring this point home by breaking down the remaining sections of the articles as a series of "discoveries".

Where Emotion Reigns, Detail Suffers

Honestly, I get paralyzed by detail. It's like trying to drink from a firehose – you just end up coughing and sputtering. Information can be a suffocating blanket, smothering the delicate bloom of emotion. This was especially true at a concert in April 2024. Surrounded by seasoned photographers with their arsenal of cameras and flashes, I felt like an imposter with my single Fujifilm XE2S (limited to a monochrome film simulation). The sheer number of details – the flashing lights, the crowd's movements, the intricate stage setup – threatened to overwhelm me. Despite my self-doubt, I captured a few shots, all under-exposed and lacking in detail. Yet, something about those images resonated with me. Unintentionally, the under-exposure helped to hide a lot of the visual noise that was distracting me, allowing me to focus on the raw emotion of the performance. I would go on to post this on social media and the artist himself even requested a copy of my photo, which served as a powerful confirmation of what I was beginning to realize: I preferred less detail in my images, I could force everyone’s eyes on what I deemed important. This experience became a pivotal moment, solidifying my emerging artistic direction: to hide what is not necessary, to prioritize emotion over a “good photo”.

Two months later, in the chaotic Lisbon flea market, surrounded by a cacophony of sights and sounds, I observed a father completely captivated by his son's playful exploration. The father, seemingly oblivious to the bustling market around him, focused solely on his child. This singular focus, a beacon of attention amidst the chaos, resonated deeply with me. It reinforced my emerging philosophy: strip away the unnecessary and find meaning in the simplicity of a single, powerful emotion.

Slow down…

Frustrated 'cause you can't find your keys
Focused on the meetings you finna miss
And the traffic you finna sit in to realize you been holding your keys the whole time
Slow down
You've been hypnotized by the possibility

Propaganda - Be Present

I've been hypnotized by the possibility – of the perfect exposure, the ideal aperture, the right filter. Thinking grayscale was sobering. I could finally focus on what was in front of me, on the light and shadow, the shapes and forms. It forced me to slow down. I cannot tell you the amount of times I've been too busy on camera settings vs taking photos.

I remember one evening, I was chasing the sunset at a lake, obsessed with capturing the perfect reflection of the bridge. I was so caught up in adjusting my settings, trying to capture the vibrant hues of the sky, that I almost missed the opportunity right in front of me. A lone figure in a white hat sat gazing out at the lake, while a couple sat close by, their shoulders touching. Two boats glided silently past, creating gentle ripples on the water. It was only when I shifted my focus, stripped away the distractions of the colorful sunset, bridge and reflection on the lake, that I noticed the quiet poetry in this scene. These subtle details, the interplay of light and shadow, the human connection, were far more compelling than any vibrant sunset. That image, one of my favorites of the year.

Fighting Boredom

The initial excitement of shooting in black and white quickly faded. The novelty wore off, and the daily grind of capturing images started to feel monotonous. Temptation lurked around every corner: a new filter, a different lens, a desire to chase that elusive "perfect" color image. Boredom threatened to set in, urging me to abandon my commitment to monochrome. But I persevered. I reminded myself of the initial reasons for this project: to simplify, to find my own voice, to rediscover the joy of seeing. I forced myself to stick to the rules, to embrace the limitations, to find beauty in the mundane.

In the process, I stumbled upon my own authentic voice. My vision sharpened, my storytelling became more nuanced, and my output evolved from generic imitations to a unique and personal expression.