Method Notes No. 4: Returning with an empty boat – on photography and the art of perseverance

For some time now, I've been slowly rediscovering my love of literature. Or perhaps it's finding its way back to me. As is often the case, one develops preferences along the way. For me, it's the works of literary modernism. Hemingway, Joyce, Woolf – each in their own unique way.

I'm fascinated not only by their stories, but also by how differently they tell them. Hemingway's clear, unadorned language. His themes: courage, loss, dignity. Often set amidst the forces of nature or war. Then Woolf – her stream of consciousness and her poetic perspective. The way she makes the passage of time palpable is simply wonderful. How subjective our perception is, especially today, when everything is faster, louder, and more overlapping. And Joyce. His complex play with language, the inner monologues, the details, the madness of everyday life. Ulysses has been on my shelf for fifteen years. I've read a third of it. After that, you start again, with a different reading strategy. You get lost – perhaps that's how it has to be.

Hemingway is closest to my heart. Perhaps because I like his clarity. The tranquility between the lines. The decisiveness of his characters. Perhaps also because his stories are the easiest for me to read, yet have a profound impact.

I was recently talking to someone about The Old Man and the Sea , about Santiago and his struggle on the open sea. And suddenly the question arose whether there were any parallels to my own experiences in photography.

I hesitated at first. I don't see myself as Santiago. But I know photographers who resemble him. People who live a minimalist lifestyle—not out of convenience, but out of conviction. Who consciously expose themselves to simplicity. Who accept that it might be uncomfortable.

Although photography rarely conveys the same existential sense as a battle on the high seas, there are similarities.

Santiago lives almost like a modern-day hermit. Simplicity. Poverty. No self-pity. Just experience, pride, craftsmanship, a deep peace. And the sea that shapes him.

I see this again in some photographers. People who work on a project for years, without a certain outcome. Who avoid the mainstream, even though it would be easier. Who know rejection, ignorance, ridicule – and yet remain true to their path. Like Santiago, who returns in the end with an empty boat. Marked. Tired. And yet with pride.

There's this phrase:
"I wish the boy were here."

Even the strongest need support. I know that from photography, too. Many appear independent, almost unapproachable. But often they carry the burden alone. Support is rare. Perhaps because everyone is too preoccupied with themselves. Perhaps because everyone is fighting their own silent battle.

I've observed this often. In conversations with colleagues, at exhibitions, in meetings, in quiet moments after a shoot. The uncertainty is always there. The question of whether what you're doing is enough. Whether it will be seen. Whether it will last.

In my own work, there have been moments that feel similar. Not a battle against wind and waves, but against doubt, fatigue, the tenacious struggle for meaning. Sometimes I work on a project for weeks, searching for images that tell a story—and come back with nothing. At least not outwardly. No finished image. No visible result.

But something remains inside. Experience. Concentration. The ability to endure the empty space. That's part of it. Perhaps that's what Hemingway means when he speaks of dignity.

Santiago loses the fight. The fish is devoured by the sharks. He returns empty-handed. But he returns. Upright. And in his own logic, not as a loser.

In photography, it's not just the image that counts. It's the journey. The perseverance. The way you deal with setbacks. Whether you come back. Whether and with what attitude you pick up the camera again.

And then there's something else that reminds me of Santiago: his equipment. Nothing about it is modern. His boat is old. The lines are worn. The sails are patched. It almost seems as if he's ill-equipped for what awaits him.

But would it have made a difference? A newer boat? More technology? More ropes, bigger nets? Maybe. Maybe not.

I know that feeling. In photography, too, many believe that more equipment means more security. More focal lengths, more cameras, more accessories. But in the end, it still comes down to this: You're standing there. Alone. With your perspective. With your experience. With what you can carry. Nothing more.

I've learned to make do with very little. One camera. One lens. Maybe two. Not because it's convenient. But because it's enough. If you know what you're doing. If you know the sea. If you know your camera.

And even then, there's no guarantee. Santiago had none either. Only his hands. His knowledge. His calm.

Perhaps therein lies the quiet dignity of this work: in its reduction, in its trust in what remains when everything external falls away.

And perhaps that's enough.