Evolution of vision: Adapting style and capturing change over time

Part 8 in the series 'Long-Term Photography Projects'

Oct 29, 2024

Another part in my series on long-term photography projects. It has been a while as the last part was posted in June. This time I focus on change over time. At the end of this post you will find links to the other parts of this series

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For us, as photographers working on long-term projects, one of the most fascinating things is how both our vision and our subject can change over time. When you're committed to a project for months or even years, you witness subtle changes - not just in your surroundings, but in yourself. These changes, though sometimes hard to see in the moment, often reveal themselves in your work.

When I started my first long-term project, I thought I had a pretty clear idea of my style. My approach was defined and I knew the kind of images I wanted to capture. But as the months went by and the seasons changed, I realised something: my style wasn't as fixed as I thought it was. I began to notice changes - some subtle, some significant - in how I framed subjects, how I played with light, and even how I approached editing. This evolution wasn't a conscious decision; it happened naturally as I grew as an artist and as my relationship with the subject deepened.

The power of sustained observation

A long-term photographic project gives you something very special: TIME. And with time comes the ability to observe your subject in a way that short-term projects don't allow. You don't just take a shot and move on - you revisit the same person, place or idea again and again. Each encounter brings new insights, and so your vision adapts.

My first long-term project centred on my hometown, a place that held fragments of my past, each corner layered with memories that seemed so real, yet increasingly out of reach. The aim wasn't to document the town as it was, or even to capture its transformation over time; it was to explore what had happened to those memories - those snapshots of life that now only existed in my mind. Buildings had been demolished, streets had changed and familiar places had become unrecognisable. My memories lived on, but the places they belonged to had either disappeared or been repurposed, leaving me to wonder what remains when the physical landmarks of one's past disappear.

At first I approached the project with a sense of nostalgia, hoping to find traces of the world I remembered. But as I began to photograph, I realised that the spaces I was capturing were no longer mine. I found myself standing in front of a mortuary, knowing that many years ago this was where my best childhood memories had been created, where I'd spent countless hours playing on a mountain of soil that was being used to build a new neighbourhood. There was no trace of my memory in that building - it had been erased, rebuilt and given a new life. It became clear that I wasn't just documenting these places; I was recording the absence, the emptiness left behind.

The mortuary, previously known as the mountain of play

In the end, my project took on a whole new shape! I photographed these new spaces as they stood now, their facades fresh and often sterile, holding no hint of what they'd once meant to me – but what exciting new things they could mean to me now! And beneath each photograph, I wrote the memory tied to that spot – a fragment of my past juxtaposed against a present that felt almost foreign, but in the best way! My childhood football club is now a high-end villa district! The small movie theatre where I saw my first movie is replaced by a row of modern apartments. My primary school is now a community centre! Through these pairings, I wasn't just capturing a place; I was creating a visual diary of memories that only existed in my head. These memories had been severed from the spaces they were born in, but now they're back!

Da Vinci LTS. Schoolyard where we played football until dark

This project taught me that photography is a powerful tool that can be used to capture not just the visible world, but also the invisible – the deeply personal stories that only we carry. Each photograph served as a stark reminder of the fragility of memory and the way places, no matter how meaningful, can slip away from us. In a sense, this project became a way to bridge the past and the present, to preserve a hometown that no longer exists anywhere but in my mind.

Van Asperen supermarket where my mother asked me to pick up groceries

Letting go of original expectations

I have learned from long-term projects that it is crucial to let go of the idea that the final product will look anything like what I first envisioned. When you spend time working on something, you and your subject both evolve. And that's a good thing.

In fact, it's often these unexpected twists that breathe life into a project. I remember feeling stuck while working on a series documenting urban decay in an old industrial area. The first few months were thrilling. I relished discovering beauty in abandoned buildings and rusted machinery. But after a while, I was uninspired. The project was stagnant.

I allowed myself to shift focus and things began to change. I stopped obsessing over the decay and started photographing the small signs of life that were returning to the area. I captured new graffiti, patches of weeds growing through cracks in the concrete, and even a community garden that sprang up amidst the ruins. My vision evolved, and so did the project. What started as a bleak exploration of abandonment turned into a story of renewal and resilience. I hadn't planned for that, but it made the series far more compelling.

Adapting your style to reflect growth

Any long-term project will inevitably lead to growth as an artist. You refine your skills, learn new techniques and change the way you see the world. Your work should reflect this evolution.

This doesn't mean discarding your identity as a photographer. It means embracing growth as an inevitable part of the process. Over time, you will likely find yourself drawn to different angles or lighting conditions, or you may want to experiment with new editing techniques. Embrace it. Don't fight it. A long-term project allows you to evolve, to let your style breathe and change along with the subject you're capturing.

The most rewarding part of working on a long-term project is undoubtedly looking back and seeing the arc of your own evolution. You will see how your early images differ from your later ones, not just in terms of technique, but in terms of vision. The images you create later on are the ones that resonate the most. By that point, you're not just a photographer documenting a subject. You're someone who has been shaped by the journey itself. Do you sometimes revisit your earlier photos? I think you really should.

The evolution of your style is not a departure from your original vision. It is proof of your growth as an artist. It shows that you and your subject have changed. This is the magic of long-term photography.

Post office. Saturday morning 4am. Sorting and delivering mail

Btw, the photobook I made of this project can be seen on this almost 4 minute video

Evolution of vision: Adapting style and capturing change over time

Part 8 in the series 'Long-Term Photography Projects'

The power of sustained observation

Letting go of original expectations

Adapting your style to reflect growth

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