The silence behind the lens

You know you have a problem when you can no longer see those moments unfolding before you.

For some years after I departed the police force, my return to the media saw me pick up a camera and guide my pathway back into the industry. It was a period in which I was labelled a “photographer” — a label I constantly rejected. I would tell people not to consider me one, as photography was simply a tool towards an ultimate aim.

The purpose of lifting the camera was twofold. On one hand, it seemed the most logical and accessible route towards re-entering a field I had left behind after what I would describe as burnout. Forced out of the police force by what many would call “bullying policies,” my return to the private sector was always going to be difficult. I needed a job, and I needed to get my head back in the game.

I have always been creative, always interested in the media, always observing what was around me. Picking up a camera felt natural. Capturing moments had its logic — it was, quite simply, a return to basics. Documenting what surrounded me was something I had always enjoyed.

I knew that entering the commercial side of media could provide a modest but stable income. Still, I could not see myself doing it. I shied away from commissions — weddings, christenings, confirmations, communions, family photoshoots. For the next handful of years, while I laid the foundations for my return to the media, you could count on one hand the number of commissioned shoots I accepted.

I chose the harder route — one I do not regret — because it shaped my path back into the media and into my creative work.

I focused on documenting my surroundings, searching for those moments in time. Expressions, emotions, storylines — they all became part of my day-to-day. Eventually, this led to what remains my first and only solo exhibition, centred around “our people.”

It was a documentation of daily life.

To this day, I have never been someone who asks people to pose, or gathers groups together for a “group photo.” Many do, but to me those are constructed moments — guided by the camera, and therefore not entirely real.

What I searched for were those same moments when they happened naturally. The celebrations, the tears, the smiles, the expressions — the simple instances that tell complete stories.

Timeless moments that, when viewed years later — even a hundred years from now — offer more than just the basic facts of date, time, and event.

I was never searching for the perfect technical image — the award-winning shot where lighting, pose, sharpness, and balance align perfectly. Those things can happen naturally, but rarely all at once. And when they do, without being forced, you can put the camera down and think: there is nowhere else to go from here.

Documentary photography — street photography — is about the moment. Even a blurred or out-of-focus image, if it captures something real, does not need to be technically perfect. The story it tells goes far beyond those details.

Capturing the moment is the art.

Now, as I said at the beginning — when you can no longer see those moments, you know something is wrong.

Alarm bells should ring when, no matter how much you observe, those moments disappear. When the click of the camera feels pointless. When there is no reason to lift it.

Yes, I am not a photographer — so perhaps it should not have worried me. But in hindsight, when those alarm bells ring, you need to stop and ask why.

In art, you do not lose what you have learned. You do not simply become worse. Only physical or mental illness can take that from you. Even then, physical illness does not necessarily stop you seeing — unless you have literally lost your sight. And even then, your other senses remain.

So when you stop seeing, it means something is blocking your vision. And when you cannot capture what is in front of you, that block runs deeper than simply not seeing.

It took me years to understand why I had put the camera down — why the desire to search for those moments had disappeared. I blamed my work. I thought writing had taken over. I thought focusing on other creative outlets had shifted my attention.

But now, as I begin to lift the camera again — and recognise that I am in recovery from mental health struggles — I understand it was none of those things.

It was a shift in focus driven by mental health. A fear of exposure. A need to hide rather than step forward. A fear of truly seeing my surroundings in case they pulled me into something deeper.

Those were — and to some extent still are — the reasons.

But when I look back at the images I captured before losing that focus, I begin to recognise what I was searching for. And that search is returning.

The aim now is simple — to one day resume what I once did, and to combine it with everything else I have become.

Someone recently said to me: recognising where you are does not make you weaker — it makes you stronger. You can only grow when you acknowledge your weaknesses and face them.

This is not about becoming a better photographer. Nor is it about offering solutions.

It is simply about reminding you that you are not alone in what you face.

And sometimes, by understanding who we are — by accepting our weaknesses — we can find a way around what holds us back, and continue the journey.

My collection of images https://stephenignacio.smugmug.com/Creative-Art-Photography/The-Peoples-Collection-365 over 1,000 images depicting some of the moments captured