Split, Croatia
I didn’t want to stop and ask for permission. It would’ve ruined the shot and killed the energy. I was chasing a fleeting, real moment, one that belonged to someone else, without them knowing it.
At a farmers’ market in Croatia, I let my obsession take over. I slid on rogue tomatoes and fish guts while trying to hold my ground. Once I’m in it - composing, exposing, capturing - nothing really interrupts that flow. If someone shooed me away, I’d put the camera down. But most of the time, I already had the shot.
I know. Rude. Awkward.
This is why I didn’t pursue photojournalism. I don’t want to blatantly disrespect people in my process, even if I can legally justify it. I know the rules - photography is allowed in public spaces where there’s no expectation of privacy. That doesn’t make it feel any less intrusive.
Still, the images I’m drawn to are the unaware ones. The authentic self before performance. It’s the opposite of a duck-lipped selfie, and somehow, it’s usually worth the discomfort.