Shooting with

Nastya Mihaylova

I didn’t know what to share with you this time — nothing really happened… until the very last moment. And then suddenly, something small hit unexpectedly deep.

I was surprised by my own reaction — and the tenderness that surfaced in the middle of a simple, friendly conversation. For the first time in many years, I felt something like not enoughness — like I wasn’t a “real photographer,” not a “true professional.” Just because I couldn’t confidently explain some technical things.

Flashback time.

When I bought my first camera, I knew absolutely nothing about gear. I got a Nikon D3200 with a kit lens — because it had just been released and looked powerful. I mean, how could a brand new camera be bad, right 😄? Only after buying it did I find out what crop factor is, and that full-frame cameras even exist. I hadn’t even heard about medium format. Later on, I got myself a “proper” lens — a 50mm f/1.4 Nikkor — simply because I read a couple of articles online. I didn’t know there were lenses for crop sensors and lenses for full-frame. I just bought what seemed right. And funnily enough, it turned out I had accidentally bought a full-frame lens. I found that out four years later, when I finally got a full-frame camera and tried to mount my old kit lens on it — and it didn’t fit.

Back then, I had this idea that everyone who owns a camera knows how to set it up — aperture, shutter speed, ISO. That belief alone made me sit down and learn it all. And even though it felt really confusing and hard at first, I forced myself to shoot only in manual mode — because I truly believed that’s what “real” photographers do.

Then, over the years, I met many photographers who shot in auto mode. Some of them didn’t know their settings, some just couldn’t be bothered. And still — they created amazing images. That’s when it started to hit me: maybe it’s not about the settings. Maybe it’s about your vision, your taste, your sense of timing. And I started to let go. Slowly. Because in the end — you’re not a photographer because of what you know. You’re a photographer because of what you make.

And it’s not just about photography.

Years ago, I got into making photo collages. I wanted to add something weird, layered, unexpected to my shots — little cutouts and odd elements. So I signed up for a collage workshop in a very fancy art school in Kyiv. The artist leading it had done campaigns for major brands, so I expected… you know, Photoshop, maybe Illustrator, maybe even Procreate. Ready? .......... She used Paint. Paint Caaaaaarl 🤯

Yes, that Paint — the one that comes free with Windows, right next to the calculator and Solitaire. A program with no layers, where you literally have to erase around an object pixel by pixel. I remember sitting there thinking, wait, what? Is this a joke? Am I the joke?

But then it hit me: all you really need is Paint — and imagination. Imagination and taste. And no one can teach you those two.

Okay, but collage is one thing. Photography is different — right?

Except… I used to work as a studio manager, and many of our regular clients were pro photographers. They had full bookings for months, led lighting workshops, had the latest gear. And they didn’t know the names of the very modifiers they used in class. It used to drive me crazy.

Until I understood: you don’t have to know everything.

And sometimes — as life proves — it’s even better when you don’t.

You can simply do what you love, the way you love it. You don’t have to understand how it works to create something great.

I’ve carried that thought for ten years.

And now here I am — still shooting with a digital camera on manual mode when I want precision — but also, more and more, reaching for my point-and-shoot film camera. Fully automatic. No settings. No control. And I love it. I love the way it feels, the ease, the flow, the playfulness. I love creating with it. And that alone should’ve already proven to me — once and for all — that technical knowledge isn’t what makes someone a “professional.” That what really matters is the result — not the gear, not the specs, not the labels.

But today — even after all this — a couple of innocent questions stirred something in me. Made me pause. Made me wonder: what if I really am not enough?

And isn’t that fascinating?

How fast a ten-year conviction can shake — just a little — and make space for a new layer of self-awareness.