I did not arrive at this conclusion through theory or ideology. It came slowly, through repetition. Through noticing where my energy went and where it quietly disappeared. Through observing how my body responded to certain assignments and how it relaxed into others. Somewhere along the way, without announcing itself, a truth settled in. The work that stayed with me, the work I returned to years later without embarrassment or regret, almost always came from projects that no one commissioned.

Professional work taught me discipline. It taught me speed, compliance, efficiency. It taught me how to deliver under pressure and how to meet expectations that were often defined by people far removed from the act of making photographs. There is value in that. I do not dismiss it. But it also taught me something else, something harder to admit. That my best instincts were often inconvenient in professional settings. They took too long. They asked too many questions. They did not always align with what was needed immediately.

Personal projects, on the other hand, asked nothing of me except presence. No brief arrived in my inbox. No one waited for a specific outcome. The only responsibility was to the work itself and to the people or places within it. That freedom changed the way I looked. I waited longer. I walked more. I missed more photographs and made fewer images that felt forced. The absence of expectation created space for attention.

Ownership is not just about rights or credits. It is about authorship in the deepest sense. In personal work, the decisions are not negotiated. I decide when a project is finished, if it ever is. I decide what stays unresolved. I decide what is too quiet to publish and what deserves to remain unseen. That level of control is not about ego. It is about integrity. When the work fails, it fails honestly. When it succeeds, it does so without compromise.

There is also the matter of pace. Professional assignments are built around urgency. Even long term commissions operate within timelines that are rarely flexible. Personal projects operate on a different clock. They allow the story to reveal itself slowly, sometimes reluctantly. Some subjects need time to trust. Some places need seasons to change. Some ideas need years before they make sense. My best work has always required that kind of patience.

Another truth that took time to accept is that not all labour deserves the same emotional investment. This is difficult to say in creative fields where passion is often weaponised. We are told to give everything, all the time, regardless of context. But emotional energy is finite. When I gave my deepest attention to professional work that did not respect it, I found less left for the work that mattered most. Personal projects protected that energy. They reminded me why I started.

There is also a difference in how mistakes are allowed to exist. In professional environments, mistakes are liabilities. They must be corrected, hidden, or explained away. In personal work, mistakes often become the work. A missed frame, a blur, an awkward composition can open new directions. The absence of penalty encourages experimentation. That is where growth actually happens, not in safe repetition.

The relationship with the subject changes too. When I am working on personal projects, the interaction is not transactional. I am not extracting images to fulfill a requirement. I am spending time. Listening. Returning without a camera. Letting people forget that I am a photographer before remembering again. That trust cannot be rushed. It cannot be scheduled. It does not survive when the primary goal is delivery.

Professional work often asks for clarity. Personal work allows ambiguity. I am not required to explain everything. I can let contradictions exist. I can leave questions unanswered. Some stories are weakened by explanation. Personal projects respect silence in a way professional frameworks rarely do.

This does not mean professional work is meaningless. It means it serves a different function. It sustains. It supports. It keeps the practice viable. But it does not always nourish. Confusing sustainability with fulfillment is where many creatives burn out. I learned to separate the two not as a rejection of professional work, but as a way to survive it without losing myself.

Giving my best work to personal projects is also an act of resistance. Against algorithms that reward speed. Against markets that value novelty over depth. Against systems that benefit from overproduction. Personal projects slow me down. They make me less productive in visible ways and more attentive in invisible ones.

There is a quiet confidence that comes from knowing that some work cannot be bought. Not because it is priceless in a romantic sense, but because it belongs to a different economy altogether. An economy of time, trust, and lived attention. When I protect that space, I protect my ability to see clearly.

Over the years, I have noticed something else. When personal work is strong, professional opportunities tend to follow in healthier forms. Not immediately. Not predictably. But eventually. Because work made without compromise carries a different weight. Editors and audiences can sense when something was not rushed into existence.

Choosing to give my best work to personal projects is not a withdrawal from the world. It is a recalibration. A way of deciding where my fullest attention belongs. Professional work will always exist. Bills will always need paying. But the work that defines me, the work I want to be remembered for, needs protection from urgency and permission.

In the end, this choice is less about photography and more about living with intention. About understanding that not every effort should be maximised for output. Some efforts are meant to be guarded. Some work needs silence around it to grow.

I do not know where my personal projects will lead. I only know that they continue to teach me how to look, how to wait, and how to remain honest. And for now, that feels like the most meaningful return any work has ever given me.

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John Mikhailov

John Mikhailov, editor of Camorabug, leads with a sharp editorial vision. A passionate photography enthusiast, he brings a keen eye for storytelling, making every piece engaging and impactful. He also shares insightful perspectives, showcases emerging talent, and features interviews with renowned photographers.

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