But even in face-to-face critique sessions, I've noticed that comments are usually restricted to the technical aspects of the photograph. The typical comments are "maybe you can use a different crop", or "there is no shadow detail", or even "what's the story behind that?". There is a crucial element that people overlook — the emotions of the photograph.

Harajuku, Tokyo, Japan, 2011. © Callan Tham

I feel that a photograph is supposed to elicit an emotional response from the viewer. Of course, no one can expect every single photograph to do that, but most good work should provoke an innate emotional response. From the magnificence of a great landscape, to the distress of a victim of violence, or the elation of a crowd, the photograph should be more than the combined technical excellence (or perceived lack thereof) at the moment of capture via the photographer's eye.

If a photograph is technically perfect, without eliciting a feeling from the viewer, then it is only an hollow academic exercise that doesn't move anyone. If we regard photography as an art, and it is, then what use is an empty photograph that doesn't make you feel anything?

National Museum, Singapore, 2011. © Callan Tham

Critiques, to me, should start at an emotional level, before dissecting it into technical bits. If not, we're no different from marketers who are just checking the boxes of technical acceptability. So tell me how you feel about the photographs.

Untitled, Singapore, 2012. © Callan Tham

But that's not what makes mobile photography, and the cottage industry that sprung up around it, with hundreds, if not thousands, of related accessories and app that rule the landscape, chief of which are the likes of Instagram (worth more than the New York Times, based on the buyout price by Facebook) and Hipstamatic, special — what makes it so different from more traditional forms of photography is its immediacy.

One could see a scene, capture it, process it (or not), and post it to Instagram within literally seconds, and another person could see exactly what the photographer saw or felt, continents away, within those same few seconds. The immediacy and speed of sharing a photo is unmatched by printed media, or even the "old" sources of photo sharing, like Flickr. Instagram personifies the instant gratification of this generation, where intimacy is superceded by immediacy. That strength is, however, also a weakness, particularly where the art of the curatorial process, or editing, is concerned. There seems to be a headlong rush to post everything one takes, regardless of how good, or relevant, the photo is. For those of us who work methodically, there seems to be a madness in the method rather than the other way around.

Another strength is the reach of platforms like Instagram. If you look past the sloppily taken photos with sloppily handled processing via their art filters, the essence of it is in the sharing. It provides a platform for photographers to potentially reach audiences that could not be reached via other means.

What I'm trying to say here is that Instagram, and other photo sharing networks like it, isn't a filter for art. There is no substitute for a cultivated aesthetic sense, or the patience required to edit one's own work. But that isn't carte blanche for us to write off everything posted on such networks as non-art. That's not the reason for me not using it, and it shouldn't be if that's your reason.

I believe that mobile photography isn't, and shouldn't, be defined by Instagram, but by its practitioners. Photographers like Aik Beng, Greg Schmigel, Oliver Lang, Misho Baranovic and others in the Mobile Photo Group, are the ones who are pushing this frontier, and pushing it hard. It would be a right shame if that isn't given the credit it's due.

Ultimately, Instagram, and all the photo sharing networks and apps out there, are just tools. Aren't we always saying that photography isn't about the tools, but about the art? Lets go back to the work, and enjoy the photos.

On the internet, it appears that most photography buffs out there veer to one end of the spectrum or another. There are one camp of people "artists" constantly deride as "gearheads", whose interest lie more in comparing 100% crops of meaningless photos that show how little noise the latest Canikon D800 Mark V has at 1024000 ISO and the astounding resolution that lenses can offer; and of course, the other end, where the "artists" belong, where mantras like "gear doesn't matter" or "it's the photographer, not the camera" are trotted out dogmatically.

Some people really go crazy over this.

Like most things, the reality lies somewhere in between.

I believe gear matters, to an extent. Of course, it is all about the photographs, but let's not delude ourselves here — everyone appreciates using finely-tuned, precision-engineered, well-crafted tools. It isn't so different when F1 drivers tune their cars after a test lap, or carpenters enjoy using a well-balanced hammer, or even practitioners of iaido appreciating a lovingly-made iaito or shinken.

There is something about this camera.

Yes, gear matters to the photographer — because if a photographer hates his cameras, then it would subconsciously alter the way he shoots, to his detriment. And that is where it should stop. It can be anything, and may even sound trivial; the smooth "snik" sound of a Leica shutter curtain, the way a Nikon feels in the hand, or the way a Canon snaps into focus in an instant. Haptics matter. And every photographer is different in their metrics.

The key thing is to find the camera that works for you. Just because I use a Leica doesn't mean you have to. Just because Vivian Maier and Richard Avedon used Rolleiflexes, doesn't mean you'll use it effectively. Likewise for Helmut Newton and Oleg Novikov and their Hasselblads. Find the tool that works for you, and stick with it; your photography will improve.

This will not make you Helmut Newton automatically. (Photo © Japan Camera Hunter)

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's get back to the actual photographs, eh?

Every time you visit an agency or meet someone, you should be showing your book and graciously accepting criticism. You’re going to have to develop thick skin. It’s never easy being told something isn’t good, but it’s going to happen. Get used to it. Get to a point where you thrive on it.  Take the feedback, make the changes, and go back and see what they think about the changes you’ve made.  But seriously, show it to anybody that will look at it. Other photographers. Bookers. Editors. The models. Always take the critique, but don’t take it personal.

I guess it really depends on your perspective about photography. Some just wanna have fun shooting coffee cups and their lunch, and that's all right by my book. But there are those of us whose idea of fun lies in making our photographs mean something, to someone. To make a photograph that shows us, and the world, who we are, and how we see the world.

By all means, have your fun. Disagree with me. But if you are, in any way, semi-serious about this beautiful art, then you owe it to yourself to accept that while there is no right or wrong way to go about it, there is a difference between good and bad art. Once we establish that, we can have a fruitful discussion about this art that we love.

"Good Night" — Leica M6 and Konica M-Hexanon 50/2 on Kodak Tri-X. All rights reserved.

In my mind, this seemed a fitting photo to end this project with. An elderly man having a quiet nap, a breezy late afternoon, and a nosey, curious photographer. Different worlds metaphorically. Or is it?

When I started this in 2009, I did not know where the project will take me, but now I do. I appreciate black and white film even more, and I'll probably never shoot colour negatives seriously again. I'll probably still shoot the occasional roll of slides, especially when I travel, but I've fallen in love with black and white all over again.

For personal work, I've moved on to bulk-rolling Tri-X. Buying individual, pre-packaged canisters just isn't economical at this point. And I never thought I'd fall in love with using Leica cameras, but I'm a convert now. Two workhorse rangefinders, a couple of lenses, and a case-load of Tri-X is all I need.

I've never been more excited about my personal work, and that has a lot to do with the people I've had the honour and fortune to meet. The photographic community in Singapore, those with a genuine passion for photography, and respect it as an art, is very small, and I'm glad to be a part of it.

More photos soon. Good bye, dear project, and thank you. I will miss you.

"Hello, and Goodbye" — Leica M2 and CV Nokton Classic 35/1.4 SC on Kodak Tri-X. All rights reserved.

Just a short, fleeting moment. A warm smile, a wave of appreciation. Connections that would have never been formed, if not for the fact that I have a camera in my hands.

"Three's Company" — Leica M2 and Canon 50/1.4 LTM on Kodak Tri-X. All rights reserved.

Probably a good illustration to how your choice of framing affects how the viewer may perceive the photograph, and what story it tells. A photograph is also an insight into the photographer's mind. I kind of wonder what I was thinking here, besides "that fellow looks lonely".

"Provision Shop" — Leica M2 and Canon 50/1.4 LTM on Kodak Tri-X. All rights reserved.

One thing that distinguishes MacPherson estate from most of the rest of Singapore are the many small, "mom-n-pop" shops that populate it. Many have long histories that will not be guaranteed. This kind shop-owner has been running this provision shop for 40 years, and the shop has been around for 60. His dad and mom handed it over to him, and he will be retiring at the end of this year.

Neither he nor I know what will happen to the shop after he retires, as all three of his children are established academics who are happy with their careers. Going into the family business is not fashionable, least of all if the business is not a fashionable one to begin with. But the local provision shop is a part of Singaporean culture, and one that many take for granted. Like shopping for fresh produce at a wet market, where the vegetable seller will throw in some spring onions because we bought a buttload of other veges. Then eating at the local coffeeshop, where the auntie or uncle serving drinks remembers your usual orders and have them ready before your seat is warmed up. Then the provision shop, where kids and adults can get most of every household essential, from cooking oil to soft drinks to cheap candy and toys.

I'll be back soon to take more photos and maybe have a longer chat with him. These are places and things and people that we might not get to see for too much longer.

Just a couple of photos that made me smile. A cheeky look. A knowing glance. 

Ayrton likes the iPad. So does Karen. They'll both have to share the only one we have. And they like that too. Two black and white photographs. Deep, rich blacks. Shades of gray. Gleaming highlights. And two of my favourite persons in the world. Couldn't ask for too much more, really.

Today, seven years ago, I married the only woman I couldn't live without, after a courtship of 10 years. We're both 34 this year, one collective foot into middle-age, and we've been together for 17 years. Half our lives thus far.

Is it a long time? Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. Happy anniversary, Karen.