Finding My Way Back to Fengaros with Sandy
I hadn't been to Fengaros in almost ten years. Not for any big reason. Summer just has a habit of taking me elsewhere, abroad on a project or working in another corner of Cyprus. And over the last few years, becoming a parent has shifted the rhythm of life in ways I couldn't have imagined. Somehow, the festival and I just kept missing each other. And well... here we are. I finally made it back.
Being back did feel strange, but in a good way. I used to know so many faces there, and this time I hardly recognized anyone. But instead of feeling like an outsider, it felt refreshing. It was exciting to see so many new people enjoying a truly Cypriot music festival, discovering new artists, and becoming part of the ever-evolving musical landscape of our island.
I also felt free.
For once, there was no access, no backstage pass and no responsibility. It was just me walking around like everyone else, and that changed everything. Sandy's invitation was simple: go, have fun, and create something that feels like you. So I resisted the photographer in me. I didn't spend the night scavenging the festival looking for images or trying to "cover" the event. Instead, I followed the music and my curiosity. If something caught my eye, I'd photograph it. If not, I'd simply keep walking, listening, and enjoying being there.
Having said that, I knew I had to do a little bit of pre-work to stop myself from falling into old habits. After almost two decades working as a photographer, it's incredibly easy to slip into that mindset where you're constantly previsualizing images and chasing compositions before they even exist. I didn't want that, I wanted to react.
So I did what I often do when I need to change the way I see. I gave myself physical limitations.
The first one already existed. I had no special access, so no privileged angles. I had to experience Fengaros exactly like everyone else. The second was my gear.
One camera. One lens. That's it.
I chose the wonderfully quirky TTArtisan 75mm f/1.5, a lens that flares unpredictably, swirls backgrounds, misses focus, like only misses, and generally refuses to behave. Somehow, it felt like the perfect companion for the night. Its imperfections echoed the nostalgia of returning after so many years while also removing a bit of my control over the final image. The only other trick I allowed myself was using my phone (as a piece of black glass) in front of the lens, playing with reflections, shadows and distortions, embracing the chaos instead of trying to eliminate it.
And honestly... it worked.
Letting go of control meant that what stayed with me more than anything wasn't the photographs (or trying to create them), it was the energy. Maybe that’s because, once I stopped obsessing over making pictures, that was the only thing left to tune into.
Watching artists throw themselves completely into their performances. Watching a couple of hundred people dance without worry, just completely present in the music, felt huge. We live in a time where everything is measured in followers, views, engagement. Yet standing there reminded me how little any of that matters. Whether a band has 500 followers or 50,000 is almost irrelevant when you're standing a few metres away watching them pour everything they have into a performance while a crowd genuinely connects with it. That's real. That's something no algorithm can manufacture and no social platform can truly communicate.
It reminded me of trying to photograph mountains. Anyone who's ever stood in front of one knows the feeling. No matter how good the photograph is, it never carries the weight, the scale or the emotion of simply being there. Music is surprisingly similar. You can record it, photograph it or stream it, but being surrounded by it, with people experiencing it together, is something entirely different.
