Tell our audience briefly who you are and what inspired you to take on photography?
I am Karin Majoka, a film photographer, YouTuber, and in my other life a psychological psychotherapist, based in Germany. My academic background in psychology shapes a lot of how I see photography: I am interested in topics like solitude, residue of human nature and a breeze of humor. I experiment in a variety of different genres ranging from street photography, architecture photography, night photography or portraits, mostly but not exclusively using analog film.
Creative expression has always been a need for me, not just a hobby. Over the years I've tried my hand at painting, theatre, poetry, pretty much every artistic language I could get my hands on. I ended up with photography almost by accident, when I discovered that analog photography was still very much alive. What really drew me in was the process itself: this mix of a physical, hands-on craft that demands precision, paired with a material that's sometimes wonderfully unpredictable. You have to commit and get things right by hand and then let go and trust what the film decides to do with it. That push and pull between control and surrender is what hooked me, and it's still what keeps me coming back.
What’s your photographic process, what matters to you when you take a photograph and why?
What I really love about shooting film is that I get to be hands-on with every single step: choosing the film, the actual shooting, developing, scanning, editing and in some cases darkroom printing. Since I share my photos with the digital world on YouTube and Instagram, right now I for the most part choose to digitize my negatives. However, having full control over the whole process, from start to finish, means a lot to me. That said, if I'm honest, the shooting itself is by far what brings me the most joy. I'd genuinely rather be out there with a camera than at my desk or in the lab, so much so that I have rolls sitting and rotting in my fridge way longer than they should.
When it comes to what matters in the actual moment of taking a photo, it's hard to put into words beyond: it has to feel right. I guess that's basically what Henri Cartier-Bresson called the decisive moment. I love the idea of preserving time, taking one fraction, one split second, and freezing it, so it exists outside of time altogether.
Describe the 'one that got away'—a photo you saw in your mind but couldn't capture?
Honestly, I can't recall one specific image that got away, mostly because it's such a common occurrence for me. It happens almost daily that there are potential photos I don't end up getting, whether it's because I didn't have a camera with me at all (which is rare) or because I was simply too slow, or too shy to actually take the shot. I've come to see those untaken images as part of photography and the learning process though. This time you missed it, and that's something that teaches you acceptance and room to improve next time. If anything, it's exactly what motivates me to bring a camera along at all times, to be a bit more prepared, faster or braver, so that the next one doesn't get away.
Do you believe in a 'soulmate' camera. Which piece of gear feels like an extension of your body rather than a tool in your hand?
Soulmate camera is such a fun term to work with! To stay within that metaphor, I think it really depends on the person and can be highly individual. For some people it might be love at first sight, for others it takes a bit of time falling for a camera before realizing it's actually “the one”. For me it was a mix of both. The camera that did it for me is my Leica M6, even though that might be a bit of a cliche answer at this point. I picked mine up without ever really trying a rangefinder before. So while I immediately knew it felt good in my hand, like a tool I'd want to pick up again and again, actually using the rangefinder took some getting used to. By now though it has definitely become an extension of my body. I've shot several hundred rolls with it and built up so much muscle memory over the years that I can basically operate it blindfolded.
Is there a specific photograph or body of work in history that changed the way you look through a viewfinder? How does its influence show up in your work today?
I think inspiration works less like a direct blueprint and more like something that quietly shapes you over time. Everything we experience and encounter leaves a mark on us, even when it doesn't translate one to one into our own work. It's often more of an unconscious influence, similar to what I mentioned earlier. With that in mind, I'd say Vivian Maier had a real impact on me. I discovered the documentary about her after I had already been doing street photography myself for a while, and her work and story inspired me on a few different levels. First, she's such a striking example of someone for whom the act of shooting itself mattered more than publishing or showcasing the work. In a time like today, where social media makes it so easy for everyone to constantly put their work on display, that felt almost radical to witness. Second, she was a photographer as an identity, not as a job. She spent her days working as a nanny and still found the discipline to photograph daily, purely because it was part of who she was. That really resonated with me, since I sometimes feel torn between my identity as a therapist and as an artist, and I still struggle with how to combine both and give each of them the space and justice they deserve. Maier showed me that being a photographer doesn't have to depend on it being your actual profession at all.
What is the most 'technically imperfect' photo you’ve ever taken that you still absolutely love? What does that say about the importance of gear versus timing?
One of my favorite technically imperfect photos actually started out as a simple, minimalist composition: a red and white striped windsock at the Baltic Sea. What I had no idea about while shooting was what was actually going on inside my camera: I was using a Bronica ETRSi with a detachable film back, and while loading the film a fly must have slipped inside. It then happily wandered across my film the entire time I was shooting. I didn't notice any of this in the moment, but after developing the roll, I discovered the silhouette of a fly across several negatives.
My favorite frame from that roll has the fly positioned almost like it got caught in the windsock as an insect net. This is exactly why I love film so much. It's such an organic medium, it almost has a life of its own. There's always this variable of chance and randomness built in, and the necessity to let go of some control is just part of the deal. That's exactly what leads to these unpredicted accidents, and to me they're often more valuable than any perfectly exposed frame could ever be. So when it comes to gear versus timing, I don't think one outweighs the other. They're equally important, and it's really the interplay between the two that creates the image in the end.
When you’re out shooting for yourself, do you find yourself looking for the light first, or the subject first?
Light is everything, I would go as far as to say that there are no actual subjects without light. The word photography itself comes from the Greek words for „light“ and „writing“ or „drawing“, so at its core photography simply means writing with light. Without light there wouldn't be anything to photograph in the first place. That said, I don’t believe in such a thing like „bad light“. I wouldn't stop myself from shooting just because the light seems not ideal in a given moment. Even dull, flat or overcast light can actually work in favor of certain motifs, so I always pay attention to the light first and see how it might help highlight a subject I already have in mind, rather than dismissing a scene just because the conditions aren't classically beautiful. In the end it's less about hunting for perfect light and more about understanding whatever light is there and how to use it well.
Why is film photography important to you?
Film photography is important to me for a lot of reasons, but if I had to narrow it down, it comes back to materiality. Film is a real, haptic medium, it has actual substance to it instead of just being a string of ones and zeros. I love that I can hold a physical negative in my hands. That physicality also ties into something I think about a lot: longevity. If stored correctly, film can last an incredibly long time, honestly probably longer than most digital images, which deteriorate over time or end up trapped in file formats that eventually become obsolete.
With a physical negative you can always rescan or reprint it later, whenever technology changes or improves. There's something really comforting about having something tangible that could potentially outlive me.
Beyond that, film photography also brings me back to an actual craft. I'm involved in every single step, from choosing the film to developing and scanning or printing it myself, and that hands on process feels a lot more meaningful to me than just sitting in front of a screen. It also forces me to commit to decisions rather than endlessly second guessing them in post, which I honestly find really freeing. And especially for street photography, at a time when digital images get manipulated so easily, film simply feels more honest and trustworthy, both to me and to the people who look at the images afterwards.
How do you deal with 'G.A.S.' (Gear Acquisition Syndrome)? Does owning more gear make you a better storyteller, or does it get in the way?
I'll be honest, I do own a lot of cameras, everything from 35mm to 4x5 inch large format, so I'm probably not the most credible person to claim I'm immune to G.A.S. But I don't think owning more gear is what actually makes me a better storyteller. If anything, I've learned that the camera itself matters a lot less than people think.
What matters is really knowing how to use it, until it stops feeling like a tool and starts feeling like an extension of you. For me, the different cameras and formats I own aren't really about accumulating gear for its own sake, they're more like different instruments for different kinds of stories. A slow, bulky large format camera forces a completely different pace and intention than grabbing my agile, fast Leica M6 for street photography. So I try to justify new gear by what new creative possibility it actually opens up, not just by wanting to own more things. That said, G.A.S. is real, and I'd be lying if I said I never fall into thinking a new camera or lens will magically make my work better. Whenever I notice that pull, I try to remind myself that the most memorable photos I've taken rarely came down to the equipment. They came down to being present, paying attention to light, and being willing to let go of control a little. Gear can support that, but it can never replace it.
Have you ever had to explain the value of a dedicated camera to someone who thinks a smartphone is good enough to take photos with?
Not really, honestly. Smartphone cameras have gotten so good over the years that I completely understand why they have replaced dedicated cameras for a lot of people, especially non photographers who just want to take a quick snapshot for social media or to share with friends. But among photographers, I feel like most people already understand the value of having a dedicated tool for your craft. There are no distractions, no other use cases, it's simply a tool that serves one single purpose: to let you get into the zone and reach a kind of flow state. In my opinion that's much harder to achieve with a smartphone, which is simultaneously showing you text messages, app notifications, navigation and everything else at the same time.
What is your 'comfort' film stock? The one you load when you just want to enjoy the process without worrying about the results?
That would definitely be Kodak Gold 200 for me. It's such a forgiving, reliable film, and its distinctive grain and warm colors give it this built in sense of nostalgia. A lot of the childhood photos my parents took of me were probably shot on Kodak Gold or one of its predecessors, so the look of this film almost transports me back in time whenever I see it. Whenever I load a roll of Kodak Gold, I know I don't have to think too hard about it. It handles a wide range of situations well, so I can just focus on shooting and enjoying the moment instead of second guessing exposure or worrying too much about how the results will turn out.
Every photographer has their resources. Which ones do you recommend for learning more about photography (courses, books, documentaries, workshops)?
I think different resources are helpful depending on where you are in your learning journey, and also depending on whether you're more of a theoretical or a practical learner. Personally, I'm someone who learns a lot from directly observing photographers I admire, both their finished work and their process along the way.
Photobooks are a huge resource for me. I love studying how a photographer sequences and pairs images, how single photos that might not even be that special on their own suddenly build a coherent story once they sit next to the right neighbors. That's something you can really only learn by sitting with a physical book and slowing down. On the more practical, process-oriented side, I get a lot out of watching documentaries and YouTube videos of photographers I value. Hearing someone talk through their thought process behind a shot, seeing the mistakes they made along the way and how they worked around them, tells me so much more than just looking at a polished final image ever could. That's actually part of why I started my own YouTube channel too, I wanted to offer that same kind of behind-the-scenes honesty for other people to learn from.
Beyond that, I'd honestly recommend just getting involved in a photography community if you can, whether that's a local club, a photo walk or a workshop. I stumbled into analog photography myself through a photography club, and learning alongside people who were further along than me, watching them develop film or talk through their choices in real time, taught me things no book or video ever could.
I should also mention that I don't have a formal academic background in photography myself, most of what I know I picked up through this kind of hands on immersion and observation rather than structured courses, so that's naturally the kind of learning I gravitate toward recommending too.
What do you value in a camera, why do you select to use a specific one to take photographs with?
For me a camera is really just a tool, and different tools are made for different jobs. So I try to choose whichever camera makes the most sense for the type of shoot I'm planning, rather than reaching for the same one out of habit every time. (I guess my Leica M6 would disagree though since this is what I use probably 80% of the time.) Generally speaking, I value minimalism in a camera. I like when it's not overcomplicated, when it comes down to the essential settings rather than being packed with features I'll never use. Beyond that, the user experience matters a lot to me too. I need to genuinely enjoy the feeling of shooting with it, how it sits in my hands, how the dials and shutter respond. That kind of physical enjoyment is a crucial part of what actually gives me joy while shooting, so a camera has to feel nice to operate, not just perform well on paper.
If you could go back in time what would you like to photograph?
If I could go back in time, I would want to document the queer scene in Berlin, probably around the 1920s. It was such a flourishing nightlife, with various clubs and bars. And yet all of this existed largely undercover, because homosexuality was still criminalized under German law at the time, and safety was never guaranteed even within a relatively liberal city like Berlin.
Being queer myself, I was lucky enough to be born into a century and a country with far more openness and acceptance toward queerness than back then, which I know is a real privilege. But given the current political climate and the rising hostility toward queer people in many places again, I sometimes find myself scared about the future, and thinking back to the past. Queerness has always existed, it was just far less visible publicly, and the spaces where people found each other and built their own safe world must have been so precious, and for many, genuinely lifesaving. Taking photos in a place like that back then could have easily outed people and put them at real risk, so I wouldn't have wanted to document it with any intention of publishing it at the time. But I would have loved to be there myself, as a queer person and a safe participant, simply capturing it for what it was. And maybe, a century later, those images could be looked at as an important piece of historical change, showing how far things have come and how much was already there, quietly, long before it was ever allowed to be seen.
If you had to shoot a high-stakes editorial on a single roll of film, which camera-and-lens combo from our current inventory would you trust, and why?
If I had to shoot a high-stakes editorial on a single roll, I'd go with my Leica M6, paired with the 35mm Summicron and loaded with Ilford HP5. It's a combination I know by heart, which matters the most once the stakes are high. I don't want to be thinking about my gear in that moment, I want it to already feel like second nature so I can focus entirely on the story in front of me. This combo also equips me well for pretty much any scenario, whether I'm shooting outside or moving into an interior space, without needing to switch anything.
As for black and white specifically, HP5 gives me a huge amount of flexibility. It has a great dynamic range and handles a wide variety of lighting conditions really well, and if I end up somewhere darker, I can push it to ISO 1600 without losing much quality. But beyond the technical side, shooting black and white also takes one major variable off the table for an editorial that might move between very different lighting situations, and that's color. I don't have to worry about mixed color temperatures or casts throwing off the consistency of the story. Black and white simply unifies everything into one coherent look, no matter where I end up shooting.
Imagine you find an un-developed roll of film from 50 years ago that hasn't been seen by anyone yet. Before you develop the film, what do you hope is on that roll, and why is that the version of the world you want to preserve?
Honestly, I don't think I'd hope for anything spectacular or historically significant on that roll. What would excite me most is finding completely ordinary, unposed moments of everyday life from 1976, people doing mundane things without any idea that someone might look at these images fifty years later. Given what draws me to photography in general, small human traces and the quiet emotions that surface in everyday interactions, I think I'd want to see something like a family gathering, or people just going about a normal day: someone doing laundry, kids playing on a street, a couple laughing about something small. Not because these moments matter in any grand historical sense, but because they're honest. Nobody performs for a camera when they don't even know they're being documented, and that kind of unguarded authenticity is exactly the version of the world I find worth preserving. History books remember the big events, but they rarely capture what it actually felt like to just live an ordinary day, and that's the part I think gets lost the fastest, and matters the most to hold onto.
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