Five fails where I wanted to sink through the floor

Mistakes happen. Especially when you're starting out.

Today I see them as learning moments. Back then they felt like a punch in the gut. Situations where you're inwardly hoping nobody notices. Or that you can rewind time for a moment. Spoiler: you can't.

I remember some of these moments very clearly. Not because they were nice, but because they shaped me. And because a lot of what I take for granted today started right there.

Probably the most painful moment was an aftermovie with silent interview audio. Four really good interviews, strong statements, real emotion. Everything felt right until I noticed later that neither the in-camera nor the external mic was active. No sound. None at all. Strictly speaking that wasn't a technical fault, it was an attention fault. I'd hit record without glancing at the meters. Since then, that check has been part of my fixed ritual. Before the first take rolls, I check the levels. Always.

Another moment was what I now call the format fiasco. After a photo session I wanted to free up space and formatted the memory cards. Routine, I thought. Stupidly, the photos I'd just shot were still on them. That mistake made it very clear how important fixed routines are. Today, cards only get wiped before a job. And only once the material is backed up. End of story.

Then there was the phantom mic. I hear audio, but it's quiet, noisy, full of wind. The client is waiting, I'm sweating, time is running out. After twenty minutes of panic, the realisation: I'm recording with the recorder's internal mic. The external one was never active. I used to have many of those moments. Too many menus, too many options, too little experience. Today my mic isn't plugged into the camera via line-in anymore — it always runs through an external recorder. There I can see immediately whether a channel is active, whether the level is right and whether something is off. That gives me control and calm.

A classic was the forgotten ND filter. Bright sunshine, wide aperture planned, beautiful bokeh in mind. And then reality: aperture eleven, no room to move, no autofocus because it only works reliably up to f/8. ND filters are like sunscreen. You only notice you forgot them when it's too late. Today it's a non-issue. I work almost exclusively with zoom lenses and have exactly one matching ND filter. Fewer parts, fewer sources of error.

And then there was the V-Log fail. I thought I was shooting like always, but had actually been recording in the standard colour profile. Highlights blown, shadows crushed, almost no room in colour correction. Again the cause wasn't a technical defect, it was a lack of structure. Today my cameras are clearly configured. C1 is photo, C2 is video with V-Log. No more switching back and forth, no more forgetting. The camera does exactly what it should.

All these fails happened in my early days. In a time when I was trying a lot, little was automated and I was often under pressure. Gear is mercilessly honest. It doesn't forgive inattention, but it rewards structure.

Today I deliberately take time before I prep a job. My gear is cleanly sorted in the studio. After every use, everything goes back to its place. Full memory cards aren't a thing anymore. Cables, batteries, microphones are where they belong. I know my cameras' menus. I know where each setting lives. And when something doesn't work, I also know where to look.

This routine didn't grow overnight. It's the result of many small mistakes and the decision to learn from every single one of them. Not with shame, but with consequence.

In the end I somehow saved each of these projects. But far more importantly: they made me better. Calmer. More structured. More reliable.

Perfection isn't a starting point. It's a by-product of experience. And experience almost always starts with a fail.

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