A Tribute to My 16mm f/1.4
Like all photographers, amateur or not, my camera kit is personal to me. There’s quite a journey to it, with each body, each lens, and each accessory having a reason on “why” they live inside our kit and why, as photographers, we choose them to be part of ours. From my observations, you can really see a glimpse of a photographer's style in their kit — it is the tool we use to translate our vision and stories, essentially.
Up until yesterday, my arsenal was simple: my trusty Fuji XT-2, the 35mm f2.0 WR, and the 16mm f1.4 WR. Note the past tense—because yesterday, I parted ways with the 16mm.
I sold it to a local camera shop here in Jakarta, which sounds more dramatic than it actually was.
The truth is, I wasn't reaching for it anymore. It lived in my camera bag like that gym membership you keep meaning to use—technically there, rarely touched. The moments I thought I'd need it for? I ended up giving those to my 35mm, or lately, my iPhone 13, for quick wide-angle snaps.
Someone once told me that 16mm (24mm full-frame equivalent) is an "awkward" focal length—wide enough to be tricky, not wide enough to be obvious. They were right. I never quite figured out how to make it sing. Our relationship was less "creative partnership" and more "awkward coexistence." We tolerated each other. We never bonded. I needed a more general-purpose, everyday trusty focal length, so I had to let the 16mm go (and currently on the hunt for said general-purpose lens! I’m looking at you, 23mm focal length!)
So logically, selling it shouldn't have felt hard. And yet, I was wrong.
As soon as I reached home after the sale, I reminisced through my Lightroom because I was curious, “Was our relationship really that awkward? Were the photographs really that bad?” Swiping through the metadata slowly, I find myself in a small grieving phase now, because, yes, we coexisted awkwardly during the days I owned the lens, but we shared a journey and a story of its own — something I want to write here a bit.
Dotonbori, Osaka, 2021. Street photography here was always fun and a challenge; the endless crowds and the lights were both fascinating and overstimulating for me. Haha.
The decision to buy the 16mm was an impulsive one.
It was 2021—I'd just graduated with my bachelor's degree and was about to take a month off before flying home from Japan. Hanging out with friends during the pandemic was nearly impossible, so I needed a "friend." Enter: the 16mm f/1.4.
I wanted a wide-angle lens to capture Japan's atmospheric, sweeping scenery—something my 35mm f/2.0 just wasn't built for. After countless YouTube videos and reviews (most of them warning me how "awkward" the focal length might be for a beginner not focused on landscape photography), I bought it anyway. It was secondhand, a Fuji native lens, hardly ever used. And just like that, it was mine.
But the moments we did share? Wow. Those were something else.
Bajawa, Flores, 2023. This sunset remains one of the most beautiful ones I’ve seen in my life, and I wonder when will I be able to go back.
Labuan Bajo, 2021. This was interesting because I messed with my camera’s white balance — hence the magenta to purple tint, but it turned out so beautiful. I returned to the same spot 3 years later and did not mess with the white balance, the photo turned out just as beautiful.
The photos were beautiful—each one holding a story I didn't expect to tell. I brought that lens everywhere, even when it looked comically oversized on my XT-2 body. It came with me on fieldwork assignments to places I never thought I'd know, let alone visit. Those wide frames captured entire worlds: the sprawl of a community I was researching, the context around a subject that a tighter lens would've missed, the bigness of being somewhere unfamiliar and trying to take it all in. It gave me some of my favourite images—some of them attached to this post. The ones that make me pause when I scroll through old archives. The ones that remind me of who I was when I took them.
Labuan Bajo, 2024. Just look at that view!
But as I transitioned more into street and portrait photography—closer, tighter, more intimate—the 16mm started living permanently in my bag. Waiting. Patient. Ready for me to choose it again and share more stories.
I just... never did.
So yesterday, I let it go. Not because it wasn't good, but because sometimes the most beautiful chapters are the ones you close with gratitude instead of guilt. It deserved to be used, not to be left waiting. And I deserved to stop carrying weight—literal and metaphorical—that no longer served where I'm going. And make room for new friends and kits that will be more useful in telling the current chapter where I am at right now.
Singapore, 2024. Joo Chiat’s peranakan homes — the culture that distinctly defines the little red dot I call home.
Did I expect to grieve like this over a lens? Of course not.
Was I glad that I eventually allowed the grief to flow through? Yes, of course. Despite parting ways now, I will always remember (well, there’s my Lightroom metadata there to help me remember, haha) the moments shot with my 16mm f/1.4, even as it continues to become part of another budding photographer’s arsenal. Until then, I hope it finds a good home, where it can continue to tell stories — just as it did when it helped me tell mine.
So, what now?
Well, I'm actively on the hunt for a new 23mm lens—a more versatile companion for this chapter of my photography journey. A focal length that fits where I'm going, not where I've been. One chapter closes, but the stories? They keep coming. If you're curious where this goes, stick around. There are always more stories to tell.