By Hope Cruz for Think Tank
“For me the camera is a sketch book, an instrument of intuition and spontaneity. In order to give a ‘meaning’ to the world, one has to feel involved in what one frames through the viewfinder.”
— Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Decisive Moment (1952)
It isn’t every day that someone spends three months planning a single photograph.
For Think Tank Photo’s newest Product Specialist, Dave Rollans, that level of preparation is simply part of the process. If you’ve recently called or emailed Think Tank with a question about gear, there’s a good chance you’ve already spoken with him.
Dave is passionate about action sports photography. Since childhood, he has been captivated by images of people performing extraordinary, skillful feats, whether on BMX bikes, skateboards, or wheelchairs, suspended in moments between motion and gravity. Today, he photographs many of those same subjects himself, although his approach is anything but conventional.
One of Dave Rollans’ BMX images began that way. Three months before the rider ever attempted the trick, Dave and his friend were already discussing the image they hoped to make. During that time, Dave studied aerial photographs of the location, looking for the right vantage point and working through how the image might come together. Together, they determined the best time of day to shoot, while Dave planned where his lights would need to be placed. By the time they arrived at the location, the shot had already been carefully considered from nearly every angle. Even then, the light wasn’t quite right, so they waited another ninety minutes before the rider climbed into position to attempt the trick.
When everything finally aligned, Dave exposed a single sheet of film. Most photographers would have come home with hundreds of images to sort through. Dave left with a single exposure and the hope that months of planning had paid off.
That story says a lot about who Dave is as a photographer. In a world where cameras can shoot dozens of frames every second and memory cards can hold thousands of photographs, Dave has chosen a very different approach. Rather than trying to make more images, he’s interested in making fewer, approaching each image with a level of intention that begins long before the shutter is pressed.
“The point of being a photographer is being in tune with time, so to capture the moment is to pay attention,” he says.
The same intentionality that shapes Dave’s photographs can also be seen in the equipment he uses. He owns a collection of cameras that seem better suited to another era than the world of flying BMX bikes and skateboarders he photographs today.
Much of his work is created with a Graflex 4x5 Speed Graphic, a large format camera that few photographers would consider bringing to an action sports shoot. He also uses a 7-inch Aero Ektar lens originally designed for aerial reconnaissance during World War II, a piece of equipment that sounds far more at home in a museum than at a skatepark or BMX session.
Whether he’s photographing a BMX rider soaring through the air or a skateboarder balancing on the edge of a rail, he isn’t interested in capturing every fraction of the action. He’s waiting for the moment that best represents it.
That sounds simple enough until you hear what it sometimes takes to get there.
One photograph required a 1,160 mile drive, round trip. Another involved multiple trips to the same location for the rider to properly execute the trick. Some images even live in his mind for months before a camera is ever loaded, while others demand hours of waiting for the light, the rider, and the moment to align. Sometimes everything comes together exactly as envisioned, but sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes he comes home without the intended photograph at all.
None of this frustrates him, though. If anything, it’s part of the appeal.
Large format photography demands a level of commitment that few photographers can afford to approach casually. Every sheet of film carries a cost, not only in money, but in time, effort, and attention. The exposure itself represents only a small fraction of the work.
Once the shutter is pressed, the film still has to be developed, scanned, and printed before the photograph can fully reveal itself. Unlike digital photography, where the image appears almost instantly on the back of the camera, film asks for patience and has a way of forcing photographers to consider whether an image is worth making before the shutter is ever pressed. Yet even after the exposure is made, its success remains unknown until the film is developed.
Even after years of working this way, the uncertainty never fully goes away. Dave still describes feeling a knot in his stomach while waiting to see the results during the development process. A shutter could have misfired, something could have shifted, or a mistake during development could alter or destroy the image entirely. After hours, days, and sometimes months of preparation, the success of an image can still depend on details so small that their consequences remain invisible until the film is developed.
Most people spend a great deal of their lives putting guardrails in place to reduce risk and create a greater sense of predictability. Dave has chosen a process that embraces uncertainty instead. The possibility of failure remains present from beginning to end, but it forces him to stay engaged at every step. There are no shortcuts to correct a missed detail, no burst mode capable of generating hundreds of alternatives, and no screen offering immediate feedback or reassurance.
For most people, this might sound stressful, but Dave talks about it as though it’s simply part of the price of working this way. The waiting can be uncomfortable, yet it also preserves an element of mystery that feels rewarding. When the film is finally developed, there’s still the possibility of surprise, along with the satisfaction of discovering whether all the planning, patience, and effort have paid off. In that sense, every photograph requires a degree of trust, and when everything finally comes together, the experience becomes meaningful for reasons that go beyond the image itself.
Dave’s photos may be the most visible expression of the qualities that shape his work, including patience, deliberateness, and a willingness to do things his own way. While most action photographers rely on speed, volume, and technology to improve their odds, Dave has chosen a process built around patience, commitment, and intention. Rather than increasing the number of images he makes, he invests more deeply in each one, often spending days, weeks, or even months pursuing a single image.
That approach reflects ideas that have influenced his thinking for years. He admires Ansel Adams for the concept of previsualization, the practice of seeing an image in the mind’s eye before it exists in the world. He also cites Henri Cartier-Bresson and his idea of the decisive moment, where timing and action come together in a meaningful way.
Taken together, those influences help explain why Dave is willing to spend so much time preparing for photos that may never fully materialize. The image often begins long before the camera is loaded. The challenge is not simply making the image, but waiting for reality to align with what he has already envisioned.
Those ideas also form the foundation of a book project he’s currently working on called Makes and Misses, which explores what happens when the moment in mind never fully materializes. Over the years, Dave has accumulated images that remained unpublished because the rider crashed, the trick wasn’t landed, or the action simply didn’t unfold as intended. Some of the images are among his favorites, yet presenting them as successful action shots would misrepresent what actually happened. Within the context of Makes and Misses, those images can finally be shown honestly. The rider came close, the photograph may be beautiful, but the moment never fully came together.
The idea behind Makes and Misses isn’t merely theoretical for Dave. When asked whether there was still a photograph he was chasing, he immediately described a BMX image that has occupied his thoughts for years.
The photograph shows his friend Bob grinding down a rail while attempting a can-can, a trick that requires the rider to extend one foot away from the bike. The image exists, but the trick never fully came together. Looking at the photo, Dave pointed to the detail that still bothers him years later.
“His foot’s, like, snagged on the frame,” he said.
The photograph was made, but Bob never fully kicked his foot outward into the position Dave had envisioned. It was a small detail, yet it was enough to separate the image he imagined from the one he got. Even years later, the image still haunts Dave. Not because it was a failure, but because it came so close.
For someone who believes that photography is about being in tune with time, perhaps that isn’t surprising. Some photographs are finished when the shutter is pressed, but others take a little more patience, a little more preparation, and another chance.
About the Author
Hope Cruz
Hope collaborates with photographers and creators to uncover the stories behind their work, transforming conversations into photo essays that reveal the person behind the camera.
Thanks for this! The 'knot in your stomach' line is perfect. Shooting large format for action sports is one the most devoted choices you can make because you can't bring a digital body as a backup. I also liked the story about the can can/snagged foot. The gap between the perfect shot you see in your head and the one that actually comes out is the game with film. I'm excited to see Makes and Misses when it's released.
I found many of my current thoughts reflected in this article. I am an amateur photographer. I began with a darkroom, moved into the digital era, and now find myself considering a return to film—this time in medium format.
I understand the difficulties: the waiting, the uncertainty, the disappointment, and the dedication the process demands. Yet I have come to believe that film photography may ultimately have an ethical dimension. It gives the subject the opportunity to escape, not to surrender completely to the photographer's intention. A successful photograph is no longer taken for granted; it becomes something to be earned.