Ribbon Surgery

I bought this Sony A7III two months after it was announced on February 27, 2018 — before anyone really knew what it would become, before I knew what I would become with it. It arrived as a tool, a piece of alloy wrapped around electronics and promise, but slowly, quietly, it grew into something much more.

Over the years it shaped my way of seeing.
I learned its edges, its quirks, the gentle pressure needed on each button. I molded my workflow to its body until it felt like a limb of my own. I could use it with my eyes closed — though that would defeat the purpose, since this camera became an extension of my sight, a partner in the act of paying attention.

Tools teach us things when we listen long enough.
This one taught me patience, instinct, and trust.

So when the screen began to falter, something tightened inside me.
A faint flicker one day.
A dark patch the next.
And then, in the middle of a shoot, the whole display went black.
It’s strange how a simple failure of a piece of hardware can echo so loudly inside the person holding it. I panicked — not because of the machine itself, but because so much of my practice lives through it.

With a job coming the following week, I needed the screen.
I needed my camera back.

I looked at alternatives.
I considered upgrading.
I even settled on buying the exact same model again — that’s how much this body fits my hand, my pace, my way of looking. But something in me insisted on trying to understand the failure. On listening, again, to what the tool was telling me. The diagnosis felt right: a ribbon cable, tired from years of hinges and movement.

So I ordered the replacement.

And last night, in the quiet of the house, my wife and daughters asleep, I opened the body. There is something strangely intimate about opening a machine that has witnessed so much of your life. Screw by screw, layer by layer, until the fault revealed itself — and the fix became possible. A delicate surgery, steady breath, no rush.

Then the moment of truth:
Battery in.
Power on.
Light returning.

It felt like watching someone take their first breath again.

Today, the camera is whole. Tomorrow, it returns to work.
And so do I.