Hasselblad 907X 50C Long-Term Review (2026)
Rediscovering Medium Format Through Portrait Photography
Introduction
Every now and then, I find myself doing something that is probably familiar to many photographers.
On a quiet evening I open my archive and begin wandering through old folders. Not because I am searching for a particular photograph, but because images have an extraordinary ability to transport us back in time. Sometimes they remind me of a journey, sometimes of a person and, every now and then, of a camera I no longer own.
That happened with Hasselblad.
At a Glance
Who is the Hasselblad 907X 50C for?
A detailed photograph of the Hasselblad 907X 50C paired with the XCD 80mm f/1.9 portrait lens.
After several months of using the Hasselblad 907X 50C for portrait photography, I discovered that it is not the best medium format camera for everyone.
It is, however, one of the most inspiring cameras I have ever owned.
If your photography values deliberate image-making, beautiful colour, exceptional lenses and an experience that encourages creativity over specifications, the 907X remains one of the most rewarding medium format systems you can buy in 2026.
Ideal for
Portrait photographers
Fine art photographers
Editorial photographers
Landscape photographers who enjoy a slower workflow
Photographers who value the experience of shooting as much as the specifications
Chapter One – Coming Back to Hasselblad
Several years ago I owned an X1D with the XCD 45mm f/3.5 and XCD 90mm f/3.2. At the time it was one of the most elegant cameras I had ever carried. Eventually I sold it, convinced I was moving on to other systems, but every so often I would rediscover photographs made with it. A series from Cuba. Portraits of the Italian burlesque artist and fortune teller Janet Fischietto. Every time I opened those folders I found myself lingering just a little longer than expected.
Janet Fischietto, photographed with my original Hasselblad X1D and XCD 90mm f/3.2.
The photographs had a quality that was difficult to explain. It wasn't about sharpness or dynamic range. It was the quiet tonality, the restrained colours and the way light gently flowed through the files. Years after selling the camera, those photographs still had the power to stop me scrolling.
I should probably have listened sooner.
Long before I ever owned a Hasselblad, I had admired what the company represented. Few names in photography carry such a remarkable legacy. From the classic V-System cameras that accompanied generations of portrait photographers to the lunar surface during the Apollo missions, Hasselblad has always occupied a unique place in photographic history. Their cameras were never simply tools; they became part of photography's visual heritage.
Perhaps that is why they have always fascinated me.
I have always been drawn to objects with history. It explains my fascination with vintage lenses, historic hotels, old castles and classic automobiles. Much of my own photography searches for traces of another era. I am less interested in recreating the past than in preserving its atmosphere. My photographs rarely belong to a specific decade, but they almost always long for one.
For me, Hasselblad has always carried that same feeling.
Even photographers who have never used a classic 500-series camera immediately recognise its silhouette. The square waist-level finder. The quiet click of the leaf shutter. The ritual of looking down into the camera rather than through it. It is a slower, more deliberate way of working that has inspired generations of photographers, and although the world has changed enormously since those cameras were introduced, that philosophy has never completely disappeared.
The X1D hinted at it.
It was unmistakably modern, contemporary Swedish design, and unlike anything else on the market, yet it remained a contemporary interpretation of the Hasselblad philosophy. At the time I admired it for what it was, but I never truly felt connected to the camera itself.
Ironically, I never dreamed of owning a 907X.
On paper, choosing the 907X over the X2D made very little sense. The X-System cameras offer in-body image stabilisation, more conventional ergonomics and a longer list of modern features. For many photographers, they are undoubtedly the more practical choice. Yet, like so many discussions in photography, the conversation revolved almost entirely around specifications rather than inspiration.
Yet my choice of cameras has never really been driven by specifications.
Throughout my career I have rarely bought the camera with the longest feature list. What attracts me is much harder to explain.
I want a camera that inspires me to pick it up. One that feels well made, feels natural in my hands and simply makes me want to go outside.
The cameras I enjoy most eventually become companions. I stop thinking about the equipment and start thinking about where I want to take it and what I want to photograph.
The first time I held the 907X, I understood immediately why so many photographers speak about it with affection.
The Hasselblad 907X 50C paired with the XCD 80mm f/1.9, the main portrait combination used throughout this long-term review.
I have always believed cameras can possess a certain soul. That may sound romantic in an age dominated by specifications and firmware updates, but well designed objects influence the way we work. A Leica M, a Rolleiflex, a classic Hasselblad V-System or even a well-designed fountain pen all invite you to slow down and become more intentional. The 907X belongs to that rare category. Before I even pressed the shutter for the first time, I already wanted to take it everywhere.
It did not feel like another mirrorless camera. It felt unmistakably like a Hasselblad
For the first time, I could see a direct line running from the classic V-System cameras to a modern digital body. The proportions, the simplicity and even the experience of composing on the rear screen carried echoes of those earlier cameras without becoming an exercise in nostalgia. It felt familiar without trying to copy the past.
That was enough to convince me. I found a used 907X 50C in great condition together with the compact XCD 45P. It was an elegant combination and, in many ways, the perfect introduction back into the system.
For about twenty-four hours.
Then I realised something.
This wasn't quite my Hasselblad yet.
The XCD 45P was charming, wonderfully compact and ideal for travel, but portraiture has always been at the heart of my photography. My work rarely stays horizontal for long. Magazine covers, fine art portraits and editorial commissions naturally pull me towards a vertical frame, and although the original 6×6 Hasselblads were designed around the beauty of the square, the 907X is a very different camera. For the way I work, shooting vertically quickly became less comfortable.
The answer was obvious. I ordered the Control Grip and, a few days later, the XCD 80mm f/1.9
Only then did the camera begin to feel complete. Nothing about the camera itself had changed. What had changed was my relationship with it. After adding the lens and the grip, it no longer felt like a camera I had just bought. It finally felt like my Hasselblad.
Chapter Two – The First Assignment
A camera truly reveals itself the moment you stop photographing for yourself.
Testing a new camera around the house or during an evening walk is one thing. Bringing it to an important portrait session, where every image matters and there are no second chances, is something entirely different.
Like most professional photographers, I have developed a habit over the years. Whenever I introduce a new camera into my workflow, another trusted camera always comes along. Not because I expect the new one to fail, but because professional work leaves very little room for unnecessary risk. Reliability has always mattered far more to me than excitement.
The Hasselblad was no exception.
For its first serious assignment I packed another camera alongside it, fully expecting to move between the two throughout the day. The plan was simple enough. Use the 907X whenever the moment felt right and fall back on familiar equipment whenever instinct told me to do so.
That wasn't what happened.
Within the first hour I noticed something curious. Every time I reached into my bag, I instinctively picked up the Hasselblad. It wasn't a conscious decision, nor was I forcing myself to use it for the sake of this review. It simply became the camera I wanted in my hands.
By the end of the day the second camera had barely left the bag.
Looking back, I probably knew enough at that moment already.
Throughout my career I have learned that the question is rarely whether a camera is good. Most modern cameras are remarkably capable. The real question is much simpler.
Throughout my career I have judged every camera by one simple question: does it make me want to go outside and create? If the answer is yes, almost everything else becomes secondary. After that first assignment, I already knew the answer.
Before buying the 907X I had read countless discussions about its autofocus. Predictably, many compared it to the latest full-frame mirrorless cameras, concluding that it was too slow for professional work.
I couldn't help smiling.
My own photographic journey has been rather different.
For years I have happily photographed with Leica M cameras, where autofocus simply doesn't exist. My longest relationship with medium format has been the Leica S, a camera I continue to admire deeply, but one that belongs to a very different generation of autofocus technology.
Those experiences taught me something important.
Speed and reliability are not the same thing.
Portrait photography is fundamentally different from photographing sport or wildlife. By the time I raise the camera, the lighting has already been carefully shaped, the composition refined and the atmosphere established. My subjects are not running across a football field. They are collaborating with me to create something together. The decisive moment usually unfolds through conversation rather than split-second reactions.
For that kind of photography, I have never needed the fastest autofocus system.
I need one that quietly does its job and allows me to concentrate on the person standing in front of the lens.
This is where the 907X genuinely surprised me.
Anyone who has photographed extensively with the Leica Summicron-S 100mm f/2 will probably recognise the delicate balance required when working wide open. Focus, recompose ever so slightly and critical sharpness can quietly drift from the iris towards an eyelash or even an eyebrow. Occasionally, particularly when photographing subjects at greater distances, the autofocus could miss entirely. That was never a flaw unique to Leica; it was simply the reality of an earlier generation of medium format autofocus systems.
The Hasselblad approached the problem differently.
Being able to position the autofocus point exactly where I wanted it transformed the experience. Instead of thinking about focus-and-recompose techniques, I could simply place the point over the eye, reframe if necessary and continue working. The camera faded into the background remarkably quickly.
The difference became obvious later that evening.
As I worked through the photographs in Lightroom, I realised my keeper rate had increased considerably. Instead of deleting frame after frame because focus had drifted fractionally, I found myself keeping far more images than I had expected. The autofocus had never impressed me because it was fast.
It impressed me because it was dependable.
The files confirmed that feeling.
Even on the rear screen I had noticed something that felt reassuringly familiar. Skin tones look natural, highlights rolled gently into shadow and there was a subtle richness that reminded me of the old Hasselblad files I had rediscovered while writing the previous chapter.
Opening the RAW files on a calibrated monitor confirmed that feeling.
Like every photographer, I have developed a fairly consistent starting point in Lightroom. Certain adjustments have become almost instinctive after years of editing. With the 907X, however, I found myself doing noticeably less. The photographs already carried much of the atmosphere I had imagined before pressing the shutter. My work became less about correcting colour and more about refining mood.
That distinction may seem subtle, but over hundreds of images it changes the entire editing experience.
When I finally closed Lightroom that evening, I realised I wasn't thinking about autofocus performance, dynamic range or whether I had made the right purchasing decision.
I was already planning the next portrait session.
For me, there is no stronger compliment I can pay a camera.
The following morning, the 907X was the first camera I packed. By then I wasn't thinking about testing it anymore. I simply wanted another excuse to take it out and make photographs.
Chapter Three – Using the Hasselblad 907X 50C in Daily Photography
The 907X took me some time to get used to. Coming from Leica M cameras, I had to change a few habits, particularly the way I composed and held the camera. The camera itself was remarkably easy to learn, though. Its menu system is among the cleanest and most intuitive I have used in recent years. Within an afternoon I rarely found myself searching for settings or wondering where something had been hidden. Everything is where I would expect it to be, and after a short time I stopped thinking about the menus altogether.
What took a little longer was changing my own habits. For years I had photographed almost exclusively through a viewfinder. Like most photographers, lifting a camera to my eye had become second nature. The first few hours with the 907X felt slightly unfamiliar. More than once I instinctively brought the camera towards my face before remembering that the photograph was waiting for me on the rear screen instead.
The habit disappeared surprisingly quickly. After a few sessions, the rear screen simply became part of the way I photographed.
Back LCD Touch screen of the Hasselblad 907X 50C and XCD 80mm f/1.9 used for portrait photography.
Looking down at the screen changes the relationship between photographer and subject. The camera no longer becomes a barrier hiding your face. Conversation flows more naturally, eye contact is easier to maintain and portrait sessions feel less interrupted by the act of making photographs. It is a small difference, but one that gradually changes the atmosphere of a shoot.
Jennifer photographed at Hotel August in Antwerp during The Bell Boy portrait project with the Hasselblad 907X 50C and XCD 80mm f/1.9.
It also changed the way I composed. Without consciously thinking about it, I found myself working from lower angles far more often than I normally would. Kneeling became unnecessary. I could simply lower the camera, tilt the screen and continue shooting. The portraits often felt more intimate and, in some situations, more cinematic. It was a perspective I had often overlooked simply because it required more effort with other cameras.
Of course, the 907X is not trying to recreate the experience of a classic Hasselblad V-System. Those cameras were designed around the square format and a waist-level finder from the very beginning. The 907X is a thoroughly modern digital camera, yet every now and then it reminds you where it came from. Looking down at the screen, hearing the muted click of the leaf shutter and slowing my pace slightly, I occasionally found myself thinking about the photographers who spent decades working with those iconic 6×6 cameras.
The more I photographed with the 907X, the less I thought about operating it. The controls became muscle memory, the touchscreen became instinctive and eventually I stopped noticing the camera itself. Many modern cameras impress with endless customisation, programmable buttons and ever-expanding menus. They can do almost anything, but sometimes all those possibilities become part of the experience of using the camera. With the Hasselblad, I rarely feel that distraction. The controls I need are there, the menus are straightforward and I can concentrate on the photograph.
That simplicity extends to the design itself. Even months after buying the camera, I still find myself pausing for a brief moment before putting it back into my bag. It is one of the most beautifully designed digital cameras I have ever owned. The satin chrome finish, black leather, clean surfaces and careful proportions make it feel less like a consumer electronic device and more like a finely crafted object. Even when I have nowhere particular to go, I still find myself wanting to pick it up.
I've always believed that good industrial design should make you want to use the object, not simply look at it. The 907X does that for me.
It isn't the most feature-rich camera on the market, and that doesn't bother me. The menus are straightforward, the controls are easy to learn and there is very little between me and making the photograph. After several months, I realised how little I was thinking about the camera itself. I had stopped asking myself whether I wanted to take the Hasselblad. It was simply the camera I was already thinking about taking to the next shoot.
One of the people whose opinion I value most is my fiancée, Aliya. She often assists me during portrait sessions and, over the years, has developed a remarkable eye for light and composition. More importantly, she understands the atmosphere I am trying to create. She often knows what I am looking for before I have even explained it.
The first time we looked through a portrait session made with the 907X together, she paused for a moment before saying, "I love the look of these. They feel different. They almost jump off the screen."
I knew exactly what she meant. The photographs had a presence that was difficult to put into technical terms. They looked crisp without feeling harsh, the colours felt rich without becoming too much and the whole image had a calmness that I rarely had to fight in post. Even before I begin editing, they already contain much of the atmosphere I had imagined when I pressed the shutter.
Aliya is not impressed by cameras. She is impressed by photographs. That's why her reaction meant so much to me.
Chapter Four – Why Medium Format Is Still Misunderstood in 2026
Whenever a new medium format camera is released, the conversation almost always follows the same pattern.
People compare autofocus speed with the latest full-frame cameras. They discuss burst rates, eye detection, high ISO performance and whether the difference in image quality is really worth the additional investment.
Those are perfectly reasonable questions.
They just aren't the questions that made me fall in love with medium format.
In many ways, I think medium format remains one of the most misunderstood formats in modern photography. It is often reduced to specifications when, in reality, its greatest strengths are far more subtle.
Ask someone why they shoot medium format and the answer is often predictable.
More megapixels.
More dynamic range.
Shallower depth of field.
For me, none of those reasons come first.
What drew me to medium format was never the ability to blur a background.
What I noticed most was the way it rendered light.
A detail of the 907X 50C and XCD 80mm f/1.9 used throughout the portrait sessions in this review.
After years of photographing with different medium format systems, I've never found a completely satisfying technical explanation for it.
There is a calmness to the files that is difficult to quantify. Highlights transition into shadow with remarkable grace, colours feel rich without becoming exaggerated and skin tones possess a naturalness that rarely asks for attention. Nothing shouts.
Everything simply feels balanced.
It is also worth remembering where medium format comes from.
Long before photography became obsessed with frame rates and autofocus algorithms, medium format cameras were the tools of portrait photographers, fashion photographers and commercial studios around the world. Generations of photographers built their careers around Hasselblad cameras, not because they were the fastest available, but because they delivered exactly the image quality their work demanded. The same cameras accompanied expeditions, documented historic moments and even travelled to the Moon during the Apollo missions. That legacy was never built on specifications alone.
Every photographer knows the story of Hasselblad travelling to the Moon. What fascinates me, however, is not simply that the cameras documented one of humanity's greatest achievements. It is that, more than half a century later, I can still recognise that same philosophy every time I pick up the 907X. Very few manufacturers remain so faithful to their own identity.
That history has always fascinated me.
A black-and-white portrait of Yulia from the 907X portrait work, photographed with the XCD 80mm f/1.9.
Perhaps it is because I have always been drawn to objects with a story. Vintage lenses, historic hotels, old castles and restored automobiles all find their way into my photography. They remind us that craftsmanship has a way of outliving fashion. Hasselblad occupies a similar place in my mind. It is one of those rare companies whose identity has remained remarkably consistent throughout the decades. Even as technology has evolved, the philosophy has remained recognisable.
I believe that is one of the reasons the 907X appealed to me so strongly.
It never felt like a company trying to build another mirrorless camera.
To me, the 907X feels like a modern digital camera that still carries some of the ideas that made the classic Hasselblad cameras special.
The 907X does not try to imitate a classic 500-series camera, nor does it chase every modern trend. Instead, it quietly carries fragments of both worlds. Looking down at the rear screen inevitably reminds me of composing with a waist-level finder. The discreet click of the leaf shutter echoes the mechanical precision that has defined Hasselblad cameras for generations. Even the pace at which I photograph seems to slow naturally, not because the camera forces me to, but because it somehow encourages a more deliberate way of working.
That slower rhythm suits the way I photograph. Portraiture has never been about speed for me.
A successful portrait begins long before the shutter is released. It starts with a conversation, with trust, with carefully shaping the light and allowing the person in front of the camera to feel completely at ease. By the time I lift the camera, most of the work has already been done.
The photograph is simply the final step.
Perhaps that is why I have never understood the obsession with making every medium format camera behave like a sports camera.
The qualities that made medium format special have never been measured in frames per second. They reveal themselves much later, when you open the files on a large screen. It is the atmosphere, the transitions, the colours and the overall presence of the image that make photographers keep coming back to the format.
You won't find those things on a specification sheet. Yet they become immediately apparent once you spend time with the files.
That is where the Hasselblad 907X quietly excels.
It does not ask you to photograph faster. It encourages you to photograph more thoughtfully.
For me, that has always been the true promise of medium format.
Chapter Five – Hasselblad XCD 80mm f/1.9 Review: My Favourite Portrait Lens
When I purchased the 907X, I did so together with the compact XCD 45P.
It was an obvious choice.
The 45P is beautifully made, remarkably small for a medium format lens and perfectly complements the philosophy of the camera. It encourages you to travel light and makes the entire system feel almost impossibly compact.
I enjoyed it from the very beginning.
But I also knew it wasn't the lens that had drawn me back to Hasselblad.
The Hasselblad XCD 80mm f/1.9, the main portrait lens used with the 907X 50C throughout this long-term review.
Portraiture has always been the foundation of my photography. Almost every important project I have created over the past decade has revolved around people rather than places, and throughout those years I have found myself returning to the same type of lens again and again. Whether it was the Leica Noctilux, the Summicron-S 100mm or another favourite portrait lens, I was never drawn to them because of their maximum aperture. I was drawn to the way they changed the emotional character of a photograph before I even pressed the shutter. The XCD 80mm immediately felt like that kind of lens.
Long before I owned it, I found myself searching for photographs made with it. Whenever a portrait caught my attention online, I often discovered the same lens behind it. There was a consistency to the rendering that intrigued me. It wasn't simply shallow depth of field. It was the way subjects separated from their surroundings while remaining connected to them. Nothing felt artificial or exaggerated.
It felt effortless.
The first time I mounted the 80mm on the 907X, I realised something else.
The camera finally felt complete.
The compact elegance of the 45P gave way to something with a little more purpose. The larger lens balanced naturally with the Control Grip and, for the first time, the camera adapted itself completely to the way I naturally photograph. Since most of my portrait work is created in a vertical orientation, the addition of the grip transformed the handling of the camera. What had initially felt unconventional suddenly became entirely intuitive.
It quickly became the combination I reached for almost every time I packed my camera bag.
Photographers often describe lenses in terms of sharpness, contrast or optical performance.
Those qualities certainly matter.
But they are rarely the reason I fall in love with a lens.
The XCD 80mm possesses something that is much harder to describe.
It has a character I recognised almost immediately.
Wide open, it creates a refined sense of separation without ever feeling overly dramatic. Stopped down slightly, it retains that same elegance while introducing just enough depth to keep architecture, interiors and carefully chosen locations connected to the story. It is an exceptionally versatile portrait lens because it never overwhelms the photograph. Instead, it quietly guides your attention exactly where it should be.
The 1962 Mercedes-Benz 220 at Château Belvedère.
Over the past few months I have often caught myself comparing it, not technically, but emotionally, to some of my favourite portrait lenses.
The Leica Noctilux has always occupied a special place in my photography because of the atmosphere it creates rather than its maximum aperture. The same is true of the Summicron-S 100mm, whose rendering remains among the most organic I have ever experienced.
The XCD 80mm belongs comfortably in that company, not because it tries to imitate those lenses, but because it has a character entirely of its own. After only a few weeks I stopped comparing it to anything else and simply started enjoying it for what it is.
One characteristic continues to impress me every time I review a portrait session: the way the lens transitions from sharpness into the background.
Yulia behind the wheel of the 1962 Mercedes-Benz 220.
Sharpness has become remarkably easy to achieve with modern lenses. Almost every manufacturer is capable of producing astonishingly detailed optics. What separates truly memorable portrait lenses is not how sharp they are, but how gracefully they move away from sharpness.
The XCD 80mm does this in a very natural way. Focus falls away gently without abrupt edges or nervous transitions. Skin retains its natural texture, highlights remain smooth and backgrounds never compete for attention. The result is an image that feels refined rather than spectacular.
It is a lens that rewards restraint.
As my portfolio with the 907X continued to grow, I realised something interesting.
At some point I stopped thinking about what the lens was doing and simply looked at the photographs. For me, that is one of the highest compliments I can give a lens. The XCD 80mm has become so natural to use that I rarely think about it while I'm shooting.
Looking back now, I no longer think of it as the lens I added after buying the camera.
In many ways, it became the reason I truly fell in love with the system.
Chapter Six – What Could Be Better? Living with the Hasselblad 907X
No camera is perfect.
In an era where every new release is expected to outperform the previous one in every conceivable way, it is easy to forget that every camera is ultimately a collection of compromises. The real question is not whether those compromises exist, but whether they interfere with the way you work.
Over the past months I have learned exactly where the 907X asks me to adapt.
None of them have made me enjoy the camera less.
If anything, they have reminded me that this camera was designed with a very clear philosophy rather than an ambition to satisfy every possible photographer.
The first thing every new owner quickly discovers is dust.
The sensor sits remarkably close to the lens mount and, as with any mirrorless camera, changing lenses outdoors requires a little more care than I had become accustomed to with the Leica S. I now keep a small air blower in my camera bag at all times and have simply made it part of my routine. It is hardly a major inconvenience, but it is worth mentioning because the camera does seem particularly susceptible to attracting dust during lens changes.
The second observation concerns ergonomics.
When used without the Control Grip, the 907X remains one of the most elegant cameras I have ever owned. It is compact, balanced with the XCD 45P and an absolute pleasure to carry around a city or while travelling.
The Hasselblad 907X 50C paired with the compact XCD 45P lens, the first lens I used with the camera before moving to the larger portrait lenses.
For my own work, however, the Control Grip quickly became indispensable.
Portrait photography has always drawn me towards a vertical composition. Without the grip, rotating the camera repeatedly throughout a long session never felt quite as comfortable as I would have liked. Once the grip was attached, the camera suddenly adapted itself to my way of working. It transformed the handling so completely that I now consider it an essential part of my own setup rather than an optional accessory.
There is one small detail I would still like Hasselblad to revisit.
When opening the battery compartment with the Control Grip attached, the battery door presses directly against the grip itself. It is a minor ergonomic issue and certainly not something that affects the photographs, but it feels slightly less refined than the rest of the camera's beautifully considered design.
Another feature I occasionally missed was a built-in cold shoe.
My own portrait work relies almost entirely on continuous LED lighting, particularly my Harlowe setup, so this has rarely limited me in practice. Every now and then, however, I experiment with studio flash and would have appreciated a simpler way of attaching wireless triggers directly to the camera. Hasselblad clearly recognised this as well, introducing a built-in cold shoe on the newer 907X & CFV 100C. It is one of those thoughtful refinements that makes perfect sense after spending time with the original model.
One function I found myself searching for surprisingly often was Auto ISO.
It is something I use only occasionally, but during fast-changing natural light or while moving between interiors and exteriors, it would have been a welcome convenience. Again, this is hardly a dealbreaker, but it is one of the few features I genuinely missed during everyday use.
There was also one small detail that caught me out during my first days with the system.
Mounting the lenses.
Coming from Leica, where the alignment marks are immediately obvious, I initially found myself searching for the correct position on the Hasselblad mount. After a few days I realised the alignment point naturally sits close to the "D" in the Hasselblad logo on the lens barrel. From that moment onwards it became second nature, but I suspect many first-time users experience the same brief moment of hesitation.
None of these observations have anything to do with image quality. They are simply the practical details I only noticed after living with the camera for several months. Once I started photographing, most of those small frustrations disappeared. They became part of knowing the camera rather than something I actively thought about.
The 907X does ask me to slow down in a few places and accept some compromises that I wouldn't have to make with other cameras. None of that has stopped me from wanting to take it with me. I still find myself reaching for it when I want to go out and make photographs. For me, that has been a compromise worth accepting.
Chapter Seven – The Bell Boy
By now, you have probably realised that this review is less about a camera than it is about the photographs it encouraged me to create.
That was never planned.
It simply became impossible to separate the two.
The longer I worked with the 907X, the less interested I became in testing it and the more interested I became in creating stories with it. Somewhere during those first weeks I noticed a subtle shift in the way I approached photography. Instead of asking myself what I wanted to photograph, I began asking what story I wanted to tell.
Jennifer at Hotel August, Antwerp.
The Bell Boy became the first answer to that question.
The project began, rather unexpectedly, with a set of hotel keys.
The Bell Boy — Jennifer at Hotel August.
Hotel August in Antwerp is one of those rare places that immediately slows you down. Designed by Belgian architect Vincent Van Duysen, the former Augustinian monastery balances contemporary architecture with the quiet elegance of its historic past. Every corridor, every staircase and every carefully considered detail contributes to an atmosphere that feels calm, understated and almost cinematic.
While walking through the reception area before the workshop started, my attention was drawn to something wonderfully simple.
Behind the desk hung a collection of beautifully aged brass room keys.
In an age where anonymous key cards have become the norm, those keys immediately transported me to another time. Before I had even unpacked the camera, an idea had already begun to take shape.
I wasn't interested in photographing another fashion-inspired portrait.
I wanted to create a character.
Jennifer would become the hotel's bellboy—or perhaps more accurately, its bellwoman. Carrying luggage through the corridors, welcoming imaginary guests and moving effortlessly through the building as though she had worked there for years. Suddenly the hotel stopped being a location.
Jennifer embraced the role immediately and seemed to enjoy every second of it. By the end of the afternoon she was confidently greeting imaginary guests, offering complimentary room upgrades, arranging concierge services and booking luxurious spa retreats for people who, thankfully, only existed in our little story.
"Room service, anyone?"
Watching hotel guests briefly wonder whether she actually worked there was almost as satisfying as making the photographs themselves.
Before long, we had all forgotten we were in a hotel.
That was when I realised what the 907X was starting to do for my photography.
It has encouraged me to think in projects rather than individual photographs.
Every image became part of a larger narrative, each frame quietly suggesting that there was another scene waiting just outside the photograph.
Lighting played an equally important role.
As with almost all of my recent work, I relied primarily on continuous Harlowe LED lighting. Over the past few years I have grown to prefer continuous light over flash because it allows me to sculpt the atmosphere while watching it evolve in real time. Instead of imagining how the final photograph might look, I can see it taking shape before pressing the shutter.
For this project I wanted the light to feel almost invisible.
The Bell Boy at Hotel August
Soft, elegant and believable.
The large windows of Hotel August became my primary light source, gently supported by Harlowe LED panels whenever a little extra direction or separation was needed. Everything was designed to preserve the quiet atmosphere that had inspired the project in the first place.
The XCD 80mm f/1.9 remained attached to the camera for almost the entire day.
Stopped down slightly, it struck exactly the balance I was hoping for. Jennifer remained the unmistakable centre of attention while the architecture retained enough presence to become part of the story rather than disappearing into blur.
One observation from that afternoon has stayed with me ever since.
Several hotel guests smiled as Jennifer walked confidently through the reception area carrying luggage and holding the large brass keys.
For a brief moment, they genuinely believed she worked there.
That small misunderstanding told me everything I needed to know.
The illusion worked.
Back home, the RAW files required remarkably little effort. Rather than constructing the atmosphere in Lightroom, I found myself simply refining what was already there. Gentle adjustments to colour, a careful balance between warm interior tones and cooler daylight and a restrained approach to contrast were all that was needed. The photographs already felt remarkably close to the images I had imagined while standing in reception that morning.
Looking back now, I realise The Bell Boy was never really about a hotel. It was about rediscovering something I had quietly missed: the joy of building a world rather than simply documenting one.
From that moment on, it stopped feeling like a new camera.
Chapter Eight – Château Belvédère
This project started long before a camera was packed or a model was booked. For months I had been thinking about Château Belvédère, a private estate only a short drive from where I live in Belgium. Every time I saw a photograph of the château or happened to pass nearby, I imagined the same scene unfolding in my mind.
It was never simply about photographing a vintage building.
The château deserved a story.
Yulia photographed in a red dress and black hat at the entrance of Château Belvedère during the vintage-inspired portrait project, photographed with the Hasselblad 907X 50C and XCD 80mm f/1.9.
I knew almost immediately who I wanted in front of the camera. Yulia possesses a timeless elegance that feels increasingly rare. She doesn't imitate vintage glamour; she inhabits it naturally. Long before the shoot, I could already picture her walking through the grounds, vintage cat-eye sunglasses catching the afternoon light, her blonde curls moving gently in the breeze.
There was only one thing missing: a classic Mercedes-Benz.
Yulia and the 1962 Mercedes-Benz 220 at Château Belvedère.
Without it, the picture never felt complete.
The concept remained exactly that for quite some time. Then, through one of those unexpected turns that photography occasionally rewards us with, I found myself in contact with the owners of Château Belvédère. They embraced the idea and generously opened the estate for my personal project.
The final piece of the puzzle arrived thanks to Jeroen and Adam from Vintage Garage.
Waiting for us was a restored 1962 Mercedes-Benz 220, finished in Royal Blue with a preserved beige interior. Standing beside the château, the car looked as though it had always belonged there. It wasn't simply another prop; it became another character within the story.
Interestingly, the shoot almost looked very different.
Yulia had originally planned to wear a powder-blue dress that would subtly complement the Royal Blue Mercedes. Unfortunately, it didn't arrive in time. At first I saw it as one of those small frustrations every photographer knows all too well. Looking back, I couldn't have been happier.
The deep red dress transformed the entire series. Rather than blending into the scene, it created exactly the visual tension the photographs needed. Against the blue of the Mercedes and the muted tones of the château, the red became a natural focal point without ever overwhelming the image. It added warmth, elegance and just enough contrast to make every frame come alive.
In the end, I'm glad the original plan failed.
As Yulia stepped beside the Mercedes, everything suddenly felt right. The polished chrome reflected the afternoon light, her curls danced gently in the breeze and, for a brief moment, the scene unfolding in front of me looked almost identical to the one I had imagined for months.
Throughout the afternoon the XCD 80mm f/1.9 remained mounted on the 907X. I occasionally stopped it down slightly to preserve more of the château within the composition, but one of the things I appreciate most about this lens is that it never completely isolates the subject. Even at wider apertures, the surroundings remain part of the narrative instead of dissolving into an anonymous blur.
Some of my favourite photographs from the entire series were made from inside the Mercedes itself.
Photographing through glass is never straightforward. Reflections, polished chrome and constantly changing light can challenge any autofocus system, yet the 907X repeatedly locked onto Yulia's eyes with impressive consistency while allowing the reflections to become part of the composition rather than something to fight against.
The biggest challenge that afternoon, however, wasn't the autofocus.
It was the light.
I had forgotten to bring a polarising filter. To be honest, I rarely carry one. Most of my work revolves around adding light with my Harlowe LEDs rather than removing it. Yet standing beside the Mercedes, I quickly realised the reflections across the windscreen were beginning to dominate the portraits. Reflections can add atmosphere, but they can just as easily destroy a photograph when they obscure the connection with your subject.
So we improvised.
I asked Adam from Vintage Garage to hold the black side of my reflector just above the roofline of the Mercedes, carefully blocking the direct sunlight striking the windscreen. Within seconds the reflections softened, Yulia's face reappeared and the photograph I had imagined was suddenly there.
Yulia inside the 1962 Mercedes-Benz 220.
That little moment also reminded me how often photographers think only about adding light. Sometimes the better solution is to remove it. Blocking one harsh reflection across the windscreen improved the portrait far more than adding another LED ever could.
The best lighting setups are often the simplest ones, and sometimes the most valuable piece of equipment isn't another light at all, but a flag, a reflector or simply another pair of helping hands.
Back in Lightroom, the files looked remarkably close to what I had imagined before leaving home.
Yulia, the Mercedes and Château Belvedère.
Rather than dramatically transforming the photographs, I simply refined what was already there. I gently warmed the overall palette, softened the greens surrounding the château and restrained the blues just enough to create the atmosphere I had carried in my head for months. There are traces of Wes Anderson's carefully orchestrated colour palettes somewhere in the background, but always filtered through my own visual language. I wasn't trying to recreate another era. I wanted the photographs to feel timeless.
The Hasselblad files took those edits incredibly well. The first thing I noticed was their clarity. They are crisp, rich and remarkably graceful in the way they render colour and tonal transitions. Instead of forcing the files towards my vision, I often felt as though they were quietly meeting me halfway.
Looking through the finished series later that evening, I experienced a feeling that is surprisingly rare. The photographs looked almost exactly as I had imagined them months before making the first frame.
As photographers, we constantly adapt. Weather changes, light disappears and even the best plans evolve. This time, however, everything aligned. The château, the Mercedes, the afternoon light, Yulia and the Hasselblad all seemed to speak the same visual language.
As the sun slowly disappeared behind the trees, Adam handed me the keys to the Mercedes and suggested I take it for a short drive through the surrounding countryside.
Driving a vintage restored Mercedes-Benz through quiet Belgian roads after finally completing a project that had lived in my imagination for months is a memory I will probably treasure just as much as the photographs themselves.
I couldn't have asked for a better way to end the day.
Some projects stay with us because of the images they produce.
Others because of the experience of creating them.
Château Belvédère gave me both.
My sincere thanks go to the owners of Château Belvédère for opening their remarkable home to us, and to Jeroen and Adam from Vintage Garage for helping transform a long-held idea into reality.
Chapter Nine – The Muse
Every photographer eventually finds someone who becomes part of their visual language.
For me, that person is Chanelle.
She travels from Paris several times a year, and over time we have developed something that is difficult to describe but immediately recognisable once the camera comes out. There is very little discussion about poses, expressions or individual photographs. We exchange ideas beforehand, gather a few visual references and then simply begin creating.
What I value most is her trust.
Chanelle at Castle Hallehof.
Unlike many models, Chanelle rarely asks to see the back of the camera. She knows the photographs will reveal themselves when the day is over, and that quiet confidence changes the entire rhythm of a shoot. Instead of constantly stopping to evaluate individual frames, we remain immersed in the atmosphere we are building together.
That trust is something I never take for granted.
Chanelle possesses a timeless elegance that continually draws me back to photographing her. She has an effortless ability to transform almost any interior into another era. One moment she feels as though she has stepped from a Parisian fashion editorial of the 1950s, the next she reminds me of the golden age of Hollywood. At the same time, she never takes herself too seriously. Between photographs she is constantly laughing and joking, bringing an infectious energy that makes even long shooting days feel relaxed. That playful confidence is exactly what makes her such an extraordinary collaborator. Nothing ever feels forced or self-conscious. Chanelle simply throws herself completely into the story we are trying to tell.
A few minutes later, the château decided to contribute a little surprise of its own.
The real queen of the castle.
One of the resident white cats quietly wandered into the room just as Chanelle was walking through the château in vintage lingerie. Without hesitation she crouched down and tried to make friends with the little visitor.
The kitten, however, had other ideas.
For a brief moment it looked as though it wanted to remind Chanelle exactly who the real queen of the château was.
Fortunately, no scratches were exchanged.
I simply kept photographing.
Those unscripted moments are often the ones I treasure most. No amount of planning could have produced that encounter, yet somehow it became one of my favourite memories from the entire shoot.
The visual inspiration lived somewhere between the refined confidence of Agent Provocateur campaigns and the romantic femininity of Chantal Thomass, always filtered through my own fascination with vintage cinema. Rich burgundy tones, dark wood, old mirrors, heavy curtains, large chandeliers and carefully shaped natural light supported by my Harlowe LED lights created exactly the atmosphere I had imagined.
One of my favourite locations inside Hallehof has always been the narrow staircase.
The light slowly falls away as you climb, creating transitions between shadow and illumination. Another favourite is the large antique mirror that allows reflections to become part of the composition rather than merely recording them. Having photographed there so often, I already knew how the light would move through the rooms during the afternoon, allowing me to concentrate almost entirely on Chanelle and the story unfolding in front of the camera.
The Hasselblad seemed completely at ease in this environment.
The XCD 80mm f/1.9 once again remained attached for almost the entire session. The combination of the lens and the 907X rendered skin naturally, preserving texture without ever becoming overly clinical. Rich fabrics, polished wood and the subtle glow of natural window light all seemed to exist in perfect harmony within the files.
Looking back over the three shoots, I realised how much they had in common. The Bell Boy had taught me to think beyond individual photographs and build a story around a character and a place. Château Belvédère showed me what can happen when an idea that has been sitting in your head for years finally comes together, from the location and the Mercedes to Yulia and the light. Hallehof brought me back to something more familiar and personal, photographing Chanelle in a place I know well and simply enjoying the process.
What stayed with me most was how little of this had to do with the camera itself. The strongest photographs came from the relationship between everyone involved: the trust between photographer and model, the understanding of the light and the freedom to follow an idea when the moment took us somewhere unexpected. By then, the 907X had become a natural part of that process. I wasn't thinking about whether the camera could handle the shoot anymore. I was thinking about the photographs I wanted to make.
Ending the photographic part of this review at Hallehof therefore felt natural. It wasn't the biggest production or the most elaborate location, but it brought together many of the things I value most in photography: a place with character, a model who understands my way of working, light that can be shaped and the freedom to experiment. Most importantly, I was simply having fun making photographs with a camera that, after all these months, had become a very natural part of the way I work.
Epilogue – A Camera That Became Part of My Story
When I first sat down to write this review, I imagined it would be finished within a few weeks.
Instead, it evolved over several months. Every time I thought I had reached a conclusion, another portrait session appeared, another location inspired a new idea or another observation found its way into my notebook. Somewhere along the way I realised I was no longer writing a conventional camera review. I was simply recording what had happened during those months of using the 907X. It had become part of my everyday photography before I had really noticed it.
Yulia — shaped with Harlowe LED light.
Looking back over these past months, the Hasselblad 907X has become my primary photographic tool. When an important portrait session appears in my calendar, I no longer spend time deciding which camera to bring. Almost instinctively, I reach for the Hasselblad. It isn't perfect, but I trust it completely. That has become more important to me than having the perfect specification sheet. It allows me to stop thinking about the equipment and devote my attention to what has always mattered most: the story I want to tell, the way I shape the light and, above all, the person standing in front of my lens.
Light has always been my true language. Cameras record it, but they do not create it. Over the years I have become increasingly devoted to continuous lighting, particularly my Harlowe LED system, because it allows me to sculpt a scene exactly as I imagine it before releasing the shutter. The Hasselblad complements that way of working extremely well. Its files preserve subtle tonal transitions, delicate colour relationships and an extraordinary amount of flexibility in post-processing. Whether I leave the colours almost untouched or gently guide them towards the cinematic palettes that define much of my work, the files always give me plenty of room to work. Instead of spending my time correcting photographs, I spend it refining them, and there is an important difference between those two approaches.
The longer I have lived with the 907X, the more I have noticed small changes in the way I work. It hasn't changed my photography through some revolutionary feature; instead, the straightforward way it works has removed a few distractions. It encouraged me to think in projects instead of individual photographs, to search for stories instead of isolated images and, perhaps most importantly, to become a better observer. Today I spend less time thinking about the camera itself and considerably more time looking at the person standing in front of it.
Looking back through these pages, I realise this review was never really about autofocus, megapixels or dynamic range. It was about rediscovering why I fell in love with photography in the first place.
Cameras will continue to evolve, and every generation will bring more speed, more automation and longer specification sheets. That doesn't change what photography means to me. At its heart, photography is still about people, trust, patience and recognising a moment that deserves to be remembered. The camera is simply the bridge between imagination and memory.
Over the years I have owned many wonderful cameras. Each one has taught me something and helped shape me as a photographer. The Leica M taught me patience and anticipation. The Leica S introduced me to the unique look of medium format. The Hasselblad 907X has taught me something different. Over time I realised that the best cameras gradually disappear from your thoughts. Once that happens, your attention returns to the person in front of the lens, exactly where it belongs.
People occasionally ask whether I will eventually replace the 907X with the next generation. Perhaps one day I will, but I honestly don't think I will ever stop using this one.
Over the years, I've owned many cameras, but only a few have become cameras I genuinely want to keep. The 907X has become one of them. After all these months, it feels less like another camera in my collection and more like part of the way I photograph. It is the camera I instinctively reach for, the camera I trust and the one that has accompanied some of my favourite work of recent years.
Writing this review also made me realise that I hadn't really been looking for another camera. I wanted something that felt natural to use and suited the way I photograph. After several months, the 907X had become that camera.
As I close this chapter, I find myself thinking less about specifications or future cameras and more about the photographs that still haven't been made. The past months have convinced me that this journey with Hasselblad is only just beginning, and I am genuinely curious to discover what the 100-megapixel sensor and the new XCD 55mm f/2.5 might bring to the kind of portrait projects I enjoy creating.
I would also like to thank Bronius Rudnickas for the conversations, advice and openness he has shared with me throughout this process, and the Hasselblad team for the history and philosophy behind a system that has given me a new reason to keep exploring medium format.
A special thank you to Château Belvedère and Château Hallehof for opening their doors and allowing me to bring these personal projects to life in such remarkable surroundings.
A special thank you to Chanelle, Janette, Jennifer and Yulia for trusting me with these photographs and for bringing their own personalities to the work. I am also grateful to Harlowe for the light that has shaped so much of this work.
For now, there are still many photographs left to make with this one.
