For the last couple of years, my wife has been a passionate student of all things Myers-Briggs. And thus, by the transitive property of marriage, this means that I too have become unwittingly quasi-conversant on the topic.
For the edification of those who lack a fervent family tutor, the “Myers-Briggs Type Indicator” is a rather widely used and somewhat controversial system for sub-dividing humankind into 16 distinct personality types. Based on a theory first floated by Carl Jung, the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) defines four dualities that affect human personality: You’re either extraverted (E) or introverted (I); sensing (S) or intuitive (N); thinking (T) or feeling (F); judging (J) or perceiving (P). 16 possible combinations that yield 16 different types of personalities.
My wife’s interest in MBTI was inspired by the demands of her job — a job in which she must stroke the egos, satisfy the psyches and negotiate the best performances from hundreds of different people — quickly and simultaneously. By learning to identify each person’s personality type, she is able to effectively ascertain their needs and motivations — and thus relate with each individual in a way they each understand and appreciate.
Frankly, I used to think Myers-Briggs was a lot of hooey — mostly because I found it nigh impossible to take any of the MBTI tests myself. All the test variants contained far too many either/or questions to which my answer would be “neither” or “it depends.” So one day, still unable to complete a test, I asked my wife to categorize my personality type for me. “Oh, you’re an INTJ,” she said emphatically.
Since I didn’t know an INTJ from an EIEIO, she read me a couple of profiles that described my personality type, my motivations and the circuity of my thought processes. It was uncanny. All my life I believed I simply possessed a higher percentage of alien DNA than the rest of humanity. Turns out I was just an INTJ.
This got me thinking — perhaps I could expand on the Myers-Briggs concept, and create an addendum specific to photographers. Surely these same techniques could be used to classify all the different types of photographers and their motivations? It would go a long way toward helping each photographer learn what makes them click that shutter release, along with when, where and at what they should concentrate those clicks. Besides, I was bereft of any better ideas upon which to base a new article. So I rolled up my sleeves and gave it a good hard 10 minutes of thought — resulting in the creation of the Ultrasomething Photographer Type Indicator (UPTI).
Just as with MBTI, the UPTI specifies four fundamental psychological dualities, which guide all photographers:
Are your motivations external (E) or internal (I)? Is your photographic direction dictated by praise and appreciation, and a yearning to satisfy and grow your audience? Or could you not be bothered to care what other people might think of your photos — just as long as you’re happy with them?
Are you a literal (L) or metaphorical (M) practitioner of photography? Do you tend to take photographs principally for the purpose of documenting what’s in front of the camera (even if it’s to alter it in some idealistic way)? Or do you take photographs in which the subject of the photos isn’t really about what’s in the frame, so much as what’s implied by it?
Are you a builder (B) or a hunter (H)? Do you generally prefer to construct your photographs — either in the studio or through carefully conceived camera, lighting or subject placement in the field? Or do you prefer to hunt for images — accepting and photographing whatever appears before you and in whatever manner it appears?
Are you more drawn to quality (Q) or to subject (S)? Are you generally more concerned with what your photos look like (image quality, contrast, focus, sharpness, fidelity, etc)? Or do you care more about the subject matter (regardless of its technical merit, or lack thereof)?
Obviously, it’s unlikely that your placement within any of these four UPTI functions will be “absolute.” For example, your photography might not be solely reliant on quality (Q) nor solely reliant on subject (S), but likely some mix of the two. It is, however, probable that one extreme will be more highly weighted than the other, and the sum of those weightings will determine your Ultrasomething Photographer Type Indicator.
I am, without any doubt, an IMHS. Anyone reading this blog for the past few years could easily have guessed as much.
So what are you? What is your UPTI? If you like, feel free to share your UPTI classification in the comments section. And remember, no one classification is better than any other. They’re just different — which is a good thing. Because without differences, we’d all be taking the same photos. And how boring would that be?
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: The photos that accompany this article are, not coincidentally, precisely the sort of thing you’d expect to see come from the camera of an IMHS.
“Another Facebook Moment” definitely has nothing to do with the girls in the photo, and everything to do with lampooning the ubiquity and excessive prominence of social media. Of course, now that I know I’m an INTJ, that whole social media mockery thing of mine makes perfect sense. Photographed with a Leica M Monochrom (Type 246) and a 21mm f/3.4 Super-Elmar-M lens.
“Near Miss” is, again, another photo that really has nothing to do with the subject shown. If it were, I’d probably have shot closer (or used a longer lens). Instead, it’s about context. We don’t know why the man is lying on the sidewalk and this photo isn’t going to tell us. And, rest assured, I certainly didn’t put him on the sidewalk for the sake of this picture. No, it’s really a photo about choices — the wide angle lens indicating a wealth of possibly more appropriate places for the man to lie — perhaps one of the several nearby benches? Or even the Comfort Inn on the corner? Shot with a Leica IIIc and a Voigtlander 25mm f/4 Snapshot-Skopar lens on Tri-X at ISO 400, and developed in a 1:50 solution of Rodinal.
“Open Invitation” — Is this a botched portrait of a man on the street, or is it a gift-wrapped moment of serendipity marrying a momentary body position with a most appropriate sign? Photographed with a Leica M Monochrom (Type 246) and a 28mm f/2 Summicron lens.
“Misfit” is a technical mess. Blurry. Out of focus. Improperly exposed. I couldn’t care less. Because the subject of the photo (which isn’t the man in the mascot outfit, but the pregnant space between him and the other people on the bench) is all that matters. At least it’s all that matters to me. Did I mention I only take photos to please myself? Shot with an Olympus OMD-EM1 with an Olympus 12mm f/2 lens.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
Those of you still waiting for this month’s tiny cache of ULTRAsomething verbiage will be pleased to know that I haven’t retired — I’ve just been in Tokyo for the past three weeks.
All that eating, sightseeing, eating, photographing and eating left little time for the sort of thoughtfulness that (ostensibly) goes into an ULTRAsomething post. Although, truth be told, I did write an online travelogue (“trog”) throughout the trip. However, since this “trog” was of an even more banal and personal nature than the average ULTRAsomething post, I chose to publish it only for a select few friends and family. Because I had only an iPad with me, I used only iOS apps — PhotoRaw to convert the RAW files to JPG, and Snapseed to process the files for publication via Adobe Slate. The simplicity of the process was quite refreshing, though I’m glad to be back in front of a real computer, where the real curation and editing are just beginning.
So I hope you’ll all forgive the minor delay. ULTRAsomething will be back to its usual lackadaisical publishing schedule next month.
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: “Yaktori Bar, Shinjuku” was shot with a Ricoh GR my first day in Tokyo, and was processed hastily that same evening using Snapseed on an iPad. This fellow and I (the only two patrons in a small Yakitori Bar on the colourfully named, “Piss Alley”) had an awkward little conversation using an iPhone translator app. He wanted to know how old I was (is this a common thing to ask in Japan?) When I told him, he smiled and tapped out a reply on his iPhone, then held up the translated text for me to read. “You big senior!” it said. I’ve chosen to interpret this as a good thing.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
I step up to the counter and am greeted most enthusiastically by a petit woman of about 30. “What’ll you have?” she asks cheerfully.
“Cup of coffee,” I mutter.
“You need room for cream?” she chirps.
“No. Black.”
“Awesome!”
I feign a little smile to express appreciation for her having recognized my awesome nature.
In truth, I’m so frequently awesome that it becomes a struggle to politely acknowledge all who commend me. Case in point — a mere 30 minutes earlier, my awesomeness was spotted at the corner grocery. The cashier, upon ringing up my total, glanced up from her till and stated, “that’ll be $4.05.”
I reached into my wallet, peeled off a five dollar bill and handed it over.
“Do you have a nickel?” she asked.
I plunged a hand into a pocket, fished around and extracted a beaver-crested 5¢ Canadian coin and dropped it into her outstretched hand.
“Awesome!”
Her affirmation of my formidableness was expressed so boisterously that every customer in my vicinity gazed upon me in admiration.
Such awesomeness is both frequent and boundless. If an acquaintance queries me about my weekend plans, it matters not what I answer. Even if I answer “I have no plans,” their response is inevitably a heartily delivered “awesome!” When I call and make a dinner reservation, it’s a rare host or hostess that isn’t moved to mention such awesomeness. When a tourist needs help finding Robson Street, and I point and say “two blocks that way,” I am not just thanked — I am praised as “awesome.”
Awesome as I apparently am at most everything, there is one endeavour at which I’ve failed to be awesome: photography. Mind you — I have experienced some tangential photographic awesomeness. For example, many of my cameras have been praised for being awesome — and the older a camera is, the more frequently total strangers stop me on the street to tell me so. Occasionally, one of these strangers will ask me why I’m shooting film. I’ll say something like, “I like the way it looks.” This, too, is often praised for its awesomeness.
But here’s the thing: It’s not enough that I have awesome cameras, nor is it sufficient that my choice of photographic media is also awesome. What I really and truly want is to take at least one awesome photograph before I die.
I know it’s possible to take awesome photos, because I’ve seen them. Hundreds of them taken by the likes of Tomatsu, Takanashi, Nakahira, Moriyama, Hosoe, Domon, Araki — and that’s just in Japan!
It’s a cruel twist of fate that my ability to produce exact change on demand is deemed “awesome,” yet I’ve never once had a photograph praised for its awesomeness.
There are a few possible explanations for this. One, of course, is that I suck as a photographer. Another is that there’s a possible disconnect between my definition of “awesome” and its modern, colloquial usage.
In hopes of learning the truth, I did a Google image search on “awesome photography.” No disrespect to any photographer whose work appeared, but I didn’t see a single photo that I would have wanted to take myself. To me, every one of the resulting photos combined technical competence with an over-reliance on software filters to produce the sort of trendy commercial look that’s been so universally popular and emulated for the past decade. That’s fine if that’s your thing. But is it awesome?
Maybe I’m a born cynic, or maybe it’s my generation, but I believe awesome should inspire awe — and to do so, it should be something that blows your mind and shatters your preconceptions. Delivering something that fits within the narrow constraints of preconception is not my idea of awesome.
So what does this tell me? It tells me that both possible explanations for my lack of awesomeness are valid. While the disconnect between my definition of awesome and the rest of the world’s would explain why no one thinks my photographs are awesome, it still doesn’t mask the fact I have yet to take a photo that fits my own definition of “awesome.”
Then again, maybe it’s simply impossible to actually awe oneself. I think someone would need to be either extraordinarily self-aware or extraordinarily narcissistic in order to blow their own mind.
And so I soldier on — searching for the elusive awesome photo while collecting my awesome merit badges for drinking black coffee and pointing to local tourist destinations. But it makes me wonder — if the mediocre and mundane are now classified as “awesome,” is the truly awesome still possible? After all, if someone creates something worthy of inspiring awe, yet no one is actually awed by it, then by definition it isn’t awesome. It’s a depressing thought — and yet I’m oddly comforted by the idea that, perhaps, this is the plane on which my own photography exists. That would be pretty awesome.
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Photos contained within this article are, in no way, meant as potential “awesome photography” candidates. They are, however, somewhat tangentially related to the topic at hand. The final photograph, “Antigravity Boots” depicts what I consider to be a truly awesome event — any man who can sleep standing up deserves my utmost awe. Particularly since I can’t even sleep sitting up, much less facing up while supine in bed. This photo, by the way, was shot with a Type 246 Leica M Monochrom, fronted with a 21mm f/3.4 Super-Elmar-M lens.
Also rather obviously related to the topic is the opening photo, “Prelude to 18 Potentially Awesome Instagram Photos,” which was shot with a Widelux F7 using Tri-X film, which I exposed at ISO 200 and developed in a 1:50 solution of Blazinal.
Filling in the middle is a shot of an obviously awed child in “Envy,” which I shot with a Type 246 Leica M Monochrom using an unknown lens (though its appearance, and the appearance of other photos shot that day, would suggest some kind of 50mm lens). “Memento” was also shot with the Type 246 Leica M Monochrom, only this time I know which lens I used — Leica’s 28mm f/2 Summicron.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
I’ve often been mistaken for a lens snob. Readers point to my penchant for Leica rangefinders, then jump to the “snob” conclusion without so much as straining a groin muscle. The reason, of course, is that Leica manufactures some of the best (and most expensive) optics in the world. So if I shoot Leica rangefinders, I must be doing it for the lenses, right? Wrong.
In fact, out of the 15 lenses I currently use with my Leica M’s, only two of them were designed and manufactured by Leica in the 21st century. Many date from the 1950’s, 1940’s and even the 1930’s.
What does this tell us? It tells us that what I really am is a lens addict. But a lens snob? Hardly. Seven of my 15 lenses actually use Leica’s pre-1954 thread-mount standard. And of those same 15 lenses, five of them aren’t even Leicas. What sort of lens snob would own so many non-Leica lenses? And let’s not forget that the one and only time I was ever mentioned by Popular Photography was for writing an article in which I described stabbing a piece of gaffer’s tape with an X-Acto™ knife and using it to take photos.
For me, flaws bring character to a lens. And choosing the right lens is as much about matching a particular character to a particular subject as it is about focal length.
Which is why I was both intrigued and excited when Lomography announced their new LC-A Minitar–1 Art lens for Leica’s M-mount. It’s a repurposing of a 35 year old, much-loved and rather significantly flawed optic — one which originally adorned the quirky, cultish, Russian-made Lomo LC-A camera that started the whole Lomography “trend.”
The Minitar is a 32mm f/2.8 pancake lens that, unlike many current Lomography products, uses actual glass lens elements. The focal length is, I suppose, perfect for those who think 28mm is too wide and 35mm is too long — but I found its “tweener” status more limiting than liberating.
As with most Lomography products, the packaging is beautiful and the accompanying literature is an inspired masterpiece of marketing B.S. Unlike its homonym, this Minitar has more than just the head of a bull. My advice? Should you actually purchase one, don’t bother to read any of the enclosed literature — because once you handle the actual lens, you’ll be convinced they shipped you the wrong one. They didn’t.
The first thing I noticed about the Minitar was its size. This lens is even flatter than my 1946 Leitz 3.5cm Elmar thread mount — which is (and continues to be) my go-to lens whenever I’m looking to go low profile. Sadly, its size may well have been the last unqualified “good” thing I noticed about the Minitar.
While twirling the lens about and marvelling over its thinness, I immediately noticed a rather disconcerting design choice — the aperture blades are fully exposed on the back side of the lens. The only thing separating the blades from an errant finger, key or pencil is… nothing! You know how some people attach a string between their lens barrel and front lens cap so that they don’t lose the cap? Well, this is the first lens I’ve ever seen that might encourage someone to permanently tether the rear lens caps to the barrel — because without that cap, you’re sitting on an accident waiting to happen.
Turning the lens around, I’m presented with a design somewhat reminiscent of my old Leitz thread mount lenses. Specifically, there’s a tiny aperture tab, which rotates around a very small central lens element that, itself, requires the once popular 22.5mm x 0.5mm filter size. Unfortunately, “once” corresponds to “around the time Jimmy Carter was sworn in as President of the United States.” So look forward to spending many a weekend scouring garage sales in hopes of scoring some old filters that might actually fit your new Minitar.
Looking closer at the front of the lens reveals another curious design choice: there is no Depth of Field scale on the lens. Considering it’s a manual focus lens, and one that Lomography touts as being “ideal” for scale focussing, isn’t it a rather obvious oversight to omit DoF markings? Particularly since the oddball 32mm focal length practically guarantees no one will have any first-hand experience with that particular focal length’s Depth of Field characteristics?
Further contradicting Lomography’s assertion that the Minitar is built for scale focusing, is the fact there are only four distance demarcations on the lens: 0.8; 1.5m; 3m; and infinity. There is a slight detent at each of the two middle distances — though the detents on my copy are so subtle and so sloppy that they require the finger sensitivity of a safe cracker to discern whether they’re engaged.
Not that any of this matters — because the distance markings seem to be more “suggestive” than accurate. For example, at the minimum focus distance of .8m, I measured the actual plane of focus at around .73m — a distance more in keeping with the traditional minimum focus distance of a typical M-mount lens. When carefully set in the “deepest” part of its 1.5m detent, I found the optimum plane of sharpness to be closer to 1.3m. At the 3m detent, I was actually unable to determine the true plane of focus — the lens was simply so soft and resolving so poorly that I couldn’t tell whether the subject was any sharper at 2.75m or 2.5m than it was at 3m. To Lomography’s credit, however, they did seem to get the infinity setting about right.
Considering the fact this lens is actually rangefinder coupled, I find it somewhat curious that Lomography bothered to build in any distance detents at all. Distance detents are the most help on lenses that are not rangefinder coupled — since the detents allow you to focus by feel while framing your subject. My 25mm Voigtlander, for example, has distance detents at 1m, 1.5m and 3m — but since that lens is not rangefinder coupled, the detents are actually very helpful (not to mention easily found and accurate).
You might think, “OK, so the lens doesn’t need detents, but so what? It’s not like their presence causes any issues.” That might be true in theory, but it’s not the Minitar’s reality. And this is because, according to my little plastic protractor, the Minitar’s rotational focussing arc is only 40 degrees. That’s right, a mere 40 degrees is all the rotation that separates .8 meters from infinity. As a point of reference, consider my Leica 28mm lens, which has approximately a 115 degree arc to cover this same range. A focus arc of 40 degrees means that the slightest nudge of the focus ring has a significant effect on focus distance — resulting in a lens that’s somewhat difficult to focus accurately. So the inclusion of two wide, sloppy detents within this 40 degree arc means, essentially, that you’re robbed of even more focussing accuracy. So what we have are detents that are neither accurate nor needed, that don’t even function very well as detents, and that rob the lens of the additional focusing accuracy it so sorely lacks.
Moving on…
Let’s talk about aperture markings. While the Minitar’s distance markings might be “approximate” at best, its aperture scale is a work of pure fiction. When I first started using the Minitar, I set exposure the way I always do — manually. But I soon realized every photo I took was drastically overexposed. Thinking, perhaps, that my eye was out of calibration, I pulled out my light meter and checked the scene before me. It measured 1/125s at f/8 and ISO 400. So I obediently set the Leica Monochrom to ISO 400 and its shutter speed to 1/125, while setting the Minitar’s aperture to f/8. The result? A brilliantly white frame of lustrous overexposure. In order to expose this scene properly, I needed to set the Minitar to its narrowest aperture (f/22). Yeah, you read right. The f/8 aperture demarcation on the Minitar was off by 3 whole stops! I tried measuring a darker (f/4) and less contrasty scene, and in this case the Minitar was only off by 2 stops — requiring that I instead align its aperture to f/8 in order to achieve proper exposure. At this point, I didn’t bother with any additional tests — I simply started using the Minitar with the camera in auto exposure mode, since the lens’ preposterously misguided aperture scale prevents any other means of exposure.
Alright. Just because the lens’ distance and aperture calibrations are a total disaster, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a bad lens. After all, I can work around its focus issues by using the rangefinder (or Live View), and I can ignore its fantastical aperture markings by simply letting the camera pick the exposure.
So how does this lens perform? The answer to that question depends on who you are and what you expect of it.
Personally, I welcome a few flaws when it comes to photography — whether they result from the gear I use or the techniques I employ. Vignetting? Bring it on! Soft edges? Who cares! Low resolution? Flaring? Now it’s a party! And I’m happy to report that all these properties are readily apparent in the Minitar. Heck, they’re actually the reasons for which one would purchase this lens.
But here’s the thing: We all have our own “line” — some level at which a flaw is no longer a “thing of beauty,” but simply a “defect.” Many of today’s photographer’s draw this line just south of “technical perfection.” Me? My line’s way down ‘round the Antarctic Circle. A lens has to be pretty darn flawed before it annoys me. Consider, for example, my 1937 Leitz 9cm Elmar — a tremendously ugly lens I refer to only as “the pipe fitting.” This lens is so lacking in contrast that I can shoot it in the harshest of midday sun, yet it renders only minute luminosity differences between highlight and shadow regions. It’s about as milky as a lens could be, but I still love it. So yeah, my line at which a lens becomes “unacceptable” is absurdly liberal. And yet, the Minitar crosses it.
It’s nothing I can really quantify. Lomogoraphy does a good job of embracing and marketing the idea of low fidelity, which has the effect of insulating them from criticism. If you think a particular Lomography product is too grungy, well, you’re just not hip enough to “get” it. So I’ll readily admit, here and now, that I’m not hip enough to “get” the LC-A Minitar–1.
While I do really like its drastic luminance vignetting (which, I imagine, is what a micro four-thirds lens would deliver if mounted to a full frame camera), I find its commensurate edge softness much less appealing. Darkened edges are one thing, but edge detail that’s indistinguishable from ectoplasm is something else entirely. This is a lens that basically demands your subject be in the centre of the frame — but even then, that subject is going to be a bit fuzzy.
Now, truth be told, I could probably learn to forgive this lens of its defects. After all, I forgave the pipe fitting of its most dubious characteristics. But here’s the thing — the Minitar is a new lens. It’s not a dusty old relic that’s changed hands 100 times at weekend camera swaps. It’s not a lens you buy with coins you’ve collected from between your sofa cushions — it’s a lens that demands you actually pull out your credit card, order online, and wait many months for Lomogoraphy to build and deliver one to you. And because of this, one can’t judge it as forgivingly as, say, an old 1930’s Leitz lens. An 80 year old lens has earned its flaws. What has a brand new Minitar earned?
When I combine its rather disappointing optics with its rather poorly engineered mechanics and slap on a premium price tag, I’m left with no other choice but to question my sanity for having purchased it.
Try as I might, I simply couldn’t manufacture any love for the Lomography LC-A Minitar–1 Art lens. Curiously, the camera from which it came — the LC-A — has legions of fans, so I’m sure I’ll be fielding an angry email or two as a result. And that’s OK. Because, as I’ve always said, “there is no such thing as bad camera gear — only a bad match between the gear and the user.” And this lens is, alas, a bad match for me. But one really has to wonder: if the Minitar–1 isn’t a match for the low-fidelity, grunge-loving, serendipity freak that is me, then who exactly is it for?
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: Other than the opening product shot, all photos were taken with the incongruous combination of a second generation Leica Monochrom-M (Type 246) and the Lomography 32mm f/2.8 LC-A Minitar-1 Art lens. All images were heavily post-processed because 1) I wanted the photos within this article to have a consistent appearance, and 2) I didn’t exactly have the highest fidelity files with which to begin. Frankly, should I ever shoot with this lens again, I’ll likely process the images with similar aggression — the lens sort of demands it, I think. Also, I’ll grant you that these aren’t the most inspiring images to have ever accompanied an ULTRAsomething article. I must admit to being somewhat anxious to get the lens off the Monochrom, lest I be stuck using the Minitar should an actual “keeper” shot come along.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls. Normally, I’m a bit embarrassed to ask for donations, but in this particular case, I’m feeling rather keen to recoup some of the cash spent on this particular lens…
“My primary photographic motivator is a fear of irrelevance.” – grEGORy simpson
Anyone who sinks a seemingly preposterous chunk of precious personal time and energy into a passion — particularly if it’s a passion void of financial reward — will inevitably encounter the same question: “Why do you do that thing you do?”
Were we a truthful species, most of us would likely answer, “because I’m not right in the head.” But few of us have the courage to proffer such an admission. So we invent plausible responses that we hope garner us admiration rather than admonishment.
Some of us tailor altruistic replies like, “to make the world a more beautiful place.” Others seek a medical explanation, professing that their obsession “reduces stress” or “provides inner peace and harmony.” Those with artistic aspirations choose the ever popular “to express myself” answer.
Since one of my many obsessions involves the avoidance of clichéd thought, I felt I needed to make up my own unique answer to those who questioned my fanatical, yet contrarian photographic tendencies. So whenever I was asked why I took photos, my stock answer became “a fear of irrelevance.”
I believed the response to be humble, honest and downright reasonable. So reasonable, that I included it among my second batch of Bartlett’s Rejects photography quotes. So reasonable, that I actually started to think it might even be true!
But recently, upon uttering my stock reply to a new inquisitor, I heard a faint voice emanating from one of my brain’s unexplored corridors. “And what exactly do you do that’s so relevant?” asked the incorporeal voice.
Uh oh.
Relevance is, of course, relative. What’s relevant to one person might not be relevant to someone else. A father’s photos of his children may be relevant to his family, yet inconsequential to all other viewers. A landscape photographer’s shots might prove relevant in justifying a desire to travel, but they’ll likely appear totally extraneous to everyone else. Fine arts photographs might be relevant to those with the necessary clout to define public taste, but are likely immaterial to those not seeking financial gain or social status.
I’m not a father. I suffer from spontaneous narcolepsy syndrome at the mere thought of landscape photography. And I suspect my photographs are quite far removed from the current decorum of the fine arts market. So how, exactly, am I relevant?
Ay, there’s the rub.
For many years, I have defined my own relevance as “helping to keep photography from devolving to the point where a photo is regarded as nothing more than an idealized Xerox copy of whatever’s in front of the camera.” I believe that the best photography is akin to poetry — a stylized, concise, and sometimes obtuse catalyst for stimulating thoughts and emotions that may be unique to each viewer. Suggestion trumps definition. Figurative defeats literal.
One look through Flickr, Instagram, Facebook or the dwindling titles at the local newsstand will tell you I’m not exactly succeeding in my quest. Yet here I am — continuing to take photos and write articles in the face of overwhelming evidence that I am, indeed, irrelevant by my own definition. In retrospect, there was far more hubris than humility in my assumption that I could somehow change the way 7.5 billion people interact with photography. And here I thought those who desired to “express themselves” were the arrogant ones!
So the next time someone asks why I take photos, I’m just going to go ahead and give ‘em the straight dope. “Because I’m not right in the head,” I’ll answer. Sometimes honesty really is the best policy.
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: All three photos were shot with a Leica M Monochrom (Type 246), though each was rendered through a different lens. “Vacancy” employed an old, scale-focus, thread-mount Voigtlander 25mm f/4 Snapshot-Skopar lens, which I’m testing as a possible wide-angle companion for my old Leica III’s. “Truth in Advertising” was shot with a 21mm f/3.4 Super-Elmar lens for maximum relevance. “Hobnobbing” saw my ever-present 28mm f/2 Summicron lens mounted to the Monochrom.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
Many mathematicians and physicists support the hypothesis that humans are not real — that our universe is merely a computer simulation, and that all life is but an algorithm running within it. Offering an alternate perspective are the ancient astronaut theorists, who believe today’s Homo Sapiens are the result of meddlesome aliens who long ago tinkered with the indigenous ape population’s DNA.
But who’s to say both viewpoints can’t be correct? After all, a simulated being has no way of knowing that it’s a simulation. So if we take a leap of faith and say that humans were indeed created by aliens, then isn’t it still entirely possible that those aliens were, themselves, merely computer simulations — essentially an invasive subroutine sent to modify a portion of our own galaxy’s code, like a virus that screws with a Word file?
We humans have been fighting over the daddy question for thousands of years. Personally, I don’t really care whether Pop is a geeky hacker, a smooth grey alien, or an old dude wearing a toga and sporting a long white beard. What matters isn’t who or what made us. What matters is what they plan to do with us.
Because let’s face it, the human body is hopelessly outdated. It’s a relic from another time — perilously close to total obsolescence and in dire need of a complete design refresh.
Need proof? Look no further than that pile of keys, coins, cards and mobile devices we’re forced to carry around. Isn’t it about time we borrowed a feature from our marsupial friends and received a built-in pouch of our own?
And haven’t we humans convincingly demonstrated that we’re way overdue for some man wings? We’ve built all kinds of freakish machinery to compensate for our general lack of mobility, so it’s rather obvious we could stand to sprout a few feathers. Besides, equipping us with wings would significantly reduce mankind’s carbon footprint, helping to save the planet for all manner of critters far cuter than us.
I’m just brainstorming here, but wouldn’t a chameleon-like ability to change skin tone relegate racism to the history books? Not to mention the liberating effect it would have on our wardrobe choices.
And why not pop a USB jack into our navels? What’s the use of having an empty port in the middle of our bellies if we can’t use it to power our smart phones or update our own operating systems?
And have you noticed that every time you go to the doctor, someone ends up sticking a needle in your arm? Either they want to inject something into our blood stream, or they want to suck something out of it. So is a simple vein tap really too much to ask for? I mean, all our other bodily fluids have their own taps, so why not blood?
And it’s not just new features that are needed — we humans have been living with some serious bugs for far too long. For example, we all come factory-equipped with two kidneys, two lungs, two eyes, two ears and even two nostrils, but we have only one heart. What’s with that? I don’t know about you, but I consider the fact I have a backup nipple, but no backup heart, to be a serious design flaw.
Naturally, as a photographer, I’ve also given significant thought to re-engineering humans in order to improve our photographic capabilities. At one point, I toyed with the idea that cameras might not even be necessary — that our eyes take in so much, that what we really need is a better way to file and access the visual information we gather throughout life — perhaps even using that oh-so-handy USB navel port to make a few prints.
But upon further thought, I realized such a technique would limit our photographic capabilities, not expand them. For one thing, all of us would be photographing with the same single focal length lens — our own eyes. We’d lose the ability to have telephoto lenses and wide-angle lenses, and thus the enjoyment of seeing what our eyes can not. Sure, we could modify the Human 2.0 spec to include “zoom eyes,” but humans still haven’t mastered the art of walking and texting — so this might be a feature best-left to the Human 3.0 project.
Furthermore, I realized that using our own eyes as lenses would limit us to only photographing what we, ourselves, could look at. And if that were the case, how could we ever take a selfie? We’d have to go back to the draconian days where the only way we could photograph ourselves was to look into a mirror. Yes, we could add “removable eyes” to our Human 2.0 spec, but how long do you think it would be until you dropped one of them down a sewer grate?
So photographically speaking, I now believe that our daddy got it right the first time, and that it’s actually a good thing we’re forced to rely on antiquated machinery in order to take photos. Creativity can never come from an algorithm. If today’s in-camera “scene modes” and software processing filters have taught us anything, they’ve taught us this.
Or course, if we ourselves are truly nothing but simulations and were thus created algorithmically, then to state that creation can not be born from algorithms would imply that we were never actually created at all. Which would mean that…
ABOUT THE PHOTOS: All three photos were shot with my newest best friend — the Leica Monochrom M (Type 246). To compensate, all three were also shot with relatively inexpensive lenses. My Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 found its way onto the camera for “The Patented Reverse Hail-Mary Selfie” while “PCT (Personal Cell Tower) — Prototype” used the cheap yet capable Voigtlander 21mm f/4 Color Skopar. “State of the Art Stick Technology” used a decidedly non-state of the art Leitz 35mm f/3.5 Elmar thread mount lens from the 1940’s.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls. Although whether that time and effort belongs to me or to whomever (or whatever) programmed me is, I suppose a matter of question.
Virtual confetti rains down from my browser’s title bar. I shield my eyes from the garish text flashing rhythmically to the pulse of John Philip Sousa, which squawks with all the pomp and grandeur that a poor little MIDI File can muster. “Congratulations on reading your 500th photography article on the subject of copyright infringement!” it exclaims — further proof that Google knows far too much about my personal proclivities.
I’m not sure exactly what attracts me to this particular genre. Perhaps I’m just endlessly fascinated by human audacity.
The articles divide into three distinct classes. In many cases, the author recounts how some rookie photographer decided to bypass the tedious learning curve by simply claiming the author’s images as their own. Other authors tell of compunctionless corporations who poach photographs from Flickr, and use them in worldwide marketing campaigns for hamster deodorant. Every so often, the articles are outrageous narratives about idea-bereft photographers who painstakingly recreate (rather than appropriate) another photographer’s carefully staged image — thus crossing over into the area of intellectual property theft.
What I find particularly curious about these articles is that, in nearly every case, the image thief rarely recognizes that they’ve done anything wrong. To the victim, it’s a crime. To the perpetrator, it’s “fair use.”
Alas, I’ve learned it’s beyond the humble scope of ULTRAsomething to alter social mores. The best I can do is observe, learn, react and report. As such, my report on copyright infringement might surprise you, but here it is: In the seven years that I’ve published ULTRAsomething, no one (to the best of my knowledge) has ever stolen a single one of my photos.
Intriguing, isn’t it?
You’re probably wondering how I’ve done it. Intrusively visible watermarks? Digimarc registration? High-priced lawyers crafting menacing legalese?
Nope.
My technique is far simpler — I take photographs that no one wants to steal.
It’s important to realize that I’m not advocating crappy photography. Just because someone doesn’t want to steal something doesn’t mean it’s without value. For example, I’d wager more people would bootleg a recording of Beyoncé snoring than would steal, say, a copy of Bernard Parmeggiani’s De Natura Sonorum album. But this doesn’t mean the Parmeggiani album isn’t great, nor does it mean that the slumbering Beyoncé album is. It’s just the inevitable result of the bell curve of popular culture. The more popular something is, the more unscrupulous profiteers it attracts.
At some point, every photographer must choose between two audiences. Either they must satisfy the visual requirements of the world at large, or they must satisfy those of a single individual — themselves. The all-too-human desire for recognition, validation and income makes it rather difficult to ignore the call of the world. But it’s this same call that also attracts thieves, opportunists and copyright infringers.
I’m one of the lucky ones — I chose the “personal” path, and my photographs diverge markedly from public inclination. Occasionally, some less-fortunate photographer will also choose the personal route, only to discover they’re actually in-sync with world sentiment. Granted, this enables them to pursue their passion without having to renounce popularity or earnings, but at what price? The price of being targeted by image thieves, that’s what!
It would be a rare rookie photographer who would recognize the “charm” of my photos — so noobs never steal ‘em. Likewise, their obfuscated and metaphoric appeal means they receive little interest from corporations, who require photographs that register with a mass audience. And, since my photos are almost totally of the “found” (rather than “staged”) variety, there’s no intellectual property to steal, because there’s no intellect involved in their creation.
In general, the more personal your photography and the more intimate your motives, the less likely others will claim your photos as their own. Sure, you’re destined for a life of obscurity. And yes, people might snicker at the fact you only own two shirts, which you’ve worn on alternate days since Y2K was an actual global concern. But it all seems worthwhile when you find yourself kicking back to read another photographer’s tale of copyright woe, rather than settling in to write one of your own.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Artistic License” was shot with a Leica Monochrom M (Type 246) and a Leica 50mm f/2 Summicron APO ASPH lens. “Mixed Metaphors” was also shot with a Leica Monochrom M (Type 246), this time fronted with a Leica 28mm f/2 Summicron. “Jack” was grabbed with my little Ricoh GR, while “Abduction” sees the Monochrom M (Type 246) return to action, but now with the Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 Nokton lens.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
“That guy’s a terrible writer,” posts a reader on a photography forum, garnering numerous likes and +1’s. “His photos are just random snapshots with no context,” states another on a different site. “I couldn’t be bothered to read what he wrote, because I’m sure he doesn’t say anything that I haven’t read before,” professes yet another critic — seemingly oblivious to his own deliciously paradoxical condemnation.
These are, of course, all comments written about yours truly.
Online forums are wonderful places for learning all sorts of things about oneself. For example, they taught me I’m not a “real” street photographer because I shoot from afar with a telephoto lens. I’m not sure exactly when my 28mm lens became classified as ‘telephoto,’ nor when ‘afar’ became defined as ‘2 meters’ — though I’ll willingly admit that I’m not a real street photographer… but that’s because there is no such thing.
On numerous occasions, I’ve read that I haven’t a clue how to properly process my photos. But can a total stranger really know how I intended them to look? Frankly, my photos look exactly the way I want them to! A more astute critic would impugn my taste, but it’s always my abilities that come under attack.
My proudest moment came when a highly agitated reader claimed that I’m such a horrible photographer, that my very existence has tarnished the profession and is preventing others from finding photographic employment. How can I not be flattered that someone believes I’m both famous enough and influential enough to ruin an entire industry!
Thanks to my penchant for shooting with Leica rangefinders, one of the most oft-repeated internet condemnations is that I’m not worthy of a Leica. More often than not, the verdict is delivered with the word “sorry” in front, as in “Sorry, but Leica’s are wasted on him.” The word’s inclusion is meant, I’m sure, to soften the verdict and illustrate the benevolence of the adjudicator. But here’s the thing — and this is going to make a lot of people on a lot of forums very happy — I am in complete agreement with this assessment! It’s true, Leica’s are wasted on me. In fact, every camera I’ve ever shot with is wasted on me.
I’ve never owned a camera that wasn’t eminently capable of producing a Pulitzer Prize winning photo. Yet I’ve never won a Pulitzer. All these cameras with all this potential — and here I am squandering them on my own personal enjoyment and dubious aesthetic values. Daido Moriyama photographed his NY ’71 book with a half-frame Olympus camera. It’s a masterpiece. I actually own two Olympus half-frames, yet neither has resulted in a collection anywhere near that calibre. Josef Koudelka’s Chaos shows what one can accomplish with the panoramic format. But two years into my Hasselblad Xpan explorations, I’ve yet to produce a single photo worthy of being a Koudelka outtake. Even today’s trendiest and most popular gear is wasted on me. My Olympus OM-D E-M1? I doubt I’ve used more than 20% of its myriad feature set. Call me “lame,” but I just haven’t gotten around to employing its watercolor art filter yet. Curiously, Leica’s rangefinder cameras are so void of bells & whistles that, in many ways, they’re actually less wasted on me than other cameras — at least I use every feature in my Leica M film bodies. However, I must sheepishly admit to not having yet pushed the “M” button on top of the M246.
So what does this rambling pre-amble have to do with Leica’s new Monochrom camera? Nothing. And everything. Its main purpose is to weed out people who land on this site expecting a blow-by-blow feature assessment. Nothing prevents people from reading something quite as effectively as actual words.
Those who are brave enough to endure the prologue are usually the sort who know (or have now learned) that ULTRAsomething is neither a news site nor a review site. ULTRAsomething is about photography gear the same way that Gilligan’s Island is about survival tactics.
My exploration of this camera is still a work in progress; my opinions are mine and mine alone; and my photos are meant to satisfy myself, and not the demands of an internet audience. In other words, everything I write about Leica’s new Monochrom M (Type 246) camera is but a guidepost — markers that people are free to connect in whatever way most benefits them.
Cents and Sensibility
Another commonly-logged complaint amongst photo forumbulists (yes, I just neologized that word), is that ULTRAsomething’s camera articles are useless. Apparently, this is because the articles never actually tell the reader whether or not to buy the camera, nor if upgrading from some previous model is worth the expense.
It’s a criticism that falls just short of being justified. Yes, it’s true. But it’s true for a rather valid reason — because to do as asked is impossible! How can I make a recommendation? I have no insight into the individual wants, needs and pecuniary status of my readers. I only have insight into my own. So that’s what I write about.
Leica’s cameras, in particular, are rather expensive. So I understand the reader’s desire to find some sort of external validation that either supports their decision to purchase one, or justifies their rationale to not. But these are, ultimately, personal questions that only the reader can answer.
I’m often tempted to take the philosopher’s way out, and suggest that very few people actually need a new camera. As I wrote in a reply to a reader’s comment in the previous article, “My 1958 Leica M2 is far better at being a camera than I’ll ever be at being a photographer.” But “need” implies rational thought and intellect — and for me, photography has little to do with either, and everything to do with emotion. Different cameras may ultimately yield similar results, but the impact they have on a photographer’s instincts, methods, motivation and passion can have a profound and real effect on achieving that result.
So add this to the long list of ULTRAsomething articles that fails to state whether a camera is actually worth the expense. Instead, I’ll suggest you can find the answer you seek by simply asking yourself two questions:
Is this camera going to provide me with a technical, tactile or emotional advantage over a camera I already own?
If so, then am I willing to give up X, Y and Z in order to gain that advantage?
I can’t possibly answer Question #1 on your behalf. But the remainder of this article will answer it on mine.
Similarly, your X, Y and Z will likely be unique and very specific to you. Obviously, no one should be willing to give up X, Y and Z if X = “food,” Y = “shelter” and Z = “safety and security.” But what if X = “learning to cook, rather than going out to eat?” What if Y = “dumping cable TV and sticking with a 4 year-old smart phone running last years’ operating system?” What if Z = “mending your grandfather’s old hand-me-down zoot suit, rather than purchasing something more fashionable?”
Offense and Sensibility
As stated above, the first question I asked myself — and the question you’ll ultimately need to ask yourself — is “will this camera provide me with a technical, tactile or emotional advantage over a camera I already own?” For me, ergonomics are actually the most important factor when choosing a camera. In my case, that means a rangefinder. However, since I already own several, the fact the M246 is also a rangefinder does not provide it with any immediately apparent ergonomic advantage.
So, instead, I decided to look for advantages within the camera’s image quality capabilities. At first blush, this might seem a strange avenue for me to explore — after all, the appearance of my published photos certainly makes it seem as if I don’t actually care about image quality — and to an extent, that’s true. But it’s true only when discussing the look of my final prints. In reality, I like to capture as much fidelity as possible, because the more I capture, the greater the number of ways I can screw it all up in post-processing.
As I discussed in Sensors and Sensibility, I have a few quibbles when it comes to using digital cameras for so-called “street” photography. Believe me, this isn’t a “film vs. digital” debate. I like both and I shoot both. In fact, I don’t believe in pitting one format against the other. To me, they are two completely different mediums, with two completely different outcomes. What matters is not “which is better,” but “which is better for my intended purpose?” And for my use on the streets, I prefer to use film because of its exposure latitude, highlight response, and the “forgiving” nature of its less-clinical renderings. So the best thing a new digital camera could do for me is to negate some of that need for film, while providing me with all the inherent advantages that digital offers (workflow, resolution, flexibility).
What I saw from the tests I performed in Sensors and Sensibility is that the M246 has a tremendous amount of usable dynamic range. For my own particular brand of photography, this translates into the following tangible benefits:
It means I can underexpose a scene (protecting the highlights), yet still have enough clean and meaningful shadow detail to pull up my subject in post processing. The end result won’t necessarily look like film, but it means I’ll be just as likely to “get a usable shot” with a digital camera as I currently do with film.
It means I can use faster shutter speeds, which will freeze the motion blur that comes from having both a photographer and a subject that are frequently in motion. Using faster shutter speeds means shooting at higher ISO — even in bright sunlight — but with the camera’s stellar low light (shadow) capability, it’s a worthy trade-off.
It means I can use narrower apertures, which will diminish focus errors caused by scale focusing. Again, narrower apertures mean shooting at higher ISOs than one might normally choose. But once again, the relatively minor increase in shadow noise is more than offset by the benefit of having more photos appear “in focus.”
While I initially only theorized these advantages (based on my controlled tests), I have since employed these techniques in the field. Though it will take a little while for me to adjust my habits to accommodate this wholesale change to balancing ISO, shutter speed and aperture, the theory has definitely been proven.
The M246 will absolutely provide me with more of a technical, tactile and emotional advantage than any camera I already own — because, until now, I’ve never used a digital camera that I’ve found so thoroughly satisfying for “street” work.
Dissents and Sensibility
There is a flip side to the question of whether a camera provides enough of an advantage to warrant consideration: “Does it create any disadvantages that will negate those hard-earned advantages?”
For some photographers, a black & white sensor might be a disadvantage (particularly if, like me, they’re considering upgrading from a color camera, like the M9). In my case, a monochromatic sensor actually provides a wealth of new advantages — many of which I discussed several years ago in the Fetishist’s Guide to the Monochrom series. 100% of my photography is black & white. This means that the sole advantage of using a color sensor rests in its ability to change relative tonalities after a photo is taken. But for me, this single advantage is more than offset by the Monochrom’s inherent image quality advantages, the workflow improvements for BW photography, and my own psychological need to actually shoot (and not just display) in black & white.
Many potential M246 customers are currently engaged in the whole CCD vs. CMOS sensor debate. M8’s, M9’s and the original Monochrom cameras all used CCD sensors. M240 series cameras (including the new Monochrom M246) use CMOS. There’s no doubt that they provide a different rendering, though I find the differences to be more apparent in color images. Like many, I have a slight preference for the appearance of a color file from a CCD that’s been exposed at base ISO. But I’m not shooting color. And I’m not shooting at base ISO. So any minuscule (and totally subjective) advantage of a CCD is ultimately lost on me, where the new M246’s high ISO capabilities (and thus, its shadow detail and dynamic range) tilt the balance totally in favour of its new CMOS sensor.
Another image quality debate that’s currently raging on the internet concerns the fact M246 files are 12-bit, and not 14-bit. I’ll admit, before I started testing the camera, this “issue” worried me a little. Although Leica explained its necessity, and mentioned they could see no real-world disadvantages to the 12-bit files, I had my doubts. So, during the test phase, I set out with every intention to prove Leica wrong. Instead, I proved that I was wrong. I could find no issues with 12-bit files. I could not “break” the images in post-production, like I thought I could. There was not one single shred of evidence in my testing that would make me think that the 12-bit nature of the M246 files constituted a “downgrade.” Perhaps a 14-bit version of this camera (were it possible) would have even greater fidelity — but the 12-bit version that currently exists definitely bests the performance of the previous 14-bit cameras.
Having thus debunked (or dismissed) the currently trending internet-based worries, I do have one actual issue to report. It concerns the way a geometrically alterered image can bring out noise patterns in the shadows. It’s a problem I first reported back in Part 3 of the Fetishist’s Guide to the Monochrom. At the time, I didn’t fret over it too much — it affected only a small percentage of my photos and, when it did, I could spend some extra time and energy minimizing the effect in post-production. Unfortunately, this issue is still present in the new M246.
In brief, this problem is as follows: Monochrom noise is extremely fine. It’s more like a light dusting of static than any sort of de-mosaicing noise or “film grain.” Because of this, even at high ISO values, the shadows appear relatively noiseless. However, if you boost those shadows by a couple of stops, you’ll start to see what looks like a loosely textured “weave” — much like you’d see if you looked closely at a fine wool suit fabric. If you then alter that image geometrically, you’ll begin to see patterns emerge. Even a simple rotation (such as you might perform to level a horizon) will cause a sort of tilted, grid-like pattern to appear in the amplified shadow regions. If you perform any non-linear geometric distortions (such as lens correction or keystone correction), then the shadow noise will display a subtle moire-like effect with undulating lines and waves appearing within the noise. Remember when you learned about magnetism in grade school? You’d sprinkle some iron dust on a paper and the dusting looked totally random. But when you brought a magnet near it, those iron particles would begin to form patterns. That’s exactly what can happen to the amplified shadow noise in a high ISO Monochrom file.
The best way to minimize any pattern is, of course, to avoid doing what causes it to appear: Don’t shoot at high ISO; then don’t add add several stops of exposure to that file’s shadows; then don’t manipulate the heck out of that image’s geometry.” Right — you might as well tell me to give up photography. So the next best way to minimize the patterns is to actually add some irregularity to the shadow noise. If I have a file that I know will be tortured in post-processing, I’ll add some noise to the shadow regions, then export an upsized version of that file from Lightroom. This works much the same way that dithering works in digital audio. Because digital audio is so clean, any time you re-sample it, you end up with audible artifacts that are imprinted on the sound by the processing algorithms. In order to render these artifacts inaudible, noise is added to the file before it’s resampled.
I have no idea if this is what’s happening with Monochrom files, but on the surface it seems that the noise is so fine that it actually enables us to see exactly what sort of pattern-based processing algorithms are being used by our image processing software — algorithms that are supposed to be invisible to the naked eye become visible because there’s not enough noise to mask them. I’ve tested Monochrom files with both Capture One and Lightroom/Camera Raw, and the results are essentially the same.
If my theory is correct, and if the Monochrom continues to grow in popularity, some enterprising developer might be well served by adding an automatic dithering option to their RAW converter — precisely for the purpose of dealing with low-noise, fine-grained files like those produced by the Monochrom. Hopefully, I’ll find some time this month to perform further tests, and seek out the guidance and knowledge of both Leica and various RAW converter developers. If I find out more, I’ll post a follow-up article.
Vents and Sensibility
Though my testing of the new Monochrom M246 uncovered a cornucopia of tangible imaging advantages, I do have a few issues regarding the camera’s ergonomics. Granted, the M246 is still a rangefinder, and a rangefinder is the #1 requirement for my particular style of shooting. But there are a few worrisome trends developing in today’s digital rangefinders — some of which dampen my enthusiasm somewhat.
I must first begin with a confession: Two years ago, when I first took Leica’s new M (Type 240) for a “test drive,” I had a rather negative response. To say I didn’t like the new body would be an understatement. The 100g of excess weight really annoyed me. The relocated menu button sat directly beneath where my thumb wanted to rest, forcing it over onto the LCD, where its extra thickness cause my wrist to ache. I was completely discombobulated by the fact that, when I brought the camera to my eye, I couldn’t see any frame lines until the camera “woke up,” which felt like an eternity. I suffered separation anxiety over Leica’s decision to remove the frame line select lever, and was even inexplicably annoyed there was no longer a number following the letter “M.” After a single evening spent shooting the M (240), I felt a renewed sense of appreciation for my slimmer (in hand), lighter and “proper” M9.
But this only represents half a confession. Because back in 2006, when Leica released the M8, I had a similarly negative response. Though roughly the same weight as a film M, the M8’s extra thickness made the camera feel much heavier and seem far clunkier. Gripping it made my wrist ache. It seemed to take a similar measure of eternity to write a file to the SD card, and I was totally distressed by the thunderous noise that would spring forth from its shutter.
It was 2009 before I finally purchased an M8, deciding that my dislike of digital SLRs was greater than any ergonomic issues I might have had with the M8. Over time, I grew rather accustom to the M8’s extra thickness and, though it still never felt as good in-hand as a film M, I was able to build up enough wrist strength that it no longer hurt to carry it all day. I never did adapt to the shutter sound, which is one of the reasons why I upgraded to the M9 immediately upon its announcement.
So it’s rather ironic that I immediately dismissed the M240 for failing to match the ergonomics of the M8/M9 when, in fact, I once dismissed that earlier line for its own collection of ergonomic issues. Progress always exacts its price. Fortunately, when the Monochrom M (Type 246) arrived, I was mentally prepared from both my previous M240 experience and from my M8 experience, which taught me that first impressions weren’t always lasting impressions.
I’ve been in possession of a prototype M246 for a month now, and I’ve had the opportunity to take it for several dozen walks. In general, I’m still somewhat annoyed by both the weight and ergonomic concerns. When I bought the M8, it was the lightest, most compact high-fidelity digital camera I owned. I never had to choose between my “good” camera and my “portable” camera — they were one and the same. But a lot has changed since then. Today, the 240-series M’s are the heaviest, least compact digital cameras in my (temporary) possession. Now, when I walk out the door, I must once again choose between fidelity (Leica) or portability (any of my other digital cameras).
Fortunately, for the past month, the choice wasn’t mine to make. I had to take the M246 because I had to test it. And the more I tested it, the more I fell in love with it. In the end, I felt about the M246 the way I ultimately felt about the M8 — that my appreciation for what the camera could do (and how it did it) was greater than my dislike for its heavier, more awkward body.
Thankfully, Leica returned the exiled frameline select lever to the M246. The missing number after the letter “M” (which, admittedly was about as ridiculous an annoyance as has ever been stated) was also rectified, because the M246 has no logo or model demarkations whatsoever. I’m still not totally thrilled with the electronic framelines, but at least they seem to be set for 2m (making framing a bit more WYSYWIG than my M9). Hopefully, now that Leica has put the framelines under battery control, they’ll go the extra step in a future model M and make them expand and contract dynamically with distance. Then, at least, there will be a tangible benefit to waiting for the framelines to “wake up.”
My other problem with the 240-type body was (and continues to be) the placement of the Menu button, which is located directly beneath the spot at which my thumb usually grips a camera. This is an issue I have with nearly every modern digital camera, and not just Leica. Customer demand for larger LCDs has reduced the space available for control buttons. So whenever I carry a camera in hand (which is always), those buttons are in the way — forcing my thumb onto the LCD, where the extra thickness makes the camera feel awkward. I’ve taken to using my old first-generation Match Technical Thumbs Up, which I purchased for my M8 back in the day. Although it partially obscures this camera’s thumb dial, it provides an alternate way of carrying the camera — at least until my wrist gets more buff.
One caveat, however, is that when the Thumbs Up is attached, then Leica’s external electronic viewfinder can’t be used. Which segues nicely into the next topic…
Kaizen and Sensibility
Like most every aspect of modern camera design, I have a love/hate relationship with live view cameras. Technically, I’m fine with the whole idea of live view — particularly when it’s offered as an addition to a more traditional ‘optical’ view, which I greatly prefer to use. Any frustrations I do have with live view cameras tend to expand or contract based on their implementation.
In order for live view to be useful for me, it needs to offer two things: focus peaking and an electronic viewfinder. Fortunately, both are present on the M246, but each has caveats. Specifically, the focus peaking works reasonably well, but I find it slightly more difficult to see than on some other camera models. The other necessity — the electronic viewfinder — is available only through purchase of an external contraption. External viewfinders, by nature, are large, clumsy and inelegant. This one also happens to be of only mediocre optical quality.
In spite of my tempered enthusiasm for this camera’s live view implementation, I’m still thrilled to have it. That’s because the M246 is, at heart, a classical rangefinder with a fully optical viewfinder and focus mechanism. Every modern camera manufacture makes a live view camera, but which of them can sell you an honest-to-goodness rangefinder? Just one — Leica. Yet, as much as I need and rely on rangefinders, there are times when it’s not the optimal way to focus. Fast lenses shot wide open? They benefit from live view. Those 90mm and 135mm Leica lenses that go unloved and unmounted for months on end? They have renewed purpose thanks to live view’s ability to easily focus them. Low ambient light? Another prime reason for using live view. The viewing, framing and focusing options on the 240-series are an absolute delight — combining all the benefits of rangefinder cameras with the shot-saving benefits of a focus-peaking live view when you need it. So the presence of live view on a Leica M series camera — even an implementation as middling as this — is the cherry atop the icing on the gravy on the cake.
Suspense and Sensibility
Let’s revisit my first pre-purchase question, “Will the Leica M Monochrom (Type 246) provide me with a technical, tactile or emotional advantage over a camera I already own?”
The answer is absolutely, unequivocally and enthusiastically “yes.” The camera’s technical advantages are leagues above any other camera I own. The emotional benefits of shooting a digital monochromatic camera proved themselves to me back when I first tested the original M9-based Monochrom, and they continue with this camera. The tactile victory is a bit less one-sided: I find the heavier body and electronic framelines somewhat less desirable than what my M9 offers. But these quibbles are more than offset by the benefits of live view, the quieter shutter, the beefier battery and the overall reliability of the M246.
So with Question #1 definitively answered, I have now moved on to question #2: “Am I willing to give up X, Y and Z in order to gain that advantage?”
I am presently in the process of defining exactly what X, Y and Z might mean to me… In the meantime, I’ve still got Leica’s prototype M246 in my possession, and I’m in no hurry to remind them of that fact.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: At the end of most articles, I provide technical details about each of its photos: what camera, which lens, what film and developer. In this case, all the photos are taken with a prototype Leica M Monochrom (Type 246), and thus do not require any film or development data. I could, of course, provide lens information, but frankly I’m sick of writing about gear. I will tell you that all these photos were taken with either a Leica 28mm f/2 Summicron, a Leica 50mm f/2 Summicron APO, my old 1946 thread mount Leica 35mm f/3.5 Elmar or the Voigtlander 21mm f/4 Color Skopar.
Does it matter which lens was used for which photo? I hope not. Because my only intent for the past few weeks was (as I stated at the end of Sensors and Sensibility) “to determine whether or not the M246 is capable of stooping to my level.” Sure, Leica’s new Monochrom is designed for the production of stunning images. But I don’t actually take stunning images and, honestly, I don’t even really like stunning images. So if the camera can only produce such images, it’s of little value to me. Instead, I needed to learn whether or not the M246 could take photos that were unmistakably mine. You know — lo-fidelity, high-cheekiness, dubiously useful snapshots of day-to-day life. Mission Accomplished… and in spades.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
Each morning, a sound with the ironic name of “silk” punctuates the dawn and snatches me cruelly from a blissful slumber. I fumble for the iPad, shut off its alarm and immediately launch my email app. Nothing jolts me back into a state of consciousness quite like staring into the cold, hard reality of an inbox full of fresh new problems — each vying for my immediate attention.
A couple months ago, one of these wake-up emails bounced across whatever sequence of satellites connects Wetzlar Germany with Vancouver Canada. It was, of course, from Leica. They don’t email me often, but when they do, I know it’s because they want something.
Normally, receiving email from anyone who wants something qualifies as “undesirable.” But when Leica wants something, it usually falls into one of two categories: Either 1) they want me to speak at a Leica Akademie, or 2) they want me to test some new piece of gear. Both scenarios require an extensive amount of work, yet both are actually quite enjoyable.
This day’s email fell squarely into Category #2. “Do you have time to test a prototype of the new Monochrom?” it asked.
Truth is, I didn’t. I’d gotten embroiled in way too many projects and was already burning the candle at both ends.
“Absolutely, I have time,” I lied. “Send it to me.” Hey, I could always buy more candles to burn, but how many opportunities do I get to test a brand new Monochrom prototype?
Leica’s request was that I compare and contrast the image quality between three cameras: the original M9-based Monochrom (MM9); the latest Type 240 color M (M240); and this new M Monochrom, designated as Type 246 (M246).
Anyone who’s aware of my current photographic leanings will probably think I’m a curious choice for such a task. After all, I’m not exactly Mr. High Fidelity when it comes to photography. My photos are often grainy and/or noisy, haphazardly focused, dubiously exposed and unorthodoxly framed. But here’s the thing — the look of my photos is actually a conscious and creative choice, and not (as internet forums might suggest) one born of incompetence. As an engineer, I’m actually quite adroit at testing and analyzing products both clinically and objectively. But as a photographer, I’m free to ignore whatever the logical half of my brain suggests. I’m also free to appropriate left-brain logic and apply it creatively with the right-brain. And it’s this latter function that will dictate the direction of this article — I will first analyze the clinical performance of the M246, then use that analysis to suggest how I might be able to use it creatively.
Shades of Grey (Literal Version)
Any time I work with a new monochromatic imaging surface (film or digital), I like to see how it maps colors to tonality. Such knowledge was particularly important for this series of tests, since I would be pixel-peeping and comparing the outputs from both color and monochromatic cameras. In order to do this, I needed to make sure that any M240 color conversions would closely match the tonality of the M246 and MM9. I did this same thing back in 2012, when I wrote A Fetishist’s Guide to the Monochrom. At that time, I had to create a custom Lightroom profile to make the M9’s BW conversion match the output of the original Monochrom. Would I need to do the same here?
I shot the same X-Rite Color Checker chart under the same lighting conditions (and using the same lens) with the three cameras I’d be comparing: The MM9 and the M246 had very similar tonality. For kicks, I decided to see how the M240 file would look if I simply applied Lightoom’s default BW conversion, as shown below. Note that I was not evenly remotely concerned with focus, resolution or noise in this test, so the “softer” M246 image is indicative of nothing other than my carefree technique.
Surprisingly (and unlike the old M9), Lightroom’s default conversion of an M240 color file matches the tonality of the M246 quite closely. Sure, there are minor differences, but no wholesale zone shifts. Certainly, there’s nothing that should impact my ability to compare images from a BW-converted M240 file with those from either an M246 or an MM9. So, for the remainder of this article, all M240 files have been converted to black & white using Lightroom’s default BW conversion.
The Setup
In order to carefully compare images from three different cameras, I knew that my usual modus operandi of hand-holding and scale-focussing would not suffice. In order to perform these tests, I had to remove as much human variable from the process as possible — particularly considering that the human was me. So every comparison involved the following method:
1) Each camera photographed the same scene, under the same lighting conditions, using the same exposure.
2) Each camera photographed that scene using the same lens, which I rotated between all three cameras. In order to deliver maximum fidelity to each sensor, I used Leica’s stellar APO-SUMMICRON-M 50mm f/2 ASPH lens.
3) To reduce the possibility of external vibration, each camera was mounted to the same Gitzo tripod (a relic from a past career in landscape photography, if you can believe it).
Needless to say, such rigidity means this article’s accompanying photos look nothing like the quirky, grungy, exposure-guesstimated product that usually populates the ULTRAsomething site. Because of this, I’ve decided to divide my Monochrom test article into two parts. This first part will compare camera images from a purely clinical standpoint. By analyzing these differences, I’ll be able to predict how best to employ the new Monochrom M246 in the field. A follow up article will then take a look at my field-analysis of the M246, and whether or not my theoretical findings proved valid.
Shades of Grey (Figurative Version)
For my first round of tests, I chose to compare images at each camera’s base ISO. This means ISO 320 on both the MM9 and M246, and ISO 200 on the M240. Though this theoretically gives the M240 a 2/3 stop imaging advantage, it represents the “best case” scenario for any photographer trying to extract maximum image quality from each camera.
As part of the test process, I always took a second shot with the M240 — this time at ISO 320, which put the camera on equal ISO footing with the two dedicated monochromatic cameras.
I spent two days lugging three cameras and a tripod all over Vancouver, shooting hundreds of “test” frames illustrating various scenes. Upon analyzing all these shots, I came to the conclusion that they essentially all illustrate an identical set of similarities and differences. For this reason, I’ll use just one representative scene, and take various 100% crops from within that scene to demonstrate my discoveries.
Below is the scene as photographed by all three cameras (with the M246 version being the one displayed here).
What follows is a series of comparisons between cameras, using different crops from the above scene.
Comparison 1: Try as I might, after examining hundreds of frames — all shot with each camera at its base ISO, I could see very little resolution difference between them. Sure, the MM9 has only 76% as many pixels as the other two cameras, but it seemed no less adept at resolving detail. Comparisons between the M246 and M240 yielded results that I would consider “inconclusive.” Sometimes, the M246 seemed to resolve slightly more detail, and sometimes the M240 did. In reality, most differences boil down to the influence of “outside variables,” such as atmospheric conditions, wind, or even the subtle contrast differences inherent in the tonal variations between the way each camera mapped color to luminosity.
Comparison 2: This next comparison attempts to remove another pair of variables from the process. Specifically, the M240’s ISO has been increased to 320 in order to match that of the two Monochrom’s. Also, the MM9 file has been upsized by 15% using Photoshop’s Bicubic Smoothing algorithm, so as to match the overall pixel count of the two newer cameras.
Upsizing the MM9 files make them appear a tiny bit “softer” than either the M240 or M246 files. This is to be expected. The 2/3 stop increase in the M240’s ISO has also had a subtle effect on resolution. It’s not always immediately apparent, and is something that will very likely never be seen in a print (much less on a massively downsized web image). As such, it’s only likely to concern pixel-peepers and nerds who write camera reviews (cough).
Comparison 3: This is simply another crop, taken from a section near the center of the frame. Here, the softness of the up-sampled MM9 image is a bit more apparent, while the resolution differences between the M246 (at ISO 320) and the M240 (at ISO 200) continue to appear essentially non-existent.
Comparison 4: Same crop as above. Only now, the M240 frame has been shot at ISO 320, matching the ISO of the other two cameras. In this case (and at 100%), the slightly degraded resolution of the M240 file is apparent.
It’s important to keep in mind that the images I’m showing have had no sharpening and no noise reduction. In other words, they may be somewhat representative of how the sensor performs, but they’re not that representative of how people actually work. The following comparison shows how the resolution differences appear to be minimized significantly when a tiny bit of sharpening is applied using the Pixel Genius PK Sharpener plugin. Note that default, automatic values were used, and that the differences could be narrowed ever more by optimizing the sharpening in each file.
Comparison 5: The next comparison again uses the same image, and again selects a different crop region. The goal for this comparison was not to see which camera had the highest resolution, but to see which camera had the nicest gradation between shades of grey. On first glance, the MM9 appears to give the smoothest gradations at base ISO. However, it’s important to remember that the file’s overall micro-contrast has been softened by the upsizing process, which has the effect of greatly minimizing the visible noise. In reality, files from the MM9 (that have not been upsized) have a nearly identical noise floor as the M240 and M246 cameras.
The M246 at ISO 320 and the M240 at ISO 200 appear nearly identical. Noise levels are incredibly low in both cameras, though I can perceive a tiny bit more noise in the M240. Don’t worry if you can’t — I’ve had the benefit of looking at hundreds of images and doing blind comparison tests. I would guess that, at base ISO (200 on the M240, 320 on the M246), I’ve been able to correctly identify which file came from which camera 75% of the time — and the way I can do this is to look at the noise levels. It can be subtle, but it is perceptible under certain conditions.
Comparison 6: This is the same crop as displayed previously, only the M240 has now been shot at ISO 320 to match the two Monochrom cameras. Here, we can definitely see more noise in the M240 image. Whether or not this matters to you is entirely your decision. Frankly, to me, it doesn’t matter. Nor am I sure I’d be able to see it in an actual print. Some might even prefer the noisier file because it gives the illusion of increased detail. For example, one could easily fool themselves (and others) into believing that the noise seen on the distant mountain is actually a more detailed representation of its “trees”.
Descent Into Darkness
Once I’d seen how a mere 2/3 stop increase in ISO speed began to make M240 and M246 files start to diverge in appearance, the next step was obvious: test the cameras at steadily increasing ISO speeds. So, one evening, I set up a tripod in a safe location and watched night descend upon Vancouver. As the sun set, turning first to dusk and then to night, I photographed the scene each time the required ISO speed increased: First to ISO 800; then 1600; 3200; and finally 6400.
Here is how the scene looked at the beginning of the evening:
And here’s how the scene looked as shown in the final ISO 6400 test:
(Note: Both overview images courtesy of the M246).
As before, a single LEICA APO-SUMMICRON-M 50mm f/2 ASPH lens was shared between all three cameras — Each set of 3 photos also used the identical aperture, shutter and ISO speeds.
The first crop, shown below, is from the upper right section of the frame. Each column corresponds to a particular camera: MM9 on the left; the new M246 in the middle; and the M240 file on the right. Each row correlates with an ISO: 800 on top; then 1600 and 3200 in the middle; and ISO 6400 on the bottom. Note that, for this particular comparison, I kept the MM9 file at its native resolution, and did not up-sample it to match the M246 or M240.
At ISO 800, noise is present though not overly problematic — though it does display a mild impact on the overall resolution, particularly in the shadow regions. This is most apparent in the M240 file, and slightly apparent in the MM9. As the ISO speed rises, so do the differences between cameras.
The second crop, shown below, is from a section located nearly in the center of the frame. Again, the MM9 is on the left, the M246 is in the middle, and the M240 is on the right. Also as before, ISO values range from 800 on the top row to ISO 6400 on the bottom.
Crop 2 depicts an area with more micro detail but less subtle gradation than Crop 1. The results, however, are identical. The new Monochrom M (Type 246) is nothing short of astounding at high ISO.
Again, it’s important to point out that the images displayed in the previous two examples have had no noise reduction or sharpening applied. The M240 files benefit substantially from the application of color noise reduction, and the result of that noise reduction (coupled with some optimized sharpening) is indicated in the file below. With proper processing, the fidelity of the M240 file can be brought mostly in-line with the M9-based Monochrom — though the quality and evenness of the MM9 noise remains (to my eye) superior. Neither file comes close to matching the fidelity of the M246.
Generalities
Basically, what these files (and hundreds more like them) have shown me is this:
With each camera at its base ISO (meaning ISO 320 for the M246 and MM9, and ISO 200 for the M240), there is very little difference in image quality between these three cameras. Resolution, noise and contrast are extremely similar, and all three cameras deliver outstanding image quality. And yet, when I make a blind comparison between two images — one shot with the M240 and the other with the M246 — there is enough of a difference that I can still select a favourite image. And 75% of the time, my favorite file comes from the M246. Obviously, subtle differences in focusing accuracy and other variables will affect my preference, but 75% is not insignificant.
Since files from the original Monochrom are 24% smaller, it might not necessarily be the best choice if you need to make extremely large prints. Though as previously shown, at low ISO’s, the original Monochrom certainly holds its own against the two newer cameras.
That said, there’s a certain indefinable “something” that I like about the MM9 files — particularly when shot near base ISO. I’ve not yet figured out what this is, but it appears the MM9 files have slightly more out-of-camera contrast than the M240 or M246 files, which seems to give them a tiny bit more initial “punch.” Of course, post-processing will easily level any playing field, so I suspect my quasi-preference for the look of MM9 files at low ISO is something that would fail to find its way into a final print.
With the M240 set to the same ISO (320) as the M246, it’s quite easy to tell the images apart. The M240 is noticeably (though not offensively) noisier and, as such, has slightly less detail. In general, this difference is only visible when a file is viewed at 100%, and without any noise reduction or sharpening applied.
Files from the M240, when converted to B&W, get rather noisy and rather blotchy at higher ISO values. Files from the MM9 also get noisier, but the MM9 noise is like a fine dusting of static, rather than clumps of de-mosaicing blotches. Noise from the M246 is extremely fine-grained and totally unintrusive. ISO 6400 from the M246 remains wonderfully clear and imminently usable (at least for my photography).
So which camera is “better?”
You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you? “Better” is a subjective term. What’s better for one photographer might not be better for another. I will, however, tell you what these results mean to me, and how I plan to exploit them in the coming weeks.
A Master Plan
I suspect that the M246’s low-light capabilities are going to fundamentally alter the way I use a digital camera. The reason for this is likely not what you expect — I don’t intend to alter my balance between daytime and nighttime photos, nor do I expect to start taking more photos in dimly lit interiors. In fact, I’ll still use this camera for the purpose of taking photographs outdoors and in broad daylight. So why am I saying its low light capabilities will alter the way I use a digital camera? Bear with me…
When I’m out shooting candid, “found” photos in public places, I have absolutely no control of my environment. My subjects are in motion. I’m in motion. A photo opportunity might appear 1 meter to my left, quickly disperse, and a new opportunity might suddenly present itself 5 meters to my right. I have precious little time to worry about composition, and almost no time to worry about background. Lighting conditions? They are what they are, and they change frequently between deep shadow and bright sunlight.
Because of these constraints and conditions (and because of my own personal preferences), the last few years have seen me gravitate back to film for shooting on the streets. Film (particularly black & white film) is forgiving. I can miss focus and miss exposure, and the picture still succeeds. The same isn’t always the case with a digital sensor — where errors from my hasty, reactionary shooting technique get magnified by digital’s clinical precision.
One of film’s most useful attributes is, for me, the way it gently rolls off the highlights in an overexposed area. Consider the following scenario: I’m shooting on a shady section of the street, and my subject is in that shade with me. Behind my subject, and all around it, there is brightness — sky; reflective buildings; the sunny side of the street. If I were to take this photo using a camera’s built-in light meter, my subject would appear in silhouette — mercilessly darkened, so that the rest of the scene didn’t overexpose. But my subject is the subject, and I want it to be properly exposed, and not necessarily the background. Because of the way BW film rolls off the highlights, I’m free to overexpose a scene (thus properly exposing my backlit subject). Enough highlight detail remains to prevent the image from clipping to pure white. But with digital, this hasn’t necessarily been possible. Digital cameras do not gently roll off the highlights. They clip them — and all the more so on a monochromatic camera. If I use a digital camera and want a backlit subject exposed properly, the resulting photograph will possess a plethora of blown highlights. If I want to protect against blowing the highlights, then digital cameras require I do the opposite of what I do with film: Instead of exposing for my backlit subject and overexposing the background (as I would do with film), digital cameras require that I expose for the background and underexpose my subject, which I then must try to brighten in post-processing.
You see where this is going now, don’t you? Cameras with poor low light performance have noisy shadows and very little shadow detail. If my subject actually resides in those shadows (as is often the case “on the streets,”) then I need to brighten that subject in post-processing. But bringing up the shadows brings up any noise that resided within those shadows. Also, shadow noise tends to seriously obfuscate actual image details. The result? With most digital cameras, I have to choose between one of two evils: huge expanses of blown highlights, or a gritty, blurry, low-res subject. Take a look at my photo oevre for the last few years, and you’ll see which evil I’ve partnered with.
But the M246 is likely going to change all of this. Its stellar low light performance means I’ll be able to play digital contrarian, and “expose to the left.” This will keep my highlights in check. And because of the M246’s low-light capabilities, I know there will be enough clean and meaningful shadow detail that I’ll be able to pull up the brightness of my subjects in post.
But there’s more: Even in the absence of strong backlighting and high contrast, I’ll still be able to take advantage of the M246’s low light performance in ways that might not necessarily be intuitive. Remember when I mentioned how both I and my subjects are usually in motion? Better low light capabilities mean I’ll be able to shoot at higher ISO’s, thus using a shutter speed that will be fast enough to counter any motion blur. And remember when I said subjects can instantly appear at unexpected distances? This is precisely why I often scale focus a camera — quickly guessing my subject’s distance and rotating the lens to match. Alas, my guesses are not always accurate. So to improve the likelihood that my subject will actually fall within the lens’ depth-of-field, it would help if I could use a smaller aperture. Smaller apertures generally mean shooting at higher ISO speeds — not a problem with the M246.
Conclusion
As this is only stage 1 of my Monochrom M246 investigation, it’s still too early to draw any definitive conclusions. But I’ve seen enough to know that I want to take the M246 out onto the streets, implement my master plan, and see if it really does become the “game changing” camera I expect it to be for my brand of candid, observational photography.
So, until I check back in with that report, here’s a fun little photo to ponder: I was working in my studio late one night, and had just quickly patched up a sound designed to drone away in the background while I got some work done. The only external light source in the room came from a pair of IKEA book lights — each with only a single LED. They provided enough light for me to see the synth’s jacks, knobs and wires; but not enough light that I could actually read much of the text imprinted on its panels.
“I wonder what those cameras would do with this scene?” I thought. Ten minutes later I had my answer.
As with the “Cityscape : Crop 3” image shown earlier, this one shows a direct comparison between the three cameras with all noise reduction and sharpening disabled. The M240 column shown at the far right represents the “best” I could make that file look — I fine tuned the color noise reduction and the sharpening to get what I believe was the best result. This shows how much image data can still be extracted from such a noisy M240 file, but it also shows how far removed the quality is from an unaltered, unprocessed M246 file. By the way, I consider it a minor miracle I was able to include the MM9 image at all — it was so dark, I couldn’t see enough contrast in the viewfinder to focus accurately. It took a few tries to get the focus right. The M240 and M246, on the other hand, offer Live View, which made it extremely fast and easy to focus on the synth. Score one for modern technology!
So that’s it for now. The next article in this series, Sentences and Sensibility, is far less pedantic and contains photos that seek to determine whether or not the M246 is capable of stooping to my level…
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: Usually this section is nearly as verbose as the article, itself. But in this particular case, most everything that needs to be said about the accompanying photos was said in the body of the article. The lone exception is, perhaps, the overview photo of the modular synth. It’s not often that photos make sounds, but this one does. For anyone curious what that tangle of wires and knobs sounds like, the following sound is what spews forth when I push the RUN button on the Intellijel Metropolis sequencer (located in the lower left corner of the synth):
CAVEAT: The Type 246 Monochrom M camera used in this analysis is a protype build, and is running pre-release software. Consequently, it’s possible some differences might ultimately exist between the camera used here, and the one that gets put into production. One important aspect of this, which was discovered and reported by my colleagues during their testing, is an incompatibility between the M246’s DNG files and Apple’s Photos and Aperture apps when running Yosemite 10.10.3. Specifically, these two Apple-branded apps will crash when trying to open an M246 DNG. Leica and Apple are both fully aware of the issue, and Apple has identified the bug in its core RAW software — so a solution is forthcoming.
FURTHER READING: I’m not the only photographer who’s been busy testing an M246 prototype. Jonathan Slack has crafted a thorough and well-rounded article that discusses not only image quality, but also deftly covers the camera’s ergonomic and functional advantages (something I won’t be getting to until the next article). And he does this while simultaneously managing to include actual photos (rather than the silly “test” photos I’ve opted to employ).
And for those who think my approach to discussing equipment is a bit too frivolous and off-the-cuff, might I suggest you visit Sean Reid’s excellent Reid Reviews site? Sean digs deeply into the nitty and burrows in the gritty. And frankly, I’m thrilled that he does so — because knowing that his reviews are so detail-oriented means mine don’t always have to be — I can just point my fact-hungry readers to his site. Sure, it’s a pay site. But for the price of a few licoricemochamellocinnos, you’ll gain access to some of the most complete, detailed and objective camera and lens reviews available. Personally, I’ve been a subscriber since 1974… or maybe it just seems like it.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
I am what I am. Unless I’m my doppelgänger — in which case I am what I’m not. Mercifully, my doppelgänger and I rarely travel in the same circles. It’s not that we purposely avoid one another, it’s just the natural result of our divergent interests.
Now and then, fate conspires to throw us together. These instances are not altogether unlike a horror movie — each of us wishing (and perhaps secretly plotting) for the other’s immediate demise. Alas, we have but one body to share between our oft-competing interests — to harm the other would only harm one’s self. So we endure.
It’s been several years since my doppelgänger and I last spent significant time together. But a recent trip to Iceland brought us together again — he with his yangs, and me with my yins.
“Hey,” he said, upon learning of our trip, “we’re going to Iceland — a beautiful country filled with beautiful landscapes that will yield a wealth of beautiful photos that many will admire.”
My inclination was somewhat different. “Hey, we’re going to Iceland — a beautiful country filled with beautiful landscapes that I’m free to enjoy while I go about my business of photographing something else entirely.”
Negotiation
The other Egor has a penchant for high-fidelity photographic banality, while I prefer a more impressionist approach. Our differences made it absolutely essential for the two of us to collaborate on a camera strategy. It would be a very long trip if we didn’t.
So a month before the trip, we got together over coffee and agreed on a plan — duelling Leica M’s. He would take the Leica M9. I would take the Leica M6 TTL. Digital precision for him. Film goodness for me. And we could share lenses. 2 cameras. One set of lenses. Easy.
But in the days leading up to the journey, Iceland’s weather forecast grew increasingly more ominous. 100 km/hr winds; freezing temperatures; driving snow and sleet — all were expected during our time in Reykjavik.
Because the cameras were destined to get drenched, I decided to switch from the M6TTL (which contains a battery and electronic circuitry) to the M2 (which is purely mechanical). Doppelgor had no such Leica-centric alternative. The M9 definitely wouldn’t survive a deluge, and we didn’t own one of the newer, somewhat more weather-resistant Leicas.
So my “buddy” threw a wrench into our plans, and decided to travel with our only weather-sealed body — the Olympus OM-D E-M1. Although it’s perfectly possible to use an adapter to mount Leica M lenses on the OM-D, Doppelgor knew these lenses didn’t perform optimally with Micro Four-Thirds cameras — and since his dictate was to take the sort of sharp, technically precise photos that other people expected him to take, he dismissed the idea of sharing lenses with me.
Since Mr. Selfish was now hogging all the bag space with his Micro Four-Thirds lenses, there was no longer any room for my Leica glass. In a petulant burst of rebellion, I decided to take only my little Olympus Pen EE–2 — a fixed-lens, half-frame film camera that would slip into a jacket pocket, and thus not occupy any of the space now being appropriated by that digital oaf.
The doppelgänger and I were, once again, no longer on speaking terms. But as the trip grew nearer, the weather forecast grew even more dire. So dire, in fact, that OM-D boy decided it would be too wet to risk carrying any lenses that weren’t, themselves, weather-sealed. But the only appropriate weather-sealed lens we own is the Olympus 12–40 f2.8 PRO — a zoom lens. If there’s one thing the two of us agree on, it’s that we absolutely despise zoom lenses.
Given our mutual dislike for zooms, it’s curious that either of us actually owns this lens. In reality, we bought it under the same dictate that compels most people to buy insurance — it’s something you own just in case you need it, but you hope you never actually have to use it.
So with a single zoom going in the bag and all the prime lenses staying home, there was suddenly a lot of space for extra gear. In a moment of rare cooperation (motivated, I’m sure, by our mutual disgust at having to travel with a zoom lens) we decided to share the remaining space. In a nod toward Doppelgor’s proclivities, I added the Hasselblad Xpan and its 45mm lens. In a nod toward mine, he added the pocketable little Ricoh GR.
We were ready.
“Which shoulder bag should we take?” I asked.
And then, suddenly, we weren’t ready anymore…
“Shoulder bag?” replied my other self. “We’re going to be hiking around Iceland in some rather inclement weather. A shoulder bag is going to be completely impractical. It’ll have to be a backpack.”
Frankly, I find backpacks to be a deterrent to photography. Shoulder bags give me quick access to anything I might need — it’s all right there, by my side, and in easy reach. Backpacks? No way. Carrying gear in a backpack is the same as not carrying gear at all. What use is the gear if you can’t get to it when you need it?
Still, Doppelgor had a valid point, and I was forced to grudgingly admit that a shoulder bag probably wasn’t going to cut it on this particular trip. Unfortunately, I had quietly disposed of all our backpacks 7 years ago, after finally convincing Doppelgor to ditch his SLRs.
Backpack-less, I called my local Lowepro rep, presented him with my seemingly impossible conflation of bag parameters and dictates, and asked for his recommendation. The next day, he graciously met me at a local coffee shop carrying two options for my consideration.
After a quick game of eenie-meenie-miney-moe, I chose the Photo Hatchback 16L AW. It was lightweight, rain-proof and compact. And yet, as if through some sort of sorcery, the bag could still stow all that gear my doppelgänger and I decided to carry — an Olympus OM-D E-M1 with its big, chunky 12–40 f2.8 Pro zoom; a Hasselblad Xpan with its 45mm f3.5 lens; a Ricoh GR, complete with its 21mm conversion lens; an Olympus Pen EE–2; a big sack of film; an iPhone; an iPad; chargers; snacks; little bits of photo-centric flotsam and jetsam; and the all-important 1-quart Ziplock bag, filled with airline-sanctioned 100ml bottles of assorted liquids.
Although it required hiring a crane to lift the bag and install it onto my back, it was — once properly positioned — quite comfortable.
Outcome
In Part 1 of this article, I discussed my use of film, and my desire to photograph something other than tourism sites. So this article is going to look at Doppelgor’s influence. In particular, I’ll discuss what it was like shooting with a zoom lens (which is something I haven’t used in nearly a decade), plus my experience of having to shoot from a backpack.
Curiously, I never got over my reluctance to use the Olympus 12–40 f2.8 PRO lens. I felt totally uninspired every time it was in my hands — like I was using a scenic-reprographic machine, instead of a camera. Believe me, I’m fully aware this is an entirely psychological disorder, and that there’s no rational reason for this lens to negatively impact my photographic inspiration.
Nor is there any empirical evidence to support my blasé attitude toward this lens. The fact is, it performed perfectly and never once failed to deliver whatever I asked of it. What’s more, it delivered under conditions I wouldn’t dare have forced upon any of my other lenses (or camera bodies, for that matter). It was subjected to gail force winds; driving rain coming off the North Atlantic; pellets of sleet; and bucketloads of snow — and it stood up to all these conditions far better than I did.
The strange truth is that I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this lens (or the OM-D E-M1) to anybody. It’s a wonderful, practical and adaptable combination that consistently delivers excellent results when none of my other gear will suffice. And maybe that’s the issue: maybe it’s the fact I’ve designated the camera (generally) and the lens (specifically) as “tools to use when all else fails.” I should view these attributes as heroism, not failure. And yet — precisely because neither the camera nor the lens is a prima-donna — I take them both for granted.
So, sheepishly and reluctantly, I must admit that taking the 12–40 f2.8 PRO lens was the right thing to do.
Unlike my apathetic zoom lens experience, the Lowepro Hatchback 16L AW backpack thoroughly surprised me — surpassing my expectations, and even shifting (slightly) my whole negative attitude toward photographic backpacks. While it’s still true that backpacks are best for lugging your gear between locations (rather than shooting out of the bag), I did find a few workarounds.
First, I purchased a Lowepro Dashpoint 30, which is a small auxiliary bag that attaches to one of the shoulder straps on the chest. The Dashpoint was large enough to carry my Ricoh GR and its 21mm conversion lens. It kept the snow and rain at bay, yet the camera was quickly accessible when I needed to grab a shot. Obviously, this isn’t as immediate as having a camera in-hand —but it’s a lot drier, and every bit as quick as grabbing it out of a shoulder bag.
Second, what I first perceived to be the backpack’s biggest weakness turned out to be one of its primary strengths. The Hatchback requires you access camera gear from the surface of the backpack that contacts your back. Traditional backpacks, of course, are accessed from the surface that faces away from you. Lowepro seems to market this as a “security feature,” since it would be nigh impossible for someone to surreptitiously steal gear from your backpack when the point of entry is actually against your back. Initially, I thought this design would make it just that much harder to extract a camera, but it turned out the opposite was true.
Consider a traditional backpack, in which your gear is accessed from the surface of the backpack that faces away from you. Unless you’re traveling with an assistant who can reach into that backpack for you, the only way to get to your gear is to remove the backpack completely, set it down, turn it around, unzip a compartment and extract the gear. But with the Hatchback, I found I could access my gear without removing the backpack! With the waist strap cinched, I would simply shrug the bag off my shoulders — allowing it to fall perpendicular to my body. The compartment that had been facing my back was now facing straight up. Still secured by its waist strap, I would simply rotate the backpack around to my hip, open the camera compartment, and extract the gear. No, it wasn’t as fast or easy as working with a shoulder bag, but it was much faster than extracting gear from a traditional backpack.
While packing for Iceland, I discovered yet another advantage of the Hatchback 16L AW — if I yank all the dividers out of the camera compartment, it becomes just large enough to hold my Domke F–5XB — which is the bag I probably use for 75% of my street work. So, not only did the Hatchback prove itself worthy as a shooting bag (at least as worthy as a backpack can be) but, in the future, it will also serve as a great transport bag — allowing me to transport gear in the backpack, then grab the pre-loaded Domke from inside and commence shooting.
Epilogue
After returning from Iceland, my doppelgänger and I quickly went our separate ways. As usual, he left me with the responsibility of processing his photos and propagating them to all who wish to see them. This was probably a mistake on his part, since I selected some of his least-touristy shots to share.
I have no idea when I’ll see him next, nor do I really care. But it’s nice to know we can get along when we have to. Hopefully, the next time we’re forced to travel together, we’ll be able to employ the whole “two Leicas and a couple of lenses in a Domke F–5XB” strategy. It would be so much less involved.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: In direct contrast to the photos accompanying the first article, these are all products of the digital paraphernalia that Doppelgor and I carted to Iceland.
“Reynisfjara Beach” was shot with the Olympus OM?D E?M1 and the Olympus M. Zuiko 12?40 f2.8 PRO lens. This is one of Iceland’s most extensively photographed beaches, made famous by its jagged, off-shore rock formations and the massive, crystallized basalt columns that line its cliffs (and inspired the design of Hallgrimskirkja) — none of which you see here. Sure, I photographed all those things, but you can see that stuff all over the internet. This is the shot that, for me, feels most like being there on that day, and at that time. At least the beach’s other claim to fame — its black sand — managed to make an appearance in the frame.
“Defiance” was taken in Hólavallagarður Cemetery, and comes courtesy of the little Ricoh GR. I seem to be drawn to anything with a crypt, vault, tomb, ossuary, graveyard or columbarium. I’m not sure why I enjoy them so much? Maybe it’s because I won’t have the opportunity once I’m interred in one.
“Vik, Iceland” was taken with the fully weather-proofed Olympus OM?D E?M1 and its 12?40 f2.8 PRO lens immediately after whacking it against my jacket to dislodge a couple centimetres of snow and frozen rain from its dials.
“Vik: 5 Minutes Earlier.” Five minutes before I took the previously discussed shot, the scene looked like this one. For the sake of documentary completeness, I thought it might be nice to show there’s actually a gigantic mountain looming behind that little church. A common cliché, repeated all around the world, is “if you don’t like the weather here, wait 5 minutes.” I can assure you, Iceland is the only place where this hackneyed old phrase actually applies. When I took this shot, the weather had just turned so nice that I was kicking myself for carrying the Olympus OM?D E?M1 and its 12?40 f2.8 PRO lens. “I should have grabbed the Xpan,” I thought. 5 minutes later, big goopy blobs of slushy snow were dripping from the camera. That’s Iceland.
“Inside Hallgrimskirkja” provides proof positive why it’s always a good idea to have a 21mm lens in your pocket. Even if, as in this case, it was only a 21mm conversion lens for my little Ricoh GR.
“Squall, Southern Iceland” illustrates a beach that I suspect might be a popular destination in the summer. This, obviously, was not summer. Score another victory for the weather-sealed Olympus OM?D E?M1 and the 12?40 f2.8 PRO lens.
“The Isolation Myth” is a shot of Mýrdalsjökull Glacier (and a few of its visitors) taken (of course) with the OM?D/12?40 f2.8 PRO combo.
“A Crack in the Sky” is about as rigid an interpretation of the first Yin Every Yang article as is possible. Directly behind me is Skógafoss waterfall — its frozen mist tickling the back of my neck. Between me and the waterfall are roughly 100 tourists setting up tripods — all jockeying for the clearest, tourist-free view of the waterfall; all probably sitting at home right this minute using Photoshop to clone one another out of the photo. Me? I watched the chaos, took a few photos to document it, then turned 180 degrees and shot the illusion of desolation everyone else was trying so hard to create in front of the waterfall. As you would expect, it’s the Olympus OM?D E?M1 and the Olympus M. Zuiko 12?40 f2.8 PRO lens crunching the numbers and recording them to SD card.
“Obligatory” is the sort of typical Icelandic shot one expects to see when subjected to someone’s Icelandic vacation photos. I’m rather embarrassed to include it, but I felt a bit sorry for taking advantage of Doppelgor — he doesn’t read this blog, and I’m rather certain he wouldn’t be very happy with the photos I selected to show. So, just for him (and because we have to share a body), I uploaded this shot of Seljalandsfoss Waterfall. It was taken near dusk, and in a driving snow storm. Doppelgor fashioned a makeshift tripod out of a quickly mounting pile of snow, plopped the Olympus OM?D E?M1 into the middle of it, set the shutter speed to 1/15s, and took this little bit of stereotypical insipidness.
“Occasus Borealis” (shown below) is definitely ugly enough to require a bit of explanation. Doppelgor wanted to go and photograph the Northern Lights — as if the hundreds of thousands of online photos weren’t plenty enough. Knowing it would be pitch black, and that we’d probably be shooting exposures well in excess of 15 seconds, he actually wanted us to bring a tripod. I talked him out of it. “Lean the camera up against a post or the side of a bus or something,” I said. He wasn’t pleased, but given the tight size and weight constraints of our carry-on luggage, he decided he’d rather have pants than a tripod. We stood outside in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere (apologies to the residents of Thingvellir), and waited hours for the spectacle that never came. Two months later, I’m just now regaining feeling in my toes. Doppelgor got rather bummed out that night, and went back to the bus to warm up. So I borrowed his OM?D, jammed the side of it up against a signpost, and took this photo of the missing lights. I decided, since everyone posts photos of their Northern Lights successes, I should document what failure looks like.
Speaking of failure, that’s exactly what I consider this particular photo collection to be. There is really nothing of myself in these photos. In spite of the fact they (ostensibly) try to avoid the most overtly clichéd attributes of travel photography, they don’t actually express anything. I’d like to blame the zoom lens, but soul does not come from lenses, cameras or anything else you can buy at your local camera shop. It comes from within. And yet, in spite of its inherent soullessness, equipment selection can have a huge impact on one’s photography. If I had left the OM-D and its zoom lens at home, and taken the M2 instead, I have no doubt I would have returned with a far greater selection of soulful photos. Why? Simply because I feel more inspired with a mechanical rangefinder in my hands. Of course, this sort of admission is exactly the type of statement that makes people call me names on photography forums — which is why I decided to bury it down in the “About These Photos” section. I mean, seriously… does anyone actually read anything that follows the “official” end of an article?
FULL DISCLOSURE: The Lowepro backpack discussed in this article was given to me, free of charge, since my local Lowepro rep also happens to be a friend. You’re welcome to believe this might well be the reason why I gave it a favourable review — but I assure you my opinions can not be purchased for a mere US$79 (retail). Actually, they can’t be purchased for any price.
REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
It’s not that I don’t like vacations. It’s that I don’t like the sort of vacations normal people like.
Normal people like to fly somewhere far away. So far away that the destination qualifies as exotic. So far away that one full day is forfeited to the act of traveling there, and a second is lost to jet lag recovery. Normal people, once acclimated to their destination, have a mere four days to experience whatever it is they hope to experience before losing two additional days to the return journey.
Normal people believe it would be an act of sacrilege to pay so much and travel so far without seeing everything they bookmarked in the guide book. So normal people fill their days with numerous pre-fab excursions — thus achieving freedom from the pressures of interpreting road signs, or figuring out which combination of indecipherable coinage constitutes “exact change” for toll road passages.
Normal people, having willingly traded all autonomy for the privilege of letting others do their thinking, are rarely given more than 20 minutes at any one tourist destination. That’s just enough time to file off the bus, walk up a hill, snap a few photos identical to those snapped by 50,000 other tourists that day, then file back onto the bus for the drive to the next destination.
None of this is anything I particularly enjoy. I prefer to absorb a place rather than simply gaze at it — an experience unlikely to be achieved in a mere 20 minutes, nor within a 100 meter radius of the parking lot.
When vacationing, all I want is to wander aimlessly, get purposely lost, and really experience my locale — the way it actually is, and not the version presented by the local tourism board. My fondest vacation memories tend to be those trips on which I’ve failed to visit a single tourist mecca.
This past winter, I vacationed in Iceland — a place where normal people don’t usually go in the winter. But destination and season not withstanding, my Iceland trip still contained a heaping helping of normalcy: tour buses, museums, architectural sites and regional activities all found their way into my four day sojourn in Reykjavik.
Normal people consider such vacations to be ideal photo opportunities. For some, it’s a chance to point their cameras at something other than themselves. For others, it’s a chance to place something more compelling in the background of their latest selfies.
But for me, such tourism is like a forced exile from photography. Pre-chewed, pre-sanctioned and pre-vetted photo sites are the antithesis of my own photographic tendencies. Each time I point my camera at one of these spots, a piece of my soul gets taken away. But being a photographer means that friends, family, coworkers and acquaintances expect me to take these photos. Even worse, they expect me to enjoy taking them. Obviously none of these folks are ULTRAsomething readers — or they would know I’d much rather photograph just about anything else.
To prevent myself from stumbling into a quagmire of photographic depression while dutifully photographing every hackneyed scene, I decided to counter each expected photographic maneuver with the unexpected; to muddle that which was clear; to yin every yang.
The most obvious yang to be yin’d was the witless snapping of vapid tourism shots. So every time I took a photo in the expected direction, I would turn and search for photo opportunities that might lie in the opposite direction.
The second most obvious yang to yin concerned photographic fidelity. Travel shots are expected to be vivid and colorful. So I brought along a sack of B&W Tri-X film and my Hasselblad Xpan to counter those expectations. But then, travel shots are also supposed to be sharp and dramatic, so I also brought the Olympus Pen EE–2 — a half-frame, fixed-lens, early–1960’s point-and-shoot film camera (a.k.a. “The Are-Bure-Boke-Matic”). It’s pocketable, impervious to the extremes of an Icelandic winter, and it’s pretty much incapable of rendering anything sharply or dramatically.
My plan worked perfectly. Unlike most vacations, in which I arrive home without a single soul-satisfying shot to commemorate it, I managed to escape Reykjavik with several shots that I actually liked. Not surprisingly, the majority of these were taken with either the Xpan or the Are-Bure-Boke-Matic, and with an idiosyncratic eye that’s firmly at odds with what normal people would consider “proper” travel photography.
Unfortunately, my collection of Reykjavik photos likely means I’ll fail to find any “takers” should I decide to lead a photographic workshop in Iceland. Which, strange as it sounds, is actually a workshop I’d quite like to host. Iceland is a truly beautiful country. It’s a place where a devout, anti-landscape photographer could find himself converting. But such religion is not to be found in the heavily photographed tourist sites. Instead, it’s within all the little things: a fence post; a gravel road; a sudden white out. All are things I witnessed from inside a small tourism van. And all are things I would have preferred to photograph instead of the eventual destination. It makes me want to go back and hire my own driver, who I will force to pull off the road at what, to most, would appear to be the most pedestrian of places.
An Iceland workshop for ULTRAsomething readers. Did Iceland’s gale force winds blow away too many of my brain cells, or is this something people would be interested in?
Part 2 of this article will switch direction, and discuss a topic more appealing to most readers: photo gear. Specifically, I’ll discuss my decision to pack some of the world’s most normal photographic equipment on my Iceland trip — discounting the Xpan and the Pen EE–2, of course.
Not surprisingly, given this article’s directive, all the accompanying photos were taken on film — definitely not what normal people would do in 2015.
The first two photos in the article are a perfect example of “yinning the yang.” “Through the 5 O’Clock Slot, Hallgrímskirkja” is a shot of Reykjavik from the top of the stunning, expressionist Hallgrímskirkja church — the tallest building in Reykjavik. A popular tourist destination, one ascends an elevator to the top of its clock tower, leans out a little opening and snaps a shot of the city. Rather than taking great care not to include any of my surroundings in this shot, I chose to frame Reykjavik within the actual context of the clock tower itself. Grainy, blurry goodness compliments of having shot it with my Olympus Pen EE-2 half-frame camera, using Tri-X at ISO 400, which I developed in HC-110 (dilution H). “Downtown Reykjavik” is exactly the sort of shot a normal person would take from the clock tower — assuming said normal person was shooting a Hasselblad Xpan, fronted with a 45mm f/4 lens and loaded with Tri-X, which they exposed at ISO 400 and developed in their kitchen using a solution of Kodak HC-110 (dilution H).
“Traffic Jam, Iceland” was taken on the drive to our first “official” stop on a tour of Iceland’s southern shore. To me, this shot feels more indicative of the journey than anything I shot at one of the tourist destinations. As with all my Hasselblad Xpan shots, it used the 45mm f/4 lens (the only Xpan lens I brought to Iceland), and was exposed on Tri-X (the only film I brought to Iceland) at ISO 400 (the only film speed I shot in Iceland). Like all the Iceland photos, it was developed in HC-110 (dilution H).
“Leifur Eiriksson, Reykjavik” is, by far, my favourite shot from Iceland. Perhaps that’s because it’s the sort of shot you don’t have to travel to Iceland to take — meaning it’s purely a product of my own predilection. It was taken in front of the Hallgrímskirkja. While everyone was struggling with how to photograph such a tall building, I was gobsmacked to be the only one bothering to photograph this particular scene! It’s not panoramic, so you know it was shot with the half-frame Pen EE-2. Tri-X. ISO 400. HC-110 (H).
“Church, Hvolsvöllur Iceland” What can I say? You spend enough time in Iceland, you get a bit overly sentimental. Sorry about that. Xpan. 45mm f/4 lens. Tri-X at ISO 400. HC-110 (H).
“Implied Blue” was shot at the Blue Lagoon — the one place I swore that no one could pay me to visit. Turns out no one did pay me. I paid them. If I would have seen more shots like this one, I might have been more inclined to actually want to go. Pen EE-2. Tri-X. ISO 400. HC-110 (H).
“Roadside, Southern Iceland” is exactly the sort of scene that reveals itself continuously while you’re busy driving to someplace else. Frankly, I could spend hours just walking along the roadside, looking at the invisible sites, like this one. Xpan. 45mm f/4 lens. Tri-X at ISO 400. HC-110 (H).
“Driveway, Reykjavik” is, quite obviously, the yin to the previous photo’s yang. Rather than driving 100km for this photo, I simply walked outside the hotel and photographed its driveway. Pen EE-2. Tri-X. ISO 400. HC-110 (H).
By the way, if you experienced a profound sense of déjà vu while reading this article, there’s a very good reason: It’s not the first time I’ve discussed this very topic. Vacate Shun, written way back in 2010, touches on exactly these same travel-related photography issues — proving that I haven’t evolved one iota (and also that I don’t take vacations very frequently).
If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
For many, photography is the act of creating a 2-dimensional facsimile of a physical subject. Whatever one’s goal — whether it’s to establish a record of the subject; to improve upon the subject; or to render the subject in abstract — it’s usually the subject itself that motivates the photograph.
For me, photography is the act of creating a 2-dimensional facsimile of a musical strain. My mind generates a perpetual flow of unwritten and unrecorded melody, timbre and rhythm — musical thoughts from a magical radio deep inside. Though existing solely within, these thoughts create a river of churning moods, and the photos I take (and the way I choose to take them) are more a reflection of this imagined musical atmosphere than of the actual subject matter.
Curiously, when I sit down to compose music, the opposite occurs — I create an imagined photo or scene, then compose music to express the mood generated by my internal vision. It’s why, from an early age, my aspirations were never for rock stardom, but for film composition. I was, after all, already composing against a visual backdrop — albeit one that only I had seen.
This unorthodox approach likely derives from my belief that songs and photographs are best when they’re born from emotion. Perhaps, when I photograph to an imagined soundtrack or compose to an imagined scenario, I’m making a subconscious effort to abstract that emotion — to isolate myself from any direct contact with real emotions and their potentially detrimental effect.
Or maybe, as always, I’m just thinking about it all too much…
But thinking about such things is what I do. And writing about any subsequent revelations is my primary motivation for maintaining the ULTRAsomething site. What can I say — exploring the existential and fighting through the nihilism is my idea of a good time.
One advantage to my intermingling of sight and sound is the way they suggest solutions to one another. Should a crises of faith occur in my photography, it’s likely I’ve battled, overcome, and can thus learn from a similar situation in my music. If I take a wrong turn musically, then I’ll turn the other direction when faced with its photographic parallel. One endeavour informs the other — back and forth; give and take.
Which explains exactly why watching an interview with electronic music composer and sound designer, Alessandro Cortini, led to a recent photographic revelation.
Though I’m well aware of my tendency to approach photography as a figurative outlet, this fact alone doesn’t explain why I often have so little interest in a photo’s fidelity. There’s nothing necessarily counter-emotional about fidelity. And yet slowly, month-by-month, year-by-year, I grow increasingly disinterested in photography’s ability to describe a subject with any real level of accuracy.
The Cortini epiphany came while watching him interviewed by Sonicstate’s Nick Batt during the 2015 NAMM show. In that video interview, Nick asks Alessandro Cortini about the minimalist qualities of his latest album, Sonno.
Nick: “One thing I found by listening to (your Sonno) record is that it forces you to listen in a very different way, because you listen to much more of the subtlety.”
Alessandro: “It’s fairly repetitive, which some people will consider good and some other’s bad. But I feel like, when you hone into a specific sequence of notes, then other things come into play — the way that you hear them. And then you pay more attention to the frequency range or to the EQ’ing, or to the amount of reverb and delay. Because melody’s been sort of taken care of, you’re not waiting for it to change. And also, I’m not normal. So that’s probably why I like that.”
Upon hearing this, I slapped my palm to my forehead in a spontaneously cliched act of realization. Cortini, though talking about music and melody, had encapsulated everything I’d been thinking about photography and subject, but hadn’t yet articulated.
By removing the requirement that a photo’s subject must somehow inform, it allows other visual elements to step forward to fill the void. Without a doctrine that it must clinically define the subject, a photo becomes more about geometry, tone and texture. If a photograph lacks an obvious path to its purpose, then it challenges viewers to step off the tour bus and become active explorers — finding and forging a less obvious path through the photo.
The problem, of course, is that many viewers won’t accept this level of responsibility. So photographers need to consider if alienating a large portion of their potential audience is a sensible risk. In my case, the answer — clear and resonating — is “Yes!” I don’t believe I have anything unique or personal to add to the collective oeuvre of several million traditional photographers. Sure, the demand for traditional photography is far greater — but so too is the supply. I’d rather stay true to my own urges, experiment with my appropriation of the Cortini Principle and find my own (albeit small) audience of explorers. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even write a song about it.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Conqueror Worm” was shot with the Fuji X100T, which I had borrowed from Fuji for the purpose of writing a review. In truth, this was my favorite photo taken with this camera, but I decided to leave it out of the Fuji review article. Rightly or wrongly, the photo just seemed totally at odds with the dictates of a typical review article — even review articles as atypical as mine. “Incarcerated” was shot with what must surely be my “Cortini Cam” — the half-frame Olympus Pen FT. On it was an Olympus 42mm f/1.2 lens and in it was BRF400+ film, which I exposed at ISO 400 and developed in HC-110 (Dilution B). “Counterpoint” was the first photo I took with my Leica M9 and 28mm f/2 Summicron lens after returning the X100T to Fuji. It felt good to have a rangefinder back in my hand, so I can once again subject my readers to odd little tableaux like this one.
By the way, should anyone actually click the sonicstate.com link to the Cortini interview, the quoted passage occurs at about the 9:00 mark. Those of you who (like me) actually enjoy geeky synth talk are free to watch the whole thing.
If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
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