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Last month, Peter Lik sold a photograph for US$6.5 million, which (at the time I’m writing this) makes it the highest price ever paid for a photo.

Naturally, upon hearing the news, I did what any self-respecting photographer would do: I began sifting through my old images like a miner panning for gold.

Lik’s photo netted nearly $2.2 million more than the $4.38 million paid for the previous record holder — Andreas Gursky’s Rhein II — in November 2011. Not coincidentally, the date of Gursky’s sale coincides with the last time I went spelunking through my back catalog — an expedition I’d undertaken just 6 months previously when Cindy Sherman’s Untitled #96 sold for US$3.89 million.

Every time a photo sells for a record price, it prompts a lot of moaning and groaning on photography forums. These forums — more typically used for heated arguments about which camera brand is best — become temporary, makeshift therapy groups. For several days, the forum’s collection of scholarly University of Wikipedia graduates lay down their vitriolically-barbed arms, join (virtual) hands, and regale one another with stories of how they, themselves, have deleted thousands of photos that were far far better…

Personally, I make no value judgement on the photos that sell. It matters not one bit whether I like the photo or not. It matters not whether I think my photos are better, more honest, more interesting, prettier, grittier, wittier, or anything else. It’s art. Plebeian logic does not apply.

So, while my fellow photographers wallow about in an orgy of self-pity and group condemnation of the record-setting photo, I roll up my sleeves and start analyzing precisely why this image just set a record. Solve the puzzle, solve any and all financial burdens. Why complain, when you can learn?

I decided to look at the last three record-setters, to see what characteristics they might all share.

Cindy Sherman’s Untitled #96 is a closely-cropped photo of a fully clothed woman’s face and torso. It’s a self portrait, and is predominantly and almost uniformly orange in color.

Andreas Gursky’s Rhein II is a rather obviously Photoshopped, idealized landscape showing land, water and sky. Unlike Sherman’s photo, there are no people present. Nor does it present itself as a sea of orange, tending toward the opposite colors of green and blue.

Peter Lik’s Phantom is, on first glance, a photo you’ve seen several thousand times. That’s because its a photograph of the ever-popular (and thus widely over-photographed) Antelope Canyon in Arizona — a must-see destination for any photographer hoping to shoot a photograph worthy of hanging over the living room sofa. Unlike the Sherman or Gursky photos, Lik’s is black and white. And though it may seem as totally void of people as Gursky’s, it does contain a sort of ghostly, human-like figure that appears to have formed out of the dust — a suggestion of a human without actually being a human. A “phantom.”

So what’s the common denominator here? That’s a tough one — but if the answer was easy, we’d all be multi-millionaires.

I decided to zoom out a little bit, and instead of looking at each photo individually, I started to look at them as some part of a larger pattern. Figure out the pattern, and you figure out what the next record setting photo will look like.

Suppose someone presents you with the following numerical sequence: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13. What comes next? Once you figure out the pattern (in this case, a basic Fibonacci sequence), then you can easily predict that the next number is 21.

So what patterns do I see in this sequence of high-dollar photos?

Well, the Sherman is colourful, wider than it is tall, and it’s most obviously a “straight” photo of a human. The Gursky is also colourful and wider than it is tall, but it is completely void of human presence and is more “abstract” than straight. The Lik, like the Gursky, is landscape oriented and is a nature shot — though it does contain a ghostly suggestion of humanity. But, unlike the previous two photos, it’s in black and white, though it returns to the non-abstract, “straight” photography aesthetic of the Sherman.

Careful analysis of this sequence implies that the Simpson (which I hope to make the next record setter) needs to have the following attributes: It must have a ghostly suggestion of humanity, it must be black and white, it must be portrait-oriented and it must be more “abstract” than “straight.”

In other words, it needs to keep two characteristics from the previous photo (black and white, ghostly human presence), completely alter a third (orientation), and return to one of the characteristics that was present two photos earlier, but not previously (abstract).

Scouring my Lightroom catalog has produced this:

So there you have it: the next record setting photo.

Most of you will probably head straight to your favourite photography forum to begin trashing it mercilessly — but that would be a huge mistake.

Why? Because I’ve decided to give my loyal ULTRAsomething readers a piece of the action. If you believe, like I do, that this image is going to be the photo that unseats Lik’s Phantom from its position as “most expensive photo ever,” you’re about to get wildly rich. Instead of hogging the expected take of US$7 million all to myself, I’m going to allow some lucky middle-man to profit right along with me. That’s right — I’m going to offer to sell this photograph wholesale to one lucky reader, who is then free to turn around and sell it for full price at auction.

And what am I asking for this exciting and lucrative opportunity?

Bidding starts at a measly US$1 million. If only one of you is clever enough to bid for the right to own this photo, you will have the potential to turn a $1 million investment into a $7 million reward.

It might just be the deal of the century. And to think I actually resisted the art world for all these years!

For the past two months, I did something rather incredible — I stopped taking photos. Granted, I indulge in a similar (albeit somewhat shorter) sabbatical every couple of years, so perhaps this doesn’t appear so inconceivable on the surface. But this recent leave was actually quite different from all those previous. It wasn’t triggered by nihilism, doubt or self-loathing. Instead, I took two months off simply because I felt like playing music more than I felt like taking photos.

Some of you may wonder how one activity precludes the other, but I’m one of those ‘all or nothing’ guys. Either I give myself fully to something or I don’t give at all. I’m not a dabbler. I’m an obsessive, obstinate, indefatigable perfectionist. In my book, half-efforts are indistinguishable from no effort at all.

Not surprisingly, there’s a world of difference between choosing not to take photos and being driven there by existential anguish. For the first time in a decade, I would leave the apartment without strapping a camera to my wrist. Contrast this with my previous sabbaticals, during which I continued to compulsively carry a camera — looking, hoping, longing for some small glint of inspiration that would pull me from my despondent photographic quagmire. But now, there was no quagmire — and thus no neurotic need for the security of a camera.

I fully expected such blithe disregard for photography to eat at my soul, but no such erosion occurred. I was far too distracted by life’s sounds, rhythms and intricately accidental harmonies to concentrate on any of its visual aspects. I thought briefly of Garry Winogrand’s famous comment that “there are no pictures when I reload,” and repurposed it as “there are no pictures when I don’t have a camera.” How could there be? My photos are a direct result of what I see. If I’m not looking, then I’m not seeing. And if I’m not seeing, there can be no photos.

After two months of sating my musical fixations, I was ready to re-engage with photography. I felt good — energized; enthused; inspired. I grabbed a camera and hit the streets.

It was then I realized that ‘seeing’ isn’t so much an innate talent as a practiced skill — and without practice, well…

And so I started all over again at what felt like ‘square one.’ It was frustrating that after only a two month leave, I now found it difficult to find a scene’s more understated elements, or anticipate the shifting dynamics of my environment — and such frustration began to play with my mind and with my confidence. Are my capabilities really this fleeting? Are they gone for good? Does it even matter?

And then René Burri died.

At the risk of being misunderstood, it wasn’t so much Burri’s death that propelled me into a state of melancholia — we all must pass, and his was a full, rewarding and purposeful life — it was the aftermath. Specifically, it was the collective shrug offered by the photographic community.

The fact many mainstream news outlets didn’t report Burri’s passing didn’t really bother me — after all, it’s not like any of them still have photojournalists on staff. So how could they possibly know that one of the greats had died?

Nor was I necessarily troubled by those news organizations that did report Burri’s death, but deemed it significantly less important than Renée Zellweger’s plastic surgery — I’ve lived long enough to accept that humans are an inherently inane species.

No, what bothered me were all the photography outlets that should have known better; that should have cared; that should have respected not just Mr. Burri’s life’s work, but the principles and poetry inherent in the images he shot. To me, René Burri was the consummate “photographer’s photographer” — the sort who didn’t believe that a successful photo was one that looked good hanging over the sofa but, instead, was one that made you think — and not in an obvious way, but in a subtle “works its way into your subconscious over time” way. This is one of the things I admired most about René Burri: the fact I could look at his photos again and again and, years later, find new nuances and meanings that I hadn’t previously noticed.

So is this how the various photo websites also chose to remember René Burri? Hardly. At best they name-dropped him as “the guy who took that famous photo of Che Guevara,” or “the guy who took those famous photos of Picasso.” Mostly they just regurgitated Wikipedia info or the content contained within the Magnum Photos press release that announced his passing. One popular and influential photography site basically ignored his 60+ year photographic career, saying they “don’t quite get him” while focussing instead on Burri’s flamboyant mode of dress — suggesting that “the more a person looks like an ‘artist,’ the less likely he is to do work of genuine merit.”

And to think I actually once thought highly enough of photographers to classify René Burri as “their” photographer. If these are the sort of tributes offered by his peers, what hope is there for photography’s future? Why do I bother? Why am I torturing myself to regain my mastery of subtlety when the master himself, René Burri, is so easily dismissed simply for wearing a turquoise shirt and a fedora?

But on further consideration, I remembered that quality and appreciation have little to do with one another. The fact that Burri is, I believe, under-appreciated by the current generation of photographers does not, in any way, diminish or alter the work he did. It’s there for all of us to see — whether we choose to look is up to us.

I re-watched Anthony Austin’s short film, “Six Photographs: René Burri,” in which Mr. Burri discusses (not surprisingly) six of his photos. And I realized that Burri’s own words are, perhaps, his most fitting eulogy. It seems the great ones always have to do everything themselves…

And with that, my sabbatical ended. If René Burri taught me anything, it’s that we all have a legacy to complete — even if much of the world will only shrug.

For the past several years, I’ve ambled around this dreary cloud of middle-agedness, searching far and wide for the promised silver lining. As best I can tell, being middle-aged is the grown-up version of pre-adolescence. Both are periods of life in which, like a piece of head cheese (and about as unpopular), you find yourself sandwiched between two of life’s more favorable stages.

Pre-adolescents have outgrown the joyously innocent naivety of childhood, but haven’t yet experienced the hormonal upheaval needed to become a moody, snooty teenager who thinks everyone in their 30’s is clueless. Middle-agers have outlived the expiration date on which their opinions hold any social or economic relevance, but haven’t yet attained the seniority required to become a crotchety, cantankerous old bastard who thinks everyone in their 30’s is clueless.

Recently, on one of my exploratory strolls through the murky fog of middle-aged languor, I caught site of a flickering light — dim, but most definitely present. I trudged through the mental malaise for a closer look, and soon recognized the glimmering object as the long-sought silver lining. I traversed its expanse and caressed its glimmering fabric so as to better understand its purpose. What was this thing that would make middle-aged inconsequentiality all worthwhile? For what bright and shiny lining have we traded our youth and vigor?

The answer, it turns out, is “history.” Specifically, our own personal history and experiences — an observational database that’s rich and varied and, as yet, untainted by dementia. This lining has many names: “street smarts;” “enlightenment;” “awareness;” “understanding” — all of which denote the same state. Being middle-aged means, in general, that you know what’s what; your B.S. detectors are finely tuned; and you’ve basically seen and heard it all before.

It’s this last part that I find intriguing — this realization that, socially and culturally, nothing is new. Someone in their 20’s might witness the latest trend or product, and think “Wow, this is the vanguard of an entirely new reality!” But when someone middle-aged encounters this same occurrence, all they do is mentally calculate how long it’s been since it was last popular, and in what incarnation. For us middle-agers, the question isn’t so much “what’s new” as “what’s old?”

Art, fashion, culture and politics all have their own repetitive cycles — and each cycle circles past at varying diameters. The longer we live, the more of these cycles we observe. And the more we observe, the better we can predict (or even profit from) the cyclic nature of human whim.

Look, for example, at the computer industry. In the 1960’s and 1970’s, computers sat in a centralized location and served up data to remote access points. Then, for the next 30 years, personal computers were king — each of us interacting with a data repository that was ours and ours alone. Now we have cloud computing, which is this novel “new” idea in which computers sit in centralized locations and serve up data to remote access points.

Let’s look at another cycle — one that involves my lifelong career as a musician and designer/developer of music technology products. Specifically, let’s look at the synthesizer.

In the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, synthesizers were “modular.” Each musician would custom-assemble their instrument from various electronic modules, mount them side-by-side in a case, and connect their circuits via a maze of patch cables. If you’ve seen the cover of Wendy Carlos’ “Switched on Bach,” watched Brian De Palma’s “Phantom of the Paradise” or seen that giant tower of blinking lights and spaghetti beside Keith Emerson at an ELP concert, you’ve seen a modular synthesizer.

In the early 1970’s, compact analog synthesizers entered the scene. Guided by the Minimoog and Arp Odyssey, this new class of synth dispensed with the practice of allowing musicians to select and connect their own collection of modules. Instead, manufacturers chose the most commonly used synthesis elements and hard-wired them together behind a single, easier-to-understand front panel. Synthesizers were now accessible to all musicians of all skill levels, and the demise of modular synthesis was complete. This smaller, cheaper form of analog synthesis dominated the scene throughout the 1970’s and into the 1980’s, though it continued to evolve steadily — first through the advent of polyphony, then through the addition of programmable patch memories.

In the mid 1980’s, digital synthesizers began to elbow their way into neighbourhood music stores. And by the end of the decade — catalyzed by both the overwhelming success of Yamaha’s ubiquitous DX7 and the advent of affordable samplers, like the Ensoniq Mirage — the music industry announced the “death” of analog synthesis. Musicians, anxious to score the latest digital wonders, considered themselves lucky if their old analog gear netted any trade-in value at all.

In the 1990’s, digital algorithms became more elaborate and sample storage needs grew more extreme. Digital processing requirements quickly outpaced technology’s ability to supply hardware synthesizers with suitable built-in microprocessors, and by the late 1990’s the first real-time, computer-based synthesizers began to emerge. These software-based synthesizers — inexpensive, powerful and plentiful — lead to the near total extinction of the once-mighty hardware synthesizer market. Throughout the first decade of the 21st century only geeks and “luddites” used hardware synths, and electronic music became just another category of computer app.

But in a technologically driven era, one should never discount the power of geeks to reshape an industry. And the geeks who held to their belief that synthesizers should be hardware-based, soon found their own silver lining in the following fact: markets void of excessive profit incentive do not attract large corporations. All the big name synth manufacturers had long-abandoned the idea of innovating in the hardware synthesizer market, and this opened the doors for small, independent developers to release new hardware synthesizers.

Of course, music technology had moved beyond hardware synthesizers for a reason. So if a modern-day, purpose-built chunk of music hardware was going to entice musicians, it would need a particularly unique and compelling feature to do so. And what was that unique and compelling feature? Analog. The fact was, if you were a synthesist and didn’t want to sound like everyone else, you needed the one thing that digital couldn’t do — be analog.

And thus, the cycle began to reverse itself — a few brave souls started to build and release analog hardware. With the market long-deserted, their only competition was from the aging, wheezing synths of analog’s heyday — synths that were becoming increasingly more persnickety and increasingly more expensive to maintain and repair.

Synthesizer design legends like Bob Moog, Tom Oberheim and Dave Smith (Sequential Circuits) also benefited from the vacated hardware synth industry. Each, in the 21st century, was able to re-enter the analog synthesizer market they helped define and create 30 years earlier.

Riding shotgun on this trip back to the future was another phenomena — the rebirth of the modular synthesizer. Modulars picked up right where they left off in the early 1970’s — as a way for musicians to create truly one-of-a-kind instruments by assembling and connecting a diverse collection of individual synthesizer “building blocks.” If you don’t want to sound like everybody else, what better way than to assemble a synthesizer that’s totally unique to you, and you alone?

The modular synth industry has grown rapidly in the past few years, and its popularity has enticed hundreds of new “mom & pop” companies to enter the synthesizer market. Their startup costs remain low because they don’t need to design, build and sell an entire synthesizer. Rather, they just need to produce a piece of a synthesizer — something like an oscillator or a filter or some kind of voltage signal modifier. Today, modular synthesizers are more powerful, diverse and popular than when they were left for dead in the mid-1970’s.

Follow the time line: modular synth > analog synth > digital synth > software synth > analog synth > modular synth. Because I’ve lived long enough to witness its entirety, it becomes rather simple to predict the next wave: digital modular components and digital/analog hybrids. Heck, it’s already begun. In fact, my latest synth, though still resolutely monophonic and analog in spirit, is in fact a digital/analog hybrid…

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Hey Egor, this is supposed to be a photography blog. Why are you writing about music technology?”

And the reason I’m writing about music technology (and cultural cycles, in general) is that you need only replace the word “synthesizer” with “camera,” and you now have a magic periscope into the future of photographic trends.

Take a look at all the products unveiled at the recent Photokina show and ask yourself, “which of these is the most interesting?” A younger man might well award this honor to some new system lens or to another incremental iteration of a currently fashionable camera. But a middle-aged man — one who’s been paying attention — will answer, “the Leica M-A.”

To my knowledge, Leica’s new M-A is the first truly professional-grade film camera released in the 21st century. Some have dismissed this announcement as proof that Leica is a relic of earlier times. Instead, I see it as a harbinger of things to come — a small but significant portent of a new breed of photographers, looking to differentiate themselves and their photos from the common processes and techniques employed by millions of their contemporaries. Leica, like Bob Moog, Tom Oberheim or Dave Smith, is the “legend” returning to its roots. Others will follow.

Unlike digital cameras, manufacturing a film camera does not require massive investment or technological know-how. It can (and will) become a cottage industry, driven by clever new ideas and the passion of both maker and shooter. A film camera does not need to sell a million units to be profitable. Like the modular synth market, “mom & pop” camera makers will begin to produce niche-oriented film cameras with unique characteristics that satisfy all manner of different photographic endeavours. I honestly expect, within the next decade, that I’ll be able to purchase a brand new, half-frame film camera to replace my finicky pair of early 1960 Olympus Pens. I also expect I’ll be able to purchase film cameras I haven’t yet imagined.

Leica has given us the first glimpse of a new future, and that future includes the re-birth of the film camera. Sure, the market will be different this time around, but such is the nature of cycles.

And how do I know all this? Because I’m a middle-aged man, and prescience based on historical perspective is my silver lining.

Bloggers are know-it-alls. I know this because I am a blogger, and thus know it all. Fortunately, most of us limit our didactic soliloquies to a single subject — thus freeing ourselves from the burden of having to explain everything to everyone.

For the ULTRAsomething blog, I’ve chosen to expatiate on photography. Regrettably, I long ago opted to avoid the lucrative sub-genre of “better photography through trendy gear acquisition,” and instead chose to spray my verbiage in the general direction of “better photography through existentialism, nihilism, philosophy and psychology.”

Naturally, being a know-it-all, I was fully conscious of this avenue’s inevitable unpopularity — but I also knew that introspection is far more likely to improve one’s photography than replacing last month’s gear with this month’s.

The upside of such unfashionable pontification is that I basically have the niche all to myself. This means I can invent whatever theories I want, and thanks to the worldwide reach of the internet, they soon become uncontested fact.

Usually I present my hypotheses within tidy little essays that both formulate and justify whatever crap is currently rattling around in my head. But my latest bout of psychological pondering has me stumped. Even though I make it all up as I go, I still want my theories to possess a modicum of plausibility. But, try as I might, I can find no cogent answer to the following question:

“Why, when I see the following stack of objects atop my desk, am I filled with excitement, anticipation and hope…

… while the similarly-themed stack of objects, shown below, stimulates absolutely zero emotional impact?”

Both photos depict a means to the same end. Both are empty vessels, ready to be loaded into a camera and filled with photographs that have yet to be shot. Shouldn’t they have an identical effect on my psyche?

With the film stash shown here, I’ll be able to shoot roughly 2000 photographs (depending on which cameras I use). The trio of SD cards should hold twice that many photographs (again, depending on which cameras I use). But wait — not only do I own more SD cards than what’s shown here (enough for at least 10,000 raw-format photos), but SD cards can be used time-and-time again, yielding a nearly infinite number of “potential images.”

Based on these statistics, shouldn’t the SD cards stir my photographic passions more than the film? If a big stack of film ignites my expectations for all those yet-unrealized photos, why does a stack of SD cards fill me with no more hope than when I look at a pair of my shoes? I don’t gaze upon my shoes and imagine all the places they’ll take me. And frankly, it would be a little odd if I did. So why do I do this with film?

Some might think it’s because I prefer film to digital. But that’s not the case. I prefer both. Each has its merits and its demerits. Each is indispensable in ways the other is not. I would be no more capable of choosing which to eliminate from my life than would a mother choosing between her children.

I’ve considered tactility as a potential factor. That is, film produces a tactile, physical result — an actual image on a strip of acetate or polyester. The SD card stores data — the opposite of tactility. But in reality, all my film gets digitized and fed into the same Lightroom catalog, where its data becomes indistinguishable from data recorded on an SD card. So that can’t be it.

Perhaps it’s more a matter of longevity? After all, film is “permanent,” while data is fleeting. Once you’ve erased an SD card, your photos are at the mercy of your media backup strategy. But negatives have their own Achilles heel — fire and theft. And unlike digital files, negatives can’t be cloned ad infinitum. Destroy a negative and poof — it’s gone forever. Destroy a digital file and I’ve still got three backups scattered around the world. Since all my film gets digitized, it also gets subjected to the same backup strategy as anything shot with a digital camera. So the only difference is that film gives me one additional “backup” copy — the negative. But having one additional backup is hardly a reason for such a visceral emotional difference.

A decade ago, I thought film was more “future proof” than digital. But do I still? I was always quite aware that anything shot on film could one day be re-scanned and re-processed — using technological improvements in both equipment and software to yield a better print. Yet for some curious reason, I thought this wouldn’t be true with digital. I believed that “all the data in a digital file is already being fed into the computer, so it can never look any better than it looks today.” But this is simply not true. I have digital files taken a decade ago that looked so horrible, I assumed they were destined for obscurity. But when re-interpreted with modern raw converters and re-processed with modern software, photos made from old raw files can also look better now than when I took them. So I no longer believe in the “future proof” theory. Film or digital — squeeze ’em both hard enough and you’ll always get a little extra juice.

Next, I considered the possibility that film provides more variety. Although both the film and digital worlds feature a nearly inexhaustible assortment of cameras and lenses, there seems to be very little variety in digital sensors. Look at any one slice of time, and you’ll see that most of the cameras produced within that slice have nearly identical sensors. Marketing departments might try to convince you otherwise, but the digital camera market basically acts as a single, homogenous entity. So if I go down to the local camera shop and purchase six current-generation cameras, I’ll basically be getting the same sensor tech in six different bodies. But if I purchase six different types of film, I’ll get six very different “looks.”

So is that the answer? Is it that film offers more variety? I think not, and here’s the reason: while digital cameras may all be similar to one another at any one time, they continue to change throughout time. Sure, there might be precious little variety if I purchase a bunch of new digital cameras at the same time — but if I purchase different digital cameras at different times and from different eras, I’ll get plenty of variety. Just look at the visible differences produced between, say, a CMOS sensor and a CCD. They’re world’s apart. But they’re both digital. And though they’re the exception, there are a few oddball sensors out there that will also give you a different “look” — Leica’s Monochrom; Sigma’s Foveon; Sony’s upcoming curved sensor; Fuji’s X-Trans (though that one’s more similar to the ubiquitous Bayer pattern sensor than it is different). So the variety is there with digital — you just need to own enough cameras to see it.

Ahh! Maybe that’s it? By shooting film, I can achieve a wide variety of looks within a single camera body. But to achieve a similar diversity with digital requires ownership of multiple bodies. This was likely the same bong from which Ricoh toked back in 2009, when they released their GXR camera. For those who don’t remember, the Ricoh GXR was a camera that featured interchangeable sensors. I thought it was the greatest idea in the world, and I still own and love this camera. Unfortunately for Ricoh, not a lot of other people agreed. Consequently, I can no longer buy new sensors for my GXR, making it the digital equivalent of Kodak’s equally irrelevant APS film format.

So is that it? Is frugality the answer? It’s certainly cheaper to buy multiple types of film than multiple types of digital cameras. And if I owned only one film camera, then I might have just solved this case. But I don’t. I actually own far more film cameras than digital cameras. So the notion that film lets me achieve multiple looks with one camera, while digital requires multiple cameras completely disintegrates between the theory stage and reality.

So what is it? Why do I perform an excited little dance whenever a fresh batch of new film hits ULTRAsomething headquarters? Yet a new SD card thrills me slightly less than a new tube of toothpaste?

I haven’t a clue. But I’m determined to figure it out. It is, after all, why they call it PSYCHO-logy.