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  • Pen Pal

    Pen Pal

    They breed. They must. What other possibility explains the ever-expanding progeny of film cameras spilling forth from a hallway cabinet, which once housed a similarly promiscuous collection of CDs and DVDs? So gaping is my ignorance of camera mating habits that I must sheepishly admit to not even knowing how one determines their sex.

    The brood seems to expand exponentially (as broods sometimes do), which correlates directly to a rather precipitous decline in my use of digital cameras. In fact, over 90% of this years’ images have been shot on film. Of course, I could always discourage propagation by separating the film cameras into different drawers and cabinets — but where’s the fun in that? They seem to be enjoying the debauchery, and I’m perfectly happy playing nanny to each new film camera that springs forth from such unholy cyber union.

    A couple months ago, I engaged in a small selective-breeding experiment. I have long wanted an Olympus PEN F, which is an old SLR film camera that’s actually as compact and beautiful as an early-model rangefinder. Perhaps I could engineer its conception? I gathered my Leica R4, Canon AE-1 and two Leica IIIs, placed them in close proximity on a single shelf, dimmed the lights, and put some Marvin Gaye tunes on infinite loop. Success! Through the gear-meshing mysterious mechanics of camera procreation, a new little Olympus PEN FT has joined the ULTRAsomething film camera family.

    The PEN FT is a half-frame single-lens-reflex camera system, which was designed and developed by Olympus in the early-to-mid 1960s. The PEN FT shoots an image that’s half as wide as a standard 35mm film frame, which means that a single roll of film contains twice as many shots as a “standard” 35mm camera — a boon for anyone shooting film in today’s trying economic downturn. A second benefit, and paralleling the mirrorless trend of today, is that half-frame images require a much smaller imaging circle. This allowed Olympus to create smaller lenses, which makes the camera far more portable than a typical 35mm film camera.

    Because two frames sit side-by-side in the space normally occupied by a single 35mm frame, the PEN takes photos in a vertical, portrait orientation — that is, the images are taller than they are wide. This, to me, is one of the most desirable properties of the PEN. I tend to see and compose an inordinate number of vertical shots, and the PEN allows me to do so without turning the camera sideways. Additionally, each frame’s aspect ratio is more squat than an upturned 35mm frame — closely conforming to a 5×7 image, rather than the standard 4×6 format of 35mm. I think vertical images benefit from the tighter ratio, which makes the PEN even more ideal for my purposes.

    Since the Olympus PEN F exposes vertical frames, its mirror is also vertically oriented — flipping to the side when the shutter is released, rather than flipping up. This results in a rather unique through-the-lens optical path that completely dispenses with the big pentaprism hump that sits atop traditional full-frame 35mm cameras. Because of this, the PEN FT look nothing like a typical SLR.

    I believe the PEN FT is one of the most visually appealing cameras ever produced — an attribute that doesn’t necessarily make it a better picture-taking machine, but one that will likely increase its probability of breeding with my other cameras in the future.

    Impressions

    I like to run at least three rolls of film through a camera before I form any impressions, so it took more time than usual for me to evaluate the Pen FT. When you shoot as frugally as I do, 75 frames per roll is a daunting task — and doing it three times is just that much more challenging. But in actual use, I found the PEN’s massive frame count somewhat liberating. It encouraged me to experiment, which turned out to be a good thing.

    You see, the PEN is not overly adept at sweeping scenic vistas, grand architectural cityscapes, or any other subject that demands copious resolution and detail. Nor is it ideal for “street” work since, in spite of appearances, the camera is still an SLR — which means it houses a clacking, vibration-inducing mirror; restricts you to a through-the-lens view; and contains the usual assortment of SLR-related issues. In general, I think the PEN best serves a photographer who wishes to take photos that are as simple and elegant as the camera itself. Because my photos are rarely simple or elegant, the PEN FT forced me into experimental mode, meaning its 75 frame capacity was no longer daunting — it was necessary.

    The bulk of my experiments, and my main reason for acquiring a PEN in the first place, involved film grain. Anyone who’s followed this site for the past few years knows of my predilection for film grain. Well, maybe “obsession” is a better word. I often like a crunchy image. It’s why I tend to shoot with higher speed films, and it’s why I frequently develop that film in Rodinal. So what better way to squeeze more grain from a photo than to shoot with a half-frame camera, then blow-up the image to match the print sizes from a standard 35mm frame? The PEN is a grain lover’s dream camera — and it’s an attribute I’ve been exploiting to the fullest these past few weeks.

    That’s not to say the PEN is incapable of taking high fidelity photos — it can absolutely do so. It’s just that I have plenty of other cameras for that purpose. The PEN? With it, I’m looking for something else. Something indescribable. Something experimental.

    Speaking of experiments, PEN shooters have long been masters of the diptych — experts in contrasting and/or complimentary pairs of images. This isn’t because diptych lovers sought out the PEN; it’s because the PEN essentially gave its owners no other choice. In ancient times, people would send their film to a lab, which would develop the negatives and make prints. Because most labs were configured to spit out full-frame 35mm prints, Olympus PEN shooters would get prints that contained 2 photos, side-by-side, on a single print. This resulted in all sorts of unintended but interesting juxtapositions, which caused many PEN owners to embrace the reality and begin purposely shooting complementary frames.

    Although I scan my negatives and can thus produce single-frame prints, I was instinctively drawn to the PEN’s diptych roots — often looking for two ways to photograph one subject; two subjects with a similar theme; or two photos that I just thought might look nice next to each other. It was also an excellent way to help me blow through those 75 shots per roll. The following two photos (along with several others, which I’ve used to “decorate” this article) illustrate my earliest efforts to construct pre-conceived diptychs. Obviously, my skills are still in the embryonic stage…

    I also used this mutli-frame approach to address the resolution issues inherent in half-frame photography — going old-school to create multi-frame “PEN-o-ramics” that completely dispensed with the modern convenience of software stitching.

    Basic Anatomy

    The camera is comfortable to carry around in-hand (unlike most older film SLRs) and its film advance is reasonably smooth and quick (it should be — it only needs to advance the film a half-frame). It took me about two shots to get accustom to the vertical framing, and those of you with noses will be pleased to learn that the viewfinder sits toward the edge of the camera, rather than smack in the middle like most pentaprism-equipped SLRs. Focusing is, of course, manual — aided by a centered microprism. Shutter speed is adjusted by the dial on the front of the camera — ranging from 1s to 1/500s, plus a bulb setting.

    There is no hot shoe, but flash is supported via an integrated sync terminal, which features switchable M & X contact points. Although X-sync worked perfectly with my Pocket Wizard, there’s no place to mount one on the camera. Those wishing to use the PEN’s flash capabilities should invest in an ingenious (but optional) little cold-shoe contraption that Olympus designed for attaching to the viewfinder. Because the PEN F uses a rotary focal-plane shutter (rather than the more traditional two-curtain shutter), it can sync at any flash speed, including its maximum of 1/500s.

    The PEN FT is obviously a beautiful camera. Less obvious is the functionality contained within all that beauty. For example, the decorative flag to the right of the PEN F logo is not just for decoration — it sets and triggers the self-timer. Rotate the flag upward, then push the little button at its fulcrum. The flag will begin to descend, and in about 10 seconds your PEN will take a photo. Those who prefer taking self-portraits at arms’ length (the Facebook method) will be pleased to learn the camera has a minimum focus distance of only 35cm, so pointing the camera at your own face is totally practical. Less practical, however, is figuring out how you’ll focus — unless you happen to be a scale-focusing dinosaur like me!

    In its decade-long life cycle (1963-1972), Olympus made three different PEN F models — the original “F,” the “FT,” and the “FV.” Of these, the FT is the only model to feature a built-in light meter, and is thus the most populous. Keep in mind that “built-in meter” is not the same as “auto exposure,” which was a feature that didn’t appear en masse until the 1970s. Like other meters of its era, the PEN FT’s is a source of information, not control — the photographer must actually look at the meter reading, then manually set the camera’s exposure controls to match. Since many amateur photography enthusiasts were intimidated by the whole idea of f-stops and their seemingly random numerical sequencing, Olympus concocted a new, “simpler” system. The PEN FT reads the light value as seen through the lens, then displays this value in the viewfinder using a scale that’s numbered 0 through 7.

    To support this meter design, Olympus began shipping lenses with dual-scaled aperture rings. Photographers wishing to expose manually can set the lens aperture normally. Those wishing to make best use of Olympus’ internal meter can rotate the aperture ring 180 degrees, where it displays the numbers 0 through 7, rather than traditional f-stops. To set exposure with a PEN FT, you first select the desired shutter speed, point your camera at the intended subject, look through the viewfinder to see which number (0 – 7) is indicated by the needle, then manually rotate the lens’ aperture dial to the same number. Because the meter sits behind the lens, stopped-down metering is also possible — thus allowing it to check exposure, even if you’re using older PEN lenses without the dual scale. Like much of this camera’s design (and the bulk of designer Yoshihisa Maitani’s many camera developments), this was pure genius.

    PENsive Thoughts

    It’s important to remember that the PEN FT is now a 50 year-old camera, so any model you buy is likely to possess enough “issues” to infuriate all but the most masochistic of photographers. My PEN FT is no exception.

    Let’s start with exposure. Anyone hoping to rely on the PEN FT’s built-in meter might want to reconsider this plan, since finding one that’s accurate is nigh impossible. Mine usually recommends that I underexpose by about 1.5 stops. Potential buyers also need to know that the meter uses an outlawed 1.3v 625 mercury battery, which means you’ll need to find an alternate power source (I use CRIS adapters). Complicating things further is the fact that film emulsions weren’t exactly fast in the golden days of yore, so the PEN FT’s ISO setting maxes out at only ISO 400 — meaning you’ll need to do a bit of long division in your head, should you actually be lucky enough to have a camera with an accurate meter and choose to load it with fast film.

    Since I’m quite comfortable exposing manually (a necessary consequence of owning so many meterless cameras), I never actually intended to use the PEN FT’s meter. It’s the healthier and saner approach to PEN ownership. If you wonder why I didn’t just get one of the meterless PEN models, the answer is “supply and demand.” Specifically, there aren’t many of the older “F” models available in North America and even fewer of the newer “FV” models. Both models are now desirable and rare — code words meaning “expensive.” Ironically, the FV was once the entry-level PEN SLR, but is now the more valuable model. That’s because, even though the FV is nothing more than a meterless FT, it has one major advantage — a brighter viewfinder. Due to their unique design, PEN viewfinders tend to be darker than those in most other SLRs. It can be particularly challenging to focus a slower lens (like my 25mm f/4) in low light, and the dimmer viewfinder makes the camera’s depth-of-field preview feature nearly pointless. Since the FT’s meter “borrows” light from the viewfinder, it’s actually dimmer than the down-market FV. Unfortunately, I’ve never had the pleasure of shooting with an FV, so I can’t quantify exactly how much brighter its viewfinder might be… but every lumen would definitely help.

    Olympus manufactured numerous lenses for the PEN F series, though many are now quite rare and expensive. Naturally, these rare and expensive optics are exactly the ones I most desire. As it is, I have only the two most popular lenses, both of which are readily-available and thus quite inexpensive: the 38mm f/1.8 (which was the “standard” lens for this camera) and the 25mm f/4. Unfortunately, both lenses have “issues,” which are rather common for lenses of this age and quality level.

    The 38mm (which is roughly equivalent to a 50mm lens on a full frame camera) is the most problematic. To begin with, it’s a bit soft at both ends of the aperture range. For these early test rolls, I just followed the lens’ lead and adapted my photos to match its dreamy “character.” But in the long run, it’s not a lens I’d choose for daily shooting. Further cementing its classification as a “character” lens is its inability to work reliably when stopped down. Like many old lenses, its aperture blades stick ever so slightly as they close. On an old rangefinder, this wouldn’t really be a problem, but it’s a big problem on an SLR. The reason is that, because you look through the lens on an SLR, it’s always kept at its widest aperture. This allows the maximum amount of light to pass through the lens, which provides more accurate focus and a brighter viewfinder. When you press the shutter release on an SLR, a mechanical lever quickly closes the lens’ aperture to the chosen value, thus exposing your film properly. So you see the problem? If the aperture blades hang for even a fraction of a second, then the lens won’t stop down in time, and your picture will be overexposed.

    I discovered this problem after overexposing almost an entire roll of film. One dark and rainy day — with even more darkness and rain forecast for the remainder of the week — I loaded a roll of Tri-X and started shooting with it pushed to ISO 1000. Naturally, the weather forecast was wrong, so I suddenly found myself shooting the next 60 frames in bright, sunny weather using an ND filter and the aperture stopped down to f/16. Every one of those photos turned out drastically overexposed. The photo shown below, along with “Stevestonesque” (shown earlier), are both examples of what happens when you overexpose Tri-X by about 6-stops. Although they do possess a certain ethereal pleasantness, I’d prefer to make these aesthetic decisions consciously, and not be surprised by the camera.

    Also, since I knew all the overexposed photos were shot at 1/500s, I was fearful that the PEN might have shutter issues. I took it to my camera technician, who proclaimed all the shutter speeds to be reasonably (and surprisingly) accurate. So the overexposure is indeed caused by the lens’ aperture blades hanging for a split second before closing. Since this will be less of a problem at wider apertures (and no problem at the widest aperture), I’ve just loaded a fresh roll of ISO 100 film into the camera, which I’m currently pulling to ISO 50, and I’m adopting the process of pressing the depth-of-field preview button a couple of times before I take a shot — thus exercising the aperture blades and lessening their chance of hanging when I release the shutter. This might be a good time to reiterate the statement I made a few paragraphs ago: “the PEN FT is now a 50 year-old camera, so any model you buy is likely to possess enough “issues” to infuriate all but the most masochistic of photographers.”

    Interestingly, the 25mm f/4 lens (which is roughly equivalent to a 35mm lens on a full frame camera) has the opposite problem — its blades hang briefly when the aperture opens, rather than when it closes. This has had no effect on its usability since it doesn’t really matter if the lens takes an extra half-second or so to return to full-aperture after exposing a shot. Also, unlike the 38mm lens, the 25mm is sharp at every aperture and ready for as much detail as I choose to throw at it.

    My PEN has but one additional quirk: its film advance lever offers absolutely no resistance when the film reaches the end of a roll. This initially lead me to believe I’d stumbled upon a magically infinite roll of film, but after clicking off around 85 shots, I finally awoke to the realization that this wasn’t overly likely. I’m no longer fooled by this quirk of operation, and have simply adopted the habit of rewinding a couple shots after the meter passes “72.”

    Conclusion

    In spite of its issues (or maybe because of them), the PEN FT is easily one of the most inspiring cameras I’ve ever used. It’s ingeniously conceived, reasonably robust, beautiful, practical and economical. Of course, I’m fully aware this camera will appeal to very few of today’s photographers. One must possess a fondness for quirkiness and a tolerance for adaptation if one is to truly enjoy using an old PEN F camera. For me, there are two types of cameras: those with which you attempt beauty through perfection, and those with which you accept beauty through imperfection. The PEN FT falls squarely into the latter group. Its unique aspect ratio, coupled with the lower resolution of the half-frame format, demands that I alter my photographic vision. It yanks me out of my comfort zone and forces me to explore a different visual language.

    At this point, I’m only three rolls into that exploration, but it’s enough to have learned two things: 1) I’ve got a long way to go before I become fluent in the visual language the PEN demands, and 2) I’m going to have an absolute blast learning to speak this language. Because of this, I know the PEN FT will be a camera I’ll use and cherish for many years to come. However, I do feel the need to augment my existing 38mm f/1.8 with another 38mm lens (or a 40mm f/1.4 or, if I get lucky, a 42mm f/1.2). The problem is that any replacement lens I find will also be 50 years old, meaning it’s just as likely to have “issues.” This makes mail-ordering a dicey proposition. If anyone reading this has a problem-free PEN lens to sell (no oil on the blades, snappy aperture, no fogging, no fungus), feel free to click the contact link. In the meantime, I’ll continue shooting the PEN using my assortment of eccentric work-arounds.

    Overall, I’m quite happy with the results of my latest experiment in selective breeding. Next, in hopes of producing a Hasselblad XPan, I’ve rearranged my camera shelf once more — surrounding my Widelux F7 with several different medium format cameras in hopes they’ll do what comes “natural.” The lights are dim, and the Marvin Gaye is back on infinite loop. Wish us luck.

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: All non-product shots were taken with an Olympus PEN FT camera. “Rampage,” “Structure,” “A Dog’s Life,” Slivers” and “Jazz” were all shot with the Olympus 38mm f/1.8 F. Zuiko Auto-S lens on Tri-X at ISO 400 and developed in Rodinal 1:50. “Rails” and “Bird Brain” were shot with the Olympus 25mm f/4 E. Zuiko Auto-W lens on Tri-X at ISO 400 and developed in Rodinal 1:50. “Stevestonesque,”, “Pierce the Sky,” “PEN-o-rama: Granville Bridge” and “Frankenbacker” were shot with the Olympus 38mm f/1.8 F. Zuiko lens on Tri-X at ISO 1000 and developed in Diafine. The two “product” shots were taken with a Ricoh GXR fronted with its 50mm “lensor” module.

    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.

  • Roadkill

    Roadkill

    Landscape photographers photograph landscapes, wedding photographers photograph weddings, and sports photographers photograph sports. Portrait photographers take portraits. Travel photographers document their travels. Nude, architectural and wildlife photographers point their cameras at nudes, architecture and wildlife. Fashion photographers photograph fashion. So what do street photographers photograph?

    For the past several years, I’ve been publicly associated with the photographic genre known as “street photography” — an association I’ve grudgingly accepted, yet yearned to shed.

    The majority of photographic disciplines are defined by subject matter. A few others, such as underwater photography and aerial photography, define themselves by the photographer’s location rather than by subject. Sometimes, as with macro photography or infrared photography, the discipline is defined by technique.

    But street photography? As a subject, I can assure you I’ve taken very few photos of actual streets. As a location, I haven’t more than a handful of images shot while standing in the middle of the road. And I guarantee you that neither the streets, their pavement nor the vehicles that traverse them are in any way instrumental to my photographic technique.

    Yet here I am: a “street photographer” in the eyes of many.

    Street photography is perhaps the only genre that defines itself through existing photographs. Unlike all the other photographic disciplines — which are classified by subject matter, location or technique — street photography is evaluated by how closely the images mimic those of one or more photographic forefathers.

    But which type of imagery should define the genre? The kinetic enthusiasm of William Klein? The uneasy naiveté of Garry Winogrand? The political undertones of Robert Frank? The visceral colors of Joel Meyerowitz? The ironic humor of Elliott Erwitt? The witty gamesmanship of Lee Friedlander? Should street photographers emulate Cartier-Bresson, who forbid the cropping of his photos? Or should they emulate Daido Moriyama, whose technique practically demands drastic cropping? Which stylistic governance is correct?

    People who align themselves with the street photography genre actually argue about this stuff. They argue about such “rules” as where one must photograph; what one must photograph; whether or not the subject is allowed to notice the photographer; which lenses are acceptable; if the photo needs to tell a story; what type of story to tell; whether you’re required to look through the viewfinder when you shoot; whether or not you’re allowed to photograph the back of someone’s head; how close you must be to your subject; how closely your photo must conform to the golden ratio… the list contains as many entries as there are photos to define the genre.

    Because I’m publicly associated with the “street photography” discipline, and since I’m occasionally asked to speak about street photography or to give workshops on the topic, it’s logical to conclude I might shed some light on the debate — thus helping photographers separate the real rules from the made-up rules.

    So here’s my take: There are no real rules, because there is no such thing as “street photography.” It’s an artificial designation invented to satisfy people’s need to classify that which had been previously unclassifiable. “Street” photography is just a fancy name for “other” photography — photography that didn’t fit within the specific confines of any of the more particularized genres.

    I’ve never met anyone who wants to be categorized as an “other” anything. Humans have an innate desire to belong. “Other” is an exclusionary term that implies you don’t belong to anything. “Street” makes you part of a club. But it also subjects you to a set of rules no less ridiculous than a club that requires you to wear a funny hat, learn a secret handshake, or greet each other by quacking, mooing, or braying like a donkey.

    Throughout the years, a certain thematic “sameness” has permeated the “street” genre — the inevitable result of its own incestuous definition. I have tremendous admiration for the many photographers whose vision was once so unique that it required the designation of a genre to define it. These photographers pushed the envelope of what was considered acceptable, but I don’t believe this same envelope need confine us in the future. Because street photography is defined by images of the past, it has the adverse effect of limiting photographers in the future.

    For this reason, I actually prefer to think of myself, plus all those inspirational photographers of “other” subjects, as observational photographers. There’s a lot less baggage accompanying this term.

    Essentially, everyone has two choices when they pick up a camera. They can make a photo or they can find a photo. 95% of the time, I try to find my photos. But even in those rare instances when I do set out to make a photo, I leave plenty of room for serendipity — preferring to give chance the opportunity to exceed my preconceived expectations. Some might argue that this defines me as a “candid” photographer, but I think the word “candid” implies an intent to photograph people — and this isn’t necessarily the case. I’m going to point my camera at whatever interests me. Frequently that’s people. But sometimes it’s a building, or a sign, or an object, or a shadow. Sometimes it’s something orderly. Sometimes it’s something chaotic. Sometimes I don’t even know what it is. But it’s always something that I found interesting.

    I have no rules and no manifestos. But, like any photographer, I do have my proclivities: I prefer to shoot in black & white; I like to be close to my subject; I’m fond of romance, and drawn to irony — particularly when it’s so subtle I’m not even certain it exists; I’m rarely concerned with focus, sharpness or fidelity; and, somewhat embarrassingly, I find myself sensually comforted by film grain. But these proclivities are not rules — I don’t rigidly adhere to them, and I certainly wouldn’t be so arrogant as to dictate that others must.

    If asked to write down my guidelines as an “observational photographer,” I would tell you that “I sometimes take photos outdoors and sometimes indoors, usually using whatever light exists, unless I want to add some. I mostly handhold the camera but sometimes press it against a steady surface or, if necessary, affix it to a telescoping three-legged contraption. I’m ambivalent as to whether I shoot in the day or the night, on public property or on private property, on paved or unpaved surfaces — either natural or manmade, stationary or moving. I carry one or more cameras of either film or digital persuasion, along with one or more prime lenses of whatever focal length struck my fancy as I walked out the door. I point my cameras at either a knowing or unknowing subject that may or may not be of organic origin. I process my photos however I think they look best, print my favorites, and post them singularly or in groups for others to view.”

    The great thing about being an observational photographer is that you’re not required to adopt a lot of silly rules and regulations. You are absolutely free to establish your own photographic parameters and follow your own vision. Unlike the suffocating stipulations that the photo beau monde (aka “internet forums”) heap upon anyone who dons the “street” label,  there’s nothing restrictive about being an observational photographer. If you see it and you like it, then you shoot it — however best you see fit. And isn’t that why you chose to become a photographer in the first place?

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Street” was actually taken in the middle of the street — a rare occurrence for me, in spite of being identified with the so-called “street” genre.  It was shot with a Leica M9. I’d tell you which lens I used, but there’s no indication in the EXIF data, though I suspect it’s one of my old screw-mount 50mm lenses. “Intimate 1” and “Intimate 2” indicate just how arbitrary the term “street photography” really is. They’re both similarly framed and convey a similar closeness between two people, yet not many viewers would consider “Intimate 2” to be a “street” photo. The first Intimate photo was shot with a Ricoh GXR using the 28mm (equivalent) f2.5 A12 module. The second Intimate photo was shot with a Pentax K5 using an old Pentax-M 50mm f1.4 SMC lens. “Something Orderly” and “Something Chaotic” unabashedly illustrate a point made in the body of the post, and both were shot with a Leica R4 and a 50mm f2 Summicron-R lens on Kentmere 100 film at ISO 100, developed in Diafine. “Hip Hop Hedge” definitely breaks one of the so-called “rules” of street photography — “thou shalt not photograph people from behind.” C’est La Vie. Shot with a Leica M9 and a 21mm f/2.8 Elmarit-M lens.

    NOTE: I’ll be co-hosting a Street Photography workshop for the Leica Akademie in Vancouver Canada on July 20-21, 2013. Anyone wishing to see how I deftly dance and weave and worm may way around the obvious irony is encouraged to sign up for the workshop!

    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.

  • ULTRA U: History of the Film Camera

    ULTRA U: History of the Film Camera

    I have long believed that fact is generally more compelling than fiction. It’s why my own library is filled with historical texts and biographies, rather than with novels. For many years, I thought of history as an immutable static that we could study, analyze and use to guide our future endeavors. But as the years accumulated in my rear view mirror, I became increasingly aware of just how malleable history really was — how much it was re-told and re-shaped to fit the dogma, politics and motivations of the teller. Historical “facts,” it seems, are every bit as fabricated, prejudiced and manipulated as the best works of fiction. Surprisingly, this knowledge did not diminish my interest in history one bit. Instead, it escalated. Those who can successfully reinvent history can control public perception, and thus shape the future.

    Alas, I have no personal axes to grind; no dogmas to impose; no nefarious plans for ideological domination. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still dabble in a bit of historical revision, and it’s for this reason that I’ve decided to develop “ULTRAsomething University.” ULTRA U (as the kids call it) is my new online university dedicated to the preservation and dissemination of photographic knowledge, as best I can manipulate it.

    So grab your favorite laptop, tablet or mobile reading device, and settle back into a comfortable chair. Class is about to begin with Lesson 1: The real history of film formats for still photographers.

    35mm

    Although he would not realize it for several years, the very first camera for taking still photographs was invented by Oskar Barnack in a small garage owned by his boss, Ernst Leitz. After seeing a film by G.W. Pabst, Oskar decided he wanted to become a film director, but the monstrous bulk of the standard 35mm motion picture camera proved too cumbersome for the frail Barnack. An engineer by trade, Barnack began to tinker with numerous experimental camera designs — each in an effort to shrink the colossal movie camera to a lightweight, manageable size. His moment of genius arrived when he realized that the camera’s 1000 ft. long roll of 35mm film was the single biggest contributor to its bulk, and that by reducing the film length to only 5 ft., he’d be able to make the camera significantly smaller.

    Barnack used his new invention, which he dubbed “the Leica” (German for “expensive”), to direct a series of innovative expressionist films. Unfortunately, each film was only 3 seconds in length and oriented sideways on the screen. This forced everyone to watch his movies through a special periscope, which Barnack invented so viewers wouldn’t need to tilt their heads to the side.

    (INTERESTING FACT: The Leica Orientation Periscope, as Oskar called it, would later become the basis for the Leica Visoflex, a device that enabled Leica’s precision rangefinder cameras to function exactly like cheap SLRs.)

    One day, a young door-to-door thread salesman named Henri Cartier-Bresson chanced upon Barnack’s door. Oskar, who was just about to premiere his latest film, “A Fork Drops,” invited Cartier-Bresson to grab a Leica Orientation Periscope and watch the film. 3 seconds later, Oscar accepted the applause, answered the usual audience questions about his motivations and influences, then collected the periscopes. As the audience filed out of the garage, Barnack went to the closet to retrieve a broom. When he returned to sweep up the popcorn, he saw Henri was still in his seat, staring at the blank screen. Concerned, Barnack asked Henri whether or not he enjoyed the movie. After a moment of contemplation, Henri said, “I think it would be better if you edited it down to just a single frame.” Barnack informed Henri that he was already catching some heat for producing such short films, so this idea likely wouldn’t prove too popular. But Cartier-Bresson persisted, “The point is, even though you show only a single frame, you let people look at it for as long as they like.”

    “Brilliant! Brilliant!” exclaimed Barnack. “But which frame do I use?”

    “The one immediately before the fork hits the ground,” replied Henri.

    Enthralled, Barnack gave a 5 ft. strip of film and one of his cameras to Cartier-Bresson, who took it back to Paris and used it to take a photo of a man leaping over a flooded field. This created a sensation, since no one had ever seen a man frozen in mid-air before. Soon, all of Paris wanted to buy a Leica so that they, too, could jump up and down and freeze themselves in mid-air. It wasn’t long before other companies began to copy Barnack’s idea and, during its heyday, the average person was said to own 57 35mm cameras. You’d get one when you bought a tank of gas; you’d get one free in your box of cereal; and you’d get one in trade for a Gabby Hartnett baseball card (which was quite a fair deal, when you consider that a manufacturing error resulted in at least one of Gabby’s cards being included in every bubblegum pack produced that year).

    As the jumping craze subsided, people continued to find all sorts of new uses for their cameras: Advertisers found people preferred product photos to line drawings. Journalists discovered they could slack off on their writing if they just took a picture of something. One enterprising group invented something called “marriage,” in which two people got dressed up in silly clothing and then paid for someone to come take photos of how ridiculous they looked.

    Next to “The Pill,” the 35mm camera was the most successful product of the century, but it wasn’t to last…

    Medium Format

    Prior to the invention of laser eye surgery, there was no effective cure for the dreaded trio of diseases known as myopia, hyperopia, and presbyopia. Since the dawn of time, every man, woman, and child of greater-than-average intelligence was forced to walk around with their hands extended at arms’ length, so as not to accidentally headbutt each other on the street.

    (INTERESTING FACT: This antiquated style of walking was rediscovered by George Romero in 1968 while working as a research assistant for the Pittsburgh Museum of Anthropology. Fascinated by the clumsy actions of the afflicted, he tendered his resignation and used his vacation pay to finance the film, “Night of the Living Dead,” which brought the walk to the attention of an entirely new generation — albeit without its original context.)

    (INTERESTING FACT ABOUT THE INTERESTING FACT: This walk, now known as “the zombie walk,” was the very first culturally significant historical event to be appropriated by a different generation — a philosophy that eventually led directly to the formation of the hipster movement.)

    Because most people were essentially blind as bats, very few could actually see those tiny little negatives that were coming out of their 35mm cameras. At first this didn’t really matter, since people found the act of taking photos to be far more fun than looking at them. But, eventually, people got a hankering to see what they actually looked like — and that’s when the trouble began.

    Companies initially tried to rectify the problem by inventing a device to magnify the negatives, which they called an “enlarger.” But the general population found them to be rather cumbersome and intrusive. Sadly, this led directly to the invention of something called “divorce,” which is when a previously married couple decides to separate. The most often cited motive for divorce was the complaint that one spouse (usually the male) would try to convince the other spouse that the new enlarger looked perfectly fine sitting atop the television, and that they would need to replace the rose patterned draperies with black-out fabric.

    While 35mm camera sales began to decline elsewhere in the world, they were skyrocketing in Japan. Because of a curious dictate to “disallow defective vision,” which was attached as a rider to Emperor Komei’s order to “expel barbarians” in the mid-Edo period, all of Japan was free from ocular malady, and thus had no problem viewing the tiny negatives. So acute was their vision, that one brilliant Japanese camera designer, Yoshihisa Maitani, created a way to take even smaller pictures — doubling the number of photographs that could fit on a standard 5 ft. strip of 35mm film.

    (INTERESTING FACT: Maitani’s creation, which he called “The Olympus Pen,” saved the average Japanese consumer so much money in film and processing costs that Japan was able to reinvest those savings and became one of the world’s most dominant financial powers.)

    But for the rest of the world, it was simply beyond the average person’s physiology to make out any detail on those tiny negatives. And after having bothered to get married solely for the purpose of hiring the local portrait studio to photograph them in silly clothing, people started to feel a bit “cheated.” So, faced with a declining marriage rate, portrait photographers got together and developed a new film format, which resulted in a negative 4 times larger than a standard 35mm negative. They called this “120 film.”

    (INTERESTING FACT: Two years later, a Ph.D. candidate at M.I.T. discovered the mathematical inaccuracy in the naming of 120 film, and suggested it should have been called 140 film. Embarrassed by their mistake, the photography industry tried to cover their tracks by renaming it “medium format” film. The new name stuck, but some old-timers still use the anachronistic “120” designation.)

    Obviously, this new “medium format” film required a new type of camera with which to shoot it, so the photographers developed a rather fascinating optical contraption, called the “Twin Lens Reflex” camera. In reality, the camera only needed one lens to take a picture, but the inclusion of the second lens made the camera seem far more exotic and technical than a standard 35mm camera, and thus enabled portrait photographers to charge exorbitant fees.

    The Twin Lens Reflex (or “TLR”) was quite successful for a number of years until the big Schmedluck Portrait Studio scandal of 1947 nearly destroyed the industry. For those who don’t know, Twin Lens Reflex cameras are notoriously quiet. This is due to their use of something called a leaf shutter — so named, because the sound it makes is similar to a leaf gently landing on the lawn. Because TLRs were so quiet, no one ever actually knew when the photographer had taken their picture. This led to the internationally recognized practice in which a photographer would shout “GOT IT!” each time he took a photo, which served as the client’s cue to stop smiling and rest his jaw. Because each roll of medium format film contained 12 images, portrait studios would tell clients they’d have 12 chances to perfect their pose, and the photographer would then choose the best frame for them to purchase. But Walter “Shirley” Schmedluck saw an opportunity to save his studio some money. He would simply pretend to take someone’s photo, shouting “GOT IT!” 11 times before he’d actually shoot one frame for real. The scandal was discovered by a vacationing client from Copenhagen who, blessed with perfect hearing due to King Christian X’s recent decree banning deafness from Danish society, was easily able to detect Schmedluck’s trickery, blowing the whistle on the poor fellow and nearly bringing down an entire industry with him.

    But fate was not yet ready to claim the lucrative portrait business, and so it delivered to them one Victor Hasselblad — an inventor who had recently developed a different sort of medium format camera for the Swedish Synchronized Swimming Team. Victor’s idea was to put a large bathroom mirror inside a heavily modified VW Beetle, and then use the VW’s engine to swing the mirror out of the light path each time the photographer pushed the shutter release. The Hasselbald (as Victor modestly named his camera) combined a negative that was large enough to be seen by everyone in the family (except Grandpa), with a shutter so loud it was once famously incorporated into Buddy Rich’s drum kit (where it was said to inspire John Bonham’s thunderous drum sound for Led Zeppelin, two decades later). It was exactly what the industry needed, and for the next 40 years, the deafening clack of the Hasselblad’s shutter could be heard in every street corner photo studio in every town in the civilized world.

    (INTERESTING FACT: The Hasselblad reached the pinnacle of its success during the U.S. Space Program in the 1970’s, when NASA scientists discovered that the camera’s VW origins enabled it to double as a lunar rover.)

    Large Format

    In 1996, some clever entrepreneurs realized there was a glaring gap in the camera market. Photographers could choose between “medium format” and 35mm (which was referred to in the vernacular as “small format.”). Why not complete the trilogy and give photographers a third choice? Thus the “large format” camera was invented. Large Format cameras take but a single photograph on a light-sensitive 3 ft. x 7 ft. sliding-glass patio door — the type that can be purchased from any home building products store. Because of their immense size, these glass negatives must be prepared and developed in darkrooms that are the size of a small suburban house. In fact, most large format darkrooms were small suburban houses, which were owned by people who got divorced back in the 35mm enlarger days.

    Unfortunately for these large format pioneers, the mortality rate for laser eye surgery dipped below 50% for the first time that year, which was convincing increasingly more people to risk the procedure. Those who survived laser eye surgery became local celebrities, and were often recruited by traveling carnivals to amaze audiences with their ability to read stock market listings and contractual fine print. Never one to miss a marketing opportunity, Kodak quickly developed the Advanced Photo System — a subminiature film format that produced smaller negatives than 35mm and would thus provide a more relevant, awe-inspiring and entertaining object for the carnival freaks to decipher. Kodak’s plan worked, and these carnival sideshows proved so successful that they spawned the popular American game show, “Negativity,” which was hosted by Wink Martindale and gave us the popular catchphrase, “I can still see it, Wink!”

    (INTERESTING FACT: The game show’s demand for increasingly smaller negatives inspired the creation of Minox cameras, which ultimately proved to be the show’s demise when, on April 24th, 1999 a contestant was shown a photo of a hummingbird shot with a Minox camera and exclaimed, “I can’t see it, Wink.” The backlash was nearly instantaneous, causing the cancellation of “Negativity” and forcing Wink Martindale to change his name to Bob Eubanks.)

    With the public’s miniaturization fascination at an all-time high, there was simply no market for the new Large Format cameras. We were entering an age where quantity was more important than quality (a factor that lead directly to the invention of digital photography). In a last ditch effort to save the format, the manufacturing consortium pooled all their financial resources and hired David Lynch to write and direct a single spectacular Super Bowl commercial. The ad, which clocked in at a record 2 minutes and 30 seconds, showed Ronald Reagan and Jimmy Carter walking hand-in-hand into a smokey sunset, cooperatively dragging a large format camera and three sliding-glass patio doors behind them along a blood-soaked asphalt road. Unfortunately, no one understood the ad, and three weeks later every large format camera company filed for bankruptcy. Today, Large Format cameras are all but forgotten, and are mentioned here only for the sake of completeness.

    Where Are They Now?

    So where are these cameras today?

    35MM CAMERAS: Where Are They Now?

    Every 35mm film camera ever manufactured is now resting in a shoebox in your father’s basement, garage or attic (or, more likely, all three). Usually, you’ll find one nestled against a stack of your 4th grade math tests and an old lunch sack that contains the decaying remains of a bunny rabbit you made out of cotton balls and glitter when you were too young to have any taste. Because of its historical importance to the family, your dad will usually assume the camera has monetary value, which is why you’ll occasionally hear him mention that he’d like to sell it on ebay, except he can never remember the URL.

    No one uses 35mm film cameras today, though you’ll find tens of thousands of people who will actually lie and say they do. We call these people ‘hipsters,’ but the truth of the matter is they’ve actually removed the camera’s innards and are simply using it as an awesome looking iPhone case. For them, this provides an ironic exclamation point to the fact that smartphone camera apps all create a more authentic 35mm film look than a real 35mm camera.

    (INTERESTING FACT: Scientists have recently calculated that it’ll take over 417 billion years for a Leica M-series 35mm camera to decay, but collectors claim that if you keep it in the original box and store it in a safe deposit box, it’ll last for nearly 700 billion years.)

    MEDIUM FORMAT CAMERAS: Where Are They Now?

    Today, it is very rare to find a functioning medium format camera. Due to their mechanical nature and the fact they were fashioned from a VW Bug, it became absolutely mandatory that photographers push their shutter release buttons once every 108 minutes, or else the cameras would seize up and cease to function. As the Medium Format generation began to age and die, their lazy and unappreciative kids couldn’t be bothered to continue pushing the shutter release button, and most medium format cameras have now been repurposed into dune buggies.

    (INTERESTING FACT: J.J. Abrams cites the Hasselblad as inspiration for Season 2 of his hit television series, “Lost!”)

    Actually, not every Medium Format camera has ceased to function: Twin Lens Reflex cameras, the precursors to Hasselblad, all still function perfectly, but no one can actually use them. That’s because nobody can figure out what the second lens is for, and even though the information is readily available on some historical camera websites, no living person has actually visited those websites. Since everyone now gets all their information via the hearsay of internet forums, it will be impossible for anyone to use a TLR until someone accidentally stumbles across this information, and is thoughtful enough to post it to DPReview.com.

    LARGE FORMAT CAMERAS: Where Are They Now?

    Today, most every camera store proudly displays a large format camera in their front window. Theoretically, this is to symbolize that the store is a place where serious photographers can come and purchase photographic supplies. In reality, it’s simply because they weren’t ever able to find anyone gullible enough to buy it. Unfortunately, with the ubiquity of the Consumer Products Teleportation Delivery System (CPTDS), traditional brick & mortar camera stores are beginning to go the way of old-fashioned truck-based parcel delivery services — out of business. Most large format cameras are now being sold for scrap, melted down, and made into CPTDS devices.

    Recent documents discovered through the Freedom of Information Act have uncovered a shocking and repugnant military use for large format cameras. Apparently, in the early part of the 21st Century, large format cameras were used as torture devices by numerous governments around the world. Prisoners were told stories about a man named Ansel Adams, and shown 1927 archival footage of Ansel climbing a 3,500 foot granite spur with three large format cameras, 9 sliding-glass doors, 17 lenses, a lead tripod and an injured donkey all strapped to his back. Prisoners were told they would be freed if they could recreate Ansel’s feat, and return with a photo of Half Dome worthy of hanging above the camp commander’s credenza. Extreme physical fatigue, coupled with the shame of having been bested by a California intellectual, broke many a detainee’s will, making the torture highly effective though deplorably cruel. Fortunately, the practice was ruled to be in violation of the Geneva Convention, and was banned in 2007. So convincing and so “top secret” was this government fabrication, that many civilians (and even most military personnel) believe, to this day, that Ansel Adams actually existed. There is even a religious sect operating out of the western United States, which forbids its members to own either a digital camera or a CPTDS device. Occasionally you’ll spot one of them in some National Park — sporting a beard, sweating, swearing, and struggling with a large sliding-glass door. Should you actually encounter such an individual, do not fear them — they are a peaceful people and, in general, only become bothersome when they begin to preach the merits of the zone system, which I’m told is the main crux of their holy book.

    (INTERESTING FACT: Because “Felicity” was former British Prime Minister Tony Blair’s favorite television show, he convinced MI6 to hire J.J. Abrams to produce all the fake Ansel Adams footage for the western allies. In order to secure Abrams’ silence, the U.S. government agreed to allow his new show, “Alias” to remain on the air for five seasons. Eagle-eyed viewers will spot a young Josh Holloway in the roll of Ansel Adams. Holloway is, of course, best known to fans of J.J. Abrams’ series, “Lost” as James “Sawyer” Ford.)

    MINOX CAMERAS: Where Are They Now?

    Although mentioned only briefly in this article, there’s a very interesting addendum to the Minox story. After being discovered in 1999 by time-travelling CIA agents, most of the world’s supply of Minox cameras were shipped to an undisclosed location in rural Belgium, piled into a single duffle bag and transported back in time to the 1950’s. There, due to their diminutive size, they were repurposed as “spy cameras” and Western agents used them to capture tens of thousands of pages worth of highly sensitive KGB documents. Unfortunately, since this was in the era before laser eye surgery, no one could actually read these documents. Because of this, the cold war was extended far longer than necessary, and the Berlin Wall didn’t fall until 1989. Minox is still in the business of making miniature cameras, though the company’s product offerings have expanded to include keychains and breath mints. Several conspiracy-theory organizations maintain Minox is still in the espionage industry, and that their keychains are actually GPS tracking devices, and the breath mints are mind-control pills.

    (INTERESTING FACT: The technology required to perform laser eye surgery resulted directly from a series of secret military experiments conducted in the mid-20th century by Western scientists, desperate to create a super-soldier who was capable of reading the small text contained on a Minox negative. This has actually created a sort of time loop paradox: It was the laser eye surgery that enabled the creation of the Minox yet, because of time travel, it was the creation of the Minox that enabled laser eye surgery. Some fringe scientists believe this event may well cause the collapse of the universe.)

    So there you have it. The real story of the history of various film cameras and formats. Next, in Part 7 of our 3 part series, we’ll look at a number of the more esoteric formats, including the famous Snicker’s Bar cameras of the 1970’s and the subterranean dirt camera craze of 1987. We’ll also take a detailed look at the popular Polaroid instant camera and how, through a series of ingenious technological advances aimed at making each new model more “instant” than the previous, all late model Polaroids were actually able to photograph events 0.4 seconds before they occurred.

    Hope to see you all again at the next lecture…

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “A Fork Drops” is a single frame extracted from Oskar Barnack’s 1928 film of the same name, and is the first “still” photograph ever produced. Because of its historical significance, it is widely considered to be the most valuable negative in the world. Many thanks to the International Center of Photography in New York City for mailing the negative to me, so I could scan it for this article. I’ll be sure to return it just as soon as I’m able to remember where I put it. “Hasselblad Weight Reduction Research” was taken with a Fujifilm Quicksnap single-use disposable camera. I “stole” the camera (and therefore this photo) off a fellow tourist when we were both attending a Smithsonian exhibition on the development of the Hasselblad. Since photography was not permitted in this particular exhibit (ironic, I know), I left my camera in the car. But this yo-yo was walking around taking photos like he owned the joint. Since I wanted some photos too, I simply pretended to be an undercover security guard and confiscated his camera. Later, back at home, I accidentally spilled a jug of rodinal on the camera, so all the images ended up being black & white. The one included with this article is my favorite. It depicts a time in the mid-1960’s when Hasselblad — in an effort to make their cameras lighter — commissioned NASA to help develop a truly weightless camera. NASA’s solution was to send both the camera and the photographer into space. Although Hasselblad’s marketing team ultimately decided the weight-reduction method was probably too expensive to bring to market, a young photo bug named Neil Armstrong bought one of the prototypes, and the rest is history. “Large Format Detail” is exactly what it says. It was shot with a custom-built Large Format camera, which I rented one weekend in the late 1990’s. Web reproduction doesn’t really do the photo justice, but as you can see by the circular 100% crop taken from the indicated area, the format’s resolution is really quite impressive — particularly when you consider this was shot using just a regular, economy-class Anderson 100 series sliding-glass patio door. Unfortunately, the transportation, material and lab costs incurred to produce this one single photo actually exceeded the price of a small home in suburban Boise, which (coincidentally) is where this sliding-glass patio door now resides.

    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… even when I make it all up!

  • Reject Intent

    Reject Intent

    “What makes one photograph better than another?” Surprisingly, I never really thought to ask myself this question until recently.

    “How can I take better photographs?” Now that’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times. But to actually ask myself to define what “better” means? It just never occurred to me.

    I always treated the definition of “better” as if it were a mathematical constant — like Pi or the Golden Mean. “Better,” I assumed, was simply a given, and it was up to each photographer to use all the variables at his or her disposal — variables like equipment, knowledge, practice and motivation — to derive a photographic formula with which to achieve it.

    I’m certainly not the first person who’s asked, “what makes one photograph better than another?” If I were, we wouldn’t have photography classes to teach people the meaning. We wouldn’t have bookshelves filled with paperback tomes of photographic rules. We wouldn’t have internet forums where all who possess knowledge of photography’s great “constant” can sit in derisive judgement of their peers.

    Strangely, the more one digs into the definition of “better,” the lengthier the answer becomes. Some sources equate “better” with color accuracy. Others opine that sharpness, clarity, highlight detail, shadow detail, contrast or noiselessness are the key. I’ve seen “better” measured by truthfulness, and I’ve seen it determined by an adherence to geometric rules. Some definitions require that the photo possess a clear point of focus, that it lack ambiguity, that it convey a moral center, that it change public sentiment, that it provide an utterly unique perspective, and that it does all this while looking damn good hanging over the sofa.

    Initially, these definitions all added further fuel to my assumption that “better” is a mathematical constant. Like the previously mentioned Pi and the Golden Mean, “better” seems to be an irrational number — infinitely long and thus only ever an approximation. Because its full value can never be reached, this offers one possible explanation as to why, no matter how good our pictures are, we can always take a “better” one.

    Yet the more I thought about it, the less this made sense. Each time you extend the definition of an irrational number, you increase its precision. If someone defines the Golden Mean as 1.6, then someone else defines it as 1.61803, then someone else says it’s 1.6180339887, we can clearly see that each definition builds upon the previous one. But when you gather all the various definitions of “better,” they don’t work this way. Rather than building on one another, these definitions often contradict. Sometimes the “better” photo is the one with the most accurate colors — unless you’re shooting black & white, in which case it’s the one that’s the sharpest — unless you’re shooting portraits, in which case it’s the one that’s the most truthful — unless you’re shooting for advertising, in which case it’s the one with the highest dynamic range and resolution — unless you’re selling something ethereal, like perfume, in which case it’s the one with the most unique view of your subject — in which case we should all agree that Hollywood proctologists take the best portraits of movie stars.

    I’ve received many an admonishment in online forums because some photo of mine isn’t sharply focused, or it has a tilted horizon, or I’ve violated the rule of thirds or some cropping law. And if my goal for those photos was that they be sharply focused, have a level horizon, slavishly adhere to geometric dictates and clip my subject with anatomical precision, then I would have failed to accomplish my mission — which means those photos could very well have been “better.” But what if I had no intention of adhering to any of those requirements? Now my photos are being judged against a set of rules that I never intended to observe. It would be like an Olympic skating judge disqualifying an Olympic diver because they failed to execute a Double Axel on their descent — different sport, different rules.

    So it turns out that “better” isn’t a constant at all. Instead, it’s just another variable. And in the equation of photography, it may well be the biggest of all variables. In fact, the numerous definitions of “better” are so inconsistent, so irregular and so random, that I’ve come to believe that “better” is simply another word for “bias.”

    Bias is the sole reason we believe one photo is better than another. Our measurement of “better” is shaped by our knowledge of the history of photography; by the thousands of wonderful images we’ve seen before; by public opinion, by fashion, and by our need to have some sort of standard against which we can measure our own achievements. Most significantly, our assessment of what makes one photograph “better” than another is biased by the photograph’s intent.

    So what happens if we ignore a photo’s original intent? What if a photo just “is?” What if the intent of a photo isn’t to sell something, to create a memory, or to please the eye? What if the intent of a photo isn’t to document some truth or propagate some lie? Without intent, there can be no basis for judging a photo. Without intent, there can be no such thing as “better.”

    What happens if I reject intent?

    Farewell, So Long, Bye Bye, Dearest Photos

    I’m actually a very frugal photographer in the field. I’m not one who takes photos indiscriminately in hopes that something might turn out. Every time I press the shutter, I do so with intent. Because of this, I’ve always judged each photo based on how closely it realizes that intent. Rejecting intent is in direct opposition to my nature. But to reject intent is to eliminate the stale orthodoxies of photographic evaluation, and thus the bias that one photo is inherently “better” than another.

    My notion that “better” may be a totally arbitrary concept is not altogether unique. In fact, it’s one of the foundations for Daido Moriyama’s 1972 book, Bye, Bye Photography, Dear. But even that book, though it successfully obliterated all previously supposed definitions of “better,” still possessed intent — an intent to undermine the medium and, in Moriyama’s words, “destroy photography.”

    What if I went one step further and ignored not only a photo’s original intent, but also ignored any desire to select photos based on manufactured intent? What if I selected only previously rejected photos totally by chance, then let those photos imply new meanings, new stories and new connections, based solely on their content?

    This was the impetus for my latest vBook, Masquerade (shown at the end of this article). By randomly plucking images from arbitrarily selected folders full of past rejects, I gathered a pool of 100 photos in less than an hour. I made no allowance for style, subject, location or perceived image quality — I simply gathered them quickly and thoughtlessly. Once collected, I began the process of scrutinizing the photographic mélange — searching for common themes, structures, moods and an overall narrative.

    It didn’t take me long to realize that eliminating expectation and bias from my photo selection allowed me to synthesize entirely new perceptions of intent. If I changed the sequencing and altered the pairings, then the collection’s perceived intent would change as well. And as this perception of intent shifted, so too would my perception of which photographs were “better” than others. Obviously none of the photographs underwent any sort of physical change, but since their sequencing would alter their apparent intent, then the individual appeal of each photograph would rise and fall accordingly.

    I began to think of the vBook as a sort of masquerade ball — where no photo appeared as originally purposed, but in some sort of costume that created the illusion of some new purpose.

    In the end I was able to assemble a sequence in which each individual photograph — though widely disparate in content, technique and original intent — could flow into the next photograph, and create interesting juxtapositions and artificial narratives. Most importantly, I was able to prove to myself that just about any rejected photo can become “better” by simply ignoring its original intent.

    Because of this, my entire back catalog of photographs is now suddenly awash with new material for new projects. Photos I once deemed “bad” need only be re-purposed by ignoring their original intent. Either I’m onto something good, or I’ve created the most intricately devised ruse ever concocted by a photographer in order to convince himself that all his photos are good. Whichever it is, I couldn’t be happier…

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Masquerade Photo 51,” shown at the top of this post, is but one of the 74 randomly selected ‘rejects’ contained within the ‘Masquerade’ vBook. That photo, should anyone actually care, was shot with a Leica M6TTL and a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.1 Nokton lens on Tri-X at ISO 400, and developed in Ilfotec DD-X. In general, the photos contained within ‘Masquerade’ were shot with all manner of cameras, lenses, film and sensors, and processed with all sorts of chemicals and software. They were sequenced in Final Cut Pro X and set to a custom score, which was recorded into Ableton Live using all 10 of my fingers and at least that many software-based synthesizers.

    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.

  • Masquerade

    Masquerade

    mas•quer•ade (noun): A false show or pretense.

    Masquerade from grEGORy simpson on Vimeo.

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:

    There are 74 of them in this vBook — shot with all manner of cameras, lenses, film and sensors, and processed with all sorts of chemicals and software. They were sequenced in Final Cut Pro X and set to a custom score, which was recorded into Ableton Live using all 10 of my fingers and at least that many software-based synthesizers. Anyone intrigued enough to learn the meaning of the vBook’s final frame should mosey on over to another ULTRAsomething article — the one with the coincidentally apropos title of Reject Intent.

    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.

  • Making Contact

    Making Contact

    ULTRAsomething’s web stats have been gradually declining the last few weeks — a consequence of letting too much time lapse between articles about photo gear. If there’s one thing web analytics have taught me (besides the rather depressing realization that dancing like you’re riding a horse is apparently mankind’s greatest achievement), it’s the fact that gear-related articles deliver over 2,000% more visitors to ULTRAsomething than articles about photographic techniques, education, history or philosophy. That’s a two followed by three zeros — not exactly something I can write off as a statistical anomaly.

    Ostensibly, if I want to bring more readers to my site, then I need to write the occasional paraphernalia-related article — a thoughtful, detailed, first-hand account of my experiences with some brand new, fancy-pants photographic merchandise.

    So I’m pleased to announce that I’ve recently rented extra security personnel and installed an abundance of virtual port-a-potties — all in anticipation of the drunken, gear-hungry hordes who will soon descend upon ULTRAsomething to read my first-hand account of the photography world’s latest electrifying, compelling, must-have new product.

    Are you ready?

    Are you stoked?

    Are you feeling the anticipation?

    Then without further delay, I present my discussion of the brand new Lomography Smartphone Scanner!!!!!!

    Hey, where’s everybody going? Come back here…

    Lifelogging

    OK. So it turns out that my ostensible desire to bring more readers to ULTRAsomething isn’t as ostensible as one might think. Given that I don’t sell banner ads or receive microscopic click-through payments from online retailers, web stats don’t mean a thing to me. They have no pecuniary value whatsoever. And, while some bloggers might get an ego boost from lofty stats, my own ego is sated more by writing something that resonates with a few, than by writing something that serves merely as pablum for the many.

    Speaking of pablum, I need to set aside my discussion of the Lomography Smartphone Scanner for a moment, and talk a little about the growing trend known as “lifelogging.” Lifeloggers, for the benefit of the uninitiated, are people who record every aspect of their lives by wearing a camera that monitors and automatically photographs everything the wearer sees, does and interacts with. Once just a nerdy cyber trend, it’s now flirting with the fringes of mainstream acceptance, with more and more people filming and uploading their every non-catatonic activity — whether it be a recreational bike ride, their morning commute, or that taco salad they consumed at lunch. And now, with the imminent arrival of Google Glass, a whole new flock of folks will begin to experience yet another novel new way to photograph every waking moment of their self-obsessed lives.

    The iGlitterati all seem to believe this lifelogging thing is some sort of new-fangled invention. Obviously, they’ve never heard of contact sheets. But then, how would they? Since the cloud-hopping beau monde have never shot film, they can’t exactly know about the practices of analog photographers; that they once cut their developed film into short strips, arranged an entire roll’s worth on a sheet of photographic paper, then exposed it to light — thus creating a contact print of every shot contained on that roll.

    Photographers made these contact sheets as a way to view and evaluate every photo they took. If they shot 300 rolls of 35mm film in a year, then they’d have 300 contact sheets containing over 10,000 little 36mm x 24mm photographs. Contact sheets may have helped photographers decide which photographs to enlarge, edit and publish, but they had an accidental secondary purpose — they acted as a lifelog: a permanent visual record of everything the photographer deemed significant enough to photograph.

    Read that previous sentence again. It explains my belief that a lifelog stored on contact sheets is several orders of magnitude more effective than the modern cyber version. Today’s technique, in which someone wears a camera that monitors what they see and automatically records it at predetermined intervals, creates a lifelog that catalogs the wearer’s chronology, location and activities — but it tells us nothing about that person’s mood, intellect, personality or proclivities. Contact sheets, on the other hand, illustrate so much more. Because the photographer himself decided which direction to point the camera, what lens to use, where to focus, how to expose and when to release the shutter, each photograph is more than a mere chronicling of facts — it’s a detailed psychological record of the photographer’s state of mind. And in collection with all the other photographs on all the other contact sheets, it documents a photographer’s cognitive approaches to life.

    The demise of the humble contact sheet is, I believe, one of the greatest tragedies of collateral damage inflicted by the digital camera revolution. Contact sheets provide insight and understanding. Contact sheets are the reason why I bought the expanded version of Looking In: Robert Frank’s The Americans. They’re why I own Daido Moriyama’s Labyrinth, Capa, Chim and Taro’s The Mexican Suitcase, and why I’m still saving my pennies for a copy of Magnum Contact Sheets.

    One could easily argue that shooting digitally doesn’t preclude anyone from keeping every image they shoot. And while technically true, very few photographers do this. The reasons are many and varied, but they all boil down to a common denominator: human nature. Since digital photos are “free,” it’s human nature to take far more than we need to convey a thought or an idea. It’s human nature to make editing decisions based on how we feel at that point in time. It’s human nature to assume we will always feel the same as when we made our selects. It’s human nature to believe we’re the sole arbiters of our own photography’s value. It’s human nature to discard that which we deem unacceptable — particularly when it might provide a visual reminder of our failures.

    The irony, of course, is that one cannot learn the value of retaining photographs if they haven’t retained them. Analog photographers, by the physical nature of the medium and the dictates of the workflow, have witnessed this value first hand. But now, a generation into digital, the value of these photographic logs has been lost — only to be rediscovered (albeit in a totally different guise) by the lifeloggers.

    I have little doubt that — like the pet rock, the leisure suit, and people asking “Where’s the beef?” — lifelogging will one day disappear; probably right around the time that someone realizes they’re spending $1000/year on hard drives to store a bunch of mind-numbingly boring material that they’ll never view again. I also have little doubt that some creative people will turn lifelogging techniques and practices into worthwhile new forms of art, journalism and communication that will far transcend their trendy techie beginnings. But that person won’t be me.

    So What About That Lomography Scanner, Dude?

    By now, the three of you still reading this article are probably wondering what all this has to do with a review of the Lomography Smartphone Scanner. And the answer is simple: without a wet darkroom, this device is the fastest and easiest way I’ve found to create digital “contact sheets” from my 35mm negatives.

    Previous articles in which I discuss the Spinner 360 and the Lomokino 35 reveal an ongoing love/hate relationship with Lomography products. I dislike their ridiculously cheap and rickety build quality, yet it’s this very tawdriness that allows them to fit within my budget. And that’s definitely something to love.

    The Smartphone Scanner fits the same Lomography profile — a one trick pony with a design requirement that hovers around “bare minimum.” Each time I use it, I handle it more gently than I would handle an egg, and I’m extra careful to keep it away from huffing and puffing wolves, since it would surely topple quicker than little pig #1’s straw house. Since I haven’t actually broken this (or any) Lomography product, these precautions may simply be a case of paranoia — but it’s a paranoia I don’t suffer with any other photographic equipment.

    Because I switched to a hybrid film workflow back in the early 1990’s, I’ve long been without a darkroom facility for making wet prints, and thus without a way to make traditional contact sheets. In the early days of SCSI-based scanners, the process was so laborious, tedious and slow, that I actually stopped developing my own B&W film and switched to slide-based color film — thus enabling me to review my shots without having to make contact sheets. By the early 2000’s I had switched to an entirely digital workflow, and was merrily acetate-free. But by the early 2010’s, I had most curiously returned to shooting significant quantities of black and white film, and was once again struggling with a way to make “contact sheets.”

    Initially, I tried scanning an entire negative sleeve on a flatbed scanner, but this worked totally counter to the rest of my workflow. I wanted to see, catalog and annotate every photograph in the same way — regardless of whether the source material was digital or analog. Scanning an entire negative sheet, while reasonably simple, resulted in a single image file that contained 36 photos, rather than 36 individual image files. Eventually I wrote a little Photoshop action that would slice the single scan into 36 smaller files, which I could catalog right along with the digital photos. But this required a lot of extra time and effort that simply wasn’t worth the spectacularly poor results.

    So I switched to the method I employed for the last three years: scanning each and every frame at its maximum quality setting, regardless of whether or not I thought the photo was “worthy” of additional consideration. This means every roll of film I shoot necessitates a 2-hour scanning ordeal. I pull each negative from its polypropylene storage sleeve, load it into a negative carrier, insert it into the Plustek, launch the SilverFast scanning software, and make a pre-scan of one individual frame. At this point, I’ve completed 100% of the mechanical effort required to make a scan, needing only to select a final resolution before pushing SilverFast’s scan button. It didn’t take me long to decide that, because all the actual hassles were behind me, I might as well go for the full-resolution scan — it required no additional effort on my part, just a lot of additional time waiting for the scanner to complete its mission.

    The good thing about this method is that every negative on my contact sheet is ready to be processed at any time — no additional scanning is required. The bad thing about this method is that it takes so much time and effort to scan 36 negatives, that I sometimes find myself avoiding film simply because I won’t have the time to scan it. I needed to find a quicker way to make “contact sheets” — something that didn’t take the time and energy that the Plustek demands.

    Along the way, I experimented with alternate ways to make contact sheets, including placing the negatives on an iPad and photographing each frame with a digital camera. Alas, this technique yielded some rather hideous images, since iPad displays don’t feature a uniform light source, but 800,000 tiny little LED light sources — each of which is gloriously visible in any photographed negative. I experimented with diffusing the iPad display, but the results were no more satisfactory — particularly once I realized that this cobbled together process still required nearly an hour of hands-on hassle time.

    Enter the Lomography Smartphone Scanner. In reality, it’s not a scanner at all. It’s a clamp that holds your smartphone atop a plastic bellows, which sits on a little battery-powered light panel that’s the size of a 35mm negative. There’s a slot to feed your film into the “scanner,” and a knob to crank the film through, allowing you to photograph one frame at a time using your smartphone of choice.

    Since my iPhone contains an 8 megapixel camera, I initially assumed this would result in 8 megapixel “scans” from my smart phone. But, contrary to any logic I can fathom, Lomography designed the device so that the long edge of a 35mm negative runs parallel to the short edge of the iPhone. That’s right, the device is designed such that landscape-oriented negatives are photographed with a portrait-oriented iPhone. The end result is that your 8 megapixel iPhone photo contains only 4 megapixels of actual image data.

    Ultimately, in spite of these frustrations, the Smartphone Scanner may well be the ideal solution to the problem of making 35mm “contact sheets” for the digital age. It reduces what was once a 2-hour endeavour into a butt-simple, thought-free 15 minute process.

    Of course, none of this helps me one bit with the ever-increasing quantities of 120 film running though my collection of medium format cameras… but perhaps, since Lomography sells the ever popular Holga and Diana cameras, a 120 model is on the horizon. I’m sure I’ll have a love/hate relationship with that product, too.

    Workflow (For Those Who Care)

    For any 35mm film photographer who might choose to follow my lead and adopt a Smartphone Scanner as their “contact sheet” maker, here’s a brief overview of my workflow:

    FIRST: “Scan” Negatives Into Your Smartphone

    After the negative has dried and before I cut it into 6-frame strips, I run the entire uncut strip through the Lomography Smartphone Scanner. I’m currently using an iPhone 4s running the 645 Pro iOS camera app. This app bypasses the jpeg creation process and saves the photos as uncompressed TIFF files. Truth be told, I haven’t really seen any benefit to this since an iPhone TIFF is not a true RAW file, but a demosaiced and processed file that simply hasn’t been compressed into a jpeg. But 645 Pro (like many other 3rd-party camera apps) does let me define an auto-exposure region that’s in a different location than the focus point, and this helps me achieve optimum exposure for each negative that I photograph.

    SECOND: Transfer the “Scans” to Your Computer and Name Them

    Once I’ve photographed all 36 frames (a process that takes less than 10 minutes, thanks to Lomography), I transfer the photos from my iPhone to my Macintosh. Since I demand my photos adhere to my standardized personal file naming convention, I next select all 36 files and drag them onto a custom Automator application that renames the files appropriately.

    THIRD: Invert the Negatives

    Because I’ve photographed negatives, I need to convert them to “positives” in order to view and assess them more easily. To do this, I simply drag all the images onto a Photoshop droplet I created that does exactly this. (NOTE: Lomography is promising they will soon have their own scanning app, which will invert the negative automatically. Unfortunately, this app was not yet available at the time of this article).

    FOURTH: Import to Lightroom and Crop

    At this point, I drag the exposures into a new folder I created in Lightroom, sync that folder inside Lightroom, and my contact sheet is complete. However, because the Smartphone scanner has that silly design in which the orientation of the negative is contrary to the orientation of the iPhone, the scans have a lot of unnecessary border around them. So, in order to clean things up, I perform a bit of global non-destructive cropping in Lightroom. Specifically, I open the first file in Lightroom, type “R” to bring up the cropping tool, then draw a slightly roomy crop around the image. To then apply the crop to the remaining photos, I select all 35 remaining negatives in Lightroom and paste the “develop settings” from that first negative onto them. (NOTE: I’m currently considering an alternative workflow in which I integrate the cropping process into the Photoshop inversion droplet — that way I won’t waste hard drive space to store the unused border that surrounds each frame).

    And that’s it. I now have a collection of 4 megapixel images that I consider “good enough” to catalog and evaluate all the photos on a film strip. I can then look through the “contact sheet” and select those images I want to scan properly with the Plustek, while the rejects remain visible and accessible for future consideration — just like a real contact sheet.

    And the best part is, thanks to the speed with which I can crank film through the Smartphone Scanner and photograph it, coupled with those custom little Automator and Photoshop droplets, I can knock out a contact sheet that integrates seamlessly with my digital workflow; and I can do it in under 15 minutes. Because of this new workflow, I now have more time for more important things: like writing gear reviews or, perhaps, learning to dance like I’m riding a horse…

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “35mm Contact Sheet” doesn’t really qualify as a photo — instead, it’s simply a screen shot illustrating the “contact sheet” I made after ingesting a fresh roll of 35mm film using the techniques discussed in this article. “Smartphone Scanner Action Shot (A Recreation)” also barely qualifies as a “photo.” The fact I shot it with my Ricoh GXR and its 50mm ‘lensor’ isn’t as significant as the fact that the settings shown in the 645 Pro iOS app are not the same as the settings I actually use to “scan” negatives — so don’t go trying to copy these and then wondering why your scans don’t seem right. “Scattered Glances,” “Hands,” “Mega Cliché” and “Eye Spy” were all scanned on my Plustek 7600i from the same roll of film — the one shown at the top of this article. As such, all were shot using the same camera (a Leica M2), the same emulsion (Tri-X exposed at ISO 400), and developed in the same solution (Rodinal 1:50). Curiously, they were all shot with the same lens — a Leica 21mm f/2.8 Elmarit-M. And, best of all, the photos in this article are a miniature ULTRAsomething lifelog — representing what I saw and how I chose to photograph it during the 48 hour period in which this film was inside my Leica M2. Any people think I’m not trendy…

    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.

  • Get Y’ur Lurnin’

    Get Y’ur Lurnin’

    I’ve long enjoyed working face-to-face with any photographer who’s sought my tutelage. The happy result of these relationships is, more often than not, many of these photographers have discovered photographic avenues, personal expressions and styles that are uniquely their own.

    Every photographer I’ve worked with has struggled with the same question — what to photograph? After exhausting such typical subjects as family, friends, pets, vacations and scenic vistas, many photographers grow restless. They want to say something more with their camera; something different; something personal.

    Fortunately, I have answers. Unfortunately, my answers are not what many wish to hear. My answers cannot be distilled into a single universal answer, like “42.” My answers don’t require an investment in new camera gear, but in introspection, courage and dedication. My answers are not a finish line, but a doorway to a new beginning.

    While I occasionally find individual photographers ready to face this level of commitment, I sometimes wonder if enough exist to form a workshop? After all, the same philosophies and coaching techniques I’ve employed with individuals are equally suited to small workshop environments. But in this age of push-button solutions, is it wise to create a seminar requiring that the photographer puts the “work” in “workshop?” Are there enough casual photographers who are ready to admit that the best photo opportunities do not announce themselves with trumpet blares and flashing lights? Are there enough who’ve found only emptiness in the bottomless abyss of chasing trends? Are enough photographers ready to find their subjects by exploring the person behind the camera?

    These are questions I’ve asked myself the past couple years, as I pondered whether or not to design a new and unique series of workshops.

    You Got Peanut Butter on My Chocolate

    In the make-believe world of television advertisements, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups were invented when two people collided with each other on the street. One person, euphorically enjoying a chocolate bar, ran headlong into a second person who, curiously, was wandering about whilst snacking on an open jar of peanut butter. Most surprisingly, this collision resulted not in a string of personal injury lawsuits, but in a great new taste treat: peanut butter combined with chocolate.

    Quinton Gordon and I collided, metaphorically, last summer. The Leica Akademie asked me to audit one of their street photography workshops, and provide them with feedback and suggestions. Quinton was that workshop’s instructor. We hit it off instantly — kindred photographic spirits who completed each other’s sentences, followed similar thought patterns and adhered to the same teaching methodologies. Although our photographic styles are rather different, our photographic philosophies are very much the same — the way we approach our work, choose our subjects, and search within ourselves for the answer of how best to photograph what’s external to us.

    It was a meeting every bit as serendipitous as the one that brought Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups into the world. In Quinton, I found someone who mirrored my belief that learning to take photographs was not the same thing as learning to be a photographer. Here was someone who was already hosting the sorts of workshops that I was merely conceptualizing.

    From that point forward, the end result was inevitable: Quinton and I would join forces to create a workshop entirely unlike any other.

    Ferreting Mantras

    “Ferreting Mantras” is the first workshop to come about from my collaboration with Quinton. It’s designed to teach photographers how to find photographic subjects they might otherwise miss — by learning how to recognize their own internal photographic inclinations, and then looking for these predilections in the world around them.

    This two-day workshop is planned for the weekend of May 11 and May 12, 2013 at the Lost & Found Cafe in Vancouver Canada. It includes lunch, snacks, coffee and as much psychological prodding as we can legally dispense without a medical degree.

    You can check out all the details of this workshop over on Quinton’s website, where you can also follow the registration link. In order to insure maximum benefit to all involved, attendance is limited to only 12 participants, so don’t delay.

    I hope to see some of you there.

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Hope (Scenario 1)” was shot with a Leica R4 and a 50mm f/2 Summicron-R lens on Tri-X at ISO 400, developed in a 1:35 solution of Rodinal. “Hope (Scenario 2)” and “Hope (Scenario 3)” were both shot with a Leica M6TTL, fronted with a 1938 Leitz 50mm f/2 Summar screw mount lens, exposed on Delta 3200 and developed in a 1:25 solution of Rodinal… mmm, crunchy!

    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.

  • Jim’s Victory

    Jim’s Victory

    Cause

    Back when hippies roamed the earth and astronauts roamed the lunar surface, I was the typical 10 year-old suburban globule who, like thousands of other 10 year-old suburban globules, was being subjected to weekly piano lessons. Don’t misunderstand; I liked music — loved it, actually. But the piano lessons weren’t doing it for me. My pedantic plunking of some dumbed-down Bach or Brahms ditty had no apparent connection to the rock and roll that streamed forth from FM radio. Piano lessons, I figured, were just another of the many things that all kids were forced to endure — much like going to school or eating vegetables.

    I met my 30 minute-per-day practice requirements with uncanny precision — never once cheating with a 29 minute session, nor giving generously of myself by stretching it to 31 minutes.

    One day, about a year into the grind, I entered the local piano store for my weekly lesson, and was surprised to find my teacher had left. In her place sat Jim Victor: a young man in his early 20’s; long hair; John Lennon glasses. He asked me to call him “Jim.” In truth, he looked a little more like John Denver than John Lennon, but he was still far cooler than any music teacher I’d ever seen.

    Jim asked me to play what I’d been working on, so I began my soulless rendition of the musical notes that sat propped before me on the piano — notes to which I’d dedicated exactly three and one-half hours of my life to learning. I finished the piece and waited for the critique.

    “Do you like this music?” Jim asked.

    Suspecting a trick question, I responded “It’s OK.”

    “You know you don’t have to play this if you don’t want,” he said.

    Now thoroughly convinced that trickery was afoot, I began to scan the little recital room for Allen Funt’s hidden camera.

    “What kind of music do you like?” asked Jim.

    “The Beatles?” I answered tentatively.

    “Then buy a Beatles music book, and bring it to your lesson next week.”

    “Really?” I asked disbelievingly.

    “Of course. If you’re going to learn to play the piano, you might as well learn by playing music you like.”

    Over the next month, my life changed dramatically. I stopped watching the clock, and found myself happily exceeding my 30 minute practice dictate — sometimes playing for an hour or more. It was satisfying to learn to play something I knew; something I liked.

    A couple months later, after I finished playing yet another rock song by some currently popular artist, Jim sat quietly — seemingly hesitant to respond.

    “It’s good,” he said, “but wouldn’t it sound even better if you played it like this?”

    He then proceeded to play a groove-oriented jazz interpretation of the song that, though obviously having its roots in the original melodic structure, veered into entirely new territory. I was enraptured.

    “You don’t have to play the notes that are written on the page,” said Jim, pulling out a pencil and scribbling in an entirely new bass line and modifying the chord structure of the chorus. “Try it now,” he said.

    It was the first time I’d ever had my mind blown. It exploded into a billion little pieces. From that point forward, I never again played a piece of music the way it was written. In the weeks that followed, Jim and I would rewrite music together, but it wasn’t long before I started modifying all the pieces myself. Practice soon consumed every spare moment of my day, and I would rush home from school, plow through chores and snub my homework — just to get a few more moments behind the keyboard.

    Before long, I started to think “why am I rewriting existing material? I’m modifying these songs so much, I might as well just write them from scratch.” And so I did — my piano lessons were no longer ‘lessons,’ but the ‘world premiere’ of that week’s new composition. And now, because all I cared about was music, I began to appreciate other musical genres that most kids wouldn’t dream of listening to — I started to develop a strong interest in classical music and wanted to understand its structures and theories. I wanted to learn about orchestration and counterpoint. I became fascinated by the avant-garde. I wanted to absorb everything I possibly could — and I had barely even entered my teens.

    Jim took my unwired, uncooked brain and taught me that rules were merely suggestions — that my own soul was where music really comes from, and not from the notes on the printed page. It launched me on a music-based career that lasted decades.

    Jim’s approach to teaching piano has had a direct impact on every creative endeavor in my life. His technique taught me to seek inspiration from those whose work I admire; to understand it; absorb it; reinvent it; then make it my own. This process — repeated endlessly throughout my life — is what enables me to find my own voice, my own passions, and unlock my creativity. This strategy — though taught in front of a piano — works for anything and everything with a creative component. For this reason, my childhood piano lessons became the best (and only) photography lessons I ever had.

    Effect

    Last week, reinforcing my status as an overly predictable creature of habit, I went to my local bookseller to peruse their latest inventory of photography monographs. Squatting to see the contents of a bottom shelf, I saw a pair of shins shuffle toward me, then pause perilously close to my face. Thinking I was obstructing someone’s view, I stood to move.

    “You’re a pro photographer, aren’t you?” asked the man to whom the shins belonged.

    “More so in spirit than by any accepted accounting standards,” I answered.

    “I knew it,” replied the gentleman. “You look like a photographer.”

    My mind quickly attempted to construct a composite image of a de-facto photographer. I mentally sequenced and re-sequenced DNA strands from Winogrand, Frank, Friedlander, Cartier-Bresson, Smith, Koudelka and others in an effort to create a profile of a generic photographer, but I just couldn’t find a match for my own reflection. I sprinkled in a bit of Diane Arbus, Ruth Bernhard and Lisette Model in hopes of accentuating some of my softer features, but still couldn’t concoct a doppelgänger. Just as I was beginning to compare Richard Avedon’s hair to my own, Mr. Shins spoke again.

    “Can you recommend a book or a class that will teach me to become a photographer?” he asked.

    The poor fellow couldn’t have been more surprised by my response. “First,” I said, nodding toward the ‘Photography Techniques’ section, “don’t even bother looking through those books. They purport to teach you photography, but they don’t tell you anything about yourself.”

    My inquisitor looked puzzled.

    “What motivates your desire to photograph?” I asked.

    “I don’t really know,” he replied.

    “Who is your audience? What do you want your photos to communicate? What are they about?”

    Again, he couldn’t answer.

    “The only thing those how-to books will teach you is how to take photos that look like everybody else’s photos,” I said. “Sure, you’ll manage to take generic facsimiles of the photos contained in the book, but what’s the point? A million other people are reading the same book and trying to take the same photos. If you want to learn photography then what you really need is to learn how to see.”

    I saw the light turn on behind the eyes of Mr. Shins.

    “Photography isn’t about the mechanical act of photographing things,” I said, “it’s about showing the viewer what’s unique about you — about how you see the world and about how you interpret it.”

    Mr. Shins’ shins began to do a little dance. “Yeah! I hadn’t really thought of that, but you’re right!”

    Approaching maximum pontification, I continued with my monologue. “That’s why the best way to start learning how to photograph is to look through all these monographs,” I said, plagiarizing myself as I waved a hand to and fro at the bookcases before us. “You need to find some photographers whose style, photos, subject and vision connect with you and then figure out what that connection is. The more you recognize how they see and interpret their surroundings, the more photo opportunities you’ll see in your own life.”

    “That’s my problem!” exclaimed my new friend. “I can never find anything to photograph.”

    “And that’s the key to becoming a photographer,” I said. “At any given moment, there are thousands of potential photographs all around us — being a photographer is about learning how to see them, and then choosing the ones that mean something to you. Most people restrict their photography to the visual cataloging of various objects, people and places — but great photography is more about emotion and interpretation than about replication.”

    “I see what you mean,” said the man. “But how do I learn the basics? How do I know if I’m doing it right?”

    “There’s no such thing as right or wrong in photography,” I said. “You just have to start shooting. Then keep shooting. Then shoot some more. The more you shoot, the more you learn.”

    “But how do I know if my pictures are any good?”

    “Simply by looking at them, and being honest about how they make you feel,” I answered. “Unless you’re a commercial photographer with a client, it doesn’t matter which of your pictures other people like — it only matters which ones you think are good. When you look through all these monographs, you’ll see dozens of photographers whose work does nothing to inspire you — but that doesn’t mean they’re not great photographers. It just means their likes and interests are different than yours. They’re not trying to satisfy everyone who views their work, and neither should you. The more people you try to satisfy, the blander your photos will be. But if you’re honest with yourself when assessing your own photos, then you’ll find yourself developing your own style and your own voice; one that will be unique to you and not just a copy of someone else’s idea of a photograph.”

    “I’m so glad I talked to you. I can’t wait to get started!” exclaimed Mr. Shins; a smile stretching widely across his face.

    “Good luck,” I replied, “and have fun with it.”

    As I turned to leave, the gentleman took up residence in front of the photography monographs, reached onto the top left shelf, and extracted the first book.

    I felt somewhat optimistic that maybe, perhaps, I helped steer someone toward an approach that will launch them on a long and pleasurable journey with photography. Decades later, Jim Victor is teaching pupils he doesn’t even know he has in an art form he didn’t even practice. For an educator, that’s a significant victory.

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Soylent Green” was shot with a Leica M9 and 28mm f/2 Summicron lens. “The Rote Year” and “Early Gig” were both likely shot by my Dad and don’t look nearly as bad as I’ve presented them here — purposely, stylishly and artificially “aged” for use on another website. “A Closer Look” and “Jailer’s Muse” were both shot during a Vancouver Street Photography workshop that the Leica Akademie asked me to assist with. Though nothing overly special, they remind me of how much I like helping other photographers find their own voices. Both were shot with a Leica M9 and a 28mm f/2 Summicron lens.

    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.

  • This Past Fast

    This Past Fast

    There are many who proclaim that the human body was never meant to receive three square meals a day — that since we evolved as a species of hunters and gatherers, our bodies neither expect nor want to see a daily caloric intake. It sounds like a reasonable theory, which probably explains why I just completed a nice little five week fast. You can hold your admiration — I didn’t actually go five weeks without food. I have an iron will, not a tungsten one. Instead, I went five weeks without something else — photography.

    True to my nature, I simply appropriated a procedure from one discipline and applied it to another. Photographically speaking, I’m every bit the hunter and gatherer. I seek images in the wild — too primitive to master the art of farming frames, and too crude to manufacture them. In my book, that puts my photography and my physiology close enough to share methodologies.

    This was not my first photo fast. Occasionally, when I feel my motivation decline or I begin to question my methods and the validity of my work, I simply stop taking photos for awhile. But this past fast was my longest yet.

    It began before I knew I was even fasting. It usually does. There’s always some period between catalyst and realization — when my subconscious knows something’s afoul before my intellect gets a clue. That first week, as I walked with camera in hand, I felt increasingly less inclined to release the shutter and more inclined to distance myself from the so-called “street photography” genre.

    Though I have long suffered an involuntary clenching of the sphincter regarding the term “street photography,” it was no longer just the label that repelled me — it was the actual act. Over the last couple of years, street photography has become hip. And in today’s world, “hip” means “adopting a culture without bothering to understand it.” If something becomes too hip, it will actually cease to be the thing it imitates and transform into the thing it’s become.

    It had reached the point where I couldn’t walk down the sidewalk without tripping over another “street” photographer. Sometimes they travel in packs — emboldened by the group to shoot aggressively. Sometimes they lurk alone in shadows — snipers with telephoto lenses. Sometimes they’re simply schools of smartphone-wielding pilot fish — snapping up whatever little shot opportunities the dSLR sharks leave behind.

    If these are the hip new breed of street shooters, then what am I? I’m certainly not the shark. And I know I’m not the pilot fish. Why am I even swimming in this ocean?

    So with the first week of accidental fasting behind me, I commenced on an additional four weeks of purposeful fasting — trying to figure out what type of photographer I was; what type I should be; and why I do this at all.

    Truth be told, I did take a few photos during the fast. If I saw an interesting product in a store, I’d snap it with my iPhone for later research. And with the iPhone in hand, I’d occasionally photograph random objects with various Hipstamatic effects — thus insuring I could still take photos that looked the same as everybody else’s. I also blew through a roll of Tri-X to test a Leica R4, and I did my best Kertész/Smith imitation by shooting a few photos from my apartment window.

    But that hunting and gathering style of photography? The old search-and-shoot? I wrapped it all up in a lead-lined duffle bag, and sat it on the shelf for five weeks.

    The goals for any dietary fast are to cleanse the body of toxins, reset our biological systems, increase mental alertness, fight off illness and enhance our sense of well being. So what were the tangible benefits of my photographic sobriety?

    Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. Nothing. In the words of the obnoxious, crudely-animated, pipe-smoking, repugnantly-bigoted xenophobic sailor known as Popeye, “I yam what I yam.”

    But upon further contemplation, I realized that “I yam what I yam” is exactly the result one should expect from a successful fast. Fasting doesn’t give you a brand new digestive system; it simply repairs the one you already have. It’s silly that I had to stop taking photos for five weeks in order to figure out what I already knew, but perhaps that’s the whole point of fasting? The term “street photography” always was and always will be a meaningless label. This is precisely why I dislike it. So why should it matter to me if the genre suffers yet another redefinition? Society’s shifting interpretations of street photography don’t change the way I see the world. They don’t change the way I photograph it. And they certainly don’t change my attraction to all things charmingly inane.

    Relieved by the realization that I yam what I yam, and even more so by the knowledge that I yam in absolutely no other way similar to Popeye, the fast has ended. I’m back on the streets, indulging once again in the heaping portions of the droll and the ironic that seem to be my oeuvre. Bon appétit, dear readers!

    ©2013 grEGORy simpson

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “The Tog Pack” was shot with a Leica M9 and a somewhat rare 1999 Leica 50mm f/1.4 Summilux screw mount lens. “Stealth” was shot with a Leica M-Monochrom using a lens I forgot to document, but have reason to believe was a Leica 21mm f/2.8 Elmarit-M (pre-ASPH). “Pilot Fish” and “The Moiré the Merrier” were both shot with a Leica IIIf (black dial) and a 50mm f/3.5 Elmar Screw Mount lens on Tri-X, and developed 1:35 in Rodinal. “Diagonals 2” was shot from the warm and cozy confines of my condo using a Pentax K5 with a Pentax-M 120mm f2.8 SMC lens.

    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.

  • More Bartlett’s Rejects

    More Bartlett’s Rejects

    Concision is a virtue. Some writers express themselves thoroughly with only a laconically minimalist assemblage of words. These wordsmiths — deities of pithiness — are my inspiration. For unlike them, I am an adjective junkie cavorting in the company of the loquacious. I imbibe in drunken orgies of word gluttony and succumb most decadently to the pleasures of literary contrivance, chasing after bare naked semantics and groping at nubile symbolic metaphors — vices all glaringly illuminated by this very paragraph.

    Of the 19 articles I penned previously for the Leica blog, 18 of them feature prose with an unequivocally purplish hue. The only one that didn’t — the one in which I managed an air of dignity and sober succinctness, was a little post called “Bartlett’s Rejects.”

    At the time, I described the article as “nothing more than a mathematically-challenged baker’s dozen of my own personal photography quotes — unadorned with tedious explanatory prose and contextual verbiage.”

    The article was neat, tidy, mussless and fussless. 14 little thoughts that each spoke volumes despite their brevity. So after my recent 3-part, 10,000 word Monochrom review, what better way to celebrate my 20th f/Egor article than with a sequel to my one and only exercise in linguistic economy?

    And so, to the blare of imaginary trumpets, I present for your copying, pasting and tweeting pleasure… More Bartlett’s Rejects:

    “The most important element in a photograph is the one you can’t see.” – grEGORy simpson

    “Never let truth ruin a perfectly good photograph.” – grEGORy simpson

    “A monkey could take the same photos I do — my skill is in recognizing which are worth sharing.” – gEGORy simpson

    “I’m much more concerned with what a photograph says than what it looks like.” – grEGORy simpson

    “I’d rather have a phone in my camera than a camera in my phone.” – grEGORy simpson

    “Photography is story-telling with your fingers crossed.” – grEGORy simpson

    “I admire people who are astute enough to criticize my photos for all the same reasons I like them.” – grEGORy simpson

    “A photographer who judges others by the cameras they use would be better off owning an endoscope.” – grEGORy simpson

    “Imagine how visually rich the world would be if photographers took their craft as seriously as they take themselves.” – grEGORy simpson

    “If your prints aren’t good enough, you’re not distant enough.” – grEGORy simpson

    “My primary photographic motivator is a fear of irrelevance.” – grEGORy simpson

    “No matter how awful they are, I won’t discard photographs — that would be akin to denying my own existence.” – grEGORy simpson

    “I know I’ve done something worthwhile when a large number of strangers feel compelled to tell me how horrible I am.” – grEGORy simpson

    “I don’t photograph what I see, I photograph what I feel.” – grEGORy simpson

    ©2012 grEGORy simpson

    This article (along with many of its associated comments) first appeared in my f/Egor column for the Leica Camera Blog on December 4, 2012.

    ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Envision The Future” and “Distant Skywalker Relations” were both shot with a Leica M9 and a 28mm Summicron. “From The Inside Outside” was shot with a Leica M9 and a 1999 50mm Summilux Thread Mount Lens (no, that’s not a typo — it’s a fairly rare lens released only into the Japanese market). “Melancholia” was shot with a Leica M9 and a 1982 v4 35mm Summicron (though, frankly, it probably wouldn’t have mattered what I used for this particular shot).

    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.

  • A Fetishist’s Guide to the Monochrom (Part 3)

    A Fetishist’s Guide to the Monochrom (Part 3)

    After getting downright dirty in details in Part 2, we’re going to begin Part 3 right where we left off — in the mud and the grime and the goo of image quality discussions…

    Highlight Fetishists

    There’s been a fair amount of internet chatter over the fact that clipped highlights in a Monochrom are well and truly clipped, and that you can’t reclaim highlight detail from the RAW file, as you might with a color file. The reason color cameras have a little extra highlight headroom is that they assemble an image from three different color channels — so if one of the channels isn’t quite clipped, your RAW converter can interpret this unclipped channel as “detail.” Contrary to this, the Monochrom records only a single (albeit much higher fidelity) luminance channel. So, when a highlight clips, there’s no second or third channel from which to recover possible data.

    I spent an inordinate amount of time (days) shooting specular highlights and purposely overexposing scenes using both the M9 and the Monochrom. I took hundreds of shots to compare how the Monochrom responded to blown highlights, versus the M9.

    Here’s what I found: When I purposely overexposed a scene (such that large expanses of highlight detail would “clip”), I could indeed recover a tiny bit of additional highlight detail in the M9 files. Interestingly, when shooting the M9 and the Monochrom under identical conditions and with identical exposure settings, my M9 shots are consistently a half-stop less exposed. So, I wonder if that factor (more than the three color channels) isn’t ultimately responsible for the M9’s ability to display just a wee bit more highlight detail in an identically exposed file?

    To see how minuscule the differences really are, take a look at the following shot, in which an entire strip of windows on the high-rise building blew out the highlights on both the M9 and the Monochrom files. Using Lightroom 4, I was able to reclaim some of the “blown” M9 highlights, resulting in the crop shown on the left. The Monochrom file, which contains no recoverable highlights, is shown on the right. Pixel peeping and a whole lot of squinting reveal that there’s slightly more detail in the M9’s blown highlight region than the Monochrom’s… but the difference is really rather insignificant.

    I’ll spare you from the gory details and the burden of looking through any more of the hundreds of comparison photos that I took, and will jump right to the conclusion: If you accidentally overexpose a shot, the M9 will allow you to recover some highlight details that the Monochrom will not. If you accidentally underexpose a shot, the Monochrom will allow you to extract much more shadow detail than the M9. If you properly expose a shot, the Monochrom will give you a much cleaner file across the board, and with more usable dynamic range.

    The shot below is a classic example of overexposure. It was a sunny day, and I failed to take the man’s white shirt into account — blowing out a rather large section of highlights. Plain and simple, I botched the exposure. But whether I used the M9 or the Monochrom, the man’s shirt would still be blown out. From my tests, I know the M9 would have allowed me to recover a tiny amount of the shirt detail (a percent or two, at best), but it would not come anywhere close to “fixing” my exposure error.

    You might think the key to using the Monochrom is to underexpose, but it’s not — it’s to expose correctly. And in the Monochrom’s case, “correctly” means “don’t expose to the right.” This is somewhat counter to everything we’ve been told about color digital photography, and it took me about a week to get comfortable with this notion. Initially, I would err in the other direction, and purposely underexpose my shots. But there’s no reason to underexpose unless you truly don’t care about the shadows. In the case of specular highlights, they’ll always be there (at least that’s true in my city of glass-enrobed high-rises).  No amount of underexposure will prevent these specular highlights from blowing — so who cares if the Monochrom’s specular highlights are a pixel or two larger than the M9’s? Particularly when the Monochrom’s shadows are so much cleaner and its mid-tones so much richer. But that’s a topic for the next group of fetishists…

    Low Light Fetishists

    For every up there’s a down — for every give, a take. Thinking in terms of the Zone System, I’ve seen that the M9’s Bayer filter gives me a slightly extended Zone VIII. But, in exchange for that, it takes away visual fidelity from Zones 0 through V — In my book, that’s a pretty fair tradeoff in favor of the Monochrom — lose a little something in one zone, gain something in six zones!

    You might wonder why I’m including Zone 0 — after all there’s no detail there — it’s just black. The reason is that the Monochrom’s noise floor is so much lower that, unless you’re using high ISO’s, black really is black — not some dithered, noisy grey. Not only that, but files from the Monochrom contain ridiculously greater shadow detail (zones I and II); much less obvious noise in zones III and IV; and even a tiny bit more discernible detail in zones V and VI.

    Removing the Bayer filter (and thus the camera’s color capabilities) means over an entire stop of additional light reaches the camera’s sensor. And with no color, there’s no need for color management or white-balancing — both of which require additional signal amplification, which also magnifies the noise. Furthermore, in color cameras, the noise gets processed through the de-mosaicing algorithms right along with the rest of the image. This tends to “spread” the noise even further across the image. When you use software to convert a color photo to B&W, the negative impact of that color noise does not disappear — it merely desaturates while it continues to rob the image of actual detail.

    I’ll write more about the Monochrom’s noise characteristics when I address the Noise Fetishists, but for now I want to talk a bit more about the Monochrom’s shadows and mid-tones.

    As you’ve probably learned over the years, digital sensors are linear. This means each stop contains twice as much data as the stop below it. Under ideal conditions, a perfectly exposed 14-bit file might contain over 4,000 shades of grey in Zone VII, but it will contain only 64 shades within the shadows. That’s why we’ve all been told to “expose to the right” with digital cameras — that’s where most of the data is!

    Of course, just because the sensor can theoretically record this many individual shades of grey doesn’t mean it can actually “see” that may. Lens performance can obviously affect what the sensor sees, as can any filters applied in front of that sensor. Antialiasing filters and Bayer filters both rob the sensor of light and, therefore, resolution. Since the Monochrom contains neither an antialising filter nor a Bayer filter, it delivers maximum light to the sensor, meaning it can come closer to displaying the theoretical maximums outlined above. This is particularly important in the shadow regions, where digital sensors are already less-equipped to deal with minute levels of detail and smooth tonalities.

    Almost every photographer who’s spent time with the Monochrom, has written about its rich and beautiful greys. This comment is almost always met with great derision from detractors who can’t or won’t understand why this is true. And the reason it’s true is that, with more light reaching the sensor, the sensor is able to distinguish between a greater number of luminosities, which results in far less visible dithering. Consider the following illustration. All three blocks represent an attempt to draw an area filled with 38% luminosity. On the left, I used 1-bit (2 greys) of data to create a 38% luminosity. In the middle, I used 2-bits (4 greys) to create a 38% luminosity. On the right, I used 4-bits (16 greys) to create a 38% luminosity.

    All three blocks represent an attempt to display the exact same shade of grey — but it’s obvious that the higher-bit version does a better job of it. And this is why the greys appear so much richer in the Monochrom: The more bits of data you capture, the more shades of grey you can display. Removing the Bayer filter allows more light to reach the sensor, which increases the apparent bit-depth of each zone, meaning each zone can display more greys. In the case of the shadows and mid tones, this is a huge advantage since, as explained above, those zones inherently contain far fewer greys than the highlight zones.

    Noise Fetishists

    As discussed in my dissertation to Low Light Fetishists, the absence of a Bayer filter lowers the Monochrom’s noise floor substantially.

    Unlike the film days, when “grain fetishists” were defined as people who actually liked the appearance of grain, “noise fetishists” are the opposite — they despise the appearance of digital noise. And well they should. Digital noise is just plain ugly. That’s why it’s so great to have a camera that minimizes it (rather than masking it). I have no problem claiming that an ISO 10,000 Monochrom file has far fewer detail-obfuscating “artifacts” than a Tri-X negative shot at ISO 400 — but that doesn’t mean I’d never use Tri-X again. Quite the contrary. Film grain is made from clumps of tonal clusters and adds a rich texture to a photograph, while the Monochrom’s noise looks like a very fine dusting of static spread evenly across the frame. The Tri-X simply looks more organic. But the reality is, the light dusting of Monochrom noise steals very little image data from a photo. If you’re a resolution nut, you’ll be thrilled at what the Monochrom is capable of resolving at high ISOs.

    I’m simply stunned by the low noise characteristics of the Monochrom, and by the very fine character of that noise.  And frankly, up to ISO 3200, that “dusting” of noise is so minimal as to be essentially non-detrimental. At ISO 3200 and higher, the “static” is more visible, but I wouldn’t be inclined to call it objectionable. If smooth tonality is your goal, the Monochrom is your camera.

    Curiously, as a self-professed grain fetishist (and as I mentioned in my discussion of Film Fetishism in Part 2), I actually find the Monochrom’s high ISO files too clean. I know this sounds ridiculous, but when I shoot at dusk, night, or in dark environments, I actually expect to see grain. No, I don’t want to see noise, but neither do I want to see a file so smooth and detailed that someone would think it was taken at noon on a sunny day. For this reason, when I shoot dark scenes at higher ISO’s, I actually use software to add some artificial film grain to the image. I know some of you will consider this sacrilege, but I’ve got a psychological aversion to clean files shot in darkness. So, yes — I’m actually complaining that the Monochrom has too much fidelity at high ISO’s. And though I would never wish for a higher level of digital noise, I do kind of miss the grain. Like I said way back at the beginning of Part 1, we’re all just a bunch of fetishists, and this happens to be one of mine.

    To illustrate how low the noise really is, I present the following photo, which I suspect will go down in the annals of history as “the most pedantic test photo ever published.” Yes, it’s a full-frame photograph of my lens cap taken at ISO 10,000. A small section is shown zoomed in, so you can see how unobtrusive the noise really is — even with Lightroom’s Clarity slider set to its maximum value of 100.

    Unfortunately, I did uncover one noise-related issue that I don’t think will find too many devotees — a situation that, for lack of a better phrase, I’ll call noise patterning. Specifically, if I shot at ISO 3200 or higher and then used the geometric transformation parameters in Lightroom’s Lens Correction panel, it would induce an underlying visible noise pattern throughout the image. Similarly (and more egregiously) if I simply rotated an image in Lightroom, it would induce a checkerboard-like pattern within the noise, which would appear throughout all the shadow regions in a photo.

    If I pretended to be Cartier-Bresson — never rotating or geometrically altering an image — then I was never able to see any noise patterning, and no amount of aggressive dodging, burning, or contrast modification would ever reveal even the slightest hint of a pattern. But since my photographic skills are aligned more with mere mortals, I occasionally wanted to rotate or geometrically alter an image — and when I did that with an ISO 3200 (or higher) file, I’d induce a noise pattern into the photo. Although I suspect at least one photographer somewhere in the world would employ this flaw as a “special effect,” I can safely say that the majority of us do not want this.

    I have been working on this issue with Leica, and the problem appears to be related to Adobe’s interpolation algorithms. Specifically, the Monochrom’s noise is so “clean,” that when you use Lightroom/Camera Raw to either rotate a high-ISO image, or perform any lens distortion or perspective corrections, moire-like patterns are introduced into the noise. This doesn’t happen with color cameras because the noise is blurred by the interpolation process.

    The following example illustrates this phenomenon (as well as why I resorted to photographing lens caps). Here, the lens cap photo shown above has been subjected to a distortion correction of -30 in Lightroom’s Lens Correction module. Unless you have optimal room lighting and a well-calibrated monitor, it might be a little difficult to see the moire-like pattern in this down sampled web version, but you should be able to make out the design when you look at the zoomed-in section where Clarity is set to 100:

    Leica informs me that Adobe is actively involved and is now working to modify their algorithms for the Monochrom. In the meantime, those who own a Monochrom and shoot at high ISO values might want to avoid rotating an image or modifying its geometry in Lightroom or Camera Raw. Fortunately, if such actions are unavoidable, there is a reasonable work around available: simply up-sample the image before applying the transformations.

    Specifically, you can open the Monochrom file in Camera Raw and up-sample it from 18.1 megapixels to 25.1 megapixels. Save the up-sampled file and use this as the basis for your image manipulations. Up-sampling the image dithers the noise just enough to make Adobe’s rotation and lens correction algorithms far less intrusive.

    The following example illustrates the workaround. Here, the lens cap photo has first been resized to 25.1 megapixels in Camera Raw, then subject to the same -30 Distortion Transformation in Lightroom. As you can see, this almost completely eliminated the moire-effect.

    Although I certainly don’t consider this a “show stopper” (particularly since an effective workaround exists), those who routinely work at high ISO’s and who perform a lot of geometric alterations or rotations need to be aware of this issue. Hopefully, Adobe will be able to tweak their algorithms sooner rather than later, and the extra up-sampling step will no longer be required.

    Interface Fetishists

    I’ll grant you — there probably aren’t too many Interface Fetishists reading this. But I didn’t spend 15 years designing professional audio hardware and software products without learning at least a little something about user interface design. Consequently, during the time I was investigating the camera’s dynamic range, I “designed” what I think is a much better interface for alerting photographers to the presence of blown highlights and/or blocked shadows. I will present these recommendations as a series of escalating suggestions to Leica:

    Suggestion 1: If highlights or shadows clip, put a big thick red (or blue) bar across the screen. Make it big, bold and obvious. Currently, there are only two ways to see if any highlights clipped: you can look at the far right of the histogram and try to see if the right-most 1-pixel wide line is red (indicating clipping), or you can look at a tiny thumbnail of the image and see if there are any red pixels within it. If there’s a lot of ambient light (which there always is when I clip a highlight), then it’s nigh impossible to see a few tiny red pixels on that LCD. If I’ve taken a photo and mostly just care whether I’ve clipped anything, it would be nice to have a couple “idiot” lights appear on the LCD — that way, I’d know with just a glance whether or not I need to retake the shot.

    Suggestion 2: As long as you’re mucking about with the firmware, add an option to the “alarms” menu for highlight/shadow clipping. This would make the camera beep if the image clipped within the constraints set by the “amount” menu. Normally, I’m the first person to turn off every audible sound in his camera, but this function would be very useful to any photographer who worries about clipping, but who doesn’t want to check the LCD after every shot (event and/or wedding photographers, for example).

    Suggestion 3: Better still, since I really don’t like a camera to make noise, make it vibrate instead! Granted, this feature would require a hardware modification (and not just firmware), so consider this a ‘freebie’ suggestion for some future model of Leica M.

    Suggestion 4: If you’re feeling ambitious, I would like to offer a further improvement on Suggestion 1: instead of a big red (or blue) bar, put a big red (or blue) number on the screen, indicating what percentage of the pixels clipped. For example, if 2.3 percent of the pixels clip the highlights, put a big red “2.3” on the screen. That way I can decide quickly whether or not I care about the clipping.

    Suggestion 5: To refine Suggestion 4 even further, consider this: It’s not as important how many pixels clip, as it is how many contiguous pixels clip. A few small regions of clipping likely indicates specular highlights, and I’m less likely to be concerned about that. What I’m more concerned about is clipping large regions where I would prefer to see a tiny bit of detail. So, instead of indicating the total percentage of clipped pixels, the big red/blue numbers could indicate the largest area of contiguous clipping in the image. Like it or not, the camera has an LCD, so let’s at least use it effectively!

    Beach Fetishists

    A few years ago, in a fit of jaundiced lucidity, I realized that nearly everything mankind had ever invented — nearly every moment of inspiration or technological leap — was ultimately motived by one of two purposes: laziness or the urge to procreate.

    “What about money?” you ask.

    “Merely a means to an end,” I counter cynically. “A way to buy oneself more recreation; more relaxation; more procreation.” Mankind is, perhaps, the only species that will work incredibly hard for the sole purpose of banishing even the most simple tasks from their lives. It’s all part of some grand master plan. Even global warming, I theorize, is nothing more than a way to create more warm, inland beaches. We can’t all live in Rio, so let’s make more Rios.

    Man’s ultimate desire to turn life into a popular bossa nova does, at times, infuriate me. Like, for example, every time I read an article on the internet that complains about the Monochrom’s default output being too “grey.” ¿Que? Grey is good! Grey is desirable! Grey allows you, the photographer, to manipulate an image the way you want to manipulate it. Grey lets you add contrast where you want it. It lets you accentuate micro-contrast where you want it. It lets you dodge, burn and create a path through the image for the eye to follow. It lets you call the shots. Just because the files come out of the camera with a lot of beautiful grey tonality does’t mean you’re required to display them that way. You could, instead, spend 60 seconds inside Lightroom, Photoshop, or one of a myriad other applications and make the file look the way you want it.

    Have we really gotten so lazy that we demand our cameras make all our processing decisions for us? I suspect it’s only a matter of time until a camera is nothing more than a little ball that sits atop our heads and continuously records everything in the spherical space around us —analyzing it, comparing what it sees to a giant database of the most “liked” images on Facebook, then selecting those moments within our sphere that best match those images. Our little head cameras will then apply “appropriate” processing to the images it selects, and wirelessly upload them to the web before sending out an automated tweet from our Twitter account, linking to our Flickr page and exclaiming “Hey, look at these 7 amazing photos I just took!” Yet all we’ve really done is walk 2-blocks to the local coffee shop for a machiatto and a chance to chat up that cute barista.

    Grey is good. Grey is malleable. Grey is traditional. And grey is exactly the way I want my raw images to appear. But then, I’m not one for lazing about on beaches…

    Purity Fetishists

    Besides the beach fetish, there’s another sort of hang-up that prevents some folks from accepting the notion that the Monochrom’s low contrast file is an ideal starting point for image processing — and that’s the fetish that dictates that no image processing should ever be needed if a photo is taken correctly. There are those who believe a camera can be judged only by examining its pure, unprocessed and unadulterated images, and that any form of processing obscures the capabilities of the camera in question. But what constitutes a pure and unprocessed image? There’s no such thing. In the digital world, an image is nothing more than bits and bytes. There is no image — there is only a mathematical interpretation of an image. Your computer’s RAW or JPG converter (or the camera’s built-in converter) merely interprets these numbers and assembles an image based on a conservative estimate of what the software thinks the photo should look like. I don’t necessarily buy into the belief that a bunch of algorithm coders know more than I about how I want my image to look.

    The idea of a “pure” image is a myth. Many whose photographic lives began after the demise of film seem to believe all those great, classic film photographs are somehow “pure” — that they couldn’t possibly have been manipulated since Photoshop didn’t exist. Little do they know about the magic of darkroom chemical selection; the mysterious art of the dodge and burn; the wonders of graded contrast papers; the flexibility of multigrade papers and variable contrast filters; and of the miracles of potassium ferricyanide. You don’t really think W. Eugene Smith would get hopped up on poppers and spend 72 straight hours working on a single print just for the fun of it, do you?

    Freudian Fetishists

    Some people believe that a camera is just a camera, but the Freudian Fetishists know better — they know that a camera is a mainline to their soul. Some believe a photograph is something to be seen, but the Freudian Fetishists believe it’s something to be understood. Are you a theorist? A thinker? An existentialist? A reader of the ULTRAsomething photography site? Then you’re a Freudian Fetishist, and you’ll understand what I mean when I say that one of the Monochrom’s greatest attributes is the psychological advantage you gain from losing any possibility to shoot in color.

    If this statement makes you roll your eyes in disagreement, it stands to reason that you are not a carrier of the Freudian gene. Those who manifest Freudian proclivities are the type who prefer prime lenses to zooms, since primes force them to see their surroundings within the confines of a particular focal length, which sharpens their eye and heightens their sense of photographic opportunities. By restricting focal length, Freudian photographers know they actually increase their photographic options.

    The same applies to shooting B&W. I’ll admit, even though the majority of my M9 images get converted to B&W, that knowing it can shoot color means I still keep an eye out for color. Such flexibility actually dilutes my vision. I’m well aware that 99% of the people will read this and dismiss it as ridiculous. But, for me, it’s true. There’s just something about the rigidity of shooting in B&W that inspires me. Post-capture B&W conversion has always felt wrong; like cheating; like a special effect rather than a dedicated choice. The Monochrom frees me from the distractions of color and from feelings of fraudulence.

    Egor Fetishists

    By all rights, this should be a rather small and exclusive group of fetishists, with a membership hovering somewhere around one.

    I’m always surprised how many people seek the opinions of others as guidance. But then, nearly every one of my favorite movies rates below a “3” (out of 10) on IMDB, so you can see why I might think this. My tastes can best be described as “fringe.” Whether I ultimately like a camera should have no bearing on whether anyone else likes the camera.

    Still, anyone who’s made it to the end of this article deserves some kind of closure — some indication of my overall personal assessment of this camera. And so, for the purpose of “entertainment” and with all caveats firmly articulated, I’ll deliver my final proclamation… right after I admonish one more group — the Impulse Fetishists.

    Impulse Fetishists are people who form strong opinions about cameras and lenses simply by looking at a few photos on the web. I have no idea how someone can look at a photo on a website — a photo that they didn’t even take — and draw a conclusion about the camera that took it? Or how that same person can reach a conclusion about a camera’s imaging capabilities by simply looking at a web photo that displays only about 3% of the RAW image’s total resolution? I suspect, having seen enough Impulse Fetishists to polish my cynicism to a blinding glare, that hundreds (if not thousands) of people will see this article and instantly leap to a conclusion. They won’t read the article. They won’t even look at more than one or two pictures. But they’ll have seen “enough” to draw a decisive and incontrovertible conclusion. I’m quite comfortable publicly dismissing this fetish and all its practitioners, since I know none of them will actually be reading this text.

    There is no doubt that I love the Monochrom. I am a B&W photographer. If I never had to worry about pleasing anyone other than myself, I would be perfectly happy to never take another color photo. I have always wanted a black & white digital camera, and ever since I first learned how color digital cameras worked, I’ve known that a black & white version would have certain fidelity advantages over its color counterpart. The fact that this camera was developed by Leica, and not one of the more mainstream companies like Canon or Nikon is, for me, a real stroke of luck. Not because I’m a brand loyalist, but because I’m a rangefinder shooter — and the advantages of a rangefinder are essential to the way I photograph. So to have my dream camera (a black & white digital) available in my preferred format (a rangefinder) is like winning the lottery.

    But winning the lottery is what I’d have to do in order to afford this camera. Truthfully, if I sold my M9 (plus some other cameras and lenses), I could scrape together enough cash to buy the Monochrom. But that would leave me without a single color digital camera. And while it’s true that I would personally be happy to only ever shoot B&W, such ideology does not mirror that of any clients I might wish to pursue.

    In one hand, I’m holding the camera of my dreams — the single best match for my photographic proclivities of any digital camera ever manufactured. In the other hand I’m holding nothing — no wad of cash; no list of clients clamoring for B&W photos; and no galleries screaming for my quirky and blurry little slice-of-life prints. In order to achieve equilibrium, I must either free up one hand by relinquishing the Monochrom, or I must find something of equal value to put into the empty hand to balance its cost. And so, unless any of you readers know someone who wishes to employ a discursive wordsmith with a black & white photography fetish, my time with the borrowed Monochrom has come to an end — replaced with a fond but fading memory of the best digital camera I’ve ever used.

    ©2012 grEGORy simpson

    This article (along with many of its associated comments) first appeared in my f/Egor column for the Leica Camera Blog on November 7, 2012.

    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.

  • A Fetishist’s Guide to the Monochrom (Part 2)

    A Fetishist’s Guide to the Monochrom (Part 2)

    In Part 1 of this series, I theorized that nearly every element of a photographer’s perceived needs are really nothing more than his fetishes — and each photographic fetish comes with its own adherents and detractors. I began with a discussion of the camera’s build quality and here, in Part 2, I’ll discuss various imaging fetishes, and how the Monochrom might or might not satisfy some of the more popular fixations.

    Color Fetishists

    As you might expect, a camera called the “Monochrom” is fundamentally incapable of delivering gorgeously saturated colors. If color photography is your bag, then the Monochrom has no place inside it.

    But color fetishism isn’t the sole domain of color photographers. B&W photographers often obsess over color, because color translates into luminosity and tonality in a black and white image. In the film era, photographers often selected one film stock over another because of differences in their color interpretations. Similarly, B&W photographers always stocked a wealth of colored filters, knowing that a filter applied to the front of any lens would alter the scene’s relative contrast. For example, in the following photo I used an orange filter to drastically darken the bright blue sky, which I knew would be the predominant “color” in this photo. As contrary as the notion might seem, being a good B&W photographer once required having a much better understanding of color than many color photographers.

    For this reason, one of the first things I did when I got the Monochrom was to run a series of tests to see how it responded to color. I had to know how the Monochrom “saw” color, so that I could train myself to see it in the same way.

    The first thing I noticed when comparing output between the M9 and the Monochrom was their exposure difference. Specifically, when using the same lens and identical exposure settings on both cameras, shots from my M9 were consistently a half-stop less exposed than the Monochrom. The second thing I noticed was that a desaturated M9 shot looked nothing like a Monochrom shot — the M9 exhibited greater tonal contrast across a scene. Although you might think this is a good thing, it’s not. Too much contrast allows too little room for manipulation. By starting with a richer, smoother greyscale, there’s more opportunity to adjust an image’s tonal balance to your liking. When it comes to black and white, starting with a greyer image is, for me, preferable to starting with a contrasty image.

    The following comparison shows an X-Rite color chart photographed with an old Leitz 50mm thread mount Elmar lens. On the left is the color version, as photographed by my M9. On the right is the same chart, as photographed by the Monochrom. In the middle is a desaturated version of the M9 file after adding a 1/2 stop exposure adjustment in Lightroom. Notice how the desaturated M9 image has much more built-in contrast — with much darker blues and much lighter yellows than the Monochrom file.

    Next, I compared what happens when I let Lightroom perform a default B&W conversion on that same M9 file. On the left is the desaturated M9 file. On the right is the Monochrom file. In the middle is the default Lightroom B&W conversion. Notice that this file interprets color much more like the Monochrom, but with numerous subtle differences across the various colors.

    Finally, I spent some time tweaking Lightroom’s B&W color conversion parameters to yield an image as close as possible to the one from the Monochrom. In the following comparison, you can see my custom results in the left image. In the center is the Monochrom output. Notice that they are nearly identical now. Furthermore, I shot the same color chart using the same 50mm Elmar lens mounted on my Leica IIIf, which was loaded with Tri-X (and which I developed in Rodinal). The Tri-X color rendering is shown on the right. It’s very similar to the Monochrom rendering, varying only slightly in the way it interprets greens. This is a good thing since my experience shooting Tri-X means I’ll have a pretty good idea how colors will render in the Monochrom.

    The custom color-conversion preset that I created in Lightroom proved very useful for further analyzing differences between M9 files and Monochrom files, since it “levelled” the playing field — minimizing exposure and tonal differences between the two cameras. Some of these comparisons will be discussed further when other fetishes are addressed.

    Film Fetishists

    Now that we know the Monochrom has a color response that’s reasonably similar to Tri-X, it’s only fair to ask the next logical question: do images from the Monochrom look anything like film? This is a slippery slope, since film has a long and storied existence, and is thus laden with its own fetishes, feuds, facts and fictions.

    In order to at least hint at the answer, I again took to comparing shots from the Monochrom with shots from my Leica IIIf. (NOTE: Should anyone wonder why I used the IIIf and not my M2 or M6TTL, it was simply a matter of access — both film M-bodies were loaded with some rather specialized film stock, but my IIIf had a roll of Tri-X inside and a few remaining exposures to burn). In order to minimize the differences between Monochrom files and Tri-X files, I performed these comparisons with old Leica thread-mount lenses, since they’re easily adapted to the Monochrom. Similarly, since I’d been exposing the Tri-X at ISO 400, I chose to set the Monochrom’s ISO to 400, as well. I used a tripod to minimize any external vibration and insure that both cameras would photograph the same scene from the same angle. The photos you see below were taken about 30 seconds apart, using identical exposure settings and the exact same lens.

    So what do we see? Other than the Tri-X being obviously grainier (a side-effect of some aggressive Rodinal development), we don’t see a whole lot of tonal difference. The midtones render almost identically. The Tri-X shot has, perhaps, a tiny bit more contrast — but these are unaltered, straight-from-camera (or scanner) files. Any such subtle difference could be quickly altered with only the slightest nudge of a gamma curve.

    The differences become more apparent when we pixel (grain) peep, and the following series of comparisons allow us to do exactly that:

    The left column contains a detail from the top of the high-rise at the left of the frame. This part of the structure is clad in highly reflective metal panels, and a large section of this area completely blew the highlights on the Monochrom. The top image shows this blown-out area in the Monochrom file, and the bottom image shows this same blown-out area on the scanned Tri-X negative. (NOTE: For the edification of detail fetishists, I should mention that I scan my negatives using a Plustek 7600i scanner with SilverFast Ai Studio 8, and optimize each scan to extract the full dynamic range from each negative, which I then store as a 16-bit greyscale TIFF file). Frankly, I expected the Monochrom’s blown highlights to look somewhat posterized and the Tri-X’s to appear more gradual. This was not the case — both files gracefully handled the overexposure in a very similar way.

    The next column contains another blown highlight detail — this one a specular highlight from a reflection in some building windows. Here, perhaps, we see a slight bit of posterization in the clipped region of the Monochrom file, while the Tri-X seems to clip ever-so-slightly more gracefully. But is that really the case, or is it just a side-effect of the Monochrom’s extreme level of detail?

    The third column contains an extraction from the lower-right corner of the frame — where the sidewalk and trees are cast in deep shadows. Again, save for the fact that the Monochrom file is so much cleaner and more detailed, the two files contain almost identical amounts of shadow detail.

    The right column is merely a random detail, which I extracted from the center of the frame. Again, we see almost identical tonality, but the Monochrom file is simply in another class when resolution is considered.

    I must admit that I’m a bit of a film fetishist myself — in fact, prior to the Monochrom’s arrival, I’d shot more film “keepers” this year than I’d shot digital — the first time in over a decade this has happened. Please don’t interpret this statement as fodder for the ever-tiresome film vs. digital debate — it’s not.  I shoot and love both, because both have different characteristics. So what are the characteristics that make me still use film? And will the Monochrom allow me to repurpose my stainless developing tanks into stylish storage containers for screws, coins and buttons?

    There are two reasons why I sometimes grab a film camera on the way out the door. The first is film’s tonality, and its response to light. The Monochrom definitely closes the gap here, but it doesn’t quite eliminate it. There are still differences with toe and shoulder response that, in some “real-world “situations, make me choose film. Note that I define “real world” as meaning “oops, I really screwed up the exposure on that shot!” And in these conditions, film’s unique toe and shoulder response curves completely save my butt. If I were more in control of my exposure, I wouldn’t hesitate to claim that the Monochrom could effectively eliminate the tonal advantages I get from film. But on the streets, where photo opportunities occur so quickly that I have to “make do” with dubious exposure and even more dubious focus, film remains somewhat more forgiving, and thus a viable medium.

    The second reason I’ve been shooting more film is simply that I really like grain. My photos are often heavily flawed and, frankly, once I’ve drifted so far from perfect image quality, I adopt a “more the merrier” attitude when it comes to the presence of additional flaws. That’s why I like higher speed films, and it’s why I develop that film in Rodinal, rather than in some lower acutance developer. One look at the detailed “Monochrom v Tri-X” images shown earlier  will tell you that “grain” is not something I’m going to get from a Monochrom file.

    In truth, when I shoot in dark environments and pump up the ISO, I’m almost dismayed by the Monochrom’s low noise floor. I expect images shot after sunset to be grainy — but the Monochrom remains spectacularly clean. There are, of course, grain emulators built in to today’s software, and the simulations in both Silver Efex Pro and Lightroom are quite capable, providing you use them carefully and intelligently. One advantage of the Monochrom is that any noise it does contain is a bit more like a dusting of static than a jagged assemblage of digital artifacts. So I’ve taken to adding a bit of artificial grain to the Monochrom’s high ISO shots — simply because this is how I expect these images to look, and the absence of grain seems somewhat strange to me.

    The earlier image of the man sitting in a chair is a prime example. That photo was taken at dusk using ISO 1600, yet it was smooth as a double shot of Patrón. It’s not the way I wanted the image to look, so I “roughed it up” a bit in software. Let’s just say that it’s far easier to rough up a high-fidelity file than it is to polish a low-fidelity file. So is this cheating? I’ll leave it to the debaters to debate. Meanwhile, I’ll be out shooting the heck out of the Monochrom, and enjoying every second of it — even if it’s not film’s exact digital doppelgänger:

    Ultimately, if you want something that looks like film, feels like film and smells like fixer, then let me point you to a little website called “eBay.” There you’ll find all manner of film cameras just waiting for a new home and a loving owner. If I owned a Monochrom, I would still continue to shoot film, but I’m quite certain that the quantity of Tri-X flowing through my cameras would drop precipitously. The fact that the Monochrom’s fidelity is higher (and its noise floor lower) than any camera I’ve ever used (film or digital) is not something to take lightly. In spite of its film-like tonality, the cleanliness and detail contained in these files still make them appear uniquely digital. Is this good or bad? That depends totally on you, your fetishes, and how flexible you are.

    As I speculated in an article called Hatch Battening, which I wrote for ULTRAsomething, the Monochrom indeed has its own look — its files are cleaner, richer, sharper and more detailed than my M9, which makes the Monochrom a very enticing alternative to simply post-converting a color file. If a very realistic film “look” is what you’re after, the Monochrom won’t quite give it to you — but its capacity to give you so much more is not something film shooters should dismiss. The Monochrom is its own world — one that’s worthy of exploring for anyone seeking maximum overall fidelity in a black and white image.

    Henri Cartier-Bresson Fetishists

    At one time or another, we’ve all succumbed to the Henri Cartier-Bresson fetish. If you haven’t, you will. And if you have, it’ll always be with you — at least to some extent. My Cartier-Bresson fetish haunts me every time I consider cropping a photo. I know there’s absolutely nothing wrong with improving an image by cropping it, yet the ghost of Cartier-Bresson always appears and admonishes me quite sternly every time I reach for Lightroom’s cropping tool.

    When I think of Cartier-Bresson’s photos, so many factors come to mind — the geometry, the timing, and the rich but subtle grey tonality, which is like a soothing sanctuary from today’s over-amped, hyper-contrast, hyper-reality photos. I have not nearly his eye nor his talent, but the knowledge that such abilities are within human grasp continue to motivate me to at least try.

    Leica, too, was influenced by their own Henri Cartier-Bresson fetish when they developed the Monochrom, which they code-named “Henri” during its development cycle. Curiously, this knowledge had a major impact on the lenses I often chose for my time with this camera. I figured that if Leica was trying to create a digital camera worthy of Henri Cartier-Bresson, the least I could do was use some of the lenses that Cartier-Bresson would have used in his heyday — lenses like my 35mm f/3.5 Elmar LTM and, for maximum authenticity, my 50mm f/3.5 Elmar LTM.

    It feels simply amazing to use a tool whose roots extend back nearly 100 years to Oskar Barnack’s first efforts to repurpose 35mm movie film into a still camera. In an age where everything needs to be marketed as revolutionary, Leica understands the value of evolutionary — and that each generation of products doesn’t need to supplant the previous generation, but enhance it. I don’t suspect there are many companies making bleeding edge products (like the Monochrom) that still work flawlessly with system components dating back to the 1920?s. The fact is, if you learned to use a Leica in 1935, you would instinctively know how to use one in 1957, and in 2012 and, most likely, even in 2041. For me, the Monochrom is the purest digital Leica yet, and while technically superior to my old Leica III in nearly every conceivable way, it’s still unmistakably a part of that lineage.

    I cannot be so arrogant as to speak for the dear departed Mr. Cartier-Bresson, so I won’t. But as one of his many million fetishists, I believe the Monochrom is a camera well worthy of its intended association.

    Sharpness Fetishists

    If it’s sharpness ye seek, and ye seeketh not color, then ye may stoppeth thine search. The Monochrom is, without a doubt, the sharpest camera I’ve ever had the pleasure of shooting — it’s biblically sharp (as you can tell from my introductory prose). Of course, it doesn’t hurt that it’s encased within a Leica M body, meaning Leica’s entire historical inventory of truly stellar optics are all available to supply that camera with some seriously wicked fidelity.

    I’ll admit that sharpness rarely plays a starring role in my own photography. As a street and documentary photographer, I simply have too many variables working against me, meaning motion blur and missed focus tend to eliminate whatever sharpness advantages exist in my gear. Those with the previously mentioned Henri Cartier-Bresson fetish are all likely nodding their heads in agreement. After all, it was Cartier-Bresson who once famously told Helmut Newton that “sharpness is a bourgeois concept.” But those who dole out commercial photography assignments don’t suffer from Cartier-Bresson fetishes — for them, sharpness isn’t bourgeois, it’s profit.

    But every now and then, even for me, sharpness takes on a measure of importance. Consider the following photo. I was standing in sunlight with my camera’s exposure set accordingly when, off in the distance and in the shadow of some buildings, I saw a couple embrace — the man quickly extending his arm to avoid burning the woman with his cigarette. I am forever a sucker for spontaneous displays of affection, so I grabbed the shot — knowing full well I was too far away, had the wrong exposure dialled in, and had only enough time to guess at the focus distance. What you see here is, in reality, a crop (in spite of my imagined admonishments from Mr. Cartier-Bresson) — an area only about 15% the size of the entire frame. Yet, because of the Monochrom’s incredible sharpness (coupled with its shadow detail), I was able to salvage the shot, and get the photo I’d intended.

    So, while sharpness is often unimportant to my own photographs, I’d rather have an abundance of it, then too little — and the Monochrom is the very definition of “an abundance of sharpness.”

    In Part 3, I’ll continue combing through the various imaging fetishes before segueing into some of the more psychological aspects of Monochrom photography — exactly the sort of stuff that’s guaranteed to set off at least a few rants on photography forums around the world.

    ©2012 grEGORy simpson

    This article (along with many of its associated comments) first appeared in my f/Egor column for the Leica Camera Blog on October 31, 2012.

    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.