I photograph people. On the streets and in public places, my eye and my camera keep a vigilant lookout for the little nuances that help define what it means to be human. Because of this somewhat curious behaviour, I’ve been cursed at, chased and threatened, yet I don’t resent when these street confrontations occur. They’re merely a response to our mistrustful times and to an over-abundance of poorly conceived street photography on the internet. But unlike those in the dSLR brigade who shoot from across the street with their long safari lenses, my wide angles make me much easier to catch and berate. Which is fine — it gives me an opportunity to explain what I’m doing and why. Rarely, however does dropping such names as W. Eugene Smith, Robert Frank or Garry Winogrand result in any sort of deeper understanding from my admonishers, but it does help diffuse the situation long enough that I can make a quick escape.
I am very conscious of the fact that photographing people in a public place is a privilege, not a right. One needs only to look at the clampdown on photography in various countries to realize how easy it is to lose that privilege. So I never take photos with the intent of being exploitative or disrespectful of my subject.
The problem, of course, is that different people have different ideas of what might be considered disrespectful. The hardest thing about being a humanistic photographer is not finding the intriguing shot, it’s not timing the shot, it’s not focusing, exposing, framing or even post-processing the shot. The hardest thing about being a humanistic photographer is deciding whether or not I should actually publish a particular shot.
The fact is, I don’t know the people I photograph. In general, I photograph only those with whom I feel some intangible connection, friendship, camaraderie, empathy or attraction. If I feel a sense of dislike for a person or their actions, I usually don’t photograph them. Unfortunately, even though my photographic intentions are honorable, I can never truly say whether or not my subjects might be offended by a particular photo. All I can do is to look at each photo and ask myself whether or not I would take offense if this were a photo of me. Granted, I have far less shame than the average person, so I try to err on the conservative side.
Unfortunately, not all photographers show their subjects the respect they deserve. So let me make a simple suggestion to any photographer who shoots on the street. Ask yourself two simple questions before you trip that shutter. First ask, “What is my purpose for taking this person’s photo?” Then ask, “Would I still take this photo if I were two meters from my subject and not 20?” If the answer to the first question is, “to disrespect this person” or the answer to the second is “no,” then maybe it’s not a photo that should be taken — nor is it one that should be published.
I believe in freedom of speech. I believe in freedom of expression. But I also believe in compassion and respect. At times, these can be conflicting values. It’s exactly why I have such a hard time deciding which photos to publish and why my hard drive is full of some rather good images that will never see the light of day. Freedom doesn’t just mean “the freedom to photograph and publish everything you want.” Freedom also means “the freedom to choose which photos you don’t publish.”
Street shooting is a privilege. Empathize with your subjects. Like your subjects. Respect your subjects.
This article (along with many of its associated comments) first appeared December 19, 2011 in my f/Egor column for the Leica Camera Blog.
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A couple years ago, when flappers were dancing the Charleston and ULTRAsomething was still published on newsprint, I would sometimes write about various photographic challenges and how I approached their resolution. Apparently I enjoyed these articles more than my readers did, because they’re amongst the least popular posts ever published on ULTRAsomething.
Although I began to write less frequently about these challenges, I never stopped creating new ones for myself. One of the great things about photography — unlike endeavors such as athletics or underwear modeling — is that you actually improve with age. But you can’t improve if you don’t push yourself, and that’s why I’m always inventing new, self-imposed photo challenges to coax me from my comfort zone.
Last month, I gave myself a new assignment: take a photo that screams “autumn!”
Simple, right? It would have been, had I not stipulated that the photo be shot in black & white. And just to make it tough on myself, I imposed a few additional requirements: I would use neither chicanery nor metaphor. Nor would I allow myself to invoke the transitive property of geometry: “if it’s North America and it’s a photo of a Jack o’ Lantern, then it’s obviously autumn!”
Nope. I wanted a nice “typical” photograph of autumn foliage that, in spite of the fact it was black & white, would still convey “autumn.”
My first attempts all involved scenes that contained a cacophony of colors — red leaves, yellow leaves, orange leaves and green leaves. I knew that careful color filtering would reveal the tonal contrasts between trees, since leaves of different colors would render in different shades of grey. And what was the end result? A bunch of grey trees! I will neither bore you, nor embarrass myself, by posting the pitiful results.
So I simplified the concept, and chose to work with only the basic computer graphic colors: red, green and blue. With a bit of color filtration, I knew these colors would resolve into three distinct tonal shades: white, grey and black. It wasn’t hard to find a scene that contained all the elements: red leaves, green leaves, blue sky and water.
As a test, I photographed the rather banal vista shown below, and applied some red filtering in post production. As expected, the red trees turned white, the blue sky turned black, and the green trees remained grey.
There’s just one problem: This photo bears a striking resemblance to an infrared photograph. Anyone who’s ever seen an infrared photo knows that leaves turn to white and the sky turns black. So in the previous photo, there’s nothing that makes this shot say “autumn” instead of “infrared.” Sure there are a few grey (green) trees in the left of the frame, but even that’s to be expected with infrared photography.
So I rejected this method too, and I wandered around for another month — tempted to either quit or cheat. I just couldn’t figure out how to take a black & white photo of brightly colored foliage, yet make it say “autumn.”
Then last week, with fall waning and winter bearing down, I saw a pair of trees on a hillside — each resplendently adorned with a radiant mixture of yellow and green leaves. It was the sort of scene that color photographers get giddy over. I stared at this scene for a good five minutes. I knew that, somewhere beneath all this color, there must be a black & white shot.
As I walked beneath the trees and looked upward into the complex labyrnth of branches, I heard the fallen leaves rustle beneath my feet. So I looked down — and that’s when I saw the shot shown at the top of this article.
I’d spent so long shooting tree tops, it never occurred to me to shoot tree bottoms. When else, other than autumn, would we see a brightly colored mix of leaves at the base of a tree? And because the leaves are so much whiter than the tree trunk (which, instinctively, we know is brown) we automatically intuit that the leaves must be brightly colored. Consequently, I think this photo succeeds — not necessarily by being a great (or even particularly interesting) shot, but by fully satisfying the dictates of my self-assigned challenge.
Come to think of it, this is probably the reason I stopped publishing articles about overcoming difficult photographic situations — it’s because, by definition, these articles force me to display failure and mediocrity. Considering the state of today’s photographic job market, this doesn’t seem like an overly wise career move.
But then, prospective employers don’t really read this site — photographers do. So here’s a little tip to my fellow photographers: give yourself assignments. Hard ones. Because the more you push yourself, the more you’ll learn to really see the world around you, and the better your photos will be. And in your twilight years, while your buddies all lament their faded physiques and reminisce about past glories on the playing field, you’ll know (as a photographer) that your better days are still to come.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Autumn” was shot with a Pentax K-5 fronted with an old Pentax-M 120mm f/2.8 lens. “Red or Infrared?” was photographed with a Leica M9 and a 35mm version 4 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.
I never could relate to that song by The Carpenters. While I’ll willfully agree that Mondays usually do seem to suck chalk, what’s so bad about the rain? Why did it take a combination of both rainy days and Mondays to get Karen Carpenter down? Wasn’t the fact that it was Monday justification enough for her melancholia?
Personally, I love the rain. It’s refreshing, cleansing and invigorating, and it puts a nice thick veil between me and that nasty old sun. As a rain lover, I live in the perfect place: Vancouver Canada. Winters here could send any Carpenters fan scurrying for a lithium prescription — even on a Thursday. But as much as I enjoy being out in the rain, there is one minor snafu: I’m a photographer. And modern digital cameras aren’t nearly as receptive to precipitation as I am.
In the past, I’ve taken several approaches to the problem of photographing Vancouver in the winter. For many years, I simply ignored the challenge completely and defined “winter photography” as “time to practice my studio lighting techniques.” But as the years passed and my photographic obsessions grew more vernacular, the winter rains became aggravating. I wanted to be outside, not holed up in the studio with a rickety assemblage of artificial lights and contrived tableaux. I needed to feel the drops sting my face, and witness the frantic scurrying of passersby dodge and weave their way through an umbrella labyrinth.
In short, I needed a weather-sealed camera. So every autumn I’d look at the camera industry’s latest offerings, and every autumn I’d reject them — or rather they’d reject me. Weatherproof cameras were built for one of two “camps,” but I resided in a third. These cameras were either 1) small point-and-shoots with limited ergonomics and dubious optical quality designed for summer beach and pool amusement, or 2) large, full-bodied dSLRs designed for shooting professional sports, tracking elusive Connecticut Warblers, or impressing young ladies on Model Mayhem. My camp desired a camera right smack in the middle of these two extremes — a location bypassed annually by modern camera developers.
So for the last few years, I’ve circumvented the winter camera problem by employing decidedly non-modern cameras — mechanical film cameras, to be precise. They’re inexpensive, durable and readily available. With no electronic components, there’s nothing to “short out” should a little rain or snow invade their bodies. With no batteries, there’s no power source to rapidly deplete in cold weather. Plus, I just like inventing good excuses to shoot film.
Still, as much as I enjoy working with mechanical film cameras, I’m neither rich enough nor famous enough to shoot 100% of my winter photos on Tri-X. So this autumn, I did what I do every autumn — peruse the digital weatherproof camera landscape. From my usual campsite, I gazed toward the western horizon at the little Fuji Finepix XP’s, Olympus Tough’s and Panasonic TS’s. I looked to the eastern horizon at the Canon 1D’s and the Nikon D3’s. And as I turned to walk back toward my collection of beloved film cameras, I tripped over a newfangled digital weather-resistant camera sitting right here in my own camp — the Pentax K-5.
I saw several advantages to the Pentax. To start with, it was the first weather-sealed camera that delivered a higher than expected image quality for a lower than expected price. Second, it was small (for an SLR). I need a camera that enables me to carry it all day in one hand, while dancing betwixt and pirouetting around my scurrying subjects. Third, there exists a wealth of inexpensive old legacy lenses for the Pentax mount; really inexpensive lenses. I mean, there are old Pentax lenses out there that I can purchase for less than I’d spend shooting and developing a day’s worth of Tri-X.
Recently flush with the proceeds of several equipment sales, I had just enough cash for the now heavily-discounted K-5 body with its 18-55 weather-sealed kit lens. For a few pennies more, I also added an old manual focus Pentax-M 120mm f/2.8.
I now had my inclement weather camera — the one I could use in a monsoon, in a hale storm, a sandstorm or a blizzard. I couldn’t wait to go get drenched. And as fate would have it, for three days subsequent to the purchase, Vancouver basked in absolutely glorious weather.
Monday arrived and brought along its friend, the rain. I was still not fully-certified on the intricacies of the K-5, so I avoided the downtown throngs and wandered along the shores of English Bay. Its plethora of static subjects afforded me the time to experiment with various settings, and to learn the system’s quirks — paramount among them the irksome way Pentax lenses focus in the opposite direction of Leica’s. The few times I did try to photograph people, I spent so long wrapping my head around the ‘backward’ focusing, metering stratagems and numerous modes and buttons, that my subjects had often passed me by.
Although I’m still a couple weeks away from having complete instinctual control over the K-5, the very fact I could fumble about with it while standing in the driving rain was most liberating. Never before could I (or would I) risk spending hours walking in a deluge while shooting with a digital camera.
Of course I was always mindful that the K-5 is marketed as “weather resistant” and not “waterproof.” The camera is obviously not meant for submersion or merciless abuse. Unfortunately, Pentax (nor any other camera manufacturer) makes any effort to quantify exactly what they mean by “weather resistant.” There exists a perfectly good international standard (called an “IP rating”) that specifies exactly how impervious a particular device is to dust and water. But camera manufacturers are reticent to publish these IP numbers — preferring to forgo something meaningful like: “this camera features an IP64 rating,” in favor of something meaningless like: “this camera features 77 weather seals.”
Suffice to say, in spite of the weather resistant claims, I don’t do anything too stupid with the K-5. I wipe it down frequently with a small rag and, should I be standing for an extended period with the camera exposed to the elements, I’ll drape the rag over its top. Why tempt fate? If Pentax doesn’t feel comfortable giving the K-5 a meaningful water-resistance rating, why should I rely solely on marketing puffery and trade show parlor tricks?
Still, I’m (mostly) human. And so I have, on occasion, yielded to the temptation to stick this camera in places I’d never consider sticking any of my other digital cameras, just to see what sort of photo I might get…
Speaking of temptation, I feel a strong urge to address a few additional K-5 curiosities. But I’ll stop here before this article deteriorates into another tedious camera review (though it’s likely I’ll foist such tedium on you in the future). The only real point of this article is to share the joy and liberation I feel being able to shoot on some of Vancouver’s more heinous winter days; and to remind my fellow photographers that, thanks to the Pentax K-5, neither rainy days nor Mondays ever need get you down.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: In spite of appearances, the Pentax K-5 (with which I took all these photos) does not create an image with a 2.5 x 1 aspect ratio. That’s merely the result of my futzing around with cropping. “Winter. Monday. Vancouver. #1”, “Winter. Monday. Vancouver. #3” and “The Day Before” were all shot using a Pentax-M 120mm f/2.8 lens. “Winter. Monday. Vancouver. #2” was shot with a Pentax-DA SMC 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6 AL WR, and “Splash” saw the K-5 mounted with a super-cheap Takumar-A 28mm f/2.8 lens while sitting only a few centimeters away from the crashing surf.
If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
Many people assume that writing product reviews is all ice cream and pony rides. After all, who among us wouldn’t desire free use of the latest, shiniest wonder-widget for a week or two? So when I tell you that Leica lent me their new 21mm Super-Elmar-M f/3.4 ASPH for review purposes, you’re excused for concluding that my preparations involved clearing out extra freezer space and ordering up a fresh bale of hay.
In actuality, reviewing products is work. In the case of camera lenses, a good review requires the photographer to carefully, painstakingly and rigidly control the shooting environment — locking the camera to a tripod and minimizing all extraneous sources of variance or error. Good reviewers also spend long hours photographing test scenes, test targets and test walls. A true product review is objectively clinical rather than subjectively instinctual. Yes indeed, product reviews are laborious. And that’s exactly why I don’t write reviews — I write “impressions.” Writing impressions enables me to spend my precious few days using a product the way I would if I owned it, rather than descending into the laboratory and running measurements. A photographer’s “impressions” may not benefit an interested buyer as much as a full-on review (like the sort crafted by Sean Reid, for example), but it does help those who may share that photographer’s inclinations. And, best of all, it lets me at least pet the pony and have a taste of that delicious ice cream.
A 21mm Allure
I don’t believe in pigeonholing lenses — each lens’ use is limited only by the imagination of the photographer who shoots it. So the photographs included with this article should, in no way, suggest these are the only types of photos at which this lens might excel. Instead, these photographs suggest the way I, personally, might use this particular lens. For me, the 21mm focal length is an ideal match for several subjects, but none more significant than its value as a street and documentary lens.
Because 21mm lenses have extensive depth-of-field, they’re “deep” lenses as well as “wide” lenses. The benefit of this, for documentary-style photography, is that they allow you to photograph your subject in context with its surroundings. I discussed this at some length in an old ULTRAsomething article called “The Contextual Lens” should you wish to read more.
Consider the shot above. If you wanted to photograph a pigeon for a birding book or encyclopedia, then you’d use a long lens to isolate a single specimen from its environment. However if you wanted to show the social interaction between pigeons, between pigeons and humans, and between pigeons and their environment, then you’re going to need a lens with some width (and “depth”).
In a similar vein, consider the following photo — the subjects of which were only 2-3 meters away from me. Had I photographed this grouping with a “standard” lens, the curious context would have been completely lost. I would have been able to photograph only a subset of the group — perhaps the amiably disposed policeman, or the seemingly happy moustachioed man, or the thoroughly disinterested fellow with the cap, or the handcuffed gentleman in the Hawaiian shirt. Each, as an individual subject, is not that interesting. Together they provide a story — even if I can’t figure out what that story might be.
In my short time with Leica’s new 21mm Super-Elmar-M, I found nothing (affordability aside) that would discourage me from purchasing it for “street” or documentary photography. It’s impeccably built and has a focus ring that’s both smooth and tight. At first, the tightness caused me some mild distress, but I’ve come to recognize this as a benefit. On the streets, I’ll frequently scale-focus a 21mm lens by setting it to a pre-determined distance, which enables me to shoot rapidly without having to re-focus. The tightness of the ring insures that the focus remains exactly where I set it and doesn’t drift.
The lens is reasonably petit and, sans hood, is roughly the same size as my naked 28mm Summicron. However, that 28mm Summicron’s cartoonishly large plastic monstrosity of a hood nearly doubles the size of the lens and can actually be seen from outer space. In contrast, the 21mm Super-Elmar-M’s hood is made of metal, is delightfully lilliputian, and barely increases either the length or width of the lens. In fact, even with the hood screwed onto the front, the lens intrudes only the tiniest amount into the frame of my external 21mm Leica viewfinder.
While so-called “street” photography is my prime motivation for owning a 21mm lens, I also employ this focal length for architectural, landscape and abstract photography purposes.
This is where the benefits of the Super-Elmar-M really unveil themselves. The lens is sharp. Crazy sharp. “Shoot-a-vast-landscape-yet-still-see-the-larva-on-a-single-maple-leaf” sharp. Poetically sharp.
In the tightly-controlled conditions of architectural and landscape photography, the performance of this lens stunned me. I’m in utter disbelief at the level of microscopic detail made visible by the combination of the Leica M9 and the 21mm Super-Elmar-M. If sharpness is your bag, then the 21mm Super-Elmar-M is your lens.
Under the Microscope
As I mentioned earlier, whenever I write about a particular piece of equipment, I give my impressions of its capabilities within my own limited spheres of use. I apply lenses, I don’t test them. So, commensurate with this practice, I dodged, burned and processed all the previous “test” photos as I saw fit, and I mostly shot the 21mm Super-Elmar-M hand-held (often zone-focusing) exactly as I would do if I owned it myself. For example, consider the photo shown here (called “Dressed to Kill”). To shoot it, I held the camera high above my head while I executed a clumsy sort of vertical leap and pirouette — blindly releasing the shutter at the jump’s apex. Astute readers will likely recognize this isn’t exactly what one might consider a “controlled” technique. Normally, such a photo would have no place in a lens review. However it’s perfectly at home in an “impressions” article — particularly since it happens to be one of my favorite images that I took with this lens.
Of course I’m aware that many potential purchasers will scan the internet looking for “sample” images. And for a lens that’s designed to appeal to perfectionists, I know my own artsy-fartsy proclivities and oft-ambivalent attitude toward technically perfect renderings does not do Leica any favors. So the following discussions will all be accompanied by more pedantic photographic offerings that are designed to illustrate a particular optical topic, rather than exist as a stand-alone photo of merit.
[21 Super-Elmar-M f/3.4 ASPH vs All Other 21’s]: The truth is, I can only compare this lens directly with one other 21mm lens — my own 1995 Leica Elmar-M f/2.8 Pre-ASPH. The pre-ASPH has the dubious distinction of being once dissed by Leica lens expert Erwin Puts, which makes it actually affordable on the used market. Last year, right when I’d finally decided to purchase a Voigtlander 21mm f/4, my dealer called to tell me he’d just received a Leica 21mm pre-ASPH on consignment. When I did an A/B comparison between the 1995 Leica and the new Voigtlander, the Leica smacked it in every conceivable way. I don’t know if this was a particularly bad copy of the Voigtlander 21 or if this was a particularly good copy of the pre-ASPH, but there was no doubt which was the better lens. And I’ve been very happy with that 1995 pre-ASPH… until Leica sent me the Super-Elmar-M to review. Have a look:
and…
The 21mm Super-Elmar-M outperforms my old 21mm Elmarit in nearly every measurable way. It’s impressively sharp across its entire aperture range and also from corner-to-corner. It is contrasty (not always ideal for my own use, but universally regarded as ‘desirable’) and it resolves heretofore unimaginable levels of micro-detail. The only technical point to favor my old pre-ASPH is its f/2.8 maximum aperture — though at only a half-stop faster than the 21mm Super-Elmar-M, it provides little practical benefit (given my particular requirements for a 21mm lens).
[Chromatic Aberration]: No one likes chromatic aberration — the thick purple border that appears along edges of maximum contrast such as you might see when photographing tree branches against a bright sky. Heck, I shoot black and white, and I still hate chromatic aberration (since it tends to soften edges or produce weird halos in B&W photos). One of the first things I photographed with this lens was a tree top against a bright sky. I saw no sign of chromatic aberration, so I photographed another… and another… and another. Wide open (which, admittedly, isn’t exactly “wide” at f/3.4), I found it nearly impossible to take a photo that contained anything more than the tiniest smidgeon of chromatic aberration. And I tried. I really tried. Even specular highlights remain free of fringing. This lens is simply remarkable in this regard, furthering its desirability for both landscapes and architectural work.
[Flare]: I did not actually test this lens for flare because I never actually saw any — even when shooting directly into the sun in my futile attempts to force chromatic aberrations.
[Barrel Distortion]: One thing I expect to see in wide angle lenses is barrel distortion. But after several days of shooting the 21mm Super-Elmar-M, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t ever felt the need to correct for it in Lightroom. Intrigued, I looked back through two weeks worth of ‘contact sheets’ in search of barrel distortion. When I thought I saw some (which wasn’t often), I was able to correct it with a single tick of the distortion parameter in Lightroom’s Lens Correction tab. Below, on the left, is an example of an uncorrected image. To the right is the image after I applied “correction.” There is almost no discernible difference between the original shot and my ‘corrected’ shot. And, honestly, I’m not even 100% certain whether the corrected shot is better or worse. Suffice to say, barrel distortion (other than the relative lack of it) will not be something people mention when they discuss this lens.
[Color Rendering]: I hesitate to even mention this lens’ color capabilities, since color photography is not my forte and I have little clue how to assess a lens’ color rendering. So I’ll keep my comments ignorantly simple and state only this: Normally I have terrible trouble wrestling my color photos into something I find “appealing” — even though I always shoot critical shots with an X-rite color chart, create custom RAW camera presets for a particular scene, and have an entirely color-calibrated workflow. But with the 21mm Super-Elmar-M, I have no such color problems. I was pleased with the colors as interpreted by Adobe Lightroom and, surprisingly, I was also pleased by the colors no matter how much I shifted and manipulated their hues. Bottom line: This is one of the few lenses I’ve used that actually makes me consider making a deeper exploration of color photography.
[Bokeh Quality]: Anyone purchasing a 21mm lens isn’t likely to be overly concerned with bokeh quality. First of all, massive depth-of-field is one of the main reasons for purchasing such a lens and secondly, f/3.4 doesn’t exactly scream “bokeh!” Still, in order to ward off inquiries from the internet bokeh police, I opted to perform a couple tests. Below is an example in which I focused on an object .7 meters away, opened the aperture to f/3.4, and made sure to include plenty of infinity subject in the shot. As you can see by the 100% crops, the lens defocusses very smoothly. Obviously, the background doesn’t ‘melt’ away (this is a 21mm lens after all), but it’s perfectly free of weird swirly anomalies or any other freakish artifacts that would deter me from using it at 3.4. Even more encouraging is that focus is so sharp at f/3.4.
[Focus Shift]: What focus shift? Given the fact that 21mm lenses have such extensive depth of field, I neither expected nor noticed any focus shift. Still, I did due diligence and ran a series of tests to confirm my practical findings. As expected, the intended subject was scintillatingly sharp at all apertures, and there wasn’t even a hint of focus shift. For this reason, I have not bothered to include the actual focus test photos with this article. One thing the photos did reveal, however, is that the lens seems to achieve maximum sharpness at f/5.6, softening a barely discernible hair at f/8, then f/11, then f/16.
[Vignetting]: I don’t know if it’s the lens design or a function of the lens correction algorithm in the M9, but I saw very little noticeable vignetting. Admittedly, I never bothered to photograph a blank white wall to verify this as gospel. However, the fact remains that vignetting was never a problem in my photos. In fact, for many street-type photos, I found myself having to add some vignetting in Lightroom in order to get the sort of look I like. But in architectural work, the lack of vignetting is a nice thing. By contrast, my old 21mm 2.8 pre-ASPH shows significant vignetting even with the appropriate M9 lens profile applied. Speaking of lens profiles, I noticed that M9 firmware version 1.162 did not list the 21 f/3.4 lens amongst the list of manual lens choices. However, if I chose “Auto” lens detection then the appropriate profile was applied. Ideally, I would like to be able to manually select the 21 f/3.4 lens from the Lens Detection menu. Most of my lenses are older and therefore not digitally coded, which prevents me from relying on Auto detection to identify a lens.
[Options]: One of the wonderful things about investing in the Leica M system is the sheer number of options with which photographers may avail themselves. For example, although the majority of my test shots were conducted with the Leica M9 digital camera (which I knew would reveal the optical advantages of this particular lens), I was also able to shoot it on my 1959 Leica M2 film camera, and on a Panasonic DMC-GH2 Micro Four-Thirds camera (via a Novoflex lens adapter). Several photos from the M2 are sprinkled throughout this article, and I was extremely happy with the Super-Elmar-M’s performance on this 52 year old camera — in spite of the fact I coupled that decidedly ‘new school’ lens with a distinctly ‘old school’ Plus-X 125 film, and developed it in a slightly inappropriate developer (Ilford DD-X). On the GH2, the 2x crop factor inhibits the 21mm field-of-view to one commensurate with a 42mm lens, giving the Super-Elmar-M an entirely new career path. As with all M-mount lenses on Micro Four-Thirds bodies, there is some pronounced softening in the corners, but center sharpness remains intact (as illustrated by the following gratuitous nod to modern lens reviews).
Conclusion
In my experience, there are only two possible downsides to reviewing demo products: Either you like a product so much that you develop a serious case of gear acquisition syndrome; or you dislike a product and are forced to either write a negative review or politely decline to write ANY review.
Before the lens arrived, I felt confident that neither of these possible downsides would occur. Leica M-mount lenses are of notoriously high optical and build quality, so it would be unlikely I’d dislike the product. On the other side of the coin, I already own an excellent copy of a Leica 21mm f/2.8 Elmarit pre-ASPH, which I absolutely love. So it would be highly unlikely that Leica’s new 21mm would be so much better than my old pre-ASPH that I’d suffer any gear lust…
… but gear lust I have. The Leica 21mm Super-Elmar-M is one of the most stunning lenses I’ve yet mounted on any camera. From the very moment I began to shoot with this lens, I dreaded the day I would return it. I own many Leica lenses, and all but one are at least a generation or two removed from the current model. As a man who tries to earn a living through photographic endeavors, I simply can’t afford new Leica lenses. Because of this, I’ve successfully convinced myself that I prefer the way old lenses render, and have often downplayed the emphasis many people place on lens sharpness. But the 21mm Super-Elmar-M has cast some serious doubt on my rationalization efforts.
If I didn’t already own the old Leica 21mm pre-ASPH, I would gladly fund a new Super-Elmar-M by offering my services as a human guinea pig to the local medical community. It’s just that good. Fortunately, given my propensity for “street” and documentary photography, I am well-served by my existing lens, since many of the new Super-Elmar-M’s optical advantages would be lost on my herky-jerky, blurry “context” shots. If, however, I ever returned to landscape or architectural photography I wouldn’t hesitate to upgrade to the Super-Elmar-M. It would inevitably “wow” my clients as much as it continues to “wow” me.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: All photos were shot with a pre-production Leica Super-Elmar-M 21mm f/3.4 ASPH lens. A Leica M9 digital camera was used for all photos with the exception of “One for Lee Friedlander,” “Pigeon Way,” “Cathedral Place” and “Vancouver Public Library,” which were all shot with a 1959 Leica M2 using Plus-X 125 film and developed in Ilfotec DD-X 1:4; and “Panasonic GH2 Wall,” which was shot with the 21mm lens mounted to a Panasonic DMC-GH2 with a Novoflex adapter.
This article (along with many of its associated comments) first appeared November 23, 2011 in my f/Egor column for the Leica Camera Blog.
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.
Once every three months I slip away from all the limelight, tinsel and glamor of the blogging world, and I take a good long look at ULTRAsomething. Why do I publish articles? Who do they benefit? Who reads them? Is there any tangible reason to keep writing them? Should I actually write more of them?
Sometimes, when I ask these questions, I even try to answer them myself…
Why do I publish articles? I suppose it’s because I care about the things I write, and because I’m genuinely concerned about the future of photography. It’s not that I fear an end to still photography, it’s that I fear an end to what once made still photography so meaningful. I fear that both viewer and photographer are losing the ability to see beyond a photograph’s façade and into its soul. Ultimately, I write because I’m selfish — I enjoy seeing good photography. I enjoy photography with heart, with passion, with meaning and with purpose. That’s why so many of my articles are designed to remind photographers that their ultimate self-satisfaction will not come from following populist dictates, but from exploring their own motives, techniques and personal vision.
Who benefits from these articles? I’m not sure. Certainly not me. They have no value in marketing my photographic services since they’re voiced more for the benefit of other photographers than for clients. I once hoped they would entice paying publications to commission my writing services — but I soon learned that no one is actually willing to pay for content anymore. And if I really am writing these articles to benefit other photographers, then do they? Judging from the majority of landscape, editorial and portrait photography I see published, I would have to say “No.” Photography is continuing to devolve unabated into the domain of “illustration” and a competent, though ultimately dull, sameness.
Who reads these articles? ULTRAsomething attracts many thousands of readers every month. Web stats tell me that of my 25 most-read articles, 22 of them are about photographic equipment. I find this both encouraging and discouraging. It’s encouraging because it means photographers are reading ULTRAsomething in hopes of finding a way to improve their photography. It’s discouraging because it means most photographers believe that the path to better photography lies in buying more gear.
Is there any tangible reason to keep writing these articles? I struggle with this question at least once every three months. If these articles make me no money, then why bother? If these articles bring no new business, then why bother? If people skip the crux of this site — the philosophical articles — and read only the equipment reviews, then why bother? So once every three months, I resolve to pull the plug on ULTRAsomething. And once every three months, I break that resolution. Maybe I’m just a masochist. Or maybe I truly believe that, even if people come for the ‘gear reviews,’ they might just hang around long enough to read a few of the more contemplative articles.
Should I consider writing more frequently? Curiously, every time I wrestle with shuttering ULTRAsomething, I begin to flirt with the alternative — writing more articles. Perhaps the problem with ULTRAsomething is that it’s not a blog, but a collection of occasionally published articles on a variety of topics. To build both a loyal and large readership would require that I write all the time — even when I don’t have anything compelling to say. And this has always been my problem with most blogs — the sheer amount of banality, re-blogging, linking and aggregating that’s required to create daily posts. Is that really a good thing? Maybe. Maybe not. But to tackle such an endeavour and infuse each post with at least a modicum of quality would require that I turn ULTRAsomething into a full time job. That means it needs to generate income…
Give the People What they Want
It occurs to me that I cannot answer all these questions alone. My web stats indicate that over half the people who visit ULTRAsomething are repeat readers, so this implies I must have some sort of “fan base.” Some of you even check in with comments now and then, which I really and truly appreciate. Others choose to contact me via email, which is fine (though commenting on an article does have the added benefit of generating more online conversation).
Maybe, instead of trying to decide what I want to publish, I should ask what you want to read?
I have but two goals for ULTRAsomething — one altruistic, and one the opposite:
1. I would like the site to provide value beyond answering “which camera should I buy this month?” I want the site to help photographers think a bit more about what they photograph and why — to become more in touch with their own vision and to worry less about satisfying the fickle demands of the latest Flickr fads.
2. I would like the site to generate income. I will never turn ULTRAsomething into a subscription site, but I do need to pay for its existence and the time I spend developing it. This means something somewhere must be sold to somebody. Whether I sell workshops to readers or eyeballs to advertisers, ULTRAsomething needs to develop a commercial element.
So what do you want to see from ULTRAsomething? A greater emphasis on technique? Maybe more actual photojournalism and less talk about photojournalism? Book reviews? Software evaluations? An increase in the attention given to alternative gear, techniques and methodologies? Or maybe the opposite — more prominence given to the modern? Perhaps you want more architectural photography? Landscape photos? Nudes? Puppies in a basket? Puppies in a basket with a nude? How about guest posts? Workshops? Interviews? Longer articles? Shorter articles? More frequent articles? What about off-topic articles, like a detailed account of my ongoing battle with the incompetent nincompoops at my cellular company who have yet to send me the iPhone I ordered on announcement day?
ULTRAsomething is only half mine — I just write it and photograph for it. The other half belongs to you — since you’re the ones who read it and view it. So what is it you’d like to read and see? I genuinely want to know. Because the more viewers I get, the better my chances of attracting sponsorship, and the better able I am to serve up more of what you want to consume.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: A few months ago, I stumbled across the misguided souls in “No. 9 Nightmare,” who were all participating in some sort of ‘street photography’ workshop. It nearly depressed the life right out of me. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to raise my Leica M9 with 28mm f/2 Summicron lens, and take the shot as a reminder of how not to host a workshop. “Another Fringe Event” was also shot with a Leica M9 and a 28mm f/2 Summicron lens, and depicts Granville Street the afternoon before the Fringe television show shot its Season 3 finale. Do not be confused by the Brooklyn Philharmonic sign — many of the locations you see in TV and movies are actually Vancouver masquerading as somewhere else. “Contemplation” was shot just a few days ago, while I was out taking a stroll with my Ricoh GXR and a Voigtlander 75mm f/2.5 lens mounted to Ricoh’s new GXR Mount A12 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.
A single camera review will deliver more eyeballs to a photography blog than every other article type combined. So for someone who writes a photography blog, I have a particularly self-destructive character anomaly — I tend to avoid writing camera reviews.
Many will point to my recent discussions of the Lomography Spinner 360, Widelux F7, Rollei 35T, Leica M6 TTL and Yashica-Mat TLR as “evidence” that my avoidance skills aren’t particularly well honed, but I offer the following defense: all of those are film cameras. And with the exception of the Spinner 360, each is long out of production. So maybe I should rephrase the nature of my self-destructive tendency: I tend to avoid writing reviews of current digital cameras.
Long time readers and data archeologists will likely unearth that I have, indeed, discussed digital cameras — but it’s been two and a half years since I’ve done so. It’s not that I don’t like digital cameras (I do). It’s not that I don’t shoot with them (75% of this year’s shots are digital). It’s just that the world is drowning in digital camera blogs. Everybody blogs about the latest digital cameras. Everybody’s uncle, niece, cousin, brother-in-law, best-friend, co-worker and ex-boyfriend also blogs about the latest digital cameras. Every month, some manufacturer releases some new flavor of digital camera and a blogosphere feeding frenzy ensues. A million sycophantic camera bloggers log on to WordPress and begin to regurgitate product brochures and spec sheets while quoting, aggregating and plagiarizing each other in a never-ending quest for a handful of Amazon.com referrals — enough, perhaps, to buy them a (small) cup of coffee. It’s a merry-go-round of manic mediocrity that benefits no one.
Which is why I chose to skip that ride…
Even though I once wrote my impressions of the Panasonic DMC-G1, I never bothered to discuss the model with which I replaced it — the DMC-GH2. That’s because my “review” of the G1 was not so much a review of the specific camera, but an examination of the form factor and the reasons for choosing micro four thirds. Once I reviewed the form factor, there really wasn’t much reason to dwell on model refinements.
Similarly, I once wrote about the Leica M8 but never bothered to discuss the model with which I replaced it — the Leica M9. Again, the M8 “review” was mostly an examination of form factor. Any one of a million camera blogs will tell you why the M9 is an improvement on the M8. But as far as I’m concerned, once I made the critical choice (choosing a rangefinder instead of an SLR for the bulk of my photographic work), model numbers just weren’t as important. That’s why, instead of writing a review of the Leica M9, I chose to write a detailed but generic review of rangefinder cameras.
Honestly, I just don’t see why I should add to the digital camera din. Canon or Nikon? Does it really matter all that much? They’re both SLRs. If an SLR is right for your photography, then you can’t go wrong with either brand — choose the one you bond with, not the one some blogging fanboy waxes ecstatic over. Olympus or Panasonic? They’re both micro four thirds format. Read the spec sheets and figure out which best fits your needs and budget. Try one out and buy the one you like. You don’t need ULTRAsomething to tell you what to think. If you did, more of you would be clicking that DONATE link at the bottom of every post…
This is why, when I do discuss cameras, I tend to gravitate toward those that provide photographers with a real alternative, and not some artificial marketing differentiator. The Spinner 360? Come on, the camera rotates and captures a 360 degree field of view! Try buying another camera that does that. The Widelux F7? It features a rotating lens of excellent quality that quietly and discreetly records a 120 degree field of view without bowing vertical lines. Surely that’s a more compelling alternative to the Olympus E-PL2 than a new E-PL3?! The Rollei 35T? Well, it has the most ergonomically perfect manual exposure settings of any camera I’ve ever used. The more people who are aware of its unique form factor, the greater the chance of enticing modern digital camera designers to copy it. The Leica M6? I keep reading of people who want to own a rangefinder but “can’t afford one.” Just because you can’t afford an M9 doesn’t mean you’re stuck shooting a dSLR or one of the new “mirrorless” systems. I suspect at least 90% of my all-time favorite photographs were shot with some variant of Leica M rangefinder film camera. Maybe more photographers should consider film as an M9 alternative, rather than choosing an entirely different format of camera! Yashica TLR? There’s a reason TLRs were once extremely popular, and maybe my article will entice some of the more soulful photographers to try one out — particularly since the ratio of image quality to camera cost is off the charts in the photographer’s favor!
So why now, after this overly lengthy preamble, am I going to do the unthinkable and use the remainder of this article to discuss the Ricoh GXR — a current digital camera? Because the Ricoh is every bit as unique, liberating and useful as all those other cameras I’ve just discussed.
The Ricoh GXR
This article is not, in any way, a “review” of the Ricoh GXR. Should you wish to read a thorough, detailed and objective review of the Ricoh GXR, I suggest either Luminous Landscape or Reid Reviews (a pay site that’s worth well more than its subscription fee for any Leica-curious photographer). Me? I write impressions. Subjective impressions. Impressions that are probably only of value to candid, “street” or documentary style photographers. And, truth be told, when Ricoh released the GXR in late 2009, my impression was one of disinterest. Although I found the idea intriguing (a user replaceable sensor), I didn’t much care for the execution — I simply had no need for any of the camera’s available lens modules.
When Ricoh released a 28mm (equivalent) lens module for the GXR series nearly a year later, I was surprised to hear the system still existed. Modern “wisdom” suggests year-old digital cameras are “outdated” and destined for the landfill. Yet Ricoh was again bucking the trend by adding to their camera system and its capabilities, rather than obsoleting it. I was intrigued, but still didn’t bite…
In actuality, my interest wasn’t fully aroused until a second year passed and Ricoh released yet another new module for the GXR — one with a new sensor designed specifically to take advantage of M-mount lenses. For the past three years, I’ve been backing up my M-series cameras with micro four thirds (µFT), but I was anxious for an alternative. I was never happy with the edge performance of M lenses when adapted to µFT, and I’d grown disillusioned by the direction µFT camera bodies had taken. My needs and the product choices made by developers had diverged to the point that divorce was the only inevitable outcome.
It was finally time to check out the Ricoh GXR. So I jumped in the car, and a mere six hours later I stood before my nearest Ricoh dealer. As soon as he handed me the GXR, I felt that wave of temptation. The body is small but ergonomic; heavy for its size but comfortable in the hand. It’s solid, metal, rugged and utilitarian — a camera designed more for the perils facing a photojournalist than for those facing a parent photographing their child’s birthday party. The camera meant business.
I unboxed the dealer’s brand new M-mount A12 module, pulled a Leica 28mm Summicron lens from my bag, snapped it on the A12 module and affixed the whole contraption to the GXR. The camera recognized the new sensor and automatically updated its internal firmware. Cool. Without even connecting to the internet, I had updated the dealer’s GXR camera.
I scanned through the updated menu options and enabled Ricoh’s new “MODE 1” focus assist feature, which turns on “focus peaking.” This is a concept borrowed from the video world, in which the camera adds a colored outline around in-focus objects, giving them a ‘shimmering’ effect. I opened the Summicron to f/2, pointed the camera at the nearest hapless customer and rotated the lens’ focus ring. Various objects in the display “shimmered” as I rotated the ring. When the poor customer’s eye shimmered, I snapped the shutter and reviewed the image. Beautiful! Focus was right on the eye — right where it should be. I turned the GXR toward a wall of cameras, rotated the focus ring until they all started shimmering, then snapped off a shot. Outstanding! Again, the focus was precise and the image was sharp from edge-to-edge and from corner-to-corner. In an instant, I knew my relationship with µFT had come to an end.
I’ve now been shooting with this camera for only about two weeks, but can already draw some bold conclusions. Excluding Leica’s digital M’s (the M8 and M9), the Ricoh GXR just might be my favorite digital camera ever — and I’ve had dozens, including such illustrious models as the original 5D and the 5DII, the GH2 and many other once (or still) desirable bodies. I am, of course, biased toward small cameras that can deliver high quality prints. The Ricoh is certainly small — particularly when compared to, say, a dSLR. Print quality? Not only is its custom-crafted M-mount sensor happily free of anti-aliasing filters, but it’s fitted with micro lenses to help gather and focus all those pristine light rays blowing through that expensive Leica glass.
I can also see why, at least in North America, the camera isn’t anywhere close to being as popular as other “mirrorless interchangeable lens” cameras like the Sony NEX system or the Panasonic/Olympus µFT system — and that’s because the GXR was designed for photographers, not consumers. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not denigrating people who fail to suffer from obsessive photographic tendencies or who shop for cameras at big box appliance stores. I’m just saying that their requirements are often more varied and less incontrovertible than a photographer with a specific vision and exacting requirements. I guess that’s why I had to drive six hours to a real camera store in order to try one out.
Although I bought the system to perform primarily as a digital backup to my M9, I always like my backup cameras to give me a little something “extra” — something I discussed in-depth in my article, Don’t Feed the Ostrich. In the case of the Ricoh, that something “extra” comes mostly from the 28mm A12 module, which I also acquired. This module converts the GXR into a solid, auto-focus point-and shoot camera that’s small enough to tuck into a jacket pocket, yet delivers impressive image quality commensurate with the best semi-pro cropped-sensor dSLRs. Essentially, this configuration gives me the digital equivalent of a Ricoh GR1 — a camera I’ve desired for over a decade and continue to desire even today. It even borrows the GR1’s clever Snap Mode feature, which is ideal for us photographers who like to scale focus. Snap Mode allows you to bypass the camera’s auto-focus mechanism and take a photo at a preset distance. On the streets, I often pre-focus my Leicas to either 1.5 or 2 meters, then look for photo opportunities within that distance. Snap Mode on the Ricoh lets me work exactly this way. I can autofocus normally, but if I see something 1.5 or 2m away from me, I can plunge the shutter (without stopping half-way to focus), and the camera will respond instantly — automatically setting the focus to my selected “snap mode” distance.
A Few Foibles
As much as I like the Ricoh GXR, it shares a problem that’s common to every camera ever made — it isn’t perfect. Specifically:
I’d like to see a weather-sealed body and a weather-sealed lens module or two. That way, I could head out with the Ricoh M-mount module and a couple of Leica lenses, but if the weather turned bad, I could pop on one of Ricoh’s weather-sealed modules and continue to shoot.
I’d like to see the pointless pop-up flash go away, perhaps replaced by an actual sync port.
I’d like a higher resolution EVF (particularly for critical focusing using the ‘peaking’ feature) and, while I’m at it, I’d consider putting the engineering team to work on some kind of optical/electronic hybrid viewfinder.
I’d like the ability to custom-assign more than four parameters to the ADJ lever — there’s certainly plenty of space on the LCD for more than 4 instantly accessible parameters.
I’d like Ricoh to expand the list of parameters that photographers can custom-assign to certain buttons. For example, the camera has three dedicated customizable shooting modes (which Ricoh calls MY1, MY2 and MY3). Normally, I just set a camera to manual exposure and ignore shooting modes. But on the GXR, these modes become tremendously useful. Because of the camera’s modular nature, you’ll likely configure it very differently depending on whether you’re using a Leica M-mount manual focus lens, a Ricoh auto-focus prime lens module, or a Ricoh auto-focus zoom lens module. The problem with using a MY shooting mode is that you then lose the ability to quickly switch between aperture priority, shutter priority, or manual exposure via the shooting mode dial. Ricoh compensated by adding a menu item that lets you switch between shooting modes in MY mode, but they do not offer photographers any way to assign this important function to a button. So if you’re shooting in one of the MY modes, twelve button presses are required in order to simply switch from Manual exposure to Aperture Priority:
Press MENU/OK.
Press Up Cursor seven times to highlight “Switch Shooting Mode.”
Press Right Cursor to open the “Switch Shooting Mode” options.
Press Up Cursor twice to select Aperture Priority Mode.
Press MENU/OK to make the selection and close the menu.
I’d like to see a new body that contains both better video and more video control. Although I’m not personally all that interested in video, I’d be much more likely to use this feature if Ricoh at least gave me some control over video settings. I can’t even set the shutter speed myself! The GXR relegates video to the Scene mode menu, where it has equal importance with such cheesy features as “sports” mode, “soft focus” mode and “Toy Camera” mode. In the next generation body, video needs its own dedicated spot on the mode dial.
And finally, I’d really really like to be able to set shutter speed directly, without using the LCD. Unlike many of today’s more consumer-oriented offerings, the GXR is a “real” camera. As such, it needs a real shutter speed dial.
Ideally, were I to design this camera, I’d eliminate the flash and move the mode select dial over to where the flash is now; I’d nudge the hotshoe over so it sat directly above the lens (exactly where an optical/electronic hybrid viewfinder should sit), and I’d put a dedicated shutter speed dial where the current model’s mode switch sits. I know it sounds like I want an awful lot, but I really like the direction Ricoh has taken with their latest GXR concepts, and I genuinely hope they continue to improve the firmware and expand the product line to include not just lens modules, but bodies as well.
Conclusions
With Ricoh’s introduction of the M-Mount A12 module, they’ve essentially made the GXR a “must have” purchase for any serious photographer with a significant collection of M-mount lenses. Even for someone like me, who owns several M-mount rangefinders (both digital and analog), the GXR gives me something different — through-the-lens viewing and a uniquely different focus method. And, even though I could easily adapt M-lenses to my Micro Four Thirds (µFT) cameras to explore these same differences, µFT’s adapted lens optical quality isn’t anywhere close to that of the Ricoh. And isn’t optical quality one of the main reasons we own all those Leica M-mount lenses?
If you don’t already own a number of M-mount lenses, then the benefits of the Ricoh GXR are no longer so unequivocal. There are far fewer dedicated system lenses for the GXR than for Micro Four Thirds, and the GXR’s video capabilities are barely adequate. But if you do have a few M-mount lenses lying around, or if Ricoh’s current lens module offerings correspond with your own required focal lengths, then you really should go to the trouble of tracking down a GXR. You just might end up selling off your Micro Four Thirds system. I did.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: In no way should these photos be considered indicative of any sort of Ricoh GXR “look.” They illustrate nothing. They argue nothing. They prove nothing. Heck, other than the first one, they don’t even prove I can take photos. They’re merely some shots I took during the last couple of weeks while I learned my way around the GXR and the various module/lens combinations. “Approaching Winter” was shot with a Ricoh GXR using the GXR Mount A12 module and a v5 Leica 50mm f/2 Summicron lens. “A Gathering of Gawkers” was shot with a Ricoh GXR using the Ricoh GR A12 28mm f/2.5 lens module. “Convergence Cliche” and “Love Letter” were shot with a Ricoh GXR using the GXR Mount A12 module and a v4 Leica 35mm f/2 Summicron lens. “False Creek Ferries” and “Big Yellow Taxi” (yes, the title is a riddle) were both shot with a Ricoh GXR using the GXR Mount A12 module and a Voigtlander 15mm Super Wide-Heliar f/4.5 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.
When confronted with the task of comparing two fundamentally disparate objects, cliché-wielding literary hacks frequently assert the two objects are “as different as night and day.” It’s a quick and effective means to punctuate one’s argument that each object is utterly unique and should thus be considered on its own merits.
Being somewhat of a literary hack myself, I briefly considered taking the banal route and invoking the “night and day” cliché for this article — except that this article is actually about the differences between night and day. To wield the cliché here would be like those enigmatic dictionary writers who define “zumbaloofer” as “one who zumbaloofs,” while simultaneously defining “zumbaloof” as “the actions of a zumbaloofer.” Pointless.
So what are the differences between night and day? What distinguishes one from the other?
The most obvious answer, of course, is light. Specifically, day has an abundance of it. Night? Not so much. For those of us who are photographically inclined, this makes the night somewhat of an adversary. It’s why photographers are forever employing various tactical weapons against that adversary: flood lights, flash guns, fast lenses, long shutter speeds or low-noise/high-speed sensors. Each of these solutions exists for a single reason — to bring more light onto our camera’s imaging plane.
This is all well and good, if you’re trying to take night photos that emulate those you take during the day. But there is more to distinguish night from day than the quantity of light. Much more.
If we consider daytime the equivalent of a photographic positive, then night must surely be its negative. During the day, the sky is often the brightest thing in the photograph; at night, it’s the darkest. During the day, a building’s façade appears bright and its interior dark. At night, it’s the opposite — the secret contents from within are projected through darkened walls into the dim night air.
When contrasting day with night, this positive/negative comparison extends beyond the literary and into metaphor. There is a different energy at night, a different rhythm. People’s moods change. Their perceptions alter. Their needs metamorphose. Their priorities shift.
Because our eyes see differently at night, we respond to different stimuli. And, subconsciously, humans alter their behaviour accordingly. At night, we become more aware of motion, angles and shapes. Facial expressions recede into darkness, and we react less to those expressions and more to the language of the body.
A photographer records light and shadow. But night alters the content of that light and shadow, along with the relative significance of each. To force light into the shadowy crevices is to alter the night, not to record it. To use slow shutters and fast lenses to peer into the shadows is to remove the subtlety and poetry of the night vocabulary.
Night has its own geometry, separate and discreet from that of the day. This is why I no longer consider the night to be a challenge of light, but a challenge of subject. My desire is to illuminate the meaning of a scene, not the shadows within it. As a photographer who’s concerned more with documenting life’s moments than with creating them, I’ve come to realize that focus, clarity and sharpness are tools for the day. They help convey the literalness that we, as humans, respond to during the daylight hours. But night is grainy, shadowy, suggestive, mysterious and more open to interpretation. Focus, clarity and sharpness are not necessarily the right tools for a more figurative photography.
I’ve been photographing at night for over twenty years, but until recently I haven’t been photographing the night. Instead I’ve been selecting the same subjects, the same compositions and the same framings I would choose during the day. But as I’ve postulated here, night is not simply a darker version of day; each is utterly unique and should thus be considered on its own merits. It would appear, on occasion, that the assertions of cliché-wielding literary hacks possess credence. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss their banality, but I’m still going to maintain the pointlessness of enigmatic dictionary entries.
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “The Traditionalist,” “Stolen Moment,” “Direction,” “Inspection” and “Synchronicity” were all shot with a Leica M9 and a 28mm Summicron lens. “Nocturnal Classic” was shot with a Leica M9 and a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.1 Nokton lens. “Prelude,” “Lit Up,” “Camouflaged Blonde,” “Camouflaged Brunette” and “Limbs” were all shot with a Leica M6 TTL and a 28mm f/2 Summicron lens using Delta Pro 3200 film, developed 1:4 in Ilfotec DD-X. “Center Line – Granville Street” and “Gravity” were shot with a Leica M6 TTL and a 28mm f/2 Summicron lens using Delta Pro 3200 film, developed 1:9 in Ilfotec DD-X. “Red Light” was shot with a Leica M6 TTL and a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.1 Nokton lens using Delta Pro 3200 film, developed 1:9 in Ilfotec DD-X.
This article (along with many of its associated comments) first appeared September 27, 2011 in my f/Egor column for the Leica Camera Blog.
If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.
For some photographers, it’s all about the light. For others, it’s sharpness. Frequent readers know my own photographic passions are driven by a quest for context.
For this reason, I prefer to shoot from the middle of the action rather than outside it — enveloping my subject within the context of his or her environment. I demand my photos show what’s above my subject, beside my subject, in front of my subject and behind my subject. I want the viewer to feel as if they’re a part of the scene, and not just an observer. This is precisely the reason I usually shoot very close and with wide angle lenses. For me, 50mm is a telephoto lens.
That “quest for context” fueled my decision to purchase an old Widelux F7 earlier this year. The swing lens Widelux captures a 120 degree horizontal field of view — providing me with more context than I’ve yet been able to use effectively. Sane people would be perfectly satisfied to stop here. Frankly, I think sanity is overrated.
Because I usually shoot from the center of the action, my photos are missing the added context of whatever’s happening behind me. If my goal is to place my camera in the middle of the scene then, by definition, the 120 degree Widelux is only capturing one-third of whatever surrounds me. For this reason, shouldn’t my camera have a 360 degree field of view? Fortunately my madness is not without precedence, and as early as 1857 there were crazy camera makers making crazy 360 degree spinning cameras for crazy photographers. Throughout the years, nut jobs like myself have had access to such panoramic cameras as the 1904 Cirkut, the WWI-era Cyclorama and the 1958 35mm Panorax.
Flash forward to the summer of 2010, when wacky “toy” camera company, Lomography, released the Spinner 360. Truth be told, I’ve always been a bit ‘put off’ by Lomography cameras. In my (admittedly uninformed) view, Lomography had simply pioneered a unique way to sell inferior cameras via their superior marketing skills.
But the lure of 360 degrees of context proved too much, and I eventually caved to the internal voices and ordered a Spinner 360 from Lomography Canada.
Every new purchase is an open invitation to the inevitable first question, “How do you like it?” But with the Spinner 360, this actually becomes the second question. The first is, “what the heck is that thing?”
“A camera,” I answer. “It spins around in a circle and takes a 360 degree panoramic photo.”
“Cool!” comes the inevitable response — followed quickly by the expected, “How do you like it?”
Surprisingly this is proving to be a difficult question to answer. Normally, it’s quite easy to decide whether or not you like something. If the sum of its negative qualities is less than the sum of its positive qualities, then the ultimate answer is “yes, I like it.” So, with this is mind, I prepared a decision list for the Spinner 360. First I listed the negatives, then the positives.
NEGATIVES: Unreliable. Overpriced. Poor build quality. Light leaks. Awful optics. Limited functionality. Inflexible exposure options. Attention grabbing. Expensive to operate. Awkward to shoot. Inconvenient to carry.
POSITIVES: It’s kinda cool.
Since the negatives far outnumber the positives, most readers will likely conclude that I must not like the Spinner 360. And if every factor were weighted equally, this would indeed be a reasonable assumption. But the “cool” factor alone carries a substantial amount of weight. Is it enough to counter all those negatives? In order to answer, I’ll need to carefully weigh each factor.
Spiraling in on the Spinner
The Spinner 360 comes packaged in a particularly clever and well-engineered box — perhaps even more clever and better-engineered than the camera within. When you see the package, the camera seems reasonably priced. However, once you discard all that packaging material into the appropriate recycling bins, you’re left holding a rather cheesy looking plastic camera wrapped with, what I assume to be, surplus textured shelf liner from the 1980’s.
Even though the camera is predominantly plastic, it comes with a large, threaded, heavy metal lens hood that seems totally at odds with the rest of the camera. It took me a couple days to realize why a cheap plastic camera was fitted with such an industrial strength hood — without it, the camera cannot be held stable when spinning. The heavy metal hood is actually necessary to counterbalance the weight of the camera body.
The camera comes festooned with dolphin insignias — one molded into the front of the camera and another atop the blue plastic bubble level. I’ll admit to not knowing why nor having enough journalistic interest to investigate.
Next to the dolphin adorned bubble level is a cold shoe. Obviously, putting a flash atop a spinning camera would not yield the most aesthetic of shots, so avoiding the complexities of a hot shoe makes perfect sense. Cold shoes are normally used to mount an external viewfinder, and I suppose you could pop on a 24mm finder to get an approximate idea of the camera’s vertical field of view. Just remember to pull your face away from the camera before you spin it, or that heavy metal lens hood will come whipping around the handle and break your nose. Perhaps a better purpose for the cold shoe is for mounting a battery-powered constant light source, like an LED panel? With the camera’s limited exposure range, it might be the only way to shoot interior scenes — unless you’re part robot and can manually spin the camera with extreme consistency. I fear, though, that such a panel would throw off the delicate balance required to spin the camera.
Since I just alluded to the limited exposure range, I might as well go all the way. This camera gives the photographer exactly two exposure settings: one labeled with a sun icon, and the other a cloud. The product literature tells us this corresponds to apertures of f/16 and f/8 respectively. Less likely to engender confidence is the spec that tells us the shutter speed is “fixed” to “somewhere between 1/125 and 1/250.” What this implies is that, in general, you’re going to want to shoot with ISO 400 speed film on your average outdoor day. Indoors? Well, even ISO 3200 speed won’t be fast enough, meaning you’re free to experiment with cold-shoe mounted light panels or bionic muscle-control inserts for manually spinning your camera. I don’t know if there’s a lot of sample variation between these cameras, but I do know mine tended to overexpose quite heavily using Tri-X 400. Fortunately, B&W film has tremendous exposure latitude, so I was easily able to salvage every photo. But the fact remains, your exposure options are supremely limited with this camera.
If you’re wondering how the camera actually spins, the answer lies on the back of old-fashioned talking dolls. If you’ve ever seen the kind of doll where you pull a string and the doll talks, well… that’s the technology behind the Spinner 360. Only instead of setting a rotating plastic phonograph record in motion, pulling the string sets the camera in motion. Come to think of it, I’m not sure why the Lomography people don’t make the camera talk when it spins — surely such a feature would double camera sales?
Though inexpensive to implement, the pull-string isn’t the most ergonomic device one could use to set a camera in motion. Nor is it the most reliable. Pulling and releasing the string frequently failed to deliver a full 360 degree spin — something I’d consider a major flaw in a product called “Spinner 360.” I’d estimate, at best, the camera lived up to its name only about half the time.
Earlier I made mention of “shutter speed” but, in reality, the camera has no shutter. The aperture simply remains open all the time — 24 hours/day, 7 days/week. The reason this doesn’t completely fog your film is because, unlike a traditional camera, the Spinner 360 does not expose an entire frame all at once. Rather it exposes a frame sequentially (through a narrow slit) over time. In this way, the Spinner 360 is very much like the Widelux. In the case of the Widelux, the film stays stationary and the lens slit rotates across its surface. In the case of the Spinner 360, the lens slit stays stationary and the film slides across it. So how does the film manage to move across the slit? By rubber band! Really. Seriously. A rubber band “gear” connects the film transport to the camera rotation mechanism. So when you set the camera in motion, the rubber band couples the spinning camera to the film’s take-up reel, pulling the film across the lens slit.
It’s all quite ingenious — but not without issues. Because the aperture is always open, there’s a potential for light leaks inside the camera. The Spinner 360 “combats” these light leaks by hanging a pair of thin felt-like “draperies” inside the camera. The film is pulled through the opening between the two flexible curtains and, in theory, this prevents the edges of the frame from being fogged by the open aperture. In reality, it’s only a partial solution. Every frame I’ve taken is fogged along the left edge — indicating light from the open slit has leaked into the leading edge of the frame. Exacerbating the situation is the fact the Spinner 360 apparently needs a tiny bit of time to ‘ramp up’ to speed — further fogging the leading edge (by giving it additional exposure time).
If this was the camera’s only optical flaw, I’d probably just work around it. But a much larger flaw is the quality of the lens itself. Judging from its excessive softness, I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that this camera uses a plastic lens. If it doesn’t, it should — Lomography would save a few pennies and the image quality couldn’t degrade much further. That said, most people will probably just post their Spinner shots on the web, and all that downsampling and software sharpening can mask a multitude of imaging sins…
… which brings up another curious question about this camera: How do you display its output? A successful 360 spin results in a negative with an aspect ratio that’s nearly 6:1. On a 4×6 photo print, a 6″ wide image will be only 1″ tall. If I run a sheet of 13×19 photo paper through my Epson Stylus Pro 3880, my 19″ wide print is still going to be only a little over 3″ high. The images certainly don’t get any taller when viewed on a computer monitor. And what if you shoot vertical images and try to display them via the web? The results are far from satisfying (as you can plainly see in the vertical image I included earlier in this article).
Next amongst my litany of complaints? Cost of ownership. With only 8-9 images from a roll of 36 exposure film, the Spinner 360 is not the most frugal camera you could have. Of course, this is not the fault of the Spinner 360. You can blame this one on physics. A typical camera creates a frame that’s 36mm wide. Many of my Spinner 360 frames exceed 170mm. That’s a lot of film blowing through the camera.
One of the reasons I purchased this camera was for a bit of old-school slit-scan photography. In normal panoramic mode, you hold the camera’s handle steady and allow the camera to rotate. I figured, if I instead held the camera steady and allowed the handle to spin, then I would have an effective slit-scan camera. Alas, while it is possible to take slit scan photos in this way, the handle rotates much too fast, preventing any time-varying motion from being recorded. Here, for example, is an attempt to photograph the crashing surf on English Bay:
As you can see, the handle rotated so fast that only the tiniest bit of ‘ripple’ made it onto film. I tried a couple slit scan experiments where I manually restrained the string to slow the rotation of the handle, but the results were abysmal. In theory, I could probably add some external contraptions, weights and flywheels to the camera and turn it into a quasi-useful slit scan, but at only 8 exposures per roll, I didn’t really have the inclination (or the money) to experiment.
Conclusions
By now, I suspect many Lomography fans have either sent me an angry email or are at least contemplating it. Most will likely assume that I don’t “get” the camera. But I do “get” the camera. I also “get” Lomography’s marketing technique. For many of their cameras, they have essentially turned “flaws” into “features” and sold the notion that random, uncontrolled events equal “art.” More than one successful avant grade artist has introduced elements of “chance” into their work — turning to the I Ching for inspiration and embracing its randomness. So Lomography’s marketing practice is certainly not without merit. Randomness introduces the unexpected. And the unexpected excites us. So whether someone’s splattering paint on a canvas, cutting up words and reassembling them to create a poem, or splicing randomly chosen snippets of audio tape together to create a new composition, randomness shocks the senses and delivers a nice endorphin blast to the brain. This is how Lomography can sell the notion that light leaks are “intriguing,” bad lenses have “character,” and botched film processing is “creative.” I don’t argue with any of this. In fact, I applaud Lomography for their ingenuity and for giving us photographers such wild and wacky cameras to play with.
Which brings me back to the original question: Do I like this camera?
And the answer, in spite of a whole lot of belly aching and several thousand negative words, is “Yes. I like this camera.” The Spinner 360 is unique, and the images it produces are equally as unique. That, alone makes up for an avalanche of complaints. But it doesn’t prevent me from having certain reservations.
With its bulky dimensions and limited repertoire, the Spinner 360 is definitely not a ‘carry everywhere’ camera. It is, however, a good “party” camera (assuming your party is outdoors), and the images it produces will definitely provide you with a nice set of novelty photos. The fact is, anyone who runs a roll of film through this camera is bound to get at least a couple of compelling photographs guaranteed to be unlike anything else in the family photo album. The problem is that their uniqueness quickly transforms into sameness, as each image is so similarly affected that the effect grows tiresome quite quickly. As such, images shot with this camera are not unlike those shot with a fisheye lens, or processed with heavy-handed HDR techniques — one or two may capture the eye, but three, four or more begin to repel it.
Ultimately, I’m the type of photographer who relies on subject matter rather than special effects for my images. It’s a modus operandi that doesn’t necessarily preclude me from using the Spinner 360, but it does limit the camera’s effectiveness for the type of photography I prefer. The camera’s image quality is my first and foremost concern, followed by the paucity of exposure options and the unreliable degree of spin it can achieve with each tug of the string. However, if a camera existed that rectified these problems, it would be much more expensive. And given the fact that a 360 degree camera is mostly a one-trick pony, there would be little reason for me (or most other photographers) to justify the added expense.
The loftiest praise I can give the Spinner 360 is that it inspires. After running only 3 rolls of Tri-X through it, I found myself planning a couple of specific photo shoots in which the camera’s numerous quirks and curiosities could prove quite beneficial. Although I believe the camera is overpriced for what it is, it’s in no way prohibitively expensive. And although I believe certain design elements could be improved, they do not necessarily detract from the camera’s ultimate Raison d’être. So the camera is affordable enough to own, fun enough to shoot, and ultimately inspires new photographic ideas. What’s not to like?
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Grizzled Elephant Man Empties Public Plaza,” “Precipitous Pole,” “Beneath Burrard,” “English Bay,” “The Dog Beach Squat & Point” and “Grit” were all shot with the Lomography Spinner 360 on Tri-X 400 film, which I developed in Ilfotec DD-X 1:9. The Spinner 360 product shot was taken with a Panasonic DMC-GH2 fronted with a Lumix G Vario 4.0-5.6 / 100-300 lens, which I then processed into oblivion.
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.
Do you have a term paper to write for photography class? Are you looking to impress a hot hipster with a lomography fetish? Do you suffer from attention deficit disorder? Then this is the article for you.
It’s nothing more than a mathematically-challenged baker’s dozen of my own personal photography quotes — unadorned with tedious explanatory prose and contextual verbiage. Each quote is something I’ve written, said or thought about photography in the past couple of years.
The reason I’ve gathered and presented them here in easy ‘copy-and-paste’ format is because either 1) I wish to perform a public service to the greater photographic community or 2) I’m too lazy to write a real article. I’m not telling you which.
“If a photograph’s success depends on its technical merits, then I’ve failed as a photographer.” -grEGORy simpson
“Good photographs reveal more of the viewer than the view.” -grEGORy simpson
“I’ve grown disenchanted with taking beautiful photos. I’d rather photograph beautiful things.” -grEGORy simpson
“Although many people label me a street photographer, I have taken very few photos of actual streets.” -grEGORy simpson
“There’s nothing wrong with loving a camera — as long as it remains platonic.” -grEGORy simpson
“Small stories attract me. There can be much significance in the insignificant.” -grEGORy simpson
“I’m not talented enough to take color photos.” -grEGORy simpson
“I want a photograph to ask more questions than it answers.” -grEGORy simpson
“If cameras were meant to have bells and whistles, they’d sell them at party supply stores.” -grEGORy simpson
“To say I photograph human beings is a gross generality. What I photograph is humans being.” -grEGORy simpson
“Focus, Schmocus.” -grEGORy simpson
“You can’t learn to be a good photographer until you first learn to recognize a good photograph.” -grEGORy simpson
“I’d rather take a photo people remember hating than one they don’t remember liking.” -grEGORy simpson
“Nothing is more arbitrary than a level horizon.” -grEGORy simpson
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Eye Contact,” “Untitled” and “Sunday Sk8” were shot with a Leica M9 and a 28mm Summicron lens. “A Precarious Protuberance” and “Funkified” were shot with a Leica M9 and a 35mm Summicron lens (version 4). “Goal!” was shot on Tri-X film at ISO 400 using a Rollei 35T inside Rogers Arena during a third round Stanley Cup playoff game between the Vancouver Canucks and San Jose Sharks. Developed in Ilfotec DD-X at 1:9.
This article (along with many of its associated comments) first appeared July 22, 2011 in my f/Egor column for the Leica Camera Blog.
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.
To my left there are photos to take. To my right, the same. Above me, below me and behind me are photo opportunities. But the opportunities are not always obvious. Often, they hide in plain sight — stacked, layered and entwined into a fortress of visual noise so dense we fail to perceive them as individual photo subjects. Instead, we observe only a single cohesive wall of babel.
Our eyes see so much, but we comprehend almost nothing.
Our cameras see almost nothing, but allow us to comprehend so much.
Cameras achieve this paradoxical advantage by removing the inimical distractions of visual clutter and continuous motion. With the resulting photograph, we are free to study the subject in isolation — to comprehend its rhythms and absorb its meanings.
I have learned to intuit my surroundings as I know the camera will see them. Each day the camera accompanies my every journey. Each day I record new images on film or on memory cards. Most I dismiss, but every week there are several images that capture and hold my attention for a period of time. Even though I find these photos emotionally or aesthetically rewarding, I rarely publish them. I feel responsible for each of my minuscule snippets of time and place, and believe that an image — rescued from the obscurity of so much transitory visual noise — deserves a certain amount of space in which to contemplate it. The fewer photos I choose to publish, the more space I give to those I do.
At least that’s been my theory — quality trumps quantity. It’s always better to have a few good things than a few hundred shoddy things. It’s why I don’t publish every photo I happen to like. It’s why I don’t shop at Walmart, or have drawers full of Pet Rocks, Chia Pets, Koosh Balls, Thigh Masters, Snuggies, ShamWows, or cameras with built-in smile detectors.
But there’s a trend amongst modern photographers to publish nearly every photo they take. Event photographers, for example, actually promise their clients a minimum number of photographs (usually in the thousands) for a particular event. I admit freely that I don’t understand this. The beauty of photography lies within the purity of the individual image — of a subject and a moment, freely observed without constraint. To bombard the viewer’s visual sense with an excess of images nullifies the seductive advantages of still photography. When photographers publish a thousand images from a single time and place, they have not allowed photography to fulfill its mission — they have merely replicated the visual noise.
Does the public really prefer to flip through a thousand insipid photographs, rather than contemplate one or two meaningful and iconic ones?
Apparently.
This became quite clear in a conversation I had recently with a successful businessman and venture capitalist. We were discussing the business aspects of photography and he told me, in essence, “If I had the choice of publishing one higher-quality professional photograph or publishing ten lesser-quality consumer photos, I would choose the ten photos every time. So would anyone else. The market has spoken.”
I’ve slowly come to realize the error in my ‘quality trumps quantity’ theory, and my belief that someone might actually spend 15 seconds absorbing one of my photos. A spokesman for the Louvre once stated that the average tourist spends 15 seconds looking at the Mona Lisa! If 15 seconds is all people spend looking at the Mona Freakin’ Lisa, how long can I realistically assume someone will look at one of my photos?
Perhaps we, as humans, actually want visual noise. It is, after all, what bombards us every second of every day. It’s what we’re accustom to and what we’re comfortable with. Photography is not the language of everyday life, but a language unto itself — more poetry than prose, and more figurative than literal. Photographs reveal that less is more. But for the average person, more is more.
So I got to thinking (something frequent readers know is rarely a good thing for me to do), “Maybe the paucity of photos I publish does not guarantee that each image will ultimately be viewed for a longer period of time. Maybe people are preprogrammed to look at photos for only a fraction of a second, meaning the cumulative time spent absorbing my photos is significantly less than for the guy who posts thousands.” So against my nature, I decided to do something bold and sprinkle this article with photos I would never normally post. I chose them not for their poignancy, quality or insight, but simply because they were my favorite shots from the previous 48 hours or so.
The problem is that I know I don’t take two or more worthwhile photos every day, so such haphazard publishing makes me feel as if I’m contributing to the noise, rather than clarifying it. Ansel Adams once said “twelve significant photographs in any one year is a good crop.” I gotta go with Ansel on this one.
Mind you, quantity isn’t always bad — it depends on the context. Earlier this week, I ordered Bruce Davidson’s three volume photographic set, “Outside Inside,” which contains a whopping 834 photographs. I can hardly wait to get it. So why would I consider 1000 wedding photos to be “noise,” but not 834 Bruce Davidson photos? Because Bruce’s collection spans 55 years of his photographic career. That works out, on average, to about 15 photos a year — Ansel-like quantities. The book does not contain hundreds of images from a single time and place — it spans over half a century and traverses the world. Each image is carefully chosen and expertly crafted. I’ll likely spend the rest of my life looking at these photos, while finding something new with each subsequent viewing.
So what of this “market” that “spoke” and said our photos have no value? “The market” is not some autocratic God-like entity that dictates our beliefs. “The market” is merely a reflection of our own ideals and values. This market that assigns no value to our photos is the same market that allows movie theatres to sell popcorn at a 1,275% markup, or values Michael Jackson’s leather jacket at $1.8 million. The market may speak, but it only repeats what we tell it. If we as photographers devalue our own images by a failure to edit, then we only add to our own demise.
So the next time you find yourself uploading several hundred megabytes worth of photos from an afternoon visit to the local park, or 70 pictures you took of your cat poking its head into a paper bag, maybe you should ask yourself this: might a single photo not be better? Might one photo not speak for the rest? One or two of us aren’t going to change what “the market” says, but one or two million might. That reminds me — I really gotta increase ULTRAsomething’s subscription base…
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Forced Deco” is something I stumbled across while taking a circuitous path to the store for milk. I’ve seen this piece of public art a thousand times, but this time I noticed that from a certain angle, with the sidewalk in the background and the sun just so, I could capture a sort of “art-deco” type image, even though there was nothing actually art-deco about the sculpture. It was shot with a Leica M9 and a v4 35mm Summicron lens. | “Discarded Beverage” was shot in a back alley while I was taking a shortcut to the drugstore. It is what it’s titled: a photo of a discarded beverage. Shot with a Leica M9 and a 21mm pre-ASPH Elmarit-M lens. | “Stonewalled” is a classic example of “personal” photography — the sort of shot I love because I think it drips with emotion and wonderment. Most people would counter that it drips with blurriness and pointlessness, which is why I rarely post such shots. Taken on my way home from the drugstore with a Leica M9 and a 21mm pre-ASPH Elmarit-M lens. | “Dental Ascent” is pretty much as described. I had a dental appointment, and was climbing these stairs to the dentist’s office. It was a hot day, and I felt a little spacey going up the stairs. The photo is an accurate reflection of my mood. It was shot with a Leica M9 and 21mm pre-ASPH Elmarit-M 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.
It began so innocently. These things often do. With my Leica M2 in hand, I was walking the street and scrutinizing the ordinary life that ebbed and flowed ahead of my purposeful gate. Many of these excursions are unremarkable, but every so often the sky parts and an improbable cluster of events intersect into a single moment of context, irony or geometry. These moments are what motivate my photography. These moments are the reason why I choose the cameras and lenses that I do, and why I practice the mechanics of my craft with a commitment more akin to a concert violinist than to the average photographer.
So on this fateful day, when the sky separated and the contrary elements converged before my eyes, my brain responded as trained. It ordered the muscles in my arm to begin lifting the camera to eye level. It quickly gauged the subject distance and instructed my left index finger to rotate the 35mm Summicron’s focus tab to a commensurate angular position. It measured the brightness of the scene and commanded my right index finger to slow the shutter by one stop. It then estimated the rate at which the events were converging, and directed that same index finger to rest upon the shutter release button and wait for the signal. BANG! The scene before me amalgamated into a meaningful whole and my brain fired off the climactic synapse — but the synapse that fired wasn’t the usual one. Instead of saying “release the shutter,” my brain said “why bother?”.
The moment passed, the sky healed and mundanity returned to the streets. The M2 sat pressed to my brow, its shutter still cocked and the frame unexposed.
“Hmmm,” I thought. “That’s odd.” Though I was somewhat bemused that I would purposely miss a shot, it didn’t weigh too heavily on my mind. The next day, with my Leica M9 in hand, I was back on the streets searching for another sliver of serendipity. Luck was on my side that afternoon, and it wasn’t long before a photo opportunity appeared. As the events converged before me, my mind instinctively guided my camera through its photographic ritual. BANG! The scene before me amalgamated into a meaningful whole and my brain fired off the climactic synapse. But, like the day before, that synapse didn’t say “release the shutter.” It said “Who cares?”.
The moment passed, the sky healed and mundanity returned to the streets. The M9 sat pressed to my brow, its memory card still empty.
I felt the blinds roll down over my eyes, and the inside of my head darkened. There is a fine line between taking thoughtful photographs and thinking about photography. And I had just crossed it. I had entered the crisis zone — a bottomless quagmire in which a disproportionate quantity of thought is expanded upon the “why,” and not nearly enough on the “who,” “what,” “when” or “where.”
It’s convenient to blame my new self-doubt on a few rogue synapses but, truth be told, there is always a chorus of negative voices chanting in my head. Learning to deal with them is the key to creative survival — I can either ignore the voices or I can capitulate to their will. To choose properly, I must figure out whether or not the voices are correct.
In this case, I knew exactly why the naysaying neurons had staged a coup on my photographic impulses. It was because popular photography and my own photographic inclinations were diverging at the speed of light. So much of modern photography conforms to a similar dictate — long lenses, a cornucopia of color, the absence of shadow, a glossy sheen, a highly stylized concept and, if possible, a video sequence to tell the tale. So much of my photography is the opposite — wide lenses, an absence of color, a cornucopia of shadow, a grainy texture, a totally random occurrence and, if possible, a single iconic image to tell the tale.
I concluded that the voices were likely right, and I should probably pack it in and dedicate myself to actually taking the sort of photos people like to look at. So I left the streets and began to contemplate a shift into “commercial” photography. To help hone my future direction, I spent days looking through fashion magazines, travel magazines, business magazines and numerous photography websites. What I saw affected me far worse than I feared — it rendered me completely disinterested in ever taking another photograph. I felt utterly dismayed, totally despondent, and completely detached from the new photographic reality. Didn’t they once prescribe lobotomies for this sort of psychosis?
While Googling local asylums, I began to reflect on the myriad decisions that lead me to this point. For most of my life, I had been a songwriter and musician. It was my first passion and, up until I discovered photography 20 years ago, it was my only passion. Throughout the years, I forged my own musical direction and created the kind of music I wanted to hear. About a decade ago, I decided that satisfying myself and a few hundred loyal fans was pointless. So I spent the next 7 years trying to write and record music that I thought would have a broader appeal. As a consequence, I created 7 years worth of complete and utter crap — none of which was remotely worth foisting upon the world. Toward the end, I couldn’t even bother to finish writing a song, much less record it. Eventually, I completely lost sight of myself and my own likes, and I stopped writing music altogether.
I was foolish to attempt musical conformity, but foolishness is the mother of wisdom. As I stared into my future as a photographer, I saw ominous parallels between my musical passion and my photographic passion. We are who we are. If we’re lucky enough to have a vision and to feel passionately about it, then we owe it to ourselves to persevere. Slavishly adapting my style to match current trends would likely bring me more admirers, but they wouldn’t be my admirers — they would be the style’s admirers. I’d rather have detractors. When we try to be something we’re not, we’re destined for mediocrity. When we’re true to ourselves, we give ourselves a chance to transcend it.
So a couple of days ago, I blew the dust off the Leicas, and went back on the streets. A woman whose pants were too short was walking toward me. Simultaneously, a man whose pants were too droopy was walking away from me. Somewhat rusty, I wrestled my camera into position and paused, waiting for the moment. BANG! My brain, still accustom to self-doubt, fired off the climactic synapse: “Who cares?” it asked at the critical moment. “I do!” I answered, and plunged my finger onto the shutter as if I were driving an icepick into my prefrontal cortex.
It was far from the prettiest picture I ever took. In fact, it’s butt ugly — literally. But it was my kind of picture, and I was cured. The internal voices were silenced and I was back in the saddle. Of course, no one actually knew I’d ever dismounted from the saddle, nor cared that I was back in it. But this time I didn’t mind. I was back to thinking about who to photograph, what to photograph, when to photograph and where to photograph. I swore right then and there to never again think about why I photograph — at least not for the next several weeks…
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “One Perfect Moment” and “Soapbox Therapist” were shot with a Leica M8 and a 28mm Summicron lens. “What Johnny Said,” “The Art of Being Awesome” and “The Troubles with Trousers” were all shot with a Leica M9 and a 35mm Summicron lens (version 4). “The Polarizing Power of Suggestion” was shot with a Panasonic DMC-G1 with a Voigtlander 35mm f/1.4 Nokton lens.
This article (along with many of its associated comments) first appeared June 21, 2011 in my f/Egor column for the Leica Camera Blog.
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.
Unlike most other critters in the animal kingdom, mankind has never just blindly accepted its fate. Since the dawn of existence, man has endeavored to understand the world around him, and thus change it for his betterment. Historically, when man has failed to understand his world, he has created deities to explain the unexplainable.
Throughout the years, through science and study, man has slowly come to grips with the hows and whys of this universe. And with each new discovery came the elimination of a God previously deemed responsible for the phenomenon. For example, the reasons for rain are now understood, so man no longer needs to believe in a Rain God. We now know that the rotation of the earth is responsible for plunging us into darkness each day, so most of us have cast aside our beliefs in a God who controls the night.
Because we’ve been so adept at solving life’s many mysteries, no one now resorts to the creation of deities to explain the remaining realms of the unknown… no one, that is, except Vancouver Canucks hockey fans.
Forty years ago, the Vancouver Canucks joined the National Hockey League. And in those forty years, they have never won its ultimate prize — the Stanley Cup. Throughout the years, Vancouver has had some remarkable players and some stellar teams. But for reasons not fully known, they’ve never managed to bring home a league championship. To the Canucks faithful, there can be only one rational explanation: Hockey Gods.
According to Vancouver legend, these Hockey Gods find cruel and sadistic delight in tormenting Canucks fans — teasing them with hope and promise, then snatching it away at the last second. So last autumn, when pundits proclaimed that this years’ edition of the Vancouver Canucks were “Stanley Cup favorites,” Vancouver fans were knowingly skeptical. They remained skeptical throughout a season in which the team finished first overall in the NHL, scored the most goals of any team, allowed the fewest goals of any team, had the league’s leading scorer, and possessed finalists for most of this years’ individual honors, including the most valuable player.
When the playoffs began in April, the Hockey Gods were blamed for a strange twist of fate that saw Vancouver face the Chicago Blackhawks in the opening round. The Blackhaws were the reigning Stanley Cup champions, and had eliminated Vancouver the previous two years in playoff battles. Canucks fans predicted the worst.
But a surprising thing happened: The Canucks beat Chicago. They followed this with a win against Nashville in the second round, then quickly dispensed with San Jose in Round 3. For the first time since their heartbreaking loss in Game 7 of the 1994 finals, the Vancouver Canucks were playing for the Stanley Cup. Only the Boston Bruins stood in their way of claiming the 118 year old trophy.
This years’ Stanley Cup finals were a strange but entertaining affair, with Vancouver winning their three home games and Boston winning theirs. Game 7, the final and deciding game, returned to Vancouver. It was one game, winner-take-all for the Stanley Cup. Perhaps this would be the night that Canucks fans put to rest their ridiculous notion of Hockey Gods, and the even more ridiculous notion that they somehow held a grudge against the Vancouver Canucks.
I attended the game — excited at the prospect of seeing the Stanley Cup awarded, and anxious to see my Vancouver Canucks be the team to hoist it. Alas, Boston prevailed and won the cup. Sure, I was disappointed with the loss. But like most of the other 18,000 disappointed fans in attendance, I remained to applaud our team for their efforts, to heartily boo NHL commissioner Gary Bettman, and to cheer when certain Boston players like Tim Thomas, Nathan Horton, and Milan Lucic hoisted the cup. I then walked home, ate dinner, and recited the mantra of every Canucks fan, “there’s always next year.”
Sadly, this was not the course of action followed by a few of the 100,000 so-called hockey fans who descended upon downtown bars to gather, drink, and watch the game. Instead of relishing in the good things that had transpired throughout the season, small packets of fans opted to set fires, overturn cars, smash windows and loot stores. I gazed from my window in total disbelief at the plumes of black smoke rising between the skyscrapers, and at the scores of riot police marching past my condo lobbing canister after canister of tear gas into an increasingly agitated crowd.
As I write this, the night air is filled with the sound of a dozen helicopters and a hundred sirens. I am utterly disgusted that these people call themselves hockey fans. I have held Vancouver Canucks season tickets for a decade. Before I moved here and became a Canucks fan, I held season tickets to the San Jose Sharks, Detroit Red Wings, and Washington Capitals. I love hockey. When my team wins, I smile. When they lose, I still smile. After all, it’s just hockey. It’s entertainment, not life.
Prior to tonight, I’ve never once believed that hokum about Hockey Gods. Tonight, I am a believer. There really are Hockey Gods, and they really do have a grudge against Vancouver fans. How could they not? Anyone who acts like this after losing the Stanley Cup does not deserve the joy of winning it.
I had hoped my lasting memory of this hockey season would have been the preceding photos — all from Vancouver’s thrilling Game 5 victory in the Stanley Cup finals. Instead, it’s this image of riot police and tear gas clouds, taken from my condo window as night descended on Vancouver:
ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “A Sea of High-Fives,”“One More Win,”“Celebrating Game 5” and “Ducking Another High-Five” were shot with a Leica M9 and a 28mm Summicron lens. “Really?!” was shot with a Panasonic DMC-GH2 with a Lumix 100-300 lens, set to 100mm.
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