Posted by Egor 
· April 19, 2015 

Yin Every Yang (Part 2)

I am what I am. Unless I’m my doppelgänger — in which case I am what I’m not. Mercifully, my doppelgänger and I rarely travel in the same circles. It’s not that we purposely avoid one another, it’s just the natural result of our divergent interests.

Now and then, fate conspires to throw us together. These instances are not altogether unlike a horror movie — each of us wishing (and perhaps secretly plotting) for the other’s immediate demise. Alas, we have but one body to share between our oft-competing interests — to harm the other would only harm one’s self. So we endure.

It’s been several years since my doppelgänger and I last spent significant time together. But a recent trip to Iceland brought us together again — he with his yangs, and me with my yins.

“Hey,” he said, upon learning of our trip, “we’re going to Iceland — a beautiful country filled with beautiful landscapes that will yield a wealth of beautiful photos that many will admire.”

My inclination was somewhat different. “Hey, we’re going to Iceland — a beautiful country filled with beautiful landscapes that I’m free to enjoy while I go about my business of photographing something else entirely.”

Negotiation

The other Egor has a penchant for high-fidelity photographic banality, while I prefer a more impressionist approach. Our differences made it absolutely essential for the two of us to collaborate on a camera strategy. It would be a very long trip if we didn’t.

So a month before the trip, we got together over coffee and agreed on a plan — duelling Leica M’s. He would take the Leica M9. I would take the Leica M6 TTL. Digital precision for him. Film goodness for me. And we could share lenses. 2 cameras. One set of lenses. Easy.

But in the days leading up to the journey, Iceland’s weather forecast grew increasingly more ominous. 100 km/hr winds; freezing temperatures; driving snow and sleet — all were expected during our time in Reykjavik.

Because the cameras were destined to get drenched, I decided to switch from the M6TTL (which contains a battery and electronic circuitry) to the M2 (which is purely mechanical). Doppelgor had no such Leica-centric alternative. The M9 definitely wouldn’t survive a deluge, and we didn’t own one of the newer, somewhat more weather-resistant Leicas.

So my “buddy” threw a wrench into our plans, and decided to travel with our only weather-sealed body — the Olympus OM-D E-M1. Although it’s perfectly possible to use an adapter to mount Leica M lenses on the OM-D, Doppelgor knew these lenses didn’t perform optimally with Micro Four-Thirds cameras — and since his dictate was to take the sort of sharp, technically precise photos that other people expected him to take, he dismissed the idea of sharing lenses with me.

Since Mr. Selfish was now hogging all the bag space with his Micro Four-Thirds lenses, there was no longer any room for my Leica glass. In a petulant burst of rebellion, I decided to take only my little Olympus Pen EE–2 — a fixed-lens, half-frame film camera that would slip into a jacket pocket, and thus not occupy any of the space now being appropriated by that digital oaf.

The doppelgänger and I were, once again, no longer on speaking terms. But as the trip grew nearer, the weather forecast grew even more dire. So dire, in fact, that OM-D boy decided it would be too wet to risk carrying any lenses that weren’t, themselves, weather-sealed. But the only appropriate weather-sealed lens we own is the Olympus 12–40 f2.8 PRO — a zoom lens. If there’s one thing the two of us agree on, it’s that we absolutely despise zoom lenses.

Given our mutual dislike for zooms, it’s curious that either of us actually owns this lens. In reality, we bought it under the same dictate that compels most people to buy insurance — it’s something you own just in case you need it, but you hope you never actually have to use it.

So with a single zoom going in the bag and all the prime lenses staying home, there was suddenly a lot of space for extra gear. In a moment of rare cooperation (motivated, I’m sure, by our mutual disgust at having to travel with a zoom lens) we decided to share the remaining space. In a nod toward Doppelgor’s proclivities, I added the Hasselblad Xpan and its 45mm lens. In a nod toward mine, he added the pocketable little Ricoh GR.

We were ready.

“Which shoulder bag should we take?” I asked.

And then, suddenly, we weren’t ready anymore…

“Shoulder bag?” replied my other self. “We’re going to be hiking around Iceland in some rather inclement weather. A shoulder bag is going to be completely impractical. It’ll have to be a backpack.”

Frankly, I find backpacks to be a deterrent to photography. Shoulder bags give me quick access to anything I might need — it’s all right there, by my side, and in easy reach. Backpacks? No way. Carrying gear in a backpack is the same as not carrying gear at all. What use is the gear if you can’t get to it when you need it?

Still, Doppelgor had a valid point, and I was forced to grudgingly admit that a shoulder bag probably wasn’t going to cut it on this particular trip. Unfortunately, I had quietly disposed of all our backpacks 7 years ago, after finally convincing Doppelgor to ditch his SLRs.

Backpack-less, I called my local Lowepro rep, presented him with my seemingly impossible conflation of bag parameters and dictates, and asked for his recommendation. The next day, he graciously met me at a local coffee shop carrying two options for my consideration.

After a quick game of eenie-meenie-miney-moe, I chose the Photo Hatchback 16L AW. It was lightweight, rain-proof and compact. And yet, as if through some sort of sorcery, the bag could still stow all that gear my doppelgänger and I decided to carry — an Olympus OM-D E-M1 with its big, chunky 12–40 f2.8 Pro zoom; a Hasselblad Xpan with its 45mm f3.5 lens; a Ricoh GR, complete with its 21mm conversion lens; an Olympus Pen EE–2; a big sack of film; an iPhone; an iPad; chargers; snacks; little bits of photo-centric flotsam and jetsam; and the all-important 1-quart Ziplock bag, filled with airline-sanctioned 100ml bottles of assorted liquids.

Although it required hiring a crane to lift the bag and install it onto my back, it was — once properly positioned — quite comfortable.

Outcome

In Part 1 of this article, I discussed my use of film, and my desire to photograph something other than tourism sites. So this article is going to look at Doppelgor’s influence. In particular, I’ll discuss what it was like shooting with a zoom lens (which is something I haven’t used in nearly a decade), plus my experience of having to shoot from a backpack.

Curiously, I never got over my reluctance to use the Olympus 12–40 f2.8 PRO lens. I felt totally uninspired every time it was in my hands — like I was using a scenic-reprographic machine, instead of a camera. Believe me, I’m fully aware this is an entirely psychological disorder, and that there’s no rational reason for this lens to negatively impact my photographic inspiration.

Nor is there any empirical evidence to support my blasé attitude toward this lens. The fact is, it performed perfectly and never once failed to deliver whatever I asked of it. What’s more, it delivered under conditions I wouldn’t dare have forced upon any of my other lenses (or camera bodies, for that matter). It was subjected to gail force winds; driving rain coming off the North Atlantic; pellets of sleet; and bucketloads of snow — and it stood up to all these conditions far better than I did.

The strange truth is that I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend this lens (or the OM-D E-M1) to anybody. It’s a wonderful, practical and adaptable combination that consistently delivers excellent results when none of my other gear will suffice. And maybe that’s the issue: maybe it’s the fact I’ve designated the camera (generally) and the lens (specifically) as “tools to use when all else fails.” I should view these attributes as heroism, not failure. And yet — precisely because neither the camera nor the lens is a prima-donna — I take them both for granted.

So, sheepishly and reluctantly, I must admit that taking the 12–40 f2.8 PRO lens was the right thing to do.

Unlike my apathetic zoom lens experience, the Lowepro Hatchback 16L AW backpack thoroughly surprised me — surpassing my expectations, and even shifting (slightly) my whole negative attitude toward photographic backpacks. While it’s still true that backpacks are best for lugging your gear between locations (rather than shooting out of the bag), I did find a few workarounds.

First, I purchased a Lowepro Dashpoint 30, which is a small auxiliary bag that attaches to one of the shoulder straps on the chest. The Dashpoint was large enough to carry my Ricoh GR and its 21mm conversion lens. It kept the snow and rain at bay, yet the camera was quickly accessible when I needed to grab a shot. Obviously, this isn’t as immediate as having a camera in-hand —but it’s a lot drier, and every bit as quick as grabbing it out of a shoulder bag.

Second, what I first perceived to be the backpack’s biggest weakness turned out to be one of its primary strengths. The Hatchback requires you access camera gear from the surface of the backpack that contacts your back. Traditional backpacks, of course, are accessed from the surface that faces away from you. Lowepro seems to market this as a “security feature,” since it would be nigh impossible for someone to surreptitiously steal gear from your backpack when the point of entry is actually against your back. Initially, I thought this design would make it just that much harder to extract a camera, but it turned out the opposite was true.

Consider a traditional backpack, in which your gear is accessed from the surface of the backpack that faces away from you. Unless you’re traveling with an assistant who can reach into that backpack for you, the only way to get to your gear is to remove the backpack completely, set it down, turn it around, unzip a compartment and extract the gear. But with the Hatchback, I found I could access my gear without removing the backpack! With the waist strap cinched, I would simply shrug the bag off my shoulders — allowing it to fall perpendicular to my body. The compartment that had been facing my back was now facing straight up. Still secured by its waist strap, I would simply rotate the backpack around to my hip, open the camera compartment, and extract the gear. No, it wasn’t as fast or easy as working with a shoulder bag, but it was much faster than extracting gear from a traditional backpack.

While packing for Iceland, I discovered yet another advantage of the Hatchback 16L AW — if I yank all the dividers out of the camera compartment, it becomes just large enough to hold my Domke F–5XB — which is the bag I probably use for 75% of my street work. So, not only did the Hatchback prove itself worthy as a shooting bag (at least as worthy as a backpack can be) but, in the future, it will also serve as a great transport bag — allowing me to transport gear in the backpack, then grab the pre-loaded Domke from inside and commence shooting.

Epilogue

After returning from Iceland, my doppelgänger and I quickly went our separate ways. As usual, he left me with the responsibility of processing his photos and propagating them to all who wish to see them. This was probably a mistake on his part, since I selected some of his least-touristy shots to share.

I have no idea when I’ll see him next, nor do I really care. But it’s nice to know we can get along when we have to. Hopefully, the next time we’re forced to travel together, we’ll be able to employ the whole “two Leicas and a couple of lenses in a Domke F–5XB” strategy. It would be so much less involved.

©2015 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: In direct contrast to the photos accompanying the first article, these are all products of the digital paraphernalia that Doppelgor and I carted to Iceland.

“Reynisfjara Beach” was shot with the Olympus OM‑D E‑M1 and the Olympus M. Zuiko 12‑40 f2.8 PRO lens. This is one of Iceland’s most extensively photographed beaches, made famous by its jagged, off-shore rock formations and the massive, crystallized basalt columns that line its cliffs (and inspired the design of Hallgrimskirkja) — none of which you see here. Sure, I photographed all those things, but you can see that stuff all over the internet. This is the shot that, for me, feels most like being there on that day, and at that time. At least the beach’s other claim to fame — its black sand — managed to make an appearance in the frame.

“Defiance” was taken in Hólavallagarður Cemetery, and comes courtesy of the little Ricoh GR. I seem to be drawn to anything with a crypt, vault, tomb, ossuary, graveyard or columbarium. I’m not sure why I enjoy them so much? Maybe it’s because I won’t have the opportunity once I’m interred in one.

“Vik, Iceland” was taken with the fully weather-proofed Olympus OM‑D E‑M1 and its 12‑40 f2.8 PRO lens immediately after whacking it against my jacket to dislodge a couple centimetres of snow and frozen rain from its dials.

“Vik: 5 Minutes Earlier.” Five minutes before I took the previously discussed shot, the scene looked like this one. For the sake of documentary completeness, I thought it might be nice to show there’s actually a gigantic mountain looming behind that little church. A common cliché, repeated all around the world, is “if you don’t like the weather here, wait 5 minutes.” I can assure you, Iceland is the only place where this hackneyed old phrase actually applies. When I took this shot, the weather had just turned so nice that I was kicking myself for carrying the Olympus OM‑D E‑M1 and its 12‑40 f2.8 PRO lens. “I should have grabbed the Xpan,” I thought. 5 minutes later, big goopy blobs of slushy snow were dripping from the camera. That’s Iceland.

“Inside Hallgrimskirkja” provides proof positive why it’s always a good idea to have a 21mm lens in your pocket. Even if, as in this case, it was only a 21mm conversion lens for my little Ricoh GR.

“Squall, Southern Iceland” illustrates a beach that I suspect might be a popular destination in the summer. This, obviously, was not summer. Score another victory for the weather-sealed Olympus OM‑D E‑M1 and the 12‑40 f2.8 PRO lens.

“The Isolation Myth” is a shot of Mýrdalsjökull Glacier (and a few of its visitors) taken (of course) with the OM‑D/12‑40 f2.8 PRO combo.

“A Crack in the Sky” is about as rigid an interpretation of the first Yin Every Yang article as is possible. Directly behind me is Skógafoss waterfall — its frozen mist tickling the back of my neck. Between me and the waterfall are roughly 100 tourists setting up tripods — all jockeying for the clearest, tourist-free view of the waterfall; all probably sitting at home right this minute using Photoshop to clone one another out of the photo. Me? I watched the chaos, took a few photos to document it, then turned 180 degrees and shot the illusion of desolation everyone else was trying so hard to create in front of the waterfall. As you would expect, it’s the Olympus OM‑D E‑M1 and the Olympus M. Zuiko 12‑40 f2.8 PRO lens crunching the numbers and recording them to SD card.

“Obligatory” is the sort of typical Icelandic shot one expects to see when subjected to someone’s Icelandic vacation photos. I’m rather embarrassed to include it, but I felt a bit sorry for taking advantage of Doppelgor — he doesn’t read this blog, and I’m rather certain he wouldn’t be very happy with the photos I selected to show. So, just for him (and because we have to share a body), I uploaded this shot of Seljalandsfoss Waterfall. It was taken near dusk, and in a driving snow storm. Doppelgor fashioned a makeshift tripod out of a quickly mounting pile of snow, plopped the Olympus OM‑D E‑M1 into the middle of it, set the shutter speed to 1/15s, and took this little bit of stereotypical insipidness.

“Occasus Borealis” (shown below) is definitely ugly enough to require a bit of explanation. Doppelgor wanted to go and photograph the Northern Lights — as if the hundreds of thousands of online photos weren’t plenty enough. Knowing it would be pitch black, and that we’d probably be shooting exposures well in excess of 15 seconds, he actually wanted us to bring a tripod. I talked him out of it. “Lean the camera up against a post or the side of a bus or something,” I said. He wasn’t pleased, but given the tight size and weight constraints of our carry-on luggage, he decided he’d rather have pants than a tripod. We stood outside in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere (apologies to the residents of Thingvellir), and waited hours for the spectacle that never came. Two months later, I’m just now regaining feeling in my toes. Doppelgor got rather bummed out that night, and went back to the bus to warm up. So I borrowed his OM‑D, jammed the side of it up against a signpost, and took this photo of the missing lights. I decided, since everyone posts photos of their Northern Lights successes, I should document what failure looks like.

Speaking of failure, that’s exactly what I consider this particular photo collection to be. There is really nothing of myself in these photos. In spite of the fact they (ostensibly) try to avoid the most overtly clichéd attributes of travel photography, they don’t actually express anything. I’d like to blame the zoom lens, but soul does not come from lenses, cameras or anything else you can buy at your local camera shop. It comes from within. And yet, in spite of its inherent soullessness, equipment selection can have a huge impact on one’s photography. If I had left the OM-D and its zoom lens at home, and taken the M2 instead, I have no doubt I would have returned with a far greater selection of soulful photos. Why? Simply because I feel more inspired with a mechanical rangefinder in my hands. Of course, this sort of admission is exactly the type of statement that makes people call me names on photography forums — which is why I decided to bury it down in the “About These Photos” section. I mean, seriously… does anyone actually read anything that follows the “official” end of an article?

FULL DISCLOSURE: The Lowepro backpack discussed in this article was given to me, free of charge, since my local Lowepro rep also happens to be a friend. You’re welcome to believe this might well be the reason why I gave it a favourable review — but I assure you my opinions can not be purchased for a mere US$79 (retail). Actually, they can’t be purchased for any price.

REMINDER: If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.

Categories : Musings, Photo Gear
Tags : , , , ,
Posted by Egor 
· April 1, 2015 

Yin Every Yang (Part 1)

It’s not that I don’t like vacations. It’s that I don’t like the sort of vacations normal people like.

Normal people like to fly somewhere far away. So far away that the destination qualifies as exotic. So far away that one full day is forfeited to the act of traveling there, and a second is lost to jet lag recovery. Normal people, once acclimated to their destination, have a mere four days to experience whatever it is they hope to experience before losing two additional days to the return journey.

Normal people believe it would be an act of sacrilege to pay so much and travel so far without seeing everything they bookmarked in the guide book. So normal people fill their days with numerous pre-fab excursions — thus achieving freedom from the pressures of interpreting road signs, or figuring out which combination of indecipherable coinage constitutes “exact change” for toll road passages.

Normal people, having willingly traded all autonomy for the privilege of letting others do their thinking, are rarely given more than 20 minutes at any one tourist destination. That’s just enough time to file off the bus, walk up a hill, snap a few photos identical to those snapped by 50,000 other tourists that day, then file back onto the bus for the drive to the next destination.

None of this is anything I particularly enjoy. I prefer to absorb a place rather than simply gaze at it — an experience unlikely to be achieved in a mere 20 minutes, nor within a 100 meter radius of the parking lot.

When vacationing, all I want is to wander aimlessly, get purposely lost, and really experience my locale — the way it actually is, and not the version presented by the local tourism board. My fondest vacation memories tend to be those trips on which I’ve failed to visit a single tourist mecca.

This past winter, I vacationed in Iceland — a place where normal people don’t usually go in the winter. But destination and season not withstanding, my Iceland trip still contained a heaping helping of normalcy: tour buses, museums, architectural sites and regional activities all found their way into my four day sojourn in Reykjavik.

Normal people consider such vacations to be ideal photo opportunities. For some, it’s a chance to point their cameras at something other than themselves. For others, it’s a chance to place something more compelling in the background of their latest selfies.

But for me, such tourism is like a forced exile from photography. Pre-chewed, pre-sanctioned and pre-vetted photo sites are the antithesis of my own photographic tendencies. Each time I point my camera at one of these spots, a piece of my soul gets taken away. But being a photographer means that friends, family, coworkers and acquaintances expect me to take these photos. Even worse, they expect me to enjoy taking them. Obviously none of these folks are ULTRAsomething readers — or they would know I’d much rather photograph just about anything else.

To prevent myself from stumbling into a quagmire of photographic depression while dutifully photographing every hackneyed scene, I decided to counter each expected photographic maneuver with the unexpected; to muddle that which was clear; to yin every yang.

The most obvious yang to be yin’d was the witless snapping of vapid tourism shots. So every time I took a photo in the expected direction, I would turn and search for photo opportunities that might lie in the opposite direction.

The second most obvious yang to yin concerned photographic fidelity. Travel shots are expected to be vivid and colorful. So I brought along a sack of B&W Tri-X film and my Hasselblad Xpan to counter those expectations. But then, travel shots are also supposed to be sharp and dramatic, so I also brought the Olympus Pen EE–2 — a half-frame, fixed-lens, early–1960’s point-and-shoot film camera (a.k.a. “The Are-Bure-Boke-Matic”). It’s pocketable, impervious to the extremes of an Icelandic winter, and it’s pretty much incapable of rendering anything sharply or dramatically.

My plan worked perfectly. Unlike most vacations, in which I arrive home without a single soul-satisfying shot to commemorate it, I managed to escape Reykjavik with several shots that I actually liked. Not surprisingly, the majority of these were taken with either the Xpan or the Are-Bure-Boke-Matic, and with an idiosyncratic eye that’s firmly at odds with what normal people would consider “proper” travel photography.

Unfortunately, my collection of Reykjavik photos likely means I’ll fail to find any “takers” should I decide to lead a photographic workshop in Iceland. Which, strange as it sounds, is actually a workshop I’d quite like to host. Iceland is a truly beautiful country. It’s a place where a devout, anti-landscape photographer could find himself converting. But such religion is not to be found in the heavily photographed tourist sites. Instead, it’s within all the little things: a fence post; a gravel road; a sudden white out. All are things I witnessed from inside a small tourism van. And all are things I would have preferred to photograph instead of the eventual destination. It makes me want to go back and hire my own driver, who I will force to pull off the road at what, to most, would appear to be the most pedestrian of places.

An Iceland workshop for ULTRAsomething readers. Did Iceland’s gale force winds blow away too many of my brain cells, or is this something people would be interested in?

Part 2 of this article will switch direction, and discuss a topic more appealing to most readers: photo gear. Specifically, I’ll discuss my decision to pack some of the world’s most normal photographic equipment on my Iceland trip — discounting the Xpan and the Pen EE–2, of course.

©2015 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:

Not surprisingly, given this article’s directive, all the accompanying photos were taken on film — definitely not what normal people would do in 2015.

The first two photos in the article are a perfect example of “yinning the yang.” “Through the 5 O’Clock Slot, Hallgrímskirkja” is a shot of Reykjavik from the top of the stunning, expressionist Hallgrímskirkja church — the tallest building in Reykjavik. A popular tourist destination, one ascends an elevator to the top of its clock tower, leans out a little opening and snaps a shot of the city. Rather than taking great care not to include any of my surroundings in this shot, I chose to frame Reykjavik within the actual context of the clock tower itself. Grainy, blurry goodness compliments of having shot it with my Olympus Pen EE-2 half-frame camera, using Tri-X at ISO 400, which I developed in HC-110 (dilution H). “Downtown Reykjavik” is exactly the sort of shot a normal person would take from the clock tower — assuming said normal person was shooting a Hasselblad Xpan, fronted with a 45mm f/4 lens and loaded with Tri-X, which they exposed at ISO 400 and developed in their kitchen using a solution of Kodak HC-110 (dilution H).

“Traffic Jam, Iceland” was taken on the drive to our first “official” stop on a tour of Iceland’s southern shore. To me, this shot feels more indicative of the journey than anything I shot at one of the tourist destinations. As with all my Hasselblad Xpan shots, it used the 45mm f/4 lens (the only Xpan lens I brought to Iceland), and was exposed on Tri-X (the only film I brought to Iceland) at ISO 400 (the only film speed I shot in Iceland). Like all the Iceland photos, it was developed in HC-110 (dilution H).

“Leifur Eiriksson, Reykjavik” is, by far, my favourite shot from Iceland. Perhaps that’s because it’s the sort of shot you don’t have to travel to Iceland to take — meaning it’s purely a product of my own predilection. It was taken in front of the Hallgrímskirkja. While everyone was struggling with how to photograph such a tall building, I was gobsmacked to be the only one bothering to photograph this particular scene! It’s not panoramic, so you know it was shot with the half-frame Pen EE-2. Tri-X. ISO 400. HC-110 (H).

“Church, Hvolsvöllur Iceland” What can I say? You spend enough time in Iceland, you get a bit overly sentimental. Sorry about that. Xpan. 45mm f/4 lens. Tri-X at ISO 400. HC-110 (H).

“Implied Blue” was shot at the Blue Lagoon — the one place I swore that no one could pay me to visit. Turns out no one did pay me. I paid them. If I would have seen more shots like this one, I might have been more inclined to actually want to go. Pen EE-2. Tri-X. ISO 400. HC-110 (H).

“Roadside, Southern Iceland” is exactly the sort of scene that reveals itself continuously while you’re busy driving to someplace else. Frankly, I could spend hours just walking along the roadside, looking at the invisible sites, like this one. Xpan. 45mm f/4 lens. Tri-X at ISO 400. HC-110 (H).

“Driveway, Reykjavik” is, quite obviously, the yin to the previous photo’s yang. Rather than driving 100km for this photo, I simply walked outside the hotel and photographed its driveway. Pen EE-2. Tri-X. ISO 400. HC-110 (H).

By the way, if you experienced a profound sense of déjà vu while reading this article, there’s a very good reason: It’s not the first time I’ve discussed this very topic. Vacate Shun, written way back in 2010, touches on exactly these same travel-related photography issues — proving that I haven’t evolved one iota (and also that I don’t take vacations very frequently).

If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.

Categories : Musings, Photo Techniques
Tags : , , , ,
Posted by Egor 
· March 1, 2015 

Appropriating Cortini

For many, photography is the act of creating a 2-dimensional facsimile of a physical subject. Whatever one’s goal — whether it’s to establish a record of the subject; to improve upon the subject; or to render the subject in abstract — it’s usually the subject itself that motivates the photograph.

For me, photography is the act of creating a 2-dimensional facsimile of a musical strain. My mind generates a perpetual flow of unwritten and unrecorded melody, timbre and rhythm — musical thoughts from a magical radio deep inside. Though existing solely within, these thoughts create a river of churning moods, and the photos I take (and the way I choose to take them) are more a reflection of this imagined musical atmosphere than of the actual subject matter.

Curiously, when I sit down to compose music, the opposite occurs — I create an imagined photo or scene, then compose music to express the mood generated by my internal vision. It’s why, from an early age, my aspirations were never for rock stardom, but for film composition. I was, after all, already composing against a visual backdrop — albeit one that only I had seen.

This unorthodox approach likely derives from my belief that songs and photographs are best when they’re born from emotion. Perhaps, when I photograph to an imagined soundtrack or compose to an imagined scenario, I’m making a subconscious effort to abstract that emotion — to isolate myself from any direct contact with real emotions and their potentially detrimental effect.

Or maybe, as always, I’m just thinking about it all too much…

But thinking about such things is what I do. And writing about any subsequent revelations is my primary motivation for maintaining the ULTRAsomething site. What can I say — exploring the existential and fighting through the nihilism is my idea of a good time.

One advantage to my intermingling of sight and sound is the way they suggest solutions to one another. Should a crises of faith occur in my photography, it’s likely I’ve battled, overcome, and can thus learn from a similar situation in my music. If I take a wrong turn musically, then I’ll turn the other direction when faced with its photographic parallel. One endeavour informs the other — back and forth; give and take.

Which explains exactly why watching an interview with electronic music composer and sound designer, Alessandro Cortini, led to a recent photographic revelation.

Though I’m well aware of my tendency to approach photography as a figurative outlet, this fact alone doesn’t explain why I often have so little interest in a photo’s fidelity. There’s nothing necessarily counter-emotional about fidelity. And yet slowly, month-by-month, year-by-year, I grow increasingly disinterested in photography’s ability to describe a subject with any real level of accuracy.

The Cortini epiphany came while watching him interviewed by Sonicstate’s Nick Batt during the 2015 NAMM show. In that video interview, Nick asks Alessandro Cortini about the minimalist qualities of his latest album, Sonno.

Nick: “One thing I found by listening to (your Sonno) record is that it forces you to listen in a very different way, because you listen to much more of the subtlety.”

Alessandro: “It’s fairly repetitive, which some people will consider good and some other’s bad. But I feel like, when you hone into a specific sequence of notes, then other things come into play — the way that you hear them. And then you pay more attention to the frequency range or to the EQ’ing, or to the amount of reverb and delay. Because melody’s been sort of taken care of, you’re not waiting for it to change. And also, I’m not normal. So that’s probably why I like that.”

Upon hearing this, I slapped my palm to my forehead in a spontaneously cliched act of realization. Cortini, though talking about music and melody, had encapsulated everything I’d been thinking about photography and subject, but hadn’t yet articulated.

By removing the requirement that a photo’s subject must somehow inform, it allows other visual elements to step forward to fill the void. Without a doctrine that it must clinically define the subject, a photo becomes more about geometry, tone and texture. If a photograph lacks an obvious path to its purpose, then it challenges viewers to step off the tour bus and become active explorers — finding and forging a less obvious path through the photo.

The problem, of course, is that many viewers won’t accept this level of responsibility. So photographers need to consider if alienating a large portion of their potential audience is a sensible risk. In my case, the answer — clear and resonating — is “Yes!” I don’t believe I have anything unique or personal to add to the collective oeuvre of several million traditional photographers. Sure, the demand for traditional photography is far greater — but so too is the supply. I’d rather stay true to my own urges, experiment with my appropriation of the Cortini Principle and find my own (albeit small) audience of explorers. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even write a song about it.

©2015 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: “Conqueror Worm” was shot with the Fuji X100T, which I had borrowed from Fuji for the purpose of writing a review. In truth, this was my favorite photo taken with this camera, but I decided to leave it out of the Fuji review article. Rightly or wrongly, the photo just seemed totally at odds with the dictates of a typical review article — even review articles as atypical as mine. “Incarcerated” was shot with what must surely be my “Cortini Cam” — the half-frame Olympus Pen FT. On it was an Olympus 42mm f/1.2 lens and in it was BRF400+ film, which I exposed at ISO 400 and developed in HC-110 (Dilution B). “Counterpoint” was the first photo I took with my Leica M9 and 28mm f/2 Summicron lens after returning the X100T to Fuji. It felt good to have a rangefinder back in my hand, so I can once again subject my readers to odd little tableaux like this one.

By the way, should anyone actually click the sonicstate.com link to the Cortini interview, the quoted passage occurs at about the 9:00 mark. Those of you who (like me) actually enjoy geeky synth talk are free to watch the whole thing.

If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.

Categories : Musings
Tags : ,
Posted by Egor 
· February 18, 2015 

Up Goes The Ante: Fuji’s X100T

Flame-retardant long johns? Check.

Late 16th-century full plate body armour? Adorned.

Aqualung for when the B.S. fumes turn toxic? Functioning.

Alright then — time for another post in which I detail my impressions of a popular, modern camera.

Truth be told, I rather dislike writing about cameras that are currently on the market. Inevitably, if a camera doesn’t fulfill my needs, I’m labelled ‘an idiot’ by those who are loyal to the brand. If a camera does fulfill my needs, I’m labelled ‘an idiot’ by those who are loyal to competing brands. The implication, therefore, is that I’m an idiot no matter what I think — hence the need for the previously mentioned blogging accoutrements. René Descartes once famously said, “I think, therefore I am.” Had the internet been around in Descartes’ time, I’m quite certain the exact quote would have been, “I think, therefore I am an idiot.”

So why do I bother posting camera discussions on the internet? Two reasons — both selfish: First, any article that geeks out over camera gear receives roughly 1000% more readers than one of my prototypically philosophical (and far better, IMHO) ULTRAsomething articles. Second, I like to try out new cameras. And the “price” I pay for borrowing a camera from a manufacturer is that I must agree to write about it on the internet.

Whenever I discuss modern cameras, I begin the article with a disclaimer — one that clearly states that my views are totally, incontrovertibly and unabashedly subjective. For me, photography is a passion, not a science. Consequently, there’s rarely an ounce of objectivity in anything I write when I write about cameras. When I review a camera, I review it for myself. Is this a camera that satisfies my needs? Does it satisfy them better than what I already own? Is there something the manufacturer could do to improve my satisfaction? Never do I proclaim to discuss whether or not a camera satisfies your needs. That’s because I haven’t a clue what your needs are. Only you can know that.

Thus, the only intrinsic value in an ULTRAsomething camera “review” is its entertainment value — unless, of course, it’s your desire to take photos exactly like mine. And frankly, if that’s the case, you’ve got much bigger problems than merely selecting which camera to purchase.

So with this disclaimer firmly in your mind, I’m about to do something unique in the annals of ULTRAsomething — I’m going to begin with the conclusion. Hopefully, by placing the disclaimer and conclusion in such close proximity, I’ll reduce the amount of wear and tear to which I subject my body armour, aqualung and flame resistant underwear.

Conclusion

The Fuji X100T is a lightweight, compact, fully-featured slice of modern circuity. It’s well made, versatile and capable of delivering photographs that are as beautiful as any rational photographer might hope for in a camera of this class. And yet, as much as I was seduced by the X100T’s image quality; as much as I was dazzled by its hybrid viewfinder and impressed by Fuji’s willingness to innovate, the camera failed to captivate me as I had expected. My reason, though I’m aware it might be perceived as overly captious, is simply that the X100T doesn’t fully obviate the need for the one feature it most seeks to emulate — the rangefinder.

For most photographers, this fact will be superfluous. But for me, the advantages inherent in true rangefinder focusing are essential. The bulk of my photography is based on speed — can I grab a shot between the time it reveals itself and the time it disappears? Milliseconds matter to me. Fidelity… not so much.

Of course, there’s more to photography than grabbing candid, fleeting splinters of serendipity. Which is precisely why there are different types of cameras. Like many photographers, I have several “specialist” cameras for those photographic avenues that most interest me, and I have a few “generalist” cameras for all those areas in which I’m more of a dabbler.

“Generalist” cameras perform a multitude of functions well, but are easily bettered at any one specific task by a purpose-built camera. For example, I rarely shoot sports, wildlife or macros, so I have one generalist camera whose job is to scratch all those various itches. Anyone whose primary photographic interest actually is sports, wildlife or macros would never choose to use the camera I use. Their needs are more demanding, specialized and precise than mine.

And this is the perspective from which I must judge the X100T. It is a camera designed for those with a general interest in the same type of photography for which my interests are quite particular. Please don’t misinterpret this statement as pompous. Rather, consider it analogous to someone who lives on a small island and dismisses a perfectly good BMW for failing to meet their needs. It’s not that the BMW is “beneath” them — it’s just that their particular situation would be better served by something like, say, a rowboat. A rangefinder is my rowboat.

Though I’ve never sworn to remain faithful to rangefinders “until death do us part,” I will be loyal until such time that modern technology equals or exceeds the unique capabilities that rangefinders offer. Alas, it’s not there yet.

I have little doubt, should any company ultimately find a way to reinvent the rangefinder using 21st century technology, it will be Fuji. They’ve been narrowing the gap through three generations of X100 development. And perhaps, should Fuji choose to implement some of my suggestions, the X100F might finally be the camera to do it. The question is, will that “F” stand for fourth generation, fifth generation, or fifteenth?

If your photographic aspirations don’t require the tactile benefits of true rangefinder focusing, you should definitely take a good long look at the X100T — particularly if you value cameras that slip effortlessly into jacket pockets. However, if a mechanically coupled focus ring with distance demarcations is essential to your technique, then the X100T is obviously not going to give you this — nor is it going to give you the technological equivalent.

Breaking Out

So, having dispensed with the conclusion, I can now commence with discussing how, exactly, I reached it and the path that lead me there.

Over the past few years, Fuji has been carving out a niche for itself as “the camera for photographers who, in the past, would have used rangefinder cameras.” As a man who does, indeed, use rangefinder cameras (past and present), this caught my attention. Each time Fuji released a new model (X-Pro, X100, X-T), I would trudge down to my local dealer, check out the camera, reject it rather quickly, then trudge back home to my rangefinders.

Obviously, my dismissal of each Fuji offering didn’t jive with the opinions of many photographers. Fuji’s loyal and growing fan base is proof positive that my opinions definitely diverge from the norm. How can that be? The answer lies entirely in the reasons why I choose to use rangefinders.

Throughout history, most photographers have wanted one thing above all else: a camera that takes the highest fidelity images their wallet can endure. In the past, if you wanted such a camera and you wanted it to be small and unobtrusive, you would likely choose a rangefinder. For many, the rangefinder was merely a means to a (smaller) end. Today, most photographers who wish to combine high fidelity with reduced size seek the company of so-called “mirrorless” cameras. Today’s mirrorless camera is, in essence, the modern solution to the size problem previously solved by rangefinders.

But size is not the rangefinder’s lone differentiating factor. Consider, for example, the viewfinder. With rangefinders, photographers view the subject through a window beside the lens. With SLRs and mirrorless cameras, photographers view the subject directly through the lens. Each approach offers unique advantages. By looking through the lens, a photographer sees exactly how the photo will be framed and is therefore able to include and exclude elements precisely. By looking through a window, a photographer sees what’s happening outside the photographic borders and is therefore able to time shots more accurately. Different too, is the viewfinder’s focus rendering. A through-the-lens view allows photographers to preview exactly where the plane of focus sits, and the depth-of-field characteristics of the resulting photo. A window view lets photographers see the world with all the brightness and infinite depth-of-field their own eyes can muster, which helps them to find subjects either behind or in front of the current plane of focus.

Neither viewing method is necessarily “better” than the other, since both possess advantages and disadvantages depending on what you’re photographing. As such, the X100T’s dual-mode viewfinder is a revelation — enabling photographers to switch between a rangefinder-style “window view” and an SLR-style “through the lens” view. In other words, you get the best of two worlds in one camera. This feature, alone, makes the X100T (and several other Fuji cameras) highly desirable. It’s certainly the reason I’ve been paying close attention to Fuji products for the past several years. And for many photographers, this is reason enough to choose Fuji over dozens of other mirrorless camera brands.

But there’s an additional benefit to rangefinder cameras. And that’s the manual rangefinder focusing mechanism itself. While I certainly appreciate the size advantages of a rangefinder, and definitely appreciate the window finder advantages of a rangefinder, it’s the focusing advantages of the rangefinder that are most crucial to the way I work. Simply put, a manually focused rangefinder camera allows me to grab shots that always elude me when shooting with auto-focus.

I’m fully aware that the X100T supports manual focusing, and that Fuji has done an excellent job implementing features to make manual focusing more accessible and more reliable. But here’s the thing: Fuji’s manual mode seems best suited to photographers who focus manually because of the extra control it gives them. I choose to focus manually because of the extra speed it gives me. But the way it’s implemented on the X100T, manual focusing actually slows me down.

But I’m getting ahead of myself (an inevitable problem of beginning with the conclusion)…

Breaking Weather

When Fuji released the X100T, it was the first camera of theirs that didn’t immediately raise any red flags during a cursory camera shop visit. In fact, the X100T solved what I perceived to be the two biggest problems with its predecessor. Specifically, it displayed parallax corrections in real-time when manually focusing, and it finally supported exposure compensation when shooting in “manual mode,” while still letting the camera determine ISO.

Suspecting an X100T might soon find a home in my cabinet o’ cameras, I contacted Fuji and had then ship one to ULTRAsomething’s Vancouver headquarters for further review.

Although Vancouver is one of the world’s most beautiful cities, it’s positioned smack dab in the middle of the largest temperate rainforest on earth. It’s now mid-winter. Most folks here call this “the rainy season.” I call it “camera review season.”

For reasons I can attribute only to Murphy and his silly law, the “rainy season” always seems to coincide precisely with the arrival of review cameras. So when the Purolator man brought me the Fuji X100T, I wasn’t too surprised to see him adorned head-to-toe in his finest monsoon wear. I emailed Fuji to verify that it would be OK to use the camera in the rain. “It’s not weather sealed,” said my contact at Fuji, “so it’s best to avoid moisture as much as possible.”

I glanced at the weather forecast…

… Thanks, Mr. Murphy

Breaking Good

My time with the X100T corresponded with some of the wettest weather of the past year. So I had plenty of opportunity to hang out indoors, and familiarize myself with the camera’s many features, menu items and ergonomics. Because there exists a plethora of reviewers who actually make proper use of these many features, I’m not going to bother discussing the majority of them. Instead, I’m going to mention those things, big or small, that impacted me.

Aside from the window viewfinder mentioned earlier in this article, my favorite X100T feature is one many would consider rather insignificant: the inclusion of a threaded shutter release button. Once standard equipment back in the day, modern cameras have all but eliminated threaded shutter buttons. Apparently, today’s manufacturers assume the thread’s only purpose is to attach a remote, mechanical shutter release — a function that’s now replicated electronically (if not wirelessly) on all cameras. But there’s a much more important (and oft forgotten) purpose to that thread: it allows for installation of a “soft release” button. Soft release buttons increase the height and improve the ergonomics of the shutter release button, increasing its sensitivity. More sensitivity means less force is required to trigger the shutter. This allows photographers to employ longer shutter speeds without inducing camera shake, while simultaneously releasing the shutter that much quicker. True, the advantages are mere milliseconds, but as I mentioned earlier, milliseconds matter. Every Leica M camera I own (film or digital) is affixed with a soft release, so it’s a delight that I can use this same technique on a modern camera, like the X100T.

And as long as I’m discussing small features with big payoffs, I’ll mention one way in which Fuji has made the best of an otherwise negative situation — software control of focus distance (aka, “focus by wire”). There is no standard to govern which direction one must turn a manually focussed lens in order to focus it. Leica M-series lenses, for example, rotate counter-clockwise to reach infinity. Old Pentax lenses rotate clockwise to infinity. Since these are geared, mechanical devices, there’s no way to reverse the direction in which they rotate. Consequently, if a photographer is accustom to lenses that rotate in one direction, it can be quite disconcerting to switch to a camera system in which lenses focus in the opposite direction. While I generally dislike cameras that “focus by wire,” there is one potential advantage to having focus fall under software control — the rotational direction can, theoretically, be altered. Surprisingly, I’ve worked with very few cameras that actually enable users to switch this direction. But Fuji, as further proof they’re a company that pays attention to a photographer’s needs, does indeed offer an option to reverse the direction in which the camera focusses. Little things like this make a huge difference in a camera’s ergonomics. In my case, the camera arrived with lenses set to rotate backward from the Leica M standard, which is the one I’m most accustom to. I simply had to scroll to the sixth page of menu options, and change the Focus Ring setting from clockwise to counter-clockwise. Boom! My ‘backward’ focusing camera became a camera that focussed the way I wanted it to.

Before moving on to the inevitable negative issues, I’ll mention one other X100T attribute, which I find quite useful: its whisper-quiet shutter. If, like me, you often photograph in very close proximity to subjects who are unaware of their status as “subjects,” a near-silent shutter is quite a useful characteristic. Because the X100T uses a leaf shutter (and also has the capability of employing an electronic shutter), it is significantly quieter than the rubberized cloth focal plane shutters used in my film-based Leica’s — cameras which, in olden days, were well known and well respected for their discretion.

Breaking Bad

Since I began this article with the conclusion, it should come as no surprise that the X100T wasn’t all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. No camera is.

First and foremost is what I’ll call “the thumb problem.” Specifically, I have them — thumbs, that is. I know. It’s crazy. It’s the 21st century. Who needs thumbs? Well, apparently Fuji is hoping to hasten the thumbless future, because they’ve most definitely designed the X100T for thumbless humans.

Why else would Fuji place fidgety little buttons everywhere us legacy humans would likely want to rest our thumbs when gripping the camera? If you’re like me, and walk around with the camera in hand — one finger on the shutter release and ready to pounce on the next ephemeral photo opportunity — then there’s only one logical place for your thumb: smack in the middle of the LCD. Normally I wouldn’t mind — particularly since I never use the LCD when shooting — except that the four selector buttons (which surround the menu button) fall directly under that lumpy area where the thumb’s first phalanx joins the metacarpal bone. So it’s botched shots a-go-go as the base of my thumb is constantly triggering these buttons, modifying the camera’s functionality in all manner of unexpected and undesired ways. In the end, I simply disabled all four selector buttons — insuring the camera wouldn’t accidentally enter some unwanted mode. I’m sure there are some folks with a hand that conforms to the idealized model contained within Fuji World Headquarters, but mine isn’t one of them. And I suspect many people’s aren’t. Unfortunately, rectifying this problem would require a rather significant redesign of the body and the circuit boards beneath.

Perhaps Match Technical’s Thumbs Up™ device would solve the problem? I own several Match Technical products for use on other cameras, and have the utmost confidence in their quality. If I actually did own an X100T, I would definitely take the chance and purchase a Thumbs Up. I have no way of knowing whether it would rectify Fuji’s vision of a thumbless future, but it’s got to be an improvement over the camera’s current design limitations. At the very least, it would probably let me re-enable the four selector buttons I was forced to turn off.

Breaking Minutiae

My next two irritants with the X100T are both laughably minor, and are probably indicative of my own shortcomings rather than the camera’s. But I want to get them out of the way before concluding with the more significant issue.

Minor irritant #1 is the camera’s (equivalent) focal length: 35mm. Remember how I said I review cameras from my perspective and my perspective only? Well, for me, 35mm is a “tweener” focal length. My go-to lens is a 28mm and it’s the focal length I default to using about 60% of the time. My secondary focal length is 50mm, which probably accounts for about 30% of my photos. Out of the remaining 10%, 21mm usage commands about half. The remaining 5% is shared amongst all my other focal lengths (15, 35, 75, 90, 135). 35mm is just not a focal length I use much these days. Granted, with time and practice, one can train themselves to see and use any focal length. And the truth is, 35mm used to be my favorite focal length. But somewhere in my photographic journey, it shuffled off into obscurity. So, even though I’m a huge fan of fixed focal length cameras, I would be far more likely to choose an X100T if it came in 28, 50 or even 21mm flavors. Again, that’s just me. For you, 35mm might be perfect.

Minor irritant #2 relates to the third-stop aperture ring. Third-stops may be well and good for some — particularly those coming to the X100T from the SLR world, but I expose manually. I’ve calibrated my brain and my eye to see in half-stops. If I cross from the shady side of the street to the sunny side, I instinctively (and mindlessly) rotate either the shutter dial and/or the aperture dial to compensate for the exposure difference. All these manipulations — all these years of internalizing exposure — have presumed half-stop settings. Honestly (and some would say ridiculously) this is the reason I don’t own any Zeiss M-mount lenses — they have an aperture ring that adjusts in thirds-of-a-stop. Once again, for me, milliseconds matter. If I have to suddenly think about whether the camera I’m blindly adjusting is calibrated in half-stops or third-stops, I’m going to miss the shot.

Breaking Deals

Of far greater concern to me is the way Fuji has implemented manual focus. I’ve touched on this already, and stated my belief that the X100T’s manual focusing mode is best suited to photographers wishing to increase focus accuracy, and not to those (like me) who need it for speed.

Exhibit A is the camera’s focus ring — a ring so narrow that it’s nearly impossible to rotate it without accidentally turning the aperture ring simultaneously. Slight rotational adjustments for the purpose of fine-tuning focus are no problem. But anyone wanting to grab hold of the focus ring and crank it old-skool will, like me, find themselves inadvertently changing aperture as well. The ergonomics here absolutely prevent me from using the X100T as a grab-and-go manual focus camera.

Exhibit B is the lack of any distance demarcations on the lens itself. Most mechanically-focussed lenses (which this is not) have distance scales printed on the lens barrel. This allows you to pre-focus before the camera even reaches your eye — a technique known as “scale focusing.” The ability to scale focus — and do it instantly — is, for me, the make or break feature when it comes to assessing whether or not a camera is suitable for my own (street) use. Obviously, most modern cameras now have auto-focusing capabilities, meaning most modern lenses perform their manual focusing edicts “by wire,” rather than via mechanical coupling. So, naturally, distance scales have been on the endangered species list for quite some time.

But as I just mentioned, the advantage to having distance markings on the lens barrel is that you can quickly focus a lens before you even point it at your subject. Often, when walking around, I have a rather good idea where the most likely photo opportunities will arise, and thus know how far away they are. If I’m working in a tight, crowded area, I might preset my lens’ focus distance to 1.5 meters or 2.0 meters. If I’m watching events unfold a bit further away, I might preset my lens to somewhere in the 3.0 – 5.0 meter range. That way the camera is “pre-focussed” and ready to shoot. Without these demarcations on the lens, there is no easy way to quickly “dial in” the desired focus distance. You’re stuck looking through the viewfinder or firing up the rear panel LCD if you want to change manual focus distance. And frankly, even with the LCD activated, the distance scale is nigh invisible for the presbyopic segment of the population.

While trying to work around these X100T limitations, I ultimately settled on a technique in which I used the AEL/AFL button to auto-focus while in manual focus mode. For example, if I wanted to set the lens to 3m, I’d simply stop, look for something that I knew was 3m away, bring the camera to my eye, press the AEL/AFL button to focus on it, and I was good to go — the lens was set to 3m and the camera was still in manual focus mode. If I wanted to change to a different focus distance, I’d have to repeat the process. Obviously, this isn’t nearly as desirable, fast or inconspicuous as being able to set the focus directly by simply turning the lens barrel.

Fortunately, there are work-arounds that Fuji could employ to help solve this issue, and I’m going to name two that I’d like to see them implement. One could be done in firmware and, I suspect, retrofitted into the existing X100T. The other would definitely require hardware modifications and, perhaps, a patent search.

I’ll begin with the firmware suggestion, since it’s something I believe Fuji could (and should) execute now: To improve the camera’s immediacy for “street” or “candid” photographers, Fuji should create a set of pre-set focus distances, which can be freely assigned to any function button(s) the photographer chooses. Assuming a Thumbs Up™ solves the thumb problem for me, I’d personally welcome the ability to assign different preset focus distances to the four selector buttons. Maybe I’d assign one button to 1.5m, another to 2.5m, a third to 5.0m and the fourth to infinity. This would enable me to use the camera in manual focus mode, while affording me the ability to instantly change the focus distance without having to look through the viewfinder or check the rear LCD. Another advantage is that you could drop in and out of Autofocus mode at will. For example, if you saw a shot opportunity and had the time to autofocus, you could do so (by either switching to AF mode or using the AEL/AFL button to acquire focus). Then, by simply pressing one of your preset focus distance buttons, you’d be able to drop back into your desired preset focus distance and continue the “hunt.”

This change would go a long way toward making the X100T perform more like the camera it wants to be, and it would alleviate many of the issues I have with the camera.

My second suggestion is, admittedly, an idea ‘borrowed’ from some Olympus lenses — lenses that are also focus-by-wire, but which have implemented an elegant solution for people who prefer mechanically coupled manual focus. Some Olympus lenses feature a clutch ring. When you pull back on the clutch, a distance scale is exposed. With the clutch thus engaged, the rotation of the focus ring is limited — physically stopping when it reaches the minimum focus distance, then stopping again when it reaches infinity. Because the software knows the amount of physical rotation available, it can then map focus distances to rotation angles, meaning printed distance scales are now available on a focus-by-wire lens. Such a system would go a tremendous way toward bridging the gap between manual focusing rings and those that focus by wire.

Concluding Conclusion

It may seem silly that I’ve decided not to purchase an X100T because it fails to act like a rangefinder camera. Particularly since it’s obviously not a rangefinder camera, nor does it claim to be one. But the X100T takes so many of its design cues from rangefinders of yore, that one is almost forced to evaluate it in comparison to them. And thusly compared, the camera doesn’t offer the necessary behavioural attributes of a true rangefinder.

This doesn’t mean it’s a bad camera — quite the contrary! If someone pretends to be something they’re not, that doesn’t mean they’re not great at being what they are. If a lawyer dresses up as a surgeon for Halloween, you probably wouldn’t want him operating on you, but you still might want him to represent you in court. And that, in a nutshell, is my issue with the X100T: The camera is an Oscar-caliber thespian — but I find myself more in need of the character it portrays.

©2015 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: Throughout this article, I mention how I often photograph “candid, fleeting splinters of serendipity.” Yet the article contains no such photos. The reason, of course, is that this is a review of the X100T — a camera that stands somewhat in the way of my ability to take these sorts of photos. And since accepted practice dictates that one must populate camera review articles with photos taken by the reviewed camera, it’s rather obvious why I haven’t included the sort of photos I wanted to take with the X100T.

Though the majority of my review days were lost to Fuji’s request that I not use the X100T in the rain, I did lose several additional days trying to coerce it into taking the sort of shots I wanted it to take (and that its body styling suggested it could take). Ultimately, these days weren’t “wasted,” since I learned a lot about the camera, as well as how it might need to be modified before I’d consider buying one.

Toward the end of my review period, I realized I hadn’t yet taken any photos to include with the article. So, instead of trying to make the X100T conform to me, I knew I would instead need to conform to the X100T. As a consequence, most of this article’s photos are a bit, shall we say, “static.” Obviously, my own proclivities regarding subject, processing and a pathological aversion to color did come into play — so anyone hoping to glean some useful information about the X100T’s image quality had best look elsewhere. In my estimation, all modern camera’s produce acceptable images (the X100T included), and it therefore becomes my job to ruin those images as best I see fit. Curiously, after giving up and letting the X100T do its own thing (even though it’s not my thing), I was nearly tempted to purchase the camera in spite of myself!

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.

Categories : Photo Gear
Tags :
Posted by Egor 
· January 29, 2015 

Whenevergram

Once a year, I drop a fresh set of AA batteries into my trusty old ACME Annoyance Meter, slip it into my back pocket, and carry it with me wherever I go. Over the next several weeks, I’ll take hundreds of annoyance readings, which I then use to recalibrate my internal indignation levels.

The majority of measured annoyances are fairly mild — barely deflecting the meter into the yellow (caution) zone. As always, several irritations flirt with the red (danger) zone, while one or two will inevitably peg the needle. This years’ winning annoyance, for the third year running, was “bicyclists who ride on city sidewalks, forcing pedestrians to leap out of their way when, in fact, there’s a perfectly good (and mostly unused) bike lane 1 meter to their left.”

Curiously, all of this year’s rankings are nearly identical to last year’s. Apparently we humans have been rather unimaginative lately, since creativity and innovation are required to either invent new annoyances or fix old ones. So, for example, my love of sound continues to render me impervious to the cacophony of “urban noise pollution,” while “social media” still rankles my DNA more than “bedbugs, cockroaches and vermin infestations.” The reason, of course, is that bedbugs, cockroaches and vermin can ultimately be eradicated, but there is absolutely nothing one can do to get rid of social media. Earth’s going to have to take a giant asteroid hit before that crap goes away.

The up side is that, since this year’s annoyances are the same as last year’s, no additional lifestyle adaptations need be adopted on my part. So I purchased a fresh set of bandages to aid in healing the inevitable bicyclist-induced injuries, and I’ll continue to grudgingly manage my Facebook, Google Plus and Twitter accounts.

Occasionally, rather than adapt to a particular annoyance, I’ll dig in my heels instead. Instagram is a prime example. Mind you, I’m not opposed to the idea of Instagram — not in the least. It can be a very powerful and effective communication tool for quickly distributing visual information to a wide swath of viewers, and for this I welcome its presence. What I don’t welcome is the notion that everyone needs to be on Instagram, or that one can’t possibly be a serious photographer if one doesn’t feed a daily stream of images into the gaping pie hole of social-media’s latest celebrity monster.

My photos aren’t news. The subjects contained within them are not time-sensitive. There is nothing “instant” about my photos or the viewing audience’s need to see them. Frankly, I consider the notion of “instant” to be anathema to what my pictures really need — time to gestate.

And for this reason, I’ve invented Whenevergram™.

Whenevergram is an entirely new photography-based social media platform. It forces photographers to view their own images for a minimum of six months before they can be uploaded to the internet. Whenevergram is designed to significantly increase the diversity, impact and lyricism of web-based photo libraries.

The concept is simple. A system extension, installed on all your desktop and mobile devices, displays a random photo from your unpublished photo queue whenever you try to perform some task. For example, each time you open a web page in your browser, one of your photos appears first. Much like a pop-up ad, you must click the photo’s DISMISS button in order for the web page to load. Similarly, every time you send an email, you’re first presented with another random photo from your unpublished queue. Make a call, see a photo. Send a text, see a photo. Check your bank balance, see a photo. Visit a friend’s Instagram feed, see one of your own photos first. Every hour, you’re bombarded with dozens of your own images. Every day, hundreds.

After a photo has spent 6 months in the curation queue, it gains two additional buttons to the right of the DISMISS button: PUBLISH and ARCHIVE. Whenevergram’s assumption is that, after being forcibly subjected to viewing a photo for the past six months, you’ll have a much better handle on whether it’s good enough to share. If it is, you publish. If it’s not, you archive. If you’re still on the fence, clicking DISMISS will keep the photo in your curation queue, until you’ve made your decision.

At no time will Whenevergram display a DELETE button. Deleting photos goes against Whenevergram’s belief that photos should never be discarded — that each photo represents not just a particular moment in your life, but also a small psychological profile of your mindset for having chosen to photograph that particular subject, and in that particular way. Covert intelligence organizations within various governments will find this information particularly useful, thus guaranteeing their relentless assistance in insuring the eventual success of Whenevergram.

Although Whenevergram’s primary intent is to force people to become more thoughtful curators of their own photos, it has the secondary effect of forcing people to become more thoughtful photographers as well. Most photographers are guilty of haphazardly shooting dozens of images when a single, carefully considered image would more closely yield the intended result. Because of the exorbitant costs associated with storing all these images, photographers will begin to voluntarily limit the number of photos they take in the field. Also, since photographers are required to view every photo they take for a minimum of 6 months, the sheer torture of having to endure one’s own banality will insure they become more engaged and aware.

Of course, like any good social media platform, Whenevergram needs a gimmick. Twitter, for example, places a 140 character limit on each tweet — as if we all lived in olden times, when every character you added to a telegram meant more money out-of-pocket. Also taking its design conceits from the past is Instagram, which demands every photo be cropped into a square, as if shot on a Kodak Instamatic in the 1960’s using 126 film, or on a Polaroid SX70 in the 1970’s or on some 600-series Polaroid in the 1980’s. Instagram’s pro users can pretend to have shot photos on Medium Format 120 film with an old Rolleiflex or Hasselblad (and are often inclined to use more tasteful “retro” filters, as a result).

I think enough time has passed that the 1990’s can now be considered “retro,” so I’ve designed Whenevergram to use that decade’s trendiest print format — the panorama. So, unless you really are shooting with a panoramic camera, be prepared to see your photos aggressively cropped in an entirely new, exciting and motivating manner.

As a bonus gimmick, I’ve decided that Whenevergram will have no “LIKE” button of any kind. No “thumbs up.” No “plus 1.” Not even a “groovy capture.” Some might consider this a form of anti-social media, but nothing stifles a novice’s ability to self-curate quicker than a bunch of internet photography bumpkins “liking” all their pretty, platitudinous photos.

I’m quite certain, given both the gullibility of social media trendsetters and the nefarious requirements of the US National Security Agency, that Whenevergram will make me the next social media billionaire. I’ve even retained an agent, should David Fincher wish to direct a movie about it. But in the meantime, here’s my own little “movie” to introduce Whenevergram to the world:

©2015 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS: This post contains 12 photos, though only three of them appear in the body of the article. All 12 do, however, appear in the video presentation that concludes the article. So, if you’re wondering why there seem to be more photo descriptions than photos, that’s why. I’ll address each photo’s technical details in the order in which they appear inside the video:

  • Frame 1, “Ladies” was shot with a Canon AE–1 and an FD 50mm f/1.4 lens at ISO 400 using expired BW400CL, which I had processed at the local drugstore. Obviously, it endured some significant cropping at the hands of the Whenevergram algorithm.
  • Frame 2, “Fashion Forward” was also cropped by Whenevergram, though this time it worked its magic on a negative from a Leica M6 TTL, which was fronted with a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 Nokton lens, shot on Tri-X at ISO 320 and developed in Rodinal 1:50
  • Frame 3, “Telepathy” came to life within a Hasselblad XPan using a 90mm f/4 lens and Kentmere 100 film, which I exposed at ISO 200 and developed in Caffenol-C-M. Yes, there’s a reason it’s called “telepathy,” and no, you probably won’t figure out why unless you’ve had to stare at it for 6 months while beta testing Whenevergram.
  • Frame 4, “Specs” is another product of the Leica M6 TTL, but this time with a 50mm Summicron-M (v5) lens. Tri-X was again involved, only now exposed at ISO 400, but still developed in Rodinal 1:50.
  • Frame 5, “Granville Square” (that one was way too easy to name) was birthed by the trusty Hasselblad XPan, fronted with its 45mm f/4 lens and loaded with Tri-X 400, which I exposed at ISO 400 and developed in HC-110 (Dilution H).
  • Frame 6, “Patchwork Pastiche” sprang forth from an entirely different panoramic camera — the Widelux F7, which was loaded with FP4+, exposed at ISO 125 and stand-developed 1:100 in Rodinal.
  • Frame 7, “Lift” is the first digital photo in the slideshow — a product of the Ricoh GR, which continues to be my constant companion everywhere I wander.
  • Frame 8, “Vortex” (which also appears in the body of the article) is my favourite of the bunch, proving I practice what I preach. It, too, was shot on the Ricoh GR. And, somewhat curiously, it was shot on the same hillside, on the same night, and using the same technique as the (potentially) $7M photograph shown in A Measly Million.
  • Frame 9, “Deluxe Model” was photographed on a Hasselblad XPan, with a 45mm f/4 lens on the front and Tri-X (exposed at ISO 400) in the back. I developed it in HC-110 (Dilution H), and yes, this is exactly what I intended when I shot this photo.
  • Frame 10, “Bubble Gum Selfie” is a photo that never should have been. If you wonder how anyone can achieve such horrible fidelity in the presence of so much light, the answer is “run a test in which you use a known speed-enhancing developer (say, Caffenol-C-L) to develop a roll of Tri-X, which you exposed at box speed.” Actually, you don’t have to run such a test. I did. It ain’t pretty. Not that it matters, but the camera was a Leica M2 and the lens was a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 Nokton.
  • Frame 11, “+1” also appears in the body of the article, and sprung forth from a Hasselblad XPan using a 45mm f/4 lens, Neopan Across 100 (exposed at ISO 200) and a tank full of Caffenol-C-M.
  • Frame 12, “Burning Man” bookends the article — being the shot at the top of the text and the final shot in the video. It too was photographed with a Hasselblad XPan, fronted with a 45mm f/4 lens and shot on Tri-X, which I exposed at box speed and developed in HC–110 (Dilution H).

ABOUT THE VIDEO: Way too much effort went into producing this cheeky little video. But once I start something, I’m compelled to finish it. So, for those who are interested in a “behind the scenes” peek at the production details for the latest ULTRAsomething vBook, here you go:

As per my usual technique, I composed the music via improvisation — recording it one track at a time into Ableton Live. The first thing I did was lay down the percolating, pulsing, thumping, squawking rhythm track. This was produced entirely by the “Wee Wiggler” modular synthesizer, with me wiggling knobs on the fly to alter the feel of the groove. Modules from Intellijel and Make Noise did most of the heavy lifting. There were no actual drums. No drum machines. No drum samples. Just a bunch of wires routing a bunch of ordinary control voltages to some oscillators, filters, gates and vactrols to achieve a carefully conceived chaos. For anyone wishing to recreate this rhythm at home, I’ve included a snapshot of the patch I built to do it (the sounds created by modular synthesizers are ephemeral — once you tear out the wires to create a new sound, you’ll never achieve the old one again). As a special shout-out to this article’s inspiration, Instagram, I’ve cropped the photo into a square and given it a nice, retro film-edge effect.

On three sparse (but essential) tracks, I employed Dave Smith’s incredible Pro 2 synthesizer, then rounded out the composition with a number of computer-based instruments including one instance of Omnisphere, one instance of Camel Audio’s Alchemy and two instances of Native Instruments’ Kontakt sampler. Ableton Live’s built-in compressors and EQ provided the only audio sweetening, save for the final mix, which was mastered through Izotope’s Ozone 6.

As always, the jumble of photographs, music and textual overlays were then gathered, assembled and edited within Apple’s Final Cut Pro X.

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.

Categories : Musings, vBook
Posted by Egor 
· January 8, 2015 

Applied Relativity: The Leica M-A

A couple years ago, I was out shooting on the streets with a late–1940’s model Leica III. As often happens, a stranger approached me, pointed at my camera and struck up a conversation. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the dialogue follows a predictable path: I’m asked if film is still being made; why I’m shooting it; and where one goes to get it developed. But this was not one of those ninety-nine times.

Instead of initiating the expected discussion about the availability and merits of film, the gentleman’s first question was “can you still find batteries for that thing?”

I replied that the camera didn’t require batteries, to which he responded, “then how can it possibly work?”

I told him it was all mechanical.

In a condescending manner, thinly disguised as stoic mentoring, the man informed me that I must not know very much about cameras, because some sort of power source would obviously be needed to operate the shutter.

“A spring and some timing gears,” I responded.

The man tightened his lips into a scornful smirk, shook his head in pity at my manifest ignorance, and walked away.

What made this encounter all the more curious is that my would-be tutor wasn’t all that young — mid–30’s, I’d guess. Generationally speaking, he was certainly old enough to have had either first- or second-hand experience with film cameras. But then, he didn’t ask me about film — he asked about batteries. I tend to think that only digital cameras are products of the consumer electronics industry, but in reality cameras became electronic devices long before the pixel pushed aside the silver halide crystal. Batteries have been juicing camera bodies since auto-focusing replaced the split image; since built-in metering and exposure-priority modes supplanted the Sunny–16 rule; and since automatic film advance superseded a precisely crafted assortment of ratcheted levers.

So, attitude aside, I can’t really fault the poor fellow for failing to know the finer points of camera history. He’s the one living in the here and now, while I’m the one carrying a mid–20th century mechanical film camera in the 21st century.

The Givethness and Takethness of Technology

Photography is and always has been a technologically driven medium. In order to stand out from the pack, photographers must create something different than what their peers create. Technology — with its promise of freshly contemporary images and a more effortless way to achieve them — provides the path of least resistance. The irony, of course, is that the majority of photographers attempt to differentiate themselves by pursuing the same technological advances, thus ending up right back where they started — creating work that’s indistinguishable from the pack. And so technology cranks the wheel again… and again… and again.

Similarly plagued, but with an entirely different illness, are those photographers with creative aspirations that come from within, rather than as a byproduct of modern technology. I’m one of those guys — in fact, each major advance in camera technology seems to widen the gap between how a camera operates and how I actually need it to operate. To a photographer on the technological treadmill, this might sound like nirvana: no more straddling the bleeding edge; no more learning and re-learning and re-re-learning the latest techniques; no more fistfuls of money thrown at the next big trend, only to see it fade into the inevitable cliché.

But such nirvana is merely an illusion, because gear is always going to be part and parcel of the image making process. So, while it’s true that photographers such as myself aren’t slaves to modern gear cycles, we are slaves to particular types of gear — specifically, we’re slaves to the types of gear best-suited to the work we’re trying to produce. And more often than not, because the photos we hope to create aren’t trendy, the gear we need is no longer being manufactured.

Which all helps explain why my 21st century condo has a cabinet stocked mostly with mid–20th century mechanical film cameras. It’s because no other class of camera has ever satisfied my photographic tendencies, aesthetics and desires nearly as perfectly as the 35mm mechanical rangefinder.

The Leica Lineage

My favorite camera is my 1958 Leica M2. Ergonomically, it’s nearly perfect and is a model of utter simplicity. There are no modes. No menus. Nothing to set, configure or interpret. It’s simply a light-tight box that fits comfortably in hand, holds the film flat, and allows me to mount some of the best (and smallest) optics ever created. Of all the cameras I’ve ever used, it provides the lowest barrier between seeing a photographic opportunity and photographing that opportunity — a rather important consideration given my preferred subject matter: the fleeting and the ephemeral. It’s also built like the proverbial tank — something that’s becoming increasingly more important now that the camera is entering its 57th year on this earth.

The camera for which I’ve long-lusted, but have yet to own, is the Leica M4. It was released in 1967, and replaced both the M3 and M2. Leica retired the M4 in 1972, but brought it back briefly in 1975 to help restore some financial stability after the M5 debacle. So what is it that makes me yearn for an M4 when I already own a perfectly good M2? Simple: it’s younger. When your photographic leanings are as anachronistic as mine, you start to worry a bit about the age of your gear. Although the M4 does offer a handful of improvements over the M2, most have no direct effect on its ability to “get the shot.” The sole exception would be the self-resetting film counter, which the M2 lacked. Technically, if I were smart enough to remember to manually set the M2’s film counter to “1” each time I loaded a roll of film, then I wouldn’t need a self-resetting film counter. But since I’m not that smart, I often find myself in the middle of a shooting opportunity without any clue of how many shots remain.

So if my M4 desires are primarily age-driven, why not lust all the more vigorously for an M5, M6, M7 or MP? Why not the M4–2 or the M4-P? After all, these are all 35mm rangefinder film cameras, and they’re all newer than the original M4 (save for some M5’s, of course).

The answer is subtle, but equally simple: I haven’t salivated over these other cameras because I consider them to be cousins, rather than direct descendants of the M3>M2>M4 bloodline. These cameras are all products of the industry’s inevitable technological evolution — each subsequent model adding electronic features I neither need nor want, while simultaneously cheapening internal components and compromising build quality. Don’t get me wrong — they’re still mighty fine cameras. In fact, I actually own an M6TTL, and while it succumbs to the inclusion of a built-in light meter, its exposure setting remains 100% manual and its shutter 100% mechanical. I had Leica replace its most egregiously cheapened component (the rangefinder itself) with the improved, flare-resistant version from the later-model MP. So with the battery compartment left empty and a bit of major surgery, I’m able to coerce some “old school” usefulness out of a camera that’s quite a bit younger. But it’s still a product of the 20th century, and it’s still not as pure of purpose as the original M3>M2>M4 line.

I assumed this would forever be my fate: seek out old Leica mechanical film cameras, buy them, and ship them off to qualified camera technicians until the last living craftsman sheds his mortal coil, leaving behind no earthly soul to clean, lubricate, calibrate, repair or modify them. It’s not like I have other options — my tools of choice are the tools of an earlier generation. The world keeps spinning, technology keeps evolving, and time ticks forward — day by day, week by week, year by year. Nothing can change this…

… or can it? Einstein theorized that time is not an absolute quantity but is instead a malleable variable within the larger concept of spacetime. But this is only a mathematical theory, not a law. No one’s physically proven it…

… or have they?

In late 2014, Leica released a new camera — a film camera. A fully mechanical, fully manual, meterless, batteryless slab of solid metal and brass, the Leica M-A. It is, without a doubt, the true and rightful heir to the M throne — the direct descendent of a royal bloodline that began with the Leica II in 1932, and ended in 1975 with the discontinuation of the Leica M4. What followed was an ascension of contenders and pretenders — each excellent in its own way but, as I stated previously, each only tangentially related to the original bloodline. But the M-A is a direct descendent — the camera that should have inherited the M4’s throne back in 1975, but didn’t…

So how is it possible that, in 2014, Leica has managed to release the true and logical replacement for the M4 when it’s already released a dozen different M model cameras in the interim?

Simple: Leica has folded time.

Their stunning achievement left me with an odd combination of feelings: gratitude; disbelief; depression. Gratitude because I now know there’s a brand new camera on the market that’s actually an ideal fit for my photographic proclivities. Disbelief because, let’s face it — did anyone actually think a major camera company would release a professionally spec’d, fully mechanical, fully manual film camera in 2014? Depression because, like everything Leica makes, the M-A is priced significantly out of my comfort zone.

The Leica M-A: Four Steps Forward, One Step Back, a Huge Leap Sideways, and the Road to Perfection

Considering my assertion that the M-A is the successor to the M4, it makes the most sense to “review” the camera within that context. What has Leica improved? What have they messed up? What hasn’t changed? What needs to change?

Let’s start with a list of tangible improvements over the M4:

• The addition of 28mm and 75mm framelines

While the previous-model M4 offered only 35, 50, 90 and 135mm framelines, the M-A foreshadows the “future” model M6 through these two additions — proof that Leica has been folding time for quite awhile now.

Although my use of the 75mm focal length is spotty at best, 28mm is my “go to” focal length — so it’s quite useful to have these framelines included with the camera and not have to guess framing (or use an external viewfinder).

• The return of the 1-piece film advance lever

I know this will sound ridiculous, but I always thought the film advance lever on the M3 and M2 was a mechanical marvel — not because of its complexity, mind you, but because of its simplicity — a single, perfectly balanced, perfectly shaped, perfectly ergonomic lever that practically begged you to flick it and ready yourself for another shot.

Leica introduced a redesigned 2-piece hinged lever with the M4 — a design they carried forward though the M5, M6 and M7 lines, before finally reverting to the 1-piece lever with the MP. I never really cared for the 2-piece lever. It was slightly less ergonomic and slightly slower to operate — seemingly insignificant should one be photographing static subjects, but rather important should one need to fire off a quick succession of shots with split-second accuracy. Needless to say, I’m quite happy that the M4’s successor has reimplemented the 1-piece film advance lever.

• It comes in black

This is another one of those subtleties (like the film advance lever) that might not seem all that important to many, but is very important to me. Although I think chrome cameras are far more beautiful and definitely look nicer sitting on a shelf, black cameras draw far less attention in public — and since I’m the sort of photographer that works in public and tries to draw the least amount of attention to himself as possible, flat-black cameras are an essential part of my process.

Yes, Leica did make a smattering of black M3, M2 and M4 cameras back in the day, but the vast majority were chrome. The rarity of the black variant makes them particularly attractive to collectors, and thus exorbitantly expensive. This means, prior to the introduction of the M-A, I was stuck either using a chrome body or paying to have it painted (which is exactly what I did with my Leica IIIc). By offering customers the choice of ordering their M-A in “display quality” chrome or “street quality” black, Leica has improved the bloodline that much further.

• Removal of the residual flash bulb synchronization contact

This improvement is quite minor indeed — even for me! But with flashbulbs no longer really needed or available, it makes little sense to include a bulb-sync terminal on the M-A. One less hole in the camera; one less snap-on cover to lose; one less thing to poke you in the eye.

I would suggest that the Leica M-A’s one and only backward step is the return of the rewind knob. Prior to the M4, and dating all the way back to the Leica II/III days, Leica cameras employed knurled knobs to rewind the film. With the M4, Leica replaced that torturously slow finger-grater with an angled, folding rewind crank. This made changing film much quicker and significantly less painful. Besides, I quite liked the way it jauntily angled into the top plate — giving the tried-and-true M-shape a bit of understated flair. I have no idea why Leica decided to return to the flat, knurled knob design of the older model cameras. Perhaps its less expensive? More durable? I’m not sure. Fortunately, I use my Leica IIIc, IIIf and M2 frequently enough that I already have a protective layer of calluses on my thumb and forefinger.

Of course, as close as this bloodline comes to being the “perfect” tool for my needs, it’s only natural that I’d like to see at least a couple of improvements to the M-A’s successor (should Leica see fit to fold time once again). Specifically:

• A shutter lock

My shooting technique requires use of a soft-release button, which threads into the camera’s shutter release socket. Using a soft-release further decreases the amount of time between deciding to take a photo and actually taking it. Sure, it’s a time measured in milliseconds — but for my work, milliseconds matter. Also, because I don’t release the shutter with my fingertip, but with the Distal Interphalangeal Joint (thank you, Google), I’m able to hold the camera steady at much slower shutter speeds.

Not surprisingly, the soft-release’s main problem is the same as its main benefit: tripping the shutter is ridiculously easy, which means accidentally tripping the shutter is also ridiculously easy. Camera bags are the natural enemy of the soft-release button. Statistics show that 73% of the time you place a cocked camera in a bag, you will accidentally take a photo of the inside of that bag.

The most obvious solution would be to simply not advance the film (and thus not cock the shutter) immediately after taking a photo. But that’s a learned behaviour that’s long-ingrained into my photographic process. To unlearn such behaviour would take the rest of my life. And even if I were to unlearn it, I’d have a subsequent problem: every time I’d try to take a shot, I’d forget that I hadn’t previously transported the film or cocked the shutter. So this is simply not a workable solution for me.

The second-most obvious solution is to simply not put the camera in a bag. And while this is, indeed, a solution that I sometimes employ, I should mention that I live in Vancouver BC, which is located smack in the middle of the largest temperate rainforest on earth. Bags are sometimes rather necessary to transport cameras from point A to point B.

The third-most obvious solution is to simply unthread the soft-release button every time I put the camera in a bag. This, too, is a solution I sometimes employ, but it’s fraught with its own set of problems: namely, the combination of tiny soft-release buttons and big clumsy fingers (particularly when in the presence of sewer grates) causes the premature demise of said buttons.

So this is why I want every Leica camera to have a shutter lock. Lock the shutter, and I have no photos of the inside of my camera bag; I have no wet camera; and I’m no longer donating soft-release buttons to the Vancouver Public Works department.

• On-camera diopter adjustment

OK, I know. I’ve gone on and on about how old camera technology is better-suited to my particular style than new technology, but there comes a point when you gotta say “enough is enough.” Since the dawn of time, the only way to adjust the diopter setting for a Leica rangefinder has been to purchase an overpriced, screw-on diopter attachment of fixed value. I’m sure this is a nice little revenue stream for Leica, but come on — throw us blind guys a bone here.

Heading up the “doesn’t really matter” category of M-A features is Leica’s decision to retain the Rapid Load mechanism, which first appeared on the M4, and which replaced the old 2-spool method employed by the M2 and its parents. Though I would never have expected Leica to return to the oft-disliked 2-spool loading method, I must admit that I prefer it to the Rapid Load, which I find to be a bit more finicky. I suspect I’m in the minority here, and since the Rapid Load doesn’t affect the camera’s picture taking prowess, I’m perfectly fine with Leica’s decision to satisfy the majority of its customers rather than a few of its more peculiar ones.

Also in the “doesn’t really matter” category (at least for me) is the fact that the M-A’s shutter speed dial returns to the smaller, clockwise-increases-speed orientation of the original lineage. Leica increased the diameter of this dial substantially when the M5 was released — an ergonomic decision that makes it much quicker to change shutter speeds than with the smaller dial used by the M3, M2 and M4. Leica again changed the dial size when they released the M6 — making it smaller than the one on the M5, but still larger and more ergonomic than those on the earlier M’s. Beginning with the M6TTL, Leica inexplicably reversed the direction of the dial, such that a counter-clockwise rotation would set faster speeds. They continued with this larger, reverse-rotating dial with the M7, and on into the digital M8, M9 and current M (240) models. At this point, I own two cameras that use the large, counter-clockwise dial (M6TTL and M9) and three cameras that use the small, clockwise dial (M2, IIIc and IIIf), so it really didn’t matter which methodology the M-A employed. All that mattered was that if the dial were indeed small, then it would rotate the same direction as the old cameras. And if the knob were large, then it would rotate in the direction of the newer cameras. I’ve trained my muscle memory to recognize dial size as the indicator of which way to turn it. I have no idea what original-model M6 owners do, since those cameras have large dials that turn in the direction of small-dial cameras. I suspect Leica went back to the original small, clockwise-to-quicken dial because this would make the new M-A compatible with all the old shoe-mounted exposure meters that some folks like to mount on top.

Everything else about the M-A is exactly what I would have hoped: The one-piece, full-metal body with solid brass top deck and baseplate insures this camera will truly last for the rest of my life. The rangefinder is clear, bright and precise as only a newborn Leica’s can be. And that classic, rubberized-cloth focal plain shutter, which remains mechanically controlled and exquisitely quiet, continues to protect my delicate proboscis from the potential ire of many a subject.

Conclusions

In the world of on-line camera reviews, I’m aware this one stands out as somewhat unique — but so is the Leica M-A.

I barely discussed camera features because, frankly, the camera’s total lack of features is its primary feature.

I discussed nothing about the camera’s image quality because that’s more a product of the lens used, the film chosen, and the developing technique applied. In fact, prior to writing this article, I considered including only photos taken of the M-A, and not by the M-A. The conceit of this plan was to illustrate that the camera’s only function is to transport the film, hold it flat, open the shutter precisely when commanded and keep it open for an accurate duration of time. What purpose would be fulfilled by showing photos? Particularly the type of photos that I favor? It’s not like I’m going to start taking some pedantic photos of clock towers or some hackneyed reflection shots, just because I’m writing a camera review.

But, ultimately, I decided to go ahead and include some photos — mostly because readers will expect them, but also to help break up the significantly long blocks of text contained within this article.

And speaking of significantly long blocks of text, I’m fully aware that this is a very long article for what’s ultimately a rather short review — but that’s because the true beauty of the M-A is not revealed within its specifications, but within its lineage and its gestalt — important factors in understanding what it is that makes such a simple camera so wonderful.

At this point, I suspect several of you are wondering whether or not I won the lottery. After all, how else could a mere photographer — particularly one whose stylistic choices are as unpopular as mine — afford to buy a new Leica M-A?

And the answer, sadly, is “I didn’t.” I asked Leica for a review sample and, surprisingly, they complied. Regrettably, I possessed the camera for only two weeks, and those two weeks happened to coincide with the Holidays, a photo-precluding excursion to Portland, copious quantities of Vancouver rain, and a rather significant and extended migraine. But in spite of all the deterrents, I still managed to run 5 rolls of Tri-X through the camera — more than enough to draw the conclusions outlined in the article, though obviously not enough to have assembled a compelling collection of photos. Still, it’s all I needed to realize that this camera must somehow, someday be mine.

Though few photographers will care or understand, Leica has done something truly extraordinary — they’ve revitalized a camera bloodline that was essentially left for dead 40 years ago. And by doing so, they’re helping to extend the life of a particular style of photography — a style that’s heavily dependent on 35mm rangefinder film cameras — for several generations to come.

There’s a faint but tactile unease emanating from within the big cabinet o’ cameras that sits inside my tiny little condo. Cameras may well be inanimate objects, but they know. They know I’m eyeing them, prioritizing them, and placing dollar values on their pretty little vulcanite hides. There’s enough of ‘em in there to finance a new Leica M-A… I know it. And so do they…

©2015 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:With the exception of the two photographs depicting the M-A itself, all the photos in this article were (of course) shot with the Leica M-A. Needless to say, that fact is rather meaningless. What’s perhaps of more interest is the lens, film and developer used to create each photo. To keep things simple, I shot everything on Tri-X exposed at ISO 400, and developed it in HC-110 (Dilution H). The sole exception was Mobile Office, which I shot on some decade-old expired Tri-X at ISO 320 — an experiment I did not continue since some minor fogging was evident on the negatives. That leaves us with only the lenses to discuss:

  • Mobile Office was shot with a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 Nokton-M
  • Hear No Evil utilized a Leica 28mm f/2.0 Summicron-M
  • Crosswalk found its way here via a Voigtlander 21mm f/4 Color-Skopar
  • Death Takes A Dip employs a Leica 28mm f/2.0 Summicron-M
  • False Creek, Vancouver BC used a Leica 50mm f/2.0 Summicron-M (v5)
  • Aptly Named required my trusty Leica 28mm f/2.0 Summicron-M
  • Rocket Man was shot with a Leica 50mm f/2.0 Summicron-M (v5)
  • The Clock Atop Vancouver Block was photographed with my woefully underutilized Leica 90mm f/2.8 Elmarit-M
  • Underworld comes compliments of the Leica 35mm f/2.0 Summicron-M (v4)
  • Relativity is a product of the Leica 28mm f/2.0 Summicron-M

Incidentally, because I’m likely to be asked about it, I should probably identify all the participants in the Bloodline photo shoot. In front and in-focus is the Leica M-A, sporting the tried and true 28mm f/2 Summicron lens. Slightly behind it and on the far left is the Leica M2, wearing the ultra-rare 1999 special-edition thread-mount 50mm pre-ASPH f/1.4 Summilux, which was made exclusively for the Japanese market (and, yes, I am willing to sell it). Further back and sitting atop the Winnogrand book is the Leica IIIf, sporting a classic 50mm f/3.5 collapsible Elmar lens. And in the very back, barely in focus, is the stunning Leica IIIc, resplendent in its gun metal grey paint, 35mm f/3.5 Elmar lens and matching Voigtlander 35mm viewfinder.

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.

Categories : Photo Gear
Tags :
Posted by Egor 
· December 15, 2014 

A Measly Million

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scouring my Lightroom catalog has produced this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

©2014 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:

Normally, this is the point where I happily pull back the curtain and let readers peep at the technical details surrounding any photos contained within the article — things like camera body, lens, film stock, ISO speed and development technique. However, for a fine art photograph such as this, sharing such pedestrian knowledge would be considered quite gauche and would likely impact your ability to attain maximum dollar at auction.

So, instead, I’ll state simply that I used a device designed specifically for photographic purposes, and that the photo was shot in the summer of 2014. No other details need be known.

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.

Categories : Musings
Posted by Egor 
· December 7, 2014 

Season Seven

If ULTRAsomething was a television show, this month would mark the beginning of its seventh season.

Like a television show, ULTRAsomething has a core following of loyal fans, along with a more ephemeral group that arrives and departs with each new story arc. And like many modern television shows, ULTRAsomething seems to attract “binge viewers” — people who stumble upon the site, like what they see, get hooked, then peruse its extensive backlog of articles in a few marathon reading sessions.

Of course, if ULTRAsomething really was a television show, it would have been cancelled within 24 hours of its first post. Also, it would likely have had some sort of minor cultural impact by now. At the very least, it might have swayed public sentiment toward my belief that the best photography has little to do with “art” and everything to do with “poetry.” Plus, had ULTRAsomething really been a TV show, it would most definitely have earned me a buck or two by now — maybe even a Netflix deal. But no…

I know it seems unfathomable, but ULTRAsomething began with the intention of generating income. Originally, it was conceived as an obligatory “marketing tool” for my declining commercial photography business; then it morphed into a glorified “resume” for my skills as a writer; and finally it was retooled into something that could exist as a stand-alone, ad-supported entity. Alas, it failed to bring any new clients; nor did it attract any publications wishing to pay for my services (though several gladly offered me the “prestigious” opportunity to write free articles for them); and in regards to attracting site sponsorship, it appears advertisers value quantity of viewers over quality of content. Who knew?

Which all goes to suggest that, if ULTRAsomething really and truly was a television show, it would likely air on the local Public Broadcasting station. But even in this scenario, the site’s been totally negligent in both its obligation to sell tote bags, and to pause every couple of paragraphs so that I might mercilessly badger my paucity of viewers into donating (Note: my accountant has requested that I take this opportunity to remind you that this site does contain a rather prominent DONATE link at the bottom of every post).

But one thing ULTRAsomething has done properly — at least in its comparison to a television series — is to place its most problematic “characters” into life-threatening comas until they can be dealt with properly.

So perhaps this is a good time to check in on a couple of ULTRAsomething’s current crop of coma patients, and see whether or not they’re going to live or die…

The Caffenolog

ULTRAsomething introduced this character six months ago in an article entitled “Caffenolog 1: Enter the Dragon,” then quickly followed up with a second story, “Caffenolog 2: A Shot in the Dark.” Caffenolog — which dealt with my ongoing experiments with various Caffenol recipes and processing techniques — was expected to become a regular cast member, but early audience ratings proved abysmal. Site readership declined precipitously upon publication of each instalment, and the third entry — though written — was ultimately shelved and never published. Instead, Caffenolog was placed in a coma, and it’s my sad duty to inform you that the Caffenolog has passed away.

Surprisingly, even though it seemed Caffenolog had very few friends, a significant number of readers came to visit the comatose patient. In fact, readership of both Caffenol articles has remained steady ever since their initial publications. Most articles deliver the majority of their readers within the first several weeks, then gradually decline into obscurity over the next couple of months. But there has been no such decline in Caffenolog readers. So while it first appeared that both posts would vie for the title of “least read article in 2014,” they are now firmly in the middle of this years’ popularity pack. So even though Caffenolog is “dead,” don’t be surprised if it makes a return appearance — maybe as another character’s “self-conscience;” or maybe as a ghost that haunts the arrival of some new digital contraption; or perhaps we’ll learn that Caffenolog had an evil twin…

The Magazine

In “Littlefields,” published in October 2013, I mentioned that I had designed a small photography magazine, and that it was my intention to publish it as a “spin-off” of ULTRAsomething.

The magazine has been in a coma ever since. Brutally handsome, temperamental, and somewhat of a prima-donna, the ULTRAsomething spin-off magazine was originally meant to be published quarterly. Each issue would contain six previously unpublished images, which would address a single theme. Each issue of each magazine would be custom printed by me, and would be hand-assembled into a concertina format, with each panel a mere 3.5” square. This would allow it to be viewed as either a small palm-sized book, or as a 21” wide hexaptych suitable for framing or resting on the mantelpiece. The concertina, when not displayed, would slip into a signed, custom-printed and hand-made “folio” for placement in a (tiny) bookcase.

Alas, as you might expect, ULTRAsomething simply couldn’t afford to offer such a prime role to an actor of this stature. To do so would require significant time and money. In fact, the magazine would demand so much time and so many resources that it would basically preclude my ability to continue publishing the ULTRAsomething website.

Considering that the “viewership” for such a magazine would be significantly lower than what the ULTRAsomething website currently enjoys, the magazine has slipped back into its coma.

However, I’m still not ready to “pull the plug,” since there’s a possibility this magazine will one day exist — either as the “successor” to the ULTRAsomething blog or as an enticement for a vaguely conceived “patronage” program for ULTRAsomething readers.

Sneak Preview

So what’s in store for Season 7? Well, like most long-running programs, ULTRAsomething’s gotten a bit lazy and formulaic over the years. So I’m rather certain you can expect more of the same: a healthy dose of punditry articles to please our core audience; a smattering of articles about photographs (rather than about photography) that seem to please only me; and articles about gear, which is how we bring fresh new readers to the blog each and every year.

Of course, if ULTRAsomething truly was a television show, I’d be forced to lie and say this is going to be our biggest and best season yet. But as a website, there’s no real harm in informing you that this probably isn’t true…

©2014 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:

Remember when I mentioned my belief that photography shouldn’t be considered an “art?” Well, hopefully, the photos accompanying this article bear witness to this belief.

“The Inevitable Cultural Consequence of ‘Game of Thrones’” and “A Prelude to Extinction” were both photographed with a Ricoh GR digital camera. “Easy Street” was shot with an Olympus Pen EE-2 on Kentmere 100 rated at ISO 320, and developed in Caffenol-C-L. Yes, that’s right… caffenol! It may be dead as far as the blog is concerned, but it’s alive and well in my darkroom (A.K.A. “kitchen”), where I continue to enjoy its push processing benefits now that I’ve switched to the “C-L” recipe, which adds a bit of Potassium Bromide to the formula (eliminating the fogging entirely).

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.

Categories : ULTRA news
Posted by Egor 
· November 3, 2014 

Thoughts From The Void

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then René Burri died.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©2014 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:

The photos accompanying this article are all allegories for its content. Yeah, I know — they’re not too subtle. But I did say I was ‘rusty.’

“Allegory 1” was shot with a Leica IIIc and a 50mm f/2 Summar lens at ISO 320 on Tri-X, which I developed in Rodinal 1:50. “Allegory 2” was shot with an Olympus OM-D E-M1 and a 60mm f/2.8 Macro lens (it was belching rain, and this is my only “weather sealed” body/lens combination). “Allegory  3” (in case it’s not obvious) is a “selfie.” I shot it with my trusty Ricoh GR. “Allegory 4″” was shot with a Leica M2 and a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 Nokton lens at ISO 400 on Tri-X, which I developed in HC-110 Dilution H. Perhaps this is a good time to mention just how silly it is that I include this data with every post — it’s not like these photos exhibit a level of technical perfection that would inspire others to emulate them. Mostly, I’m just lucky if I get my subject somewhat in focus and am able to frame some semblance of a composition.

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.

Categories : Musings
Posted by Egor 
· October 20, 2014 

Can Monkeys Fly?

Never say never.

©2014 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:

If you’re wondering why this video contains a greater percentage of accurately exposed and sharply focused pictures than are normally found on ULTRAsomething, I have a perfectly good explanation: many of these photos are quite old! Granted, this is an excuse normally reserved for posting shots of lesser fidelity, not greater. But this site has always been rather contrarian in nature. I used old photos simply because I thought it would be fun to comb through a decade-old corner of my Lightroom library to see what I might find. And more often than not, what I found was embarrassing evidence that I once believed “accurately exposed” and “sharply focused” were synonyms for “good photograph.” Silly me. So in order to save myself the humiliation of having too many “proper” photos in the video, I decided to mix in a few recent shots of “dubious” quality, which are obviously more to my current liking.

For those who care about such things, here are the shot specs for each photo frame, in order, from the beginning of the video:

Frame 1: Ugly Bird – Canon EOS 20D + 135mm f/2L USM lens
Frame 2: Migratory Flock – Canon EOS 40D + 17-40mm f/4L USM lens
Frame 3: Nature Studies – Canon EOS 5D + 135mm f/2L USM lens
Frame 4: Inverted Bird – Canon EOS 20D + 135mm f/2L USM lens
Frame 5: Thirsty Bird – Leica M6TTL + 21mm f/2.8 Elmarit, Tri-X at ISO 400, Ilfotec DD-X
Frame 6: Crows on a Rail – Olympus OM-D E-M1 + Olympus 60mm f/2.8 Macro lens
Frame 7: Gull on a Waterfall – Leica M6TTL + 35mm f/2 Summicron-M (v4), FP4+ at ISO 250, Diafine
Frame 8: Pigeon on a Rail – Olympus Pen EE-2, Kentmere 100 at ISO 50, Rodinal 1:50
Frame 9: Urban Birds – Ricoh GR
Frame 10: Two Geese – Panasonic DMC-G1 (lens unknown)
Frame 11: Flying Monkey – Canon EOS 20D + 70-300mm f/4.5-5.6 DO IS USM lens
Frame 12: Tweeter – Canon EOS 40D + 17-40mm f/4L USM lens

For the even fewer of you who care about the audio/multimedia side of this presentation, I will mention that (as always), I composed the score specifically for this video. The recording was done in Ableton Live using a handful of software instruments (U-He Bazille, Native Instruments Absynth, FM8 and Monark) along with some software effects (Izotope Stutter Edit, Native Instruments Solid EQ and Solid Bus Comp, plus an assortment of processing plugins from Sound Toys.) The bulk of the sound was generated from multi tracking two different, but interconnected hardware synthesizers: a Dave Smith Instruments Pro 2 and a chaotic mess of knobs, wires, switches, circuit boards and jacks, which make up the modular synthesizer that I affectionally refer to as “the wee wiggler.” Video editing was performed in Final Cut Pro X.

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.

Categories : ULTRA news, vBook
Posted by Egor 
· September 24, 2014 

Pi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©2014 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:

Other than having been all recently taken by me, these photos have little in common with one another — save for the fact that all were shot on a film camera of some type. Not only that, but they were all shot on film cameras from the last century because, well, film is currently quite unfashionable. This means you can view these photos in one of two ways: as evidence that I’m hopelessly behind the times, or as proof that I’m shrewdly ahead.

“A Comprehensive History of Dance Moves” and “Autonomy” were both shot on a Leica M2 with a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 Nokton lens, using Tri-X film exposed at ISO 400 and stand-developed in Caffenol-C-L.

“1:57 pm” was photographed with a Leica M2 fronted with a Voigtlander 50mm f/1.5 Nokton lens, using Tri-X film exposed at ISO 400, and developed in HC-110 dilution H.

“Pepsi & Poutine” was shot on a Leica IIIc with a Leitz 35mm f/3.4 Elmar lens, using Fomapan 100 film exposed at ISO 100, and stand-developed in Rodinal 1:100.

“A Practical Application for Art” was photographed with a Rollei 35T, using Tri-X film exposed at ISO 1000, and stand-developed in Caffenol C-L.

“Abandonment” came out of an Olympus Pen EE-2, using Kentmere 100 film exposed at ISO 50, and developed in Rodinal 1:50.

“Selfie Patrol” was shot on a Canon AE-1 with a Canon FD 50mm f/1.4 lens, using BW400CL film exposed at ISO 400, and lab-developed.

“Compatibility” was photographed using a Leica M2 and a v4 35mm f/2.0 Summicron lens, using Tri-X film exposed at ISO 400, and developed in HC-110 dilution H.

“Headspace” was shot with a Leica IIIc and a Leitz 50mm f/2 Summar lens, using Tri-X film exposed at ISO 320, and developed in Rodinal 1:50.

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.

Categories : Musings
Posted by Egor 
· September 1, 2014 

The Are-Bure-Boke-Matic

For me, the greatest advent of the digital photography era is neither the liberating ease with which images can be instantly realized, nor is it the impeccable fidelity of those images. Instead, it’s the way in which digital’s arrival rendered 160 years’ worth of camera gear instantly “obsolete.” In the blink of an eye, every film camera ever manufactured plummeted in value — sold for pennies on the dollar for a ticket on the digital bandwagon.

I’ll readily admit, if you were one of those who purged yourself of film during the digital coup, that you’ll likely disagree with this assertion. So, too, will anyone who simply has no need, interest nor appreciation of film. And this is precisely why this article and its opening proclamation began with the words, “for me.”

Unfortunately, every time I write something good about film, some folks scold me for being “anti digital.” And every time I write something good about digital, I get accused of “selling out” or “abandoning film.” So let’s set the record straight: I’ve been known to purchase a digital camera or two (or ten or twenty) in my lifetime, and I appreciate the easy workflow and stellar fidelity as much as the next photographer. In many instances, it’s exactly what my photography requires. But it’s not the only thing my photography requires. In other words, I don’t consider digital photography as a replacement for film. Rather, I see them as two entirely different and legitimate mediums that yield significantly different results. Oil paints may rule the roost amongst fine artists, but that doesn’t preclude the use of pastels, chalk, ink, water colors, wax, acrylics or any other pigment delivery mechanism an artist wishes to use.

For film lovers with heretofore prohibitive income levels, the post-digital buyer’s market created an intoxicating temptation — and I imbibed. Big time. Naturally, my first tendency was to purchase all sorts of high-end professional models that were now available for entry-level digital prices. And while I do delight in using these fine optical instruments, I’ve discovered something rather peculiar — I tend to enjoy crappy film cameras almost as much (if not more) than “pro” film cameras.

Upon reflection, the reason is quite clear: Because my digital cameras are capable of generating such flawless, technically-precise images, I no longer demand such perfection from my film cameras. In fact, as digital cameras improved, my appreciation for the defects, quirks and inconsistencies of film increased. Freed from the burden of creating “client worthy” photos on-demand, film cameras became a means for self-expression — a way to interpret my impressions of the world, rather than render that world in a realistic (or a trendy, hyper-realistic) light.

So now, not only am I constantly on the prowl for pro-grade film cameras, but you’ll frequently see me cruising for old consumer models, too. Which is exactly how and why I recently came into possession of an early-1960’s Olympus Pen EE-2 half-frame point-and-shoot.

Half the Frame, All the Joy

The Pen EE-2 is my second half-frame camera, and joins its higher-end sibling — the interchangeable lens Olympus Pen FT SLR — in ULTRAsomething’s increasingly crowded cabinet o’ cameras. Since purchasing the Pen FT some 18 months ago, I’ve run more film through that camera than any other that I own — a feat made even more remarkable when you consider I need to shoot twice as many photos in order to finish a roll. But I simply love the way it sees the world vertically, rather than horizontally. I love the fact that the 75+ images it squeezes onto a single roll of film allows me to experiment with the same reckless abandon that digital does, and I love the way the character of the film is amplified by the half-frame format.

While the Pen FT was the so-called professional model — introduced somewhat late in the product cycle — the Pen format was originally conceived as a consumer-level point-and-shoot line. So, given my newfound love for both half-frame photography and rudimentary cameras, it was inevitable that I would eventually own one of the consumer versions. And the Pen EE-2 is about as “consumer” as an early 1960’s camera can possibly get.

Though I profess to loving all cameras (even the ones I hate), I must confess that I can’t always find a unique or useful purpose for each and every model I experiment with. But in the case of the Olympus Pen EE-2, that purpose is clearly defined and quite obvious: it is my are-bure-boke camera.

Are-Bure-Boke

Are-Bure-Boke (pronounced ah-reh bu-reh bo-keh) is a Japanese term, coined to describe a particular style of photography that became increasingly influential in 1970’s Japan. “Are-Bure-Boke” means, literally, “rough, blurred and out-of-focus.” Needless to say, the type of photographs it describes are those that are rough (grainy), blurry and out-of-focus. This makes it one of the most aptly descriptive terms in the art world. Impressionism? Vague. Cubism? Vaguer. Street photography? The vaguest of all. Are-Bure-Boke? Now that’s specific.

Without getting into a long discourse on the history of photography, the career arcs of various photographers, or the stylistic influences of William Klein, Ed Van Der Elsken or Shomei Tomatsu, I’ll simply point you toward a few definitive examples of are-bure-boke photography: Takuma Nahahira’s “For a Language to Come;” Yutaka Takanashi’s “Toshi-E (Toward the City);” and pretty much everything that comes out of Daido Moriyama’s camera.

The Olympus Pen EE-2

The Pen EE-2 is a half-frame 35mm film camera. Theoretically, this means it delivers 72 exposures on a single roll of 36 exposure film. In practice, I’ve been getting about 78 exposures. Each negative is 24mm high by 18mm wide, meaning the camera shoots in “portrait” format. If you want to shoot in “landscape” format (the way most cameras do), you need to turn this camera sideways.

The EE-2 is permanently fronted with a 28mm f/3.5 lens, which gives a field of view roughly equivalent to a 40mm lens on a full-frame camera held sideways. Focus is not adjustable, and is fixed at 1.5 meters. Surrounding the lens is the camera’s “Electric Eye” or “EE” (which is a rather potent clue for those wondering how this camera got its designation). The “Electric Eye” is really nothing more elaborate than an old-fashioned selenium cell light meter, which thankfully means no batteries are needed to operate it.

The camera is gloriously free of bells and whistles. It has a flash sync terminal (which I haven’t used) and it has, umm, well it doesn’t really have anything else at all.

Many might believe a camera with a feature list this truncated couldn’t possibly be anything “special,” but that’s “upside down” logic. In reality, the camera is special because of what it doesn’t have. And what it doesn’t have is a plethora of shutter speeds. In fact, the camera features just two speeds. That’s right. Two. 1/40s and 1/125s. This is not a camera you’d use to photograph the Formula 1 circuit. Heck, even baseball’s a bit too vigorous for those lethargic shutter speeds.

But wait. It gets crazier.

The EE-2 supports both fully automatic and manual exposure. Since the selenium meter is over 50 years old, I knew its accuracy would be either dubious (at best), or flat out wrong (at worst). “No problem,” I thought. “I’ll just use manual exposure all the time, and forget about relying on the built-in meter.” Well, here’s the thing… you know those two shutter speeds I mentioned? Turns out that, in manual exposure mode, you only get one shutter speed, and it’s not the one you’d want — it’s 1/40s.

What’s this mean? It means that if you purchase an Olympus Pen EE-2 you have two choices: 1) shoot in fully automatic mode, meaning the camera chooses between 1/125 and 1/40, but makes you rely on a rather inaccurate and somewhat schizophrenic 50+ year old selenium cell meter, or 2) shoot everything with proper exposure, but with only a 1/40s shutter speed.

Yeah. Right.

Remember when I said the Pen EE-2 was my Are-Bure-Boke camera? Let’s break that down:

  • ARE: The Pen EE-2 is a half-frame camera. If one wishes to make prints the same size as a full-frame camera, its negatives need to be magnified twice as much. Magnify a negative and you magnify its grain (or “are” in Japanese).
  • BURE: The Pen EE-2 has exactly two shutter speeds — neither of which is fast enough to freeze action. Consequently, everything that moves will be at least a little bit blurry (or “bure” in Japanese).
  • BOKE: The Pen EE-2 is a fixed focus camera. This means, in subdued lighting, the camera will have too wide an aperture to deliver much depth-of-field, likely rendering your intended subject somewhat out-of-focus. Conversely, in bright lighting, the diffraction effects of the narrow aperture reek absolute havoc on overall focus. Ultimately, this camera appears to have the world’s narrowest “sweet spot,” virtually guaranteeing that anything you photograph will be at least a little bit out of focus (or “boke” in Japanese).

In the “old” days, I’d have chucked this Pen EE-2 in a drawer — never again to see the light of day (which, coincidentally, would greatly extend the life of its selenium cell). But these are the “digital” days, and what I look for in a film camera is increasingly dissimilar to what I look for in a digital camera.

So rather than feeling annoyed, I feel inspired. An inconsistent selenium cell automatically sets an unknown exposure on a questionably competent mechanical shutter that was, itself, woefully under spec’d over 50 years ago. How can you not embrace such randomness? There is beauty in the unpredictable. There is liberty, challenge, and a desire to point the eye of this are-bure-boke-matic at subjects that might please it; subjects that might match its unique aesthetic character. With it, I can learn to see as it sees, and explore an entirely new visual universe.

Photographing with the Pen EE-2 is like photographing with a mechanical I Ching. John Cage built a musical career around composing this way. Who’s to say I couldn’t do something similar with photography? This small, humble, consumer-grade, half-frame, 50 year-old point-and-shoot with its enigmatic imaging engine is one of the most emancipating cameras I’ve ever used. And to think, if it weren’t for the technical superiority of digital cameras, I’d have never discovered nor appreciated this camera’s many wonders…

©2014 grEGORy simpson

ABOUT THESE PHOTOS:

This article’s opening photo, “Parade” is quite likely my favorite shot of the year. I’ll leave it up to you to decide what that says about me, my capabilities and my judgement. Those of you who prefer to think of photography as a technical endeavor, will likely be more interested in knowing that the image was (as expected) shot with an Olympus Pen EE-2 using Kentmere 100 film, which I (ostensibly) exposed at ISO 320 and stand-developed in homemade Caffenol-C-L. Many of the other Pen EE-2 shots accompanying this article were also exposed on Kentmere 100 at ISO 320, and also developed in Caffenol-C-L. These include: “Brain Freeze,” “Architecture,” “Granular,” “True Love 1,” “Bike Lane Preservationist,” “Accoutrements,” and “Rocket Ride” (another shot for which I have a curious fondness). “True Love 2” resulted from a failed experiment with FP4+, which I (over)exposed at ISO 200 and developed in Caffenol-C-L. From the look of the negatives, I should probably have exposed it at ISO 500 (at least). Of course, this is purely conjecture since, in reality, I have no idea what sort of exposure values the 50+ year old selenium meter is reporting. “Assorted Pens” was shot on my digital Olympus OM-D E-M1 using a 60mm macro lens and providing irrefutable evidence to support my claim that “I appreciate (digital’s) easy workflow and stellar fidelity as much as the next photographer. In many instances, it’s exactly what my photography requires.”

If you find these photos enjoyable or the articles beneficial, please consider making a DONATION to this site’s continuing evolution. As you’ve likely realized, ULTRAsomething is not an aggregator site — serious time and effort go into developing the original content contained within these virtual walls.

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