“To me, photography is an art of observation. It’s about finding something interesting in an ordinary place… I’ve found it has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them.”
— Elliott Erwitt
Hello, Leica M2: First Impression Review of a Classic Rangefinder Camera
Is owning a Leica guaranteed to make you a better photographer? For years, Leica cameras occupied a strange place in my imagination. On one hand, they represented craftsmanship, history, and photographic excellence. On the other, I often lumped them in with luxury handbags and prestige cars—objects that seemed as much about status as function. Yet despite my cynicism, there was always a small part of me that wondered whether a Leica really was something special.
So, naturally, I bought one.
Not a modern digital Leica costing the equivalent of a small family car, but a 1963 Leica M2. In Leica terms, it’s practically the budget option, which still means spending considerably more than most sensible people would on a sixty-year-old film camera.
Why the Leica M2?
The purchase wasn’t entirely motivated by photographic lust. My faithful Canon P rangefinder had started showing its age, suffering from a dragging shutter and becoming increasingly difficult to get repaired. Time and again I’d heard the same promise from Leica owners: if you want a camera for life, buy a Leica.
The M2 appealed because it sits in a sweet spot between affordability and classic Leica design. It’s wonderfully simple. Load film, set the shutter speed, focus, and press the shutter. There’s no light meter, no electronics, and very little to go wrong. It’s essentially a precision-engineered box designed to let light hit film.
One of the biggest advantages for me was compatibility with my collection of Leica Thread Mount lenses. While I don’t own a single Leica lens, I do have lenses from Canon, Nikon, Voigtländer and even a few Soviet-made curiosities. With the right adapters, they all work happily on the M2.
As luck would have it, the camera arrived just before a trip to Melbourne, giving me the perfect opportunity to see whether Leica magic was real or merely expensive mythology.
Melbourne: A Perfect Testing Ground
Melbourne has long been my favourite city for street photography. Its blend of Victorian architecture, modern skyscrapers, laneways, riverside walks and bustling public spaces provides endless opportunities for wandering with a camera. For this first outing, I paired the Leica M2 with a Nikon S.C. 5cm f/1.4 lens and a roll of Kentmere 100 black-and-white film.
The Nikon lens proved an interesting companion. Stopped down in good light, it’s exceptionally sharp. Wide open, however, “soft” might be putting it politely. Let’s call it dreamy. If your dreams happen to be smeared with Vaseline.
Since the M2 lacks a built-in light meter, I relied on a light meter app on my phone to occasionally check my instincts. For the most part, the trusty Sunny 16 rule did the job. The negatives, developed later in 510 Pyro, came out surprisingly well exposed despite the occasional uncertainty.
Living with a Leica
In practical terms, the Leica M2 isn’t dramatically different from other classic rangefinders. It offers shutter speeds from one second to 1/1000th of a second and an almost comically slow flash sync speed of 1/50th.
What separates it from other cameras is the experience, though, is that M2 feels beautifully made. The chrome finish, textured vulcanite covering, engraved markings and silky mechanical controls all contribute to a sense of quality that is difficult to describe until you hold one. Every action feels deliberate. The shutter has a subtle, refined click rather than a harsh snap.
Among Leica enthusiasts, endless debates rage about which M model is best. The M3 is often regarded as the classic choice, but its higher viewfinder magnification favours 50mm lenses. I preferred the M2 because its viewfinder comfortably accommodates wider lenses like 35mm without requiring awkward accessories.
The M2 lacks a few conveniences found on later models. The frame counter must be manually reset when loading film, something I repeatedly forgot to do. Yet these small inconveniences somehow feel appropriate. This is a camera that asks you to slow down and engage with the process.
Walking along the Yarra River and through Melbourne’s city streets, I found myself enjoying the camera simply as an object. It felt natural in the hand, compact, lightweight and unobtrusive.
The Photos and the Reality
After developing the roll, I was faced with an unavoidable question: did the Leica make my photographs better?
The answer is both disappointing and reassuring. Not really.
The images looked very much like my photographs. The Leica hadn’t transformed me into a photographic genius. It hadn’t sprinkled magical German fairy dust onto the negatives. The strongest images succeeded because of composition, timing and subject matter rather than the logo engraved on the camera.
A few photographs stood out. Images from the National Gallery of Victoria’s Yayoi Kusama exhibition captured an intriguing blend of art and human interaction. Other frames documented everyday moments around the city—couples holding hands, workers transforming the urban landscape and quiet scenes that revealed small fragments of Melbourne life.
These weren’t grand artistic statements. Many were simple snapshots made while learning the camera. Yet they served as reminders that street photography doesn’t always need to communicate profound truths. Sometimes it’s enough to document a fleeting moment in a city’s ongoing story.
And perhaps that’s where the Leica’s true appeal lies. It’s not that the camera creates better photographs. Rather, it encourages a different relationship with photography itself. The simplicity, craftsmanship and tactile experience make the process enjoyable. They make you want to pick the camera up and go for a walk. For a first roll, that’s more than enough.
The Leica M2 hasn’t turned me into a master photographer. It hasn’t elevated my work beyond what I was already capable of producing. What it has done is make photography feel a little more special, a little more deliberate, and a little more fun.
Whether that’s worth the price of admission is something every Leica owner has to decide for themselves.
Nikon AF-S NIKKOR 28-300mm f/3.5-5.6G ED VR: A Visit to Kenya and Yet Another Superzoom Review
Superzoom lenses have always promised photographic freedom. One lens, an enormous focal range, and no frantic lens swapping while the perfect shot disappears into the distance. The Nikon AF-S Nikkor 28-300mm f/3.5-5.6G ED VR is one of Nikon’s most ambitious attempts at delivering that promise, offering everything from wide-angle landscapes to substantial telephoto reach in a single package.
But as every photographer knows, versatility usually comes with compromises. The question is whether those compromises matter when you’re actually out using the lens.
Released in 2010 and remaining in Nikon’s lineup for over a decade, the 28-300mm sits somewhere between consumer convenience and professional aspirations. It feels solidly built, with a reassuring mix of metal, glass, and polycarbonate. While it lacks the refinement of Nikon’s professional zooms, it certainly doesn’t feel cheap. The extending zoom barrel is perhaps the biggest reminder that this isn’t a premium workhorse, stretching outward dramatically as you zoom in.
At around 800 grams, it’s not exactly lightweight either. This isn’t the lens you casually slip into a jacket pocket. Instead, it’s designed for photographers who want one lens capable of handling almost any situation they encounter while travelling.
Putting the Lens to the Test in Kenya
The perfect opportunity to test that versatility arrived during a work trip to Kenya. With time split between Nairobi and the coastal region of Diani near Mombasa, the lens would need to handle everything from wildlife photography to beach landscapes.
Mounted on a Nikon Z6 via the FTZ adapter, the 28-300mm accompanied an early morning visit to Nairobi National Park. The appeal of a superzoom becomes immediately obvious in situations like this. Wildlife doesn’t wait while you change lenses, and having focal lengths ranging from moderately wide to substantial telephoto coverage allows you to react quickly to whatever appears in front of you.
The lens performed exactly as intended. While it couldn’t match the image quality of specialised prime lenses, many of the photographs simply wouldn’t have been possible with a fixed focal length. The ability to zoom from environmental shots to tighter wildlife compositions without changing equipment proved invaluable.
Autofocus performance, however, revealed some of the lens’s age. It’s not painfully slow, but it isn’t particularly quick either, especially at the 300mm end of the zoom range. When focusing from close subjects to distant ones, the lens can take its time finding focus. For relaxed wildlife subjects this wasn’t a major issue, but fast-moving birds or unpredictable animals might expose its limitations.
Video shooters may also find themselves frustrated. Autofocus noise is considerably louder than on modern Nikon Z lenses, and continuous autofocus can occasionally hunt or pulse in a distracting manner. Focus breathing is also quite noticeable, causing the field of view to change significantly as focus shifts.
A Lens That Does Almost Everything
If the Nikon 28-300mm has a defining characteristic, it’s practicality. This is a lens that can tackle almost any photographic situation reasonably well.
One particularly useful feature is its relatively close focusing ability. While it isn’t a true macro lens, the 1:3 reproduction ratio allows for surprisingly detailed close-up shots. Flowers, textures, food, and small objects are all well within its capabilities, adding another layer of versatility to an already flexible design.
Image stabilisation is another major strength. Nikon’s VR system works remarkably well, especially when paired with the excellent high-ISO performance of cameras like the Z6. Handholding at surprisingly slow shutter speeds becomes possible, reducing the need to carry a tripod and reinforcing the lens’s travel-friendly philosophy.
Sharpness is also better than some critics might expect. No, it won’t rival Nikon’s best prime lenses, and pixel peepers using high-resolution cameras will certainly spot differences. Yet for travel photography, social media, prints, and general use, the lens delivers consistently respectable results throughout much of its zoom range.
Perhaps most importantly, it encourages photographers to capture more images simply because the right focal length is always available.
The Trade-Offs Behind the Convenience
Of course, no superzoom escapes the laws of optical compromise.
The Nikon 28-300mm produces images that are competent but often lack a distinctive character. The photographs are accurate and faithful, yet they rarely possess the subject separation, creamy bokeh, or three-dimensional rendering that photographers often associate with premium primes or specialised zooms.
Optical flaws are also present. Vignetting can be quite pronounced, especially at wider apertures and at either end of the zoom range. Distortion is another reality, with barrel distortion at the wide end transitioning into pincushion distortion through much of the telephoto range. Modern software corrections make these issues easy to fix, but they’re impossible to ignore when evaluating the lens on its own merits.
The 28mm wide end can also feel slightly restrictive by modern standards. Many photographers have become accustomed to 24mm as a standard starting point for travel zooms, making 28mm seem just a little too narrow for dramatic landscapes and architecture.
Then there’s the weight. While significantly smaller than carrying multiple lenses, it remains a noticeable burden around the neck during long days of shooting.
Final Thoughts
The Nikon AF-S Nikkor 28-300mm f/3.5-5.6G ED VR is a lens defined by practicality rather than perfection. It isn’t particularly glamorous, and it won’t produce the most beautiful images in your collection. What it does offer is the freedom to capture an enormous range of subjects without constantly swapping lenses.
In Kenya, that flexibility translated into more successful photographs and fewer missed opportunities. While a collection of specialised lenses might have produced technically superior results, they probably wouldn’t have produced as many keepers.
That’s ultimately the appeal of the 28-300mm. It’s not the sharpest lens, the fastest lens, or the most characterful lens. It’s simply the lens that’s already on your camera when the moment happens. For many travel photographers, that may be the most important quality of all.
Nikon’s Nikkor Z 24-200mm f/4-6.3 VR and Comparing the Compromises of Superzooms
When you’re standing in a place as spectacular as Phillip Island or Wilsons Promontory in Victoria, Australia, you want a camera setup that can capture everything. Vast coastal landscapes, wildlife on distant horizons, dramatic rock formations, and fleeting travel moments all demand flexibility. At the same time, nobody wants to haul a backpack full of lenses while exploring. That’s where the superzoom comes in.
For decades, superzoom lenses have been marketed as the ultimate travel companion: one lens that can do everything from wide-angle landscapes to long telephoto shots. Traditionally, however, that convenience came with a reputation for soft images, slow apertures, and compromised image quality. Modern mirrorless systems promised to change that. When Nikon released the 24-200mm f/4-6.3 for the Z mount system, it seemed like the ideal travel lens. Compact, lightweight, and covering an enormous focal range, it quickly became my most-used lens. Over the past few years it has travelled with me through South Korea, Singapore, Mauritius, and China. For a photographer who values convenience, it appeared to be the perfect solution.
At first glance, the lens performs well. Images are contrasty, flare resistance is respectable, and distortion is largely controlled. Combined with the excellent sensor in the Nikon Z6 and effective image stabilization, it produces photographs that look great when viewed normally. The problem only appeared when I started looking closer.
Cracks in the Superzoom Dream
During a trip through Victoria’s southeast coast, using the Nikon Z6 paired with the 24-200mm, I began noticing something strange. Images taken at the longer end of the zoom range, particularly around 200mm and focused at distant subjects, seemed softer than expected. Viewed on a phone or social media feed, the photos looked perfectly acceptable. Zooming in, however, revealed a lack of crisp detail. Rocks, distant landscapes, and fine textures often appeared mushy, even after additional sharpening in post-processing.
At first I questioned my own technique. Was I introducing camera shake? Was image stabilization failing? Was autofocus missing the mark? Travel photography often involves shooting handheld, and user error is always a possibility. To investigate, I decided to conduct a simple comparison.
Rather than relying on subjective impressions from travel photos, I compared the Nikon Z 24-200mm against a lens I already trusted: the Nikon AF Nikkor 180mm f/2.8D. Despite being an older DSLR-era prime lens, the 180mm has a strong reputation for sharpness. Mounted on the Nikon Z6 via an adapter, it provided a useful benchmark. The test was straightforward. I photographed distant subjects, trees, buildings, chimneys, rooftops, and antennas, comparing equivalent focal lengths while examining the resulting RAW files at high magnification.
A Prime Lens Delivers an Uncomfortable Truth
The results were difficult to ignore. Across multiple images, the older 180mm prime consistently delivered sharper detail and better edge definition. Bark textures, brickwork, foliage, and architectural details all appeared noticeably crisper. The superzoom often showed softness, ghosting, and a lack of fine detail that became increasingly obvious at 300% magnification. Autofocus did occasionally appear slightly inconsistent, but that alone couldn’t explain the difference. Even when focus seemed accurate, the 24-200mm simply wasn’t resolving detail at the same level as the prime.
The real surprise came when I introduced a third lens into the comparison. The Nikon 35-200mm f/3.5-5.6 AI-S dates back to 1985—a period when superzoom lenses were notorious for optical compromises. Today it can often be found on the second-hand market for very little money. Logic suggested that a modern mirrorless zoom should easily outperform a decades-old manual-focus superzoom. Instead, the results were unexpectedly close.
Check out the video above for the examples.
At certain apertures, particularly around f/8, the vintage lens appeared sharper than the modern Nikon Z 24-200mm. Fine details such as tree branches and antennas often showed better definition. Wide open, the differences became smaller and the older lens revealed more chromatic aberration and vignetting, but it remained surprisingly competitive. That raised an uncomfortable question: if a modern mirrorless superzoom can be outperformed by both an older telephoto prime and, in some situations, a forty-year-old superzoom, what exactly are you paying for?
The Real Value of the Nikon 24-200mm
The answer is convenience. The Nikon Z 24-200mm is dramatically smaller and lighter than either of the older lenses. It autofocuses quickly and silently, includes image stabilization, and covers an enormous focal range in a package small enough to carry all day. For travel photography, those advantages matter. When wandering beaches, coastal lookouts, or city streets, there’s enormous value in having a single lens that can capture almost anything without changing gear. The ability to move from a sweeping landscape to a distant wildlife shot in seconds is liberating. The lens may not deliver the ultimate image quality, but it delivers versatility.
Final Thoughts
After all the testing, I still haven’t completely answered my own question. The evidence suggests that my Nikon Z 24-200mm is not especially sharp at longer focal lengths and distances. Whether that’s a characteristic of the design, sample variation, autofocus inconsistencies, or a combination of all three remains unclear. What is clear is that newer technology doesn’t automatically guarantee better optical performance. Older lenses, particularly quality primes, can still outperform modern zooms when absolute sharpness is the goal.
Yet despite its flaws, I’m not getting rid of the 24-200mm. The reality is that most viewers will never notice these issues when images are viewed on social media, phones, or standard screens. For travel photography, the convenience of carrying one lightweight lens often outweighs the pursuit of pixel-perfect sharpness. The Nikon Z 24-200mm may not be the miracle travel lens I once believed it was, but it’s still the lens I reach for most often. And perhaps that’s the ultimate compliment. Even when it falls short of perfection, it’s still the lens that gets taken on the journey.
A Cycle Around the Communist Block with the Voigtländer VM 35mm f/1.5 Nokton and a Leica M2
Travel photography often begins with a simple question: what happens when you stop chasing landmarks and start paying attention to the streets between them? During a spare day in Beijing before flying home, I decided to do exactly that. Armed with an AliPay rental bike, a Leica M2, and a Voigtländer VM Vintage 35mm f/1.5 Nokton, I set out to explore China’s capital one block at a time. Rather than following a strict itinerary, I simply wandered through the city, letting curiosity dictate the route.
The camera setup was deliberately simple. The Leica M2 remains one of the purest photographic tools ever made, while the Voigtländer 35mm f/1.5 has become my favourite lens for it. The combination strikes a fascinating balance between vintage character and modern performance. Wide open, the lens offers atmosphere and personality; stopped down, it becomes remarkably sharp and clinical. For street photography, it feels both classic and capable.
As with any fully manual camera, however, simplicity comes with challenges. Exposure is entirely your responsibility, and despite carrying a light meter, I still managed to underexpose several frames early in the day. It’s a familiar trap: your eyes adapt to shadows and convince you there’s more light available than there really is. Throw in expired development chemicals and there are plenty of opportunities for mistakes. Fortunately, not every frame suffered the same fate.
Exploring the Hutongs
The first roll was Fuji 400, though by the time I’d manually exposed, developed, scanned, and edited the negatives, it’s difficult to say how much of the final look belonged to Fuji and how much belonged to me. Eventually I swapped to Kodak ColorPlus 200, whose warm palette felt perfectly suited to Beijing’s red walls, golden accents, and bustling streets.
One of the highlights of the ride was exploring Beijing’s famous hutongs. These traditional residential compounds offer a glimpse into an older version of the city. Historically, families lived closely together around shared courtyards and communal facilities. Privacy wasn’t always part of the design, but community certainly was.
Today, much of old Beijing has disappeared beneath modern development. Like many Chinese cities, traditional neighbourhoods have given way to apartment towers and expanding urban infrastructure. Yet pockets of the old city remain, preserved as cultural districts, restaurants, galleries, and occasionally still as homes. Wandering through these lanes reveals a side of Beijing that feels worlds away from the modern skyline.
The hutongs also provided some of the day’s most rewarding photographic opportunities. Laundry hung from windows, elderly residents chatted in doorways, and everyday life unfolded at a pace that felt noticeably slower than the surrounding city. These weren’t the postcard views that attract tourists, but they offered something arguably more interesting: a sense of how people actually live.
Tiananmen Square and the Politics of Place
Eventually the ride led toward one of the most recognisable public spaces in the world: Tiananmen Square. The square itself is immense, surrounded by some of China’s most significant political and cultural landmarks, including the Monument to the People’s Heroes, the Mausoleum of Mao Zedong, the Great Hall of the People, and the National Museum of China.
Access to the square is tightly controlled, and entry tickets often need to be booked in advance. Rather than entering directly, I circled the area by bicycle, navigating passport checks, security barriers, and occasional questions from curious officials wondering why a foreigner was stopping to photograph ordinary scenes.
What struck me most was the contrast between the monumental and the domestic. Just beyond one of the largest public squares on Earth are narrow residential streets, hanging laundry, and small moments of everyday life. The juxtaposition felt uniquely Beijing: grand political symbolism existing alongside the ordinary rhythms of daily living.
Why a Leica M2 and 35mm Lens Were Perfect for Beijing
The Leica and Voigtländer combination excelled in this environment because it encouraged a particular way of seeing. A fixed 35mm lens forces the photographer to engage with the scene rather than relying on zoom. There is no ultra-wide perspective to exaggerate scale and no telephoto reach to isolate distant subjects. Instead, you move closer, pay attention, and become part of the environment you’re photographing.
That limitation becomes a strength. The 35mm focal length captures enough context to establish a sense of place while still allowing intimacy with a subject. It is no accident that generations of street photographers have gravitated toward this field of view. It feels remarkably close to how we naturally experience the world.
The Voigtländer lens complemented that approach perfectly. Despite its “Vintage” branding, its rendering is more modern than nostalgic. While some vignetting appears at wider apertures, it adds character rather than detracting from the image. Wide open, the lens offers atmosphere and personality; stopped down, it delivers impressive sharpness across the frame. In many ways, it feels like two lenses in one.
The Real Story Was in the Everyday Details
As the day progressed, colour film eventually gave way to black and white. A roll of Kentmere 100 transformed the city into a study of shape, texture, contrast, and light. Without colour competing for attention, small moments became even more important.
Looking back through the photographs, the images that resonate most aren’t necessarily the obvious landmarks. The iconic view of Tiananmen Square certainly has its place, but the quieter photographs linger longer in memory. Reflections in windows, curious dogs, hanging laundry, market scenes, and people simply going about their day reveal something more interesting than monuments ever could.
Three rolls of film, one camera, and one lens were enough to document a day in Beijing. The limitations of the equipment shaped the experience, encouraging consistency, patience, and a more deliberate way of seeing. No tanks were faced down and no grand acts of protest occurred. There were only conversations, misunderstandings, photographs, and a bicycle ride through one of the world’s most fascinating cities.
Sometimes that’s more than enough.
Nikon AF Nikkor 50mm f/1.8D: The Best Budget Lens Nikon Ever Made?
The Nikon AF Nikkor 50mm f/1.8D is about as unassuming as a camera lens can be. It’s small, lightweight, mostly plastic, and possesses all the visual excitement of a household appliance. Pick it up and you might wonder how something that feels so ordinary has earned such a loyal following among photographers. Yet despite its humble appearance, this little lens has developed a reputation as one of Nikon’s greatest bargains—and after years of using it, I’m inclined to agree.
In a previous review, I described the Nikon 135mm f/2.8 AI-S as perhaps Nikon’s best-value budget lens. The only reason I hesitated was because of this lens. The 50mm f/1.8D has been sitting quietly in the back of my mind, constantly reminding me that true photographic value isn’t always found in rare vintage glass or expensive modern optics.
Like most camera manufacturers, Nikon has produced numerous 50mm lenses over the decades. The AF-D version, introduced in 2002, is essentially an evolution of Nikon’s earlier autofocus designs. Even today, long after the heyday of film photography, it remains available and continues to serve photographers who appreciate its simplicity.
Simplicity is Best
There’s no built-in autofocus motor. Instead, autofocus is driven by the camera body via Nikon’s traditional screw-drive system. This means compatibility is limited on some Nikon cameras, but the lens does include a manual aperture ring and remains easy to use manually. It feels almost refreshingly straightforward in an era of increasingly complex lens designs.
Despite its budget construction, there are some pleasant surprises. The lens uses a metal mount rather than plastic, and its uncomplicated design contributes to its durability. I’ve owned two copies over the years. One was purchased new, while the other arrived attached to a second-hand camera body. Neither has ever given me trouble, and one even survived an accidental drop onto concrete with nothing more than a cosmetic scar.
But durability alone doesn’t make a lens special. The real question is how it performs. To find out, I took the lens on a night-time walk through Hong Kong’s Temple Street Markets, mounted on a Nikon N80 loaded with Ilford HP5 Plus pushed to ISO 1600. It proved to be an excellent travel companion. Small and light enough to disappear into a camera bag, it complements a zoom lens perfectly when light levels drop and a wider aperture becomes useful.
The 50mm focal length itself remains one of photography’s classics. Offering a natural perspective that closely resembles human vision, it allows photographers to isolate subjects without introducing the compressed, voyeuristic feel often associated with longer telephoto lenses. It’s easy to see why masters such as Henri Cartier-Bresson favoured this focal length for so much of their work.
It’s Sharp
Even without conducting laboratory tests, images consistently appear crisp and detailed. Scanned film photographs reveal excellent central sharpness, with textures and fine details rendered more clearly than the lens’s modest price would suggest. There’s a certain incisiveness to the images that repeatedly catches me by surprise.
That sharpness continued to impress back home in Perth, this time using slower, finer-grained film under bright Australian sunshine. Stopped down, the lens produces remarkably detailed images. Even wide open at f/1.8, performance remains highly respectable. While it may not compete with the latest premium optics in objective testing, real-world results are consistently satisfying.
A Few Imperfections
Of course, the lens isn’t perfect. Corner performance lags behind the centre, particularly when shot wide open. Some mild vignetting is present, and modern photographers accustomed to flawless edge-to-edge sharpness may notice these shortcomings. Yet these imperfections rarely detract from photographs and can sometimes enhance them by naturally drawing attention toward the subject.
The bokeh is perhaps the lens’s most divisive characteristic. If you’re searching for creamy, dreamlike backgrounds that melt effortlessly into abstraction, this isn’t the lens for you. Out-of-focus highlights can appear somewhat harsh and nervous, particularly in high-contrast situations. Background blur remains perfectly usable, but it lacks the smooth rendering that has become fashionable in modern lens design.
Interestingly, these flaws contribute to the lens’s character. Many contemporary lenses are engineered to eliminate optical imperfections entirely. The result is often technically stunning but emotionally sterile. Corner-to-corner sharpness, perfect correction, and flawless rendering can sometimes come at the expense of personality.
The 50mm f/1.8D feels different. Its images retain a sense of individuality. They’re sharp but not clinical. Imperfect but engaging. The lens seems more interested in helping you create photographs than impressing you with engineering specifications. Its coatings also deserve praise. Contrast remains strong, and flare resistance is surprisingly good. Thanks in part to the deeply recessed front element, I struggled to provoke any serious flare issues during testing.
Ultimately, the Nikon AF Nikkor 50mm f/1.8D isn’t a miracle lens. It won’t leave photographers gasping in amazement, and it certainly won’t challenge the legendary status of Leica’s most celebrated optics. What it does offer is something arguably more valuable: honesty.
It’s a modest lens that quietly gets on with the job. It has flaws, limitations, and quirks, but it also possesses charm, reliability, and surprisingly strong optical performance. In an industry increasingly obsessed with perfection, there’s something refreshing about a lens that embraces being merely very good.
Perhaps that’s why it remains one of Nikon’s finest bargains. Not because it’s perfect, but because it delivers so much photographic enjoyment for so little money.
Whether it’s Nikon’s best-value budget lens or merely the second-best is still open for debate. But one thing is certain: the Nikon AF Nikkor 50mm f/1.8D has earned its place among the great affordable lenses of the film era; and it’s still capable of creating beautiful photographs today.
My Shin Okubo Dori Story with the Olympus 75mm f1 8 for Micro Four Thirds
The Olympus 75mm f/1.8 has long enjoyed a near-mythical reputation among Micro Four Thirds photographers. Released back in 2012, it quickly became known as one of the sharpest lenses available for the system and remains highly regarded more than a decade later. Having owned mine since 2013, it has been one of the lenses most responsible for convincing me that Micro Four Thirds could deliver truly exceptional image quality in a compact package.
That loyalty was tested recently when the lens developed an autofocus issue. During a trip to Malaysia, I discovered it struggled to focus on distant subjects, rendering it effectively useless for many of the situations where I normally rely on it. While it could still produce attractive close and mid-distance images, a telephoto lens that cannot focus at infinity is severely compromised. After an expensive repair, however, the lens returned to full health, providing the perfect excuse to take it on a fresh adventure and rediscover what makes it so special.
Small Lens, Big Performance
One of the strongest arguments for the Olympus 75mm f/1.8 is that it perfectly demonstrates the strengths of the Micro Four Thirds system. Critics often argue that smaller sensors cannot compete with full-frame cameras when it comes to subject separation and shallow depth of field. This lens challenges that assumption.
With a field of view equivalent to a 150mm lens on full frame and a bright f/1.8 aperture, it produces beautifully blurred backgrounds while remaining remarkably compact. Compared to something like a modern full-frame 135mm f/1.8 lens, the Olympus is dramatically smaller, lighter and less expensive. It offers much of the same creative potential without requiring photographers to carry a heavy camera bag.
Physically, the lens is refreshingly simple. There are no programmable buttons, aperture rings or manual-focus clutches. Instead, Olympus focused on delivering excellent optics in a premium metal body. The lens feels solid and well made, while the focus ring offers a smooth, refined operation. Although it lacks weather sealing, it still feels every bit like a professional-grade product.
Its optical design is surprisingly sophisticated, incorporating specialised glass elements designed to minimise distortion, chromatic aberration and other optical flaws. The result is a lens that combines portability with impressive technical performance.
Why the Image Quality Still Impresses
The Olympus 75mm f/1.8 built much of its reputation on sharpness, and even today it remains one of the sharpest lenses I have ever used. Wide open at f/1.8, images are already impressively detailed, with only slight softness near the edges. By f/2.8, the entire frame becomes razor sharp.
Yet sharpness alone does not explain the appeal of this lens. Many modern lenses are technically excellent, but relatively few possess that elusive quality photographers often describe as character. The Olympus 75mm consistently produces images that feel special, even when it is difficult to identify exactly why.
Colours are rich without appearing exaggerated, and there is a pleasing sense of separation between tones. Skin tones in particular look natural and lifelike, making the lens an excellent choice for portraiture. Distortion is effectively invisible in real-world shooting, allowing it to handle architecture and urban scenes with ease.
Perhaps most importantly, the lens renders out-of-focus areas beautifully. Background blur appears soft, smooth and natural, helping subjects stand out while still preserving a sense of place. Unlike some lenses that create nervous or distracting bokeh, the Olympus delivers transitions that feel elegant and refined.
A Night in Tokyo with an Unusual Street Lens
To put the repaired lens through its paces, I paired it with the OM System OM-3 during a trip to Tokyo. My destination was Shin-Okubo, the city’s vibrant Korea Town, where I spent an evening exploring the streets with a focal length that most photographers would consider unconventional for street photography.
A 150mm equivalent lens is certainly not the obvious choice for documenting urban life. It limits your field of view and makes it difficult to capture broad scenes or environmental context. However, it also offers advantages that wider lenses cannot match.
The focal length allows photographers to isolate distant subjects and create compositions free from distractions. Rather than immersing viewers in a scene, the lens encourages a more selective and observational style of photography. It becomes a spotting lens, helping you identify moments unfolding across the street and frame them with precision.
This approach works particularly well for candid photography. The extra distance allows subjects to remain natural and unselfconscious while still filling the frame with detail and character. Although it may not suit every photographer’s style, it can produce compelling results for those who enjoy a more detached perspective.
More Than Just Technical Excellence
What keeps drawing me back to the Olympus 75mm f/1.8 is not simply its image quality. Plenty of lenses are sharp. Plenty of lenses have attractive bokeh. What makes this lens special is the way it encourages creativity.
Using it requires a different way of seeing. You quickly learn to look for details, gestures and moments that might be overlooked with wider lenses. The limitations become part of the creative process, forcing you to think differently about composition and storytelling.
Looking back at the photographs from Tokyo, I remember not only the images themselves but also the enjoyment of making them. Even when I knew I was missing wider contextual shots, I found myself embracing the unique perspective this lens provided. Every frame felt deliberate and carefully observed.
There is also that difficult-to-define quality that photographers often refer to as “3D pop.” Whether it comes from the focal length, the aperture or some combination of optical characteristics, the images possess a sense of depth and presence that feels unusually engaging.
That is why, despite the repair cost approaching the value of a good used copy, I never seriously considered replacing it. The Olympus 75mm f/1.8 remains one of the finest lenses available for the Micro Four Thirds system and a perfect example of what the format can achieve. More than a decade after buying it, it continues to earn a place in my camera bag on every trip, and it remains one of the few modern lenses that genuinely excites me every time I use it.
Trying out the Nikon 135mm f/2.8 Ai-S Manual Focus Lens on Digital and Film
Let’s talk about 135mm lenses.
Not the legendary, collector-grade optics that command eye-watering prices on the second-hand market. I’m talking about the humble, often-overlooked 135mm lenses gathering dust in the lower reaches of eBay listings, sitting somewhere between “well used” and “please check photos carefully.”
For reasons I don’t entirely understand, old 135mm lenses seem to have fallen out of fashion. Perhaps they’re caught in an awkward middle ground. They’re a little too long for everyday portrait work, a little too short for serious wildlife photography, and in an era dominated by versatile zooms, they can seem somewhat impractical.
After all, modern zoom lenses offer tremendous convenience. When you can’t physically move closer or further away—or simply don’t want to—being able to adjust your framing with a twist of the zoom ring is undeniably useful. For sports or action photography, a zoom lens is usually the obvious choice.
But there’s still something appealing about a dedicated telephoto prime.
The Nikon 135mm f/2.8 AI-S, introduced in 1981, represents the culmination of Nikon’s long-running line of manual-focus 135mm lenses. While it shares its optical formula with the earlier AI version, Nikon improved the lens coatings, giving it excellent contrast and resistance to flare. The fact that it remained in production for over two decades speaks volumes about its popularity and capability.
Back in the 1980s, serious photographers often preferred primes over zooms because zoom technology simply hadn’t reached the quality levels we take for granted today. Prime lenses were typically faster, lighter, and optically superior.
Even now, those advantages remain relevant. At 425 grams, the 135mm f/2.8 AI-S is compact enough to carry comfortably while still feeling reassuringly solid. It embodies the best of Nikon’s manual-focus era: metal construction, smooth mechanical operation, and a tactile quality that’s increasingly rare in modern lenses.
One particularly thoughtful feature is the built-in retractable lens hood. As someone who regularly forgets to pack lens hoods, having one permanently attached is a welcome convenience.
Taking a 135mm to Tokyo
When I picked up my copy in Japan, I wasn’t entirely sure what role it would play in my photography. I had purchased it from a used camera store in Tokyo for around 17,000 yen—a reasonable price for a lens that, despite its “B” grade condition, turned out to be mechanically excellent and optically clean.
Naturally, I decided to test it in one of the busiest places imaginable: Shibuya.
Using a 135mm lens on crowded city streets presents challenges. There were certainly moments when I wished I had a 35mm lens attached instead. Yet the longer focal length offered a completely different way of seeing the city.
Rather than photographing the whole scene, I found myself isolating details, extracting individual moments from the chaos, and capturing candid portraits from a comfortable distance. The lens allowed me to pick out visual fragments that might otherwise have been lost amid the noise and activity.
Its relatively fast f/2.8 aperture also proved valuable after dark. Tokyo’s neon-lit streets became a playground for selective focus, with subjects emerging from backgrounds rendered into soft, creamy blur.
Of course, that shallow depth of field can be both a blessing and a curse. At 135mm, maintaining critical focus becomes more demanding, especially when photographing moving subjects. There were plenty of occasions where I had to accept that only part of a scene would be perfectly sharp. But when everything came together, the results had a distinctive look that justified the effort.
Digital and Film Performance
While most of my initial testing took place on a Nikon Z6 via an adapter, I wanted to see how the lens performed in its natural habitat: on film. Back in Perth, I loaded a roll of Kentmere 100 into my Nikon FE and spent a sunny summer day photographing Hillarys Boat Harbour.
The results confirmed my impressions from Tokyo. The lens is sharp—more than sharp enough for real-world photography. I’m not interested in pixel-peeping competitions or laboratory measurements, but the images displayed excellent detail and clarity. The bright Australian sunlight allowed me to work at comfortable shutter speeds, while the improved coatings and built-in hood kept flare well under control.
Optically, the lens performs admirably across the board. Vignetting is visible at wider apertures but largely disappears by around f/5.6. Distortion is virtually nonexistent, chromatic aberration is minimal, and highlight blooming is remarkably well controlled for a lens of this vintage.
Most importantly, the out-of-focus rendering is beautiful. The combination of focal length and aperture produces smooth, pleasing background blur that helps subjects stand apart from their surroundings.
The Value Proposition
When discussions turn to Nikon’s classic medium telephoto lenses, the 105mm f/2.5 usually receives the lion’s share of attention. It has earned a near-mythical reputation among photographers, and deservedly so. But the 135mm f/2.8 offers something compelling: exceptional value.
It’s often available for significantly less money than the famous 105mm while delivering excellent image quality, slightly greater subject compression, and equally attractive bokeh. The longer focal length creates a distinct look that many photographers may actually prefer. In fact, here’s the secret that doesn’t get mentioned often enough: most manual-focus 135mm lenses from major manufacturers are excellent.
Whether you’re looking at Nikon, Canon, Pentax, Minolta, or Olympus, these moderate telephoto lenses benefited from relatively straightforward optical designs that manufacturers had refined for decades. As a result, even affordable examples tend to perform surprisingly well.
Final Thoughts
The Nikon 135mm f/2.8 AI-S has quickly become one of my favourite lenses. Part of that comes down to image quality. Part of it comes down to the beautifully engineered manual-focus experience. But perhaps the biggest factor is simply the value it offers.
It’s a lens that reminds me why vintage photography gear remains so appealing. For a relatively modest investment, you get a beautifully made optic capable of producing images with character, sharpness, and personality.
In a world obsessed with the latest and greatest equipment, the humble 135mm remains one of photography’s best-kept secrets. And for that reason alone, it’s worth another look.
First experiences with the Pentax 17: Half Frame, Half Baked and Half Good?
If you have even a passing interest in film, you’ve probably heard of the Pentax 17 by now. Released last year in response to the growing nostalgia for analogue photography, it’s one of the few new film cameras to come out in the last decade—and probably the only one from a major manufacturer that isn’t Leica. Pentax took a risk, targeting Gen Z’s fascination with a world they never actually lived in by creating a half-frame camera that sits somewhere between fully manual and fully automatic.
But who is it for?
Rather than catering to professionals, serious enthusiasts, or wealthy collectors looking for flashy trinkets, this camera is clearly aimed at hipsters. You can tell just by the fact that its designer, Takeo Suzuki—who goes by TKO—sports a waistcoat and flat cap. But is this camera a technical knockout? Well, I had my doubts, but I bought one as a Christmas present to myself. Why? Because I deserve it. Okay, also because my wife saw it, immediately wanted one, and who am I to argue?
Credit where it’s due—Pentax took a bold step releasing this niche product, especially at around 800 Australian dollars. I wasn’t planning on buying it until my wife convinced me that it would make me happier, healthier, and an all-around better human being. Has it changed my life? Not really. Let’s be honest—I don’t need another camera. But I do love half-frame cameras, and my old Canon Demi is getting unreliable. The Pentax 17, on the other hand, is brand new, fully functional, and—unlike my usual vintage finds—doesn’t smell like leather, tobacco, and urine. Don’t worry, I’ll add that patina over time.
This camera is supposed to be fun. Half-frame means I don’t have to worry as much about film costs, and the resolution is decent for most uses. Unlike Pentax’s 90s-era fully automatic point-and-shoots, this one puts some control back in my hands. Some, but not all. You have to focus manually using an icon-based system (flowers, people, mountains, and—of course—your dinner, because Instagram). You also have to wind the film on manually, which was about the hardest work I did all summer.
Early frames
Of course, it’s not all fun and games. I took my Pentax 17 and some Ilford HP5 and set out to capture some of the urban decay of tired shopping malls. The results? Nothing spectacular, but it did at least provide a monochromatic record of decline. But I know that’s not what you’re here for—you want your decrepitude in full color. So, I loaded up some Fuji 400 and headed to my home away from home, Leeman, for post-Christmas dog walks on the beach.
Speaking of which, my groodle puppy, Juni, has had plenty of exposure on film this summer. If you’ve been following along, yes, it’s the same dog—just three times bigger. We’re considering renaming her Ginger Monster. Capturing a fast-moving ball of auburn fur with a half-frame camera? Tricky, but fun.
Camera quirks
Now, about those exposure modes. They’re confusing. The dial is color-coded: white for non-flash modes, yellow for flash-based ones, and—just to mess with you—a blue auto mode that isn’t actually fully automatic. It basically turns your expensive camera into a $20 disposable. What focus distance? What aperture? What shutter speed? Who knows? I don’t use it. Instead, I stick to P mode, though I still don’t really know what it does. The biggest issue? The dial is way too easy to knock out of place, which led to some overexposed outdoor shots and underexposed indoor ones before I realized I’d accidentally switched to Bulb mode while winding on.
After some trial and error, I learned a few things. One: get your finger out of the way when shooting macro. Two: framing in a viewfinder camera is always a challenge, but the Pentax 17’s clear viewfinder and close-up frame lines help. Three: for general shooting, the 3m focus setting is usually good enough, though I did cheat and use an iPhone app to double-check distances.
I still haven’t touched auto mode—it gives me anxiety. With half-frame, I like to have two exposed rolls ready before developing to save time and chemicals. So, to make things more difficult for myself, I loaded up a roll of OneShot film next. Why? Because it was cheap. The results? Let’s just say OneShot probably isn’t ideal for a bright Perth summer—or for this camera. The muted colors and heavy grain didn’t do me any favors. The Fuji 400 shots fared better, and while nothing groundbreaking, I did get a few fun summer snapshots.
So, what’s the verdict? This isn’t a spectacular camera. It has its quirks—no self-timer, confusing exposure modes, and some incredibly bright blinking LEDs that don’t provide focus confirmation (because it’s manual focus). Plus, the electronic focus system introduces a slight shutter lag, which is odd for a manual-focus camera. The design is an eclectic mash-up of different Pentax and Ricoh cameras, with an Olympus Pen-style viewfinder and a winding lever that feels straight out of a Pentax 110. It’s a Frankenstein creation, and the real question is: does that make it charming or just dumb?
For me, it’s both. Plenty of YouTubers have reviewed this camera and been left scratching their heads, but that’s because it wasn’t made for high-end photographers. Honestly, it wasn’t even made for me—and I have no standards. But I love it. It’s quirky, fun, and surprisingly decent for what it is. Most of all, it’s brave and weird—just like Juni. Maybe I’m just brave and weird enough to appreciate it.
Is the Nikkor Z 28mm f/2.8 Nikon’s most Boring Lens?
Whenever I visit a new country, I like to check out the second-hand camera scene for potential bargains as souvenirs. On a trip to Shanghai, I went to Xingguang Photographic Equipment City, a sprawling, multi-story mall full of small camera shops selling used gear. Armed with 1000 Renminbi in my WeChat wallet, I hoped to find a unique lens within my budget. I was drawn to the idea of a 135mm, but it was too expensive, so I set my sights on something more modest.
I eventually found Nikon’s 28mm Z f/2.8 SE lens, a lens with a retro design that fits Nikon’s ZF digital camera. It’s affordable but not particularly exciting in quality, as it has a plastic mount and feels more like a cheap throwback than anything premium. However, it was within my budget and looked decent enough. The shopkeepers were friendly and humored my attempts at speaking Chinese, making the experience enjoyable.
Reflecting on the 28mm focal length, I find it somewhat mundane. Back in the film era, 28mm was considered wide, but these days, it’s essentially the default view on smartphone cameras. The world is now saturated with 28mm photos—thanks to the trillions of smartphone shots shared online—creating a visual monotony that’s almost tiresome.
To test the lens, I decided to take it to Zhujiajiao, a historic water town near Shanghai, to see if I could capture something interesting with this “boring uncle” of a focal length.
Serviceable, yes but… Exciting?
When I downloaded the photos from my 28mm lens, I felt a bit disappointed. They felt overfamiliar, like the endless shots of water taxis or gondolas in Venice that we’ve all seen. I started questioning if it was the lens itself or simply my inability to break away from typical tourist shots. Maybe the 28mm field of view kept me stuck in that mode.
The 28mm lens is easy to use, with smooth and quiet focusing, and it focuses closer than my zoom lens at 28mm, which is a nice feature. When focusing close, it handles out-of-focus areas beautifully with soft, creamy bokeh. While it won’t completely blur the background like other lenses, it subtly draws attention to the subject without being overpowering.
That said, the Nikon 28mm Z f/2.8 isn’t perfect—28mm does feel a bit dull. At least, to me. I got some decent shots, but reviewing them feels like scrolling through my phone gallery. My 24-200mm offers more versatility, letting me capture close-ups and control framing better by using its longer focal length to keep distractions out of the frame. With the 28mm, I have to be more mindful of composition, especially on the streets, compared to a 35 or 50mm lens.
After sorting through, I picked a few shots that captured the feel of the place without looking too postcard-like. The dim light drained some color from the scene, and a few images actually worked better in black and white.
I do think this lens is a good lens, maybe even a great one if you consider the price and can get over the plastic mount. I can’t fault it that I find the 28mm field of view a bit dull and perhaps, actually, with more use, I might to appreciate that focal length a little more.
Pet Photography in the Styles of Terry Richardson and Bruce Gilden
You know how it is when you get a new family member and want to capture all those special moments? First day of school, first soccer goal, and so on. Well, it’s the same with puppies. Sure, their moments might be a bit different—I’m pretty sure I never licked myself as a kid, though who knows, maybe I would have if I could. Kids grow up fast, and those moments slip away quickly. And if dogs are truly our best friends, don’t they deserve more photo attention than your last Instagram post of spaghetti bolognese?
Meet the latest member of our family, Juniper the Groodle. Fresh faced and furry at 14 weeks, it was time to immortalize this little lady. I checked out some pet photography and found it uninspiring. How many photos of dogs in lavender fields do you need? Cute, cuddly, charming—these aren’t the words that inspire me. Instead, I think of artists like Terry Richardson and Bruce Gilden.
Richardson is known for his raw, uncompromising fashion and celebrity photos, stripping away the glamour for a more stark and sometimes harsh look. Gilden, on the other hand, captures New Yorkers in their most unguarded moments, creating shocking, brutal, and even ugly photos. While I don’t want to emulate their exact styles, I do appreciate their approach to challenging traditional aesthetics.
Juniper Meets Terry Richardson
For Juniper the Groodle, I aimed to channel a bit of their spirit. I set up with a flat white wall and used a Zhiyun Molus 60 with a small softbox for lighting. I even enlisted Slothy, a stunt double, to help with the setup while Juniper relaxed. After getting the settings right, I swapped in Juniper and was pleasantly surprised. She could easily outshine supermodels with her lustrous ginger hair and prehensile tongue.
Juniper Meets Bruce Gilden
For the Gilden-style shoot, I needed to recreate his gritty look digitally. Using my Nikon Z6 with a 24-50mm lens, I adjusted the aperture to f/8 to capture as much detail as possible while keeping the background dark. I added a neutral density filter to manage the ambient light and used a powerful flash to highlight Juniper against the darkness.
In the end, instead of capturing a marginalized character with my uncompromising lens, it was more like me running backward while Juniper pounced and tugged at the lead, trying to chase the camera like it was some high-tech chew toy.
Juniper isn’t exactly tall, and Gilden’s method involves crouching and shooting from below, holding the flash higher to model the subject. With Juniper’s head just a foot off the ground, the whole process taxed my back and patience, and completely embarrassed my daughter as I backed down the path like a hunched paparazzi at the beach on a Sunday morning. Needless to say, I didn’t get many great shots. In that sense, I guess it was an authentic shoot – Gilden is known for being selective in curating his own work. Usually, I show the whole roll, but in this case, it’s better to showcase only a few that worked.
More Experiments
I tried to recreate the look at home. Gilden loves an eye patch and and a munted-mouthed look. I thought including a prop and providing some peanut butter could promote the masticated gurning that could typify that Gilden Crack Whore Aesthetic. Again, with limited success. Our model, Juniper, wasn’t cooperating, and it seems all the attention has gone to her head. She scampered, jumped, rolled, and did everything except stay put. I was too tired to work with such a privileged, unprofessional model. In the end, I was left with some subpar frames, and the eye patch I’d added for effect was discarded in 15 seconds.
It occurred to me that maybe the best way to get Juniper to behave was to be in the picture myself. So, I did a quick setup early one morning, trying to capture both of us. This approach was more successful, though trying to hold a dog and operate the camera remotely was tricky. I think I managed to capture some of that gritty style I was aiming for, channeling a bit of that “Hoboken Hobo” energy.
Check out the video for how I created a Dragan-style edit that upped the grit and contrast of the image of Juni to reflect the grimy urban streets of New York.
Perhaps I could revisit this scenario when a life time of pain and deprivation has left its indelible mark on her pretty face. In any case, I think I will keep at this because… even if I can’t channel the genius of Richardson and Gilden, I can at the very least end up with some slightly different and somewhat distinctive photos. And who knows? Maybe there is some more photographic magic to be mined from this process.
Mark McMahon 