Category: Can You Make Art with It?

Reconnecting with the creative process, featuring the Apexel ATL T5-10x telephoto smartphone lens

Posted on Posted in Can You Make Art with It?, Digital Photography, lens review, Media, Phone Photography, Photography, Printing, Travel, Uncategorized, Wildlife PhotographyTagged , , , , , Leave a comment

Photography for Me, Not for Everyone Else

Just as well we have photography and video to memorialise our lives and leave a trace like digital skidmarks over human history. I’m not getting maudlin here, but I’ve been thinking about what photography will mean to me when I’m old. For some photographers, it’s about making art that is unique, groundbreaking and capable of saying something about the human condition that has never been uttered before. For me, though, I suspect I’ll be much more interested in opening an old album and looking at imperfect renderings of perfect personal memories.

That got me thinking about how I could get back to the roots of photography and make images for myself rather than for an imaginary audience. How could I create photographs that invoke the feelings of a particular time and place instead of becoming carefully polished artefacts designed to impress somebody else? The answer, I think, is to embrace imperfection rather than constantly striving to eliminate it.

A recent family trip to Sydney and southern New South Wales became an opportunity to experiment with exactly that idea. It was a low-key holiday, so I decided it deserved some low-key photography. I ended up approaching the whole thing through three pillars: printing, analogue journalling and using deliberately compromised equipment.

Printing Memories Instead of Leaving Them on a Hard Drive

The first of these is printing. How many of us actually go through our Lightroom catalogues years later and relive our experiences? I’ve had access to an A2 printer at work and occasionally printed photographs, usually putting them into cheap frames. Part of the problem is that the frames themselves can be rather underwhelming, but there’s also a lingering feeling that my photographs simply aren’t important enough to deserve that much wall space.

More recently, I’ve started thinking about printing in a smaller and more thematic way. I printed a series of Tokyo photographs that concentrated on little details around Shibuya rather than trying to capture the whole city. There’s something satisfying about taking something enormous and making it small enough to hold in your hands.

That eventually led me to a Kodak Mini Shot 2 Retro. It’s a camera, but it’s also a printer, which makes it particularly appealing for this sort of project. I bought mine second-hand because apparently I can’t resist buying photography equipment, but the real attraction is the ability to print photographs almost instantly. I also had a batch of 6×4 prints made at Officeworks, which is the Australian equivalent of Walmart for office supplies, and while they use inkjet rather than wet-lab technology, they’re inexpensive and perfectly adequate for this kind of memory-making.

A Cheap Phone Lens and a Very Bad Drawing

The second pillar was analogue journalling, which turned out to be considerably more frightening than I expected. My wife enjoys sketching and writing, so I thought it would be nice to document the NSW trip together on actual paper. Unfortunately, I can’t draw. My hands have the fine motor skills of a camel hoof, and that’s before we consider the neural spaghetti connecting my eyes to my fingers.

Still, that’s rather the point. This project isn’t about producing beautiful drawings. It’s about engaging with the process and accepting that the result might be terrible. There’s something strangely liberating about deliberately removing the expectation that everything needs to be good.

The third pillar was a tiny piece of equipment that actually prompted this whole experiment: the Apexel APL-T5-10X Variable Telephoto Lens. Apexel sent it to me free of charge and I get to keep it, but there were no conditions attached and my opinion remains entirely my own. The lens is designed to turn your phone into something resembling a 150–300mm telephoto camera, which sounds suspiciously ambitious for something that fits in your pocket.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t feel cheap. It’s a substantial little object with a nicely knurled metal exterior, glass elements and a multi-coated optical system. It weighs around 171 grams and has damped zoom and focus rings with a reasonably long throw. The phone adapter is also much more robust than the usual dog-clip contraptions I’ve encountered with smartphone accessories.

The results, naturally, aren’t going to challenge my full-frame Nikon or even my Micro Four Thirds cameras. There’s some softness, highlights can become a little bloomy and you have to contend with camera shake and a surprisingly narrow plane of focus. But when it gets things right, the images are actually pretty good, especially considering what this thing is. You certainly won’t be making enormous A2 prints from it, but for small prints or a journal, it works remarkably well.

Why Imperfection Might Actually Be the Point

Using the lens around wetlands was fun, although I quickly discovered that phones don’t particularly enjoy shooting telephoto video. A tripod helps, as does using the right camera on the phone, and there can be some circular vignetting if you attach the lens to a wide-angle camera. These are compromises, but that’s exactly what this project was about.

Back in Perth, I continued the journal, adding photographs and attempting to draw a bird that somehow transformed into what looked like a Liverbird on crack. It was not my finest artistic achievement, but it was mine. The important thing was that these imperfect tools forced me to slow down and actually consider what I was doing.

That might be the biggest benefit of all. The Kodak printer, the Apexel lens, the pen and the paper are all relatively cheap and accessible, but they also introduce friction into the creative process. You have to think, plan and physically engage with what you’re making. A blank page is intimidating, but somehow it becomes less intimidating when you give yourself permission to make something bad.

I’ve realised that reconnecting with analogue processes has made me feel creatively engaged in a way I wasn’t expecting. Perfection is highly overrated. The world is already full of perfectly manufactured objects and clinically perfect images that can sometimes feel more like products of mass production than things made by an individual.

When I travel, I’d much rather eat a home-cooked meal than a Michelin-starred dish, and believe me, when I cook, perfection is not exactly on the menu. But something made with love and consideration carries memories and feelings that have value far beyond any objective measurement.

That’s probably what I want from my photography too. I might not draw in this journal every day, and I may never become remotely competent at sketching, but when I return to it years from now, I’ll remember the trip. The crooked drawings, cheap prints and imperfect photographs will probably mean more to me than the technically flawless images ever could.

In a strange way, this also connects back to YouTube. Taking photographs, curating them and turning them into a story helps me relive my experiences, while sharing them allows those memories to become something communal. I’ve been thinking about doing something similar with my accumulated photographs from Japan, perhaps turning them into a book or zine around ideas such as wabi-sabi—finding beauty in imperfection—and ikigai, engaging with activities for their intrinsic pleasure.

Perhaps that’s where this whole experiment is heading. Maybe it’s a little bit of Shu-Ha-Ri: learning the basics, absorbing the experience and eventually finding your own creative trajectory. For me, at least, that trajectory seems to involve fewer demands for perfection, more tangible creativity and, most importantly, enjoying the process along the way.

Great Lens, Bad Film: Voigtlander VM Nokton 35mm f/1.5 in Shanghai with IronBridge 800T

Posted on Posted in Can You Make Art with It?, Film Photography, Film Review, Photography, Street Photography, TravelTagged , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

I recently found myself in Shanghai and, somehow, my photographic ambitions got completely Shanghai’d. No, I didn’t wake up aboard a cargo ship with a mysterious hangover, a stranger called Tatiana and a rash that required medical attention. My downfall was much less dramatic but arguably far more predictable. I bought a new lens and then made the fatal decision to pair it with a film stock I’d never heard of.

If you’ve spent any time reading this blog, you’ll know I recently picked up a Leica M2. Yes, I’ve become one of those people. The reality, however, is that I’m nowhere near good enough to justify owning it. Then again, I couldn’t justify the price of a genuine Leica 35mm lens either, so I went hunting for something a little more attainable.

That search led me to Shanghai’s famous Xing Guang Photographic Equipment Market, where I found exactly what I wanted: a second-hand Voigtlander Nokton 35mm f/1.5. There were two versions available—a cheaper black model and a slightly more expensive silver brass version. Naturally, I bought the prettier one.

There’s a wonderful Chinese idiom, xin xue lai chao, which literally describes blood rushing to your head. It’s the perfect expression for those moments when logic quietly packs its bags and shiny objects take control. The silver brass Nokton looked absolutely perfect mounted on the Leica M2 and, if we’re being honest, sometimes that’s reason enough.

A Great Lens Meets a Very Bad Idea

To be fair, the lens itself never let me down. The Voigtlander Nokton 35mm f/1.5 belongs to the company’s “Vintage” line, although the name is slightly misleading because the vintage aspect refers more to the styling than the optical performance. Thanks to modern aspherical elements, this isn’t a dreamy character lens with swirly bokeh and soft corners. Instead, it’s impressively sharp while still retaining enough personality to stop images feeling overly clinical.

What impressed me most was just how compact it is. It balances beautifully on the Leica, the build quality feels superb and the focus tab makes manual focusing intuitive. The focus throw is short enough to move from close focus to infinity in one smooth motion, and the lens itself focuses down to half a metre, even if the M2’s rangefinder can’t quite keep up.

In many ways, this is probably a lens that shines just as brightly on a modern mirrorless camera as it does on film. It feels capable of resolving far more detail than most film stocks can actually record. Unfortunately, none of that mattered because, flushed with the excitement of my new purchase, I made another questionable decision.

Walking past a local film shop, I spotted a rerolled stock called Iron Bridge 800T. Judging by the packaging, it appeared to be Kodak Vision3 500T with the remjet layer already removed, promising all the cinematic goodness of CineStill 800T without the hassle of removing remjet yourself during processing. It sounded like the perfect companion for a night on the Bund, photographing the Shanghai skyline across the Huangpu River with glowing city lights and those famous red halations around bright highlights.

As it turned out, the theory was considerably more impressive than the results.

Grain, Halation and Disappointment

The halation certainly arrived, but so did the grain. Lots of grain. Instead of clean, cinematic negatives, I ended up with photographs drenched in teal shadows, pink highlights and enough texture to make sandpaper seem positively smooth. The images definitely had atmosphere, although not quite the atmosphere I’d hoped for.

To be clear, I don’t think the lens deserves any blame here. If anything, it simply exposed every weakness of the film. The Nokton was producing exactly the sort of sharp, modern images I’d bought it for, but the Iron Bridge stock buried those qualities beneath heavy grain and dramatic colour shifts.

A few weeks later I took the same lens to Kenya while visiting the Gazi Female Community Project, where I spent some time planting mangroves before wandering around with a roll of Kodak Gold 200. Mangrove forests aren’t naturally the most photogenic places—unless tangled roots happen to be your artistic obsession—but the difference was immediately obvious. The colours were cleaner, the negatives sharper and the personality of the lens finally began to emerge.

Even photographs of old fishing boats, hardly the world’s most original subject matter, demonstrated what the Voigtlander was capable of. The Shanghai results had suggested the lens lacked something, but the Kenya negatives proved the opposite. It wasn’t the Nokton that had failed me at all.

Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. The following day I loaded a second roll and headed further north along the Bund towards Waibaidu Bridge, fully expecting redemption. What I got instead was remarkable consistency, because the second roll looked every bit as grainy, pink and teal as the first.

When Failure Becomes Part of the Story

At this point, I’m fairly convinced Iron Bridge 800T is simply expired film, whether the packaging admits it or not. The excessive grain, dramatic colour shifts and muddy shadows seem difficult to explain any other way. My chemistry was fresh, I’d processed Kodak Gold successfully afterwards using exactly the same workflow, and I’d even exposed the film conservatively, often treating it as ISO 500 rather than the advertised 800.

For a while I wasn’t even sure these photographs deserved a video or a blog post. They certainly weren’t the showcase I’d imagined for a new lens, and I briefly considered quietly pretending the whole experiment had never happened. Thankfully, time has a habit of softening disappointment.

The more I revisited the negatives, the more those strange pink highlights and blue washes began to grow on me. They’re still technically flawed, but they somehow capture a mood I never intended to create. What initially felt like failure slowly became something closer to accidental artistry.

Of course, if you’re interested in buying a print, I’ll happily explain that they’re an intentional exploration of Shanghai’s electric urban landscape, complete with a lengthy discussion of postmodern semiotics and the dialectical relationship between synthetic colour and twenty-first-century city life. Otherwise, we can simply admit what really happened: I bought a beautiful lens, paired it with questionable film and accidentally created something far more memorable than I’d planned.

Photography rarely goes exactly as expected, but that’s part of what keeps it interesting. Sometimes the failures teach you more than the successes, and sometimes the pictures you almost threw away end up telling the best story of all.

Can You Make Art with a Nikon Coolpix 4500 from 2002?

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This is the Nikon Coolpix 4500 and when I look at it, I see more than just a camera – it’s a testament to the optimistic spirit of the turn of the millennium. Back then, the world was buzzing with hope: the Cold War was over, globalization was on the rise, and technological advancements, like the internet, were shaping a promising future. Social progress was evident too, with strides in equity and diversity.

But as we know, that optimism was short-lived. Yet, amidst all this uncertainty, Nikon managed to craft a sleek, onyx brick of a camera that defied convention and exuded minimalist style and futuristic vibes.

And guess what? It swivels! Sure, it may seem like a small feature, but for someone like me with a short attention span, it’s a game-changer. Plus, it’s not just about looks – this camera is built like a tank, weighing in at 374 grams yet still fitting snugly in your pocket.

I couldn’t resist snagging one when I spotted a second-hand deal. And while mine lacks the trademark red Nikon stripe, that just adds to its mystique. Sure, this camera’s 4mpx sensor and sluggish performance may seem outdated, but can it still produce art?

A Dense and Fully Featured Brick of a Camera

This Nikon Coolpix 4500 is quite the powerhouse when it comes to specs. Its list of features goes on longer than a tapeworm and that is reflected in its original price tag. Back in 2002, this bad boy would set you back a hefty $700, which in today’s money would be… well, let’s just say it wasn’t cheap. But with a price like that, you can expect a plethora of options to play with, all neatly tucked away in its menu system.

From the standard PSAM and auto modes to a variety of scene options like sunhat, confetti ejaculation, and court appearances (don’t ask me about the logic there), this camera offers a range of choices. ISO goes up to 800, though you’ll likely encounter some noisy images at that level. And don’t even think about adjusting settings on the fly; they’re buried deep in the menu.

Flash performance is decent, exposure is smooth, and skin tones look good. Just don’t get too close with the flash, or you’ll end up with some unflattering results. But here’s the kicker: it supports external flash via a PC sync cable, making it surprisingly versatile.

Now, let’s talk image quality. Despite its modest 4-megapixel resolution and subpar high ISO performance, this camera can still deliver some impressive results. Colors pop, JPEG processing is top-notch, and while dynamic range leaves something to be desired, chromatic aberration is well-controlled.

Can You Make Art with It?

But enough about specs; let’s get to the real question: can you create art with this camera? And the answer is a resounding yes. Just like Jackson Pollock wielded a paint bucket to create masterpieces, I can use this Nikon Coolpix 4500 to capture the beauty of everyday life and provoke thought with my photographs.

And while I may jest about the mundane objects I encounter, there’s a deeper commentary on the state of our world hidden within these images. From the encroachment of suburbia to the struggle between nature and human progress, there’s a story waiting to be told.

Is It Worth It Now?

This still feels like a substantial piece of kit, even now. Of course, no camera is without its quirks, and this one is no exception. From its tendency to drain batteries like nobody’s business to its slow performance, it’s definitely showing its age. But hey, we can overlook these minor inconveniences when we consider its impressive image quality and macro capabilities.

And let’s not forget about the features. Sure, some are a bit gimmicky, but others, like continuous autofocus and exposure bracketing, prove to be invaluable tools in our artistic arsenal. And did I mention it swivels? That alone adds a touch of fun to the photography experience.