Tag: Camera Review

Initial Review of the Zenit TTL and Helios 44-2 at Wedge Island Western Australia

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Yes, I have bought into the Helios hype. Unless you’ve been living in a cave you will probably have heard of the Helios 44, a lens famous for its distinctive swirly bokeh, colourful lens flare and general refusal to behave like a modern optical instrument. It even appeared in The Batman and Dune: Part Two, so its cinematic credentials are now considerably more impressive than mine.

The Helios 44 actually began life as a Soviet version of the Carl Zeiss Biotar 58mm f/2, a lens originally introduced in 1936. The Helios 44 first appeared in 1958 and went through numerous versions before production finally ended in 1999, with millions made along the way. So this isn’t some obscure vintage curiosity that three people on a forum have decided is brilliant; it is a genuinely historic lens with an enormous following.

My particular example came attached to something considerably less celebrated: a Zenit TTL from 1980. The camera has a reputation for being less than delightful, and I initially bought it largely because it was an inexpensive way of acquiring the Helios. Still, there was something irresistible about putting the two together and seeing whether this famously characterful lens could overcome what is widely regarded as a fairly agricultural camera.

Taking the Zenit TTL to Wedge

The Zenit TTL is heavy, weighing around 684 grams, which isn’t outrageous in isolation but feels substantial compared with contemporary cameras such as the 510-gram Fujica STX-1n. Calling it a tank is tempting, although I think it is more like a Lada Niva: robust, agricultural and apparently designed without anyone becoming overly distracted by things like optimisation or elegance.

The camera does have TTL metering, which sounds promising until you actually try to use it. The meter isn’t coupled to the aperture, so you have to stop the lens down to take a reading. Unfortunately, stopping the lens down also makes the viewfinder considerably darker, making the whole process rather more fiddly than it needs to be. With my Helios 44-2, things became even more complicated because the lens isn’t coupled to the camera either.

The aperture system itself seems almost deliberately designed to confuse. You set an aperture range using one ring and then use another stepless control to select the actual aperture, with the control working in the opposite direction to what your brain expects. By the time I had finished trying to understand what was happening, I had largely abandoned the camera’s meter and decided that my own brain would be a better exposure system.

That might have worked if I hadn’t also managed to leave the diffuser covering my external light meter. Consequently, I was getting readings that were a stop or two too slow, while simultaneously dealing with the Zenit’s eccentric aperture controls. The inevitable result was a number of overexposed frames, some by several stops.

I took this combination to Wedge, one of those remarkable coastal shack communities north of Perth. Wedge has historically been remote, basic and difficult to access, with no electricity, running water or sanitation. Today it is much easier to visit, but it still retains that ramshackle character that makes it such an interesting photographic environment. I loaded up a roll of Ilford HP5 and set out to see what the Zenit and Helios could actually do.

The Challenges of Stop Down Metering and Clumsy Development

I developed the film in 510 Pyro, partly because I knew by then that my exposures had been all over the place. The developer did a good job of helping preserve some of the highlights, but the combination of overexposure, development and my questionable handling of the camera certainly affected some of the results.

Despite all of that, the pictures actually came out surprisingly well. In ordinary circumstances, the Helios can produce results that aren’t dramatically different from those of a much more modern lens. It is certainly capable of being sharp enough, particularly for portraiture where extreme corner sharpness isn’t especially important. In bright daylight, however, the distinctive character of the lens is harder to see because you simply aren’t going to spend much time shooting wide open.

It was later in the day, as the sun began to disappear, that the Helios really started to reveal its personality. Wide open, it becomes an unruly and slightly belligerent lens, producing a frenzy of out-of-focus artefacts that can sometimes compete with the actual subject for attention. If you’re looking for clean, technically perfect images, this isn’t necessarily an advantage. If you’re looking for something with character, however, it is exactly the point.

And then there is the famous swirl. It doesn’t appear in every photograph, but when you get the right combination of subject distance, background and aperture, the bokeh takes on that distinctive elliptical shape and seems to rotate around the subject. Suddenly an ordinary photograph can look as though you’re tunnelling through time and space. It is undoubtedly a gimmick, but it is a remarkably entertaining one.

Lens flare is another part of the package. Point the Helios towards a bright light source and it can fill the frame with streaks and artefacts that would make a modern lens designer reach for the nearest emergency brake. Whether that is beautiful or hideous is entirely subjective, but the important thing is that you have the choice.

Character Over Perfection

The irony is that the Helios 44 is probably best appreciated away from the Zenit TTL. Put it on a modern mirrorless camera such as my Nikon Z6 and you can dispense with the Zenit’s eccentric metering system while still enjoying the lens’s optical quirks. You get focus peaking, straightforward exposure control and none of the Soviet-era gymnastics required to take a photograph.

But there is something appealing about using the complete Zenit and Helios combination, even if the experience is considerably less convenient. Both are imperfect, both have plenty of personality and neither is particularly interested in making photography easy. In that respect, they actually fit together rather well.

That is also why I think the combination worked at Wedge. The place itself is rough, rustic and imperfect, with its collection of old shacks and weathered structures scattered through the coastal landscape. It isn’t polished or pristine, but it has character, and that is exactly what the Helios brings to a photograph.

So would I take the Zenit TTL and Helios 44 on a serious photoshoot? Probably not. The camera makes the process unnecessarily difficult, and the lens has such a strong personality that it can easily become the dominant feature of the image. But if the objective is to introduce a little chaos into an otherwise predictable photograph, the Helios is difficult to beat.

It may be old, rough around the edges and about as refined as a Soviet tractor, but that is precisely why I like it. Modern lenses are astonishingly good at removing imperfections from the photographic process. The Helios 44 does the opposite. It gives those imperfections a starring role, and sometimes that’s exactly what a photograph needs.

The BEST Cheap Film Camera for Travel? Nikon N65 and Tamron 28-200mm f/3.8-5.6

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Are the Nikon N65 and Tamron 28-200mm the peaches-and-cream pairing of budget film photography, or do they clash like toothpaste and orange juice? After taking this decidedly unfashionable combination with me to Tokyo, I think I have a pretty good idea of where it sits in the hierarchy of cheap film cameras.

I travel quite a bit for work, and one of the recurring problems is that my camera collection stubbornly refuses to fit into a suitcase. Eventually, there comes a point where you have to accept that I’m taking one camera and one lens, once you have packed essentials such as a toothbrush, passport and your pet iguana. That makes size, weight, versatility and price rather important considerations.

The Nikon N65, also known as the F65 or Nikon U depending on where you live, is hardly the sort of camera that gets the heart racing. It is a late-era film SLR, made from plastic, finished in a rather unfortunate silver colour and generally ignored by photographers in favour of more glamorous cameras. It is, in other words, absolutely perfect for me.

The camera weighs less than 400 grams, yet manages to pack in an impressive collection of features. You get Program, Shutter Priority, Aperture Priority and Manual modes, along with 3D Matrix metering, exposure compensation, shutter speeds up to 1/2000 second, TTL flash and even deliberate double exposures. It is very much a product of the period when manufacturers had essentially perfected the SLR and were busy figuring out how many features they could squeeze into something ordinary people could afford.

Its biggest problem may simply be that it isn’t cool. The silver plastic body looks more like something you’d find in a child’s dressing-up box than around the neck of a serious photographer. There is a black version if you’re particularly concerned about your sartorial reputation, but the N65 isn’t going to impress anybody at a photography exhibition. Fortunately, I have no reputation to protect.

The Tamron Superzoom Problem

The other half of the equation is the Tamron 28-200mm f/3.8-5.6 Macro AF Aspherical XR (IF), a lens whose name contains approximately as many acronyms as some entire camera systems. Tamron was one of the pioneers of the all-in-one zoom, producing a 28-200mm as early as 1992 at a time when achieving that kind of focal range without producing complete optical rubbish was a genuine challenge.

This particular version comes from the later generations of the design and includes aspherical and high-refractive-index elements. It isn’t going to produce the sort of three-dimensional pop that inspires lengthy forum arguments, but it is generally sharp, well corrected and has enough contrast to produce a pleasingly modern-looking image on film.

That’s important because this isn’t really a test of ultimate optical performance. I’m not trying to determine whether the Tamron can defeat a modern professional zoom in a forensic pixel-peeping contest. The whole point is finding the sweet spot between price, size, quality and versatility. A 28-200mm gives me the ability to photograph a cathedral, a street scene or something considerably further away without changing lenses, and that’s enormously useful when travelling.

There are limitations, of course. The relatively slow maximum aperture means this isn’t the lens I’d choose for exploring the darkest corners of Tokyo with ISO 100 film. In those circumstances, a fast 35mm or 50mm prime would be a much better choice. At 200mm, you also need to be careful with camera shake, particularly when shooting slow film such as Kentmere 100.

But when the light is good and I hold the camera properly, the results are more than good enough for my purposes. Some photographs were soft, but that wasn’t necessarily the fault of the lens. At 200mm, a little movement is enough to turn a potentially sharp photograph into something resembling a vague memory of having taken a photograph.

And when everything comes together, the results are surprisingly convincing. Some of the photographs I took in Tokyo was easily sharp enough to have been produced by a much more expensive camera and lens combination, while costing a fraction of the price and weighing considerably less.

The Budget Travel Sweet Spot

Taking the N65 and Tamron together, the entire combination weighs less than about 750 grams. That makes it a remarkably portable package considering the enormous focal-length range it provides. A 28mm isn’t ultra-wide, but it’s wide enough for most street photography without introducing excessive distortion, while 200mm gives you enough reach to isolate details and compress layers in a busy urban environment.

That’s exactly what I found useful in West Shinjuku and Nakano. I wasn’t simply trying to photograph the spectacular parts of Tokyo; I wanted to capture the mixture of business, social life, signage, buildings and random human moments that gives these places their character. The 200mm end of the zoom was particularly useful for compressing layers of windows and billboards, while also allowing me to pick out small moments happening within the chaos.

There are alternatives. Nikon’s F75 and F80 are better cameras and solve some of the N65’s irritating quirks, although they are correspondingly more expensive and, in the case of the F80, heavier. The N65’s Dynamic AF can decide to change focusing behaviour when it detects movement, which isn’t particularly helpful when you’re carefully composing something near the edge of the frame. I also find the inability to override DX film coding frustrating.

There are plenty of alternative lenses, too. Nikon’s 28-105mm and 28-85mm are excellent inexpensive choices if you don’t need the 200mm reach, while the humble 28-80mm can provide a remarkably cheap and lightweight solution. There are equivalent combinations from Canon, Pentax, Minolta and others, so this isn’t necessarily a recommendation that everyone should rush out and buy an N65.

For me, though, this combination hits that elusive golden triangle of heft, price and quality remarkably well. It isn’t perfect, and it certainly isn’t glamorous, but that’s not really the point. If I wanted perfection, I wouldn’t be shooting 25-year-old plastic cameras and cheap black-and-white film in the first place.

The N65 and Tamron 28-200mm are cheap, light, versatile and capable of producing photographs that are more than good enough. More importantly, they let me travel with one camera and one lens without feeling as though I’ve sacrificed the ability to photograph whatever happens to come along. In the end, that’s probably a much more useful quality than being cool.

So, will I be taking this combination on my next holiday? Quite possibly. And if that means leaving the expensive digital camera at home while carrying around a silver plastic Nikon that looks like it escaped from a 2000s department store, so be it. Sometimes the cheap seats have a surprisingly good view.

The Slow Death of My Fujifilm GA645Zi – a Posthumous Review

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A Medium Format Camera in Berlin

The beginning of the end for my Fujifilm GA645Zi can be traced back to Berlin in mid-2024. After spending several miserable days confined to a hotel room with COVID, my final evening brought just enough recovery to venture outside. Alexanderplatz seemed like the perfect place to stretch both my legs and the shutter of a camera that had travelled with me for the better part of a decade.

The GA645Zi is an unusual machine. It’s a medium format point-and-shoot from 1998 that somehow combines professional image quality with the appearance of an oversized family holiday camera. It shoots 6×4.5 negatives, which may be the smallest of the medium format options, but they’re still enormous compared to 35mm film. That extra real estate gives your photographs an incredible amount of detail while still allowing a reasonably compact camera to accompany you on your travels.

Of course, not every photograph from Berlin was a masterpiece. That’s partly because photography is an excellent way to discover your own shortcomings on a regular basis, but the camera itself deserves some of the blame. On paper, the specifications don’t exactly inspire confidence. The 55-90mm zoom translates to roughly 34-56mm in 35mm terms, with only four zoom positions to choose from. At the long end, the maximum aperture falls to a leisurely f/6.9, leaving very little room for low-light photography while still giving you all the opportunities for camera shake that come with a 90mm lens.

Despite those limitations, the lens itself is astonishingly sharp. The GA645Zi was never a cheap camera, and while the body feels disappointingly plasticky, the negatives it produces are spectacular. Zooming into the scans reveals detail that seems almost endless, reminding you why photographers continue to pay increasingly eye-watering prices for these cameras today. I bought mine around ten years ago for roughly a quarter of what they’re worth now, and for years it rewarded me with images that justified every compromise.

The Beginning of the End

As the Berlin sun disappeared, so too did my confidence in the camera’s future. The notorious weakness of the GA645Zi is its rear LCD panel, connected by a ribbon cable that flexes every time the camera is opened for loading film. Eventually that cable fails, and mine began displaying the first telltale flickers that countless owners before me had documented online.

The camera still functioned, so I loaded another roll and headed into the gathering darkness. Night photography with this Fuji was always going to be challenging. Ilford HP5 pushed to ISO 1600 has served me well in other cities, and I’ve even shot colour film after dark in places like Shinjuku and South Korean markets. Berlin, however, felt different. Empty squares, dim lighting and reflective surfaces made flash photography more frustrating than helpful, while my own developing mistakes probably didn’t do the negatives any favours.

Rather than fight the darkness, I eventually decided to embrace it. Cropping away unnecessary empty space and leaning into deep shadows produced images that felt more atmospheric than documentary. Streetlights reflecting from tram tracks, isolated figures disappearing into blackness and fragments of illuminated architecture became studies in mood rather than perfect technical photographs. Some images asked viewers to complete the story themselves, filling the darkness with their own interpretation.

Living with a Flawed Masterpiece

The GA645Zi wasn’t finished just yet. On a later trip through China, the LCD had deteriorated so badly that I could barely read it, but I managed to improvise. By comparing the camera’s exposure readings against a phone light meter, I convinced myself that as long as the ISO setting matched, perhaps the missing display wasn’t the end of the world.

After all, the qualities that make this camera special remained intact. The viewfinder still displays shutter speed and aperture information, which is essential given the relatively slow lens and the razor-thin depth of field that medium format provides. When the autofocus gets things right, the results are genuinely superb.

Unfortunately, “when” is doing a lot of work in that sentence. The autofocus has always been somewhat optimistic about its own abilities, occasionally deciding that somewhere near your intended subject is close enough. The camera is also painfully slow. Switching it on feels remarkably similar to trying to wake a teenager for school. It pauses, contemplates life for a moment, and then reluctantly gets moving with as much complaining as possible.

That makes it a poor choice for decisive street photography, yet somehow it still produced some of my favourite travel images. Whether wandering through Vietnam, Japan, Barcelona or elsewhere, the combination of medium format resolution and an unobtrusive automatic camera often resulted in photographs that simply felt different. Massive negatives are arguably better suited to sweeping architecture, dramatic landscapes and iconic locations than everyday street scenes, but the GA645Zi always tempted me to use it for everything.

One of its final adventures took place in Shenzhen’s Overseas Chinese Town, where replicas of famous landmarks from around the world provided an appropriately surreal setting for a camera that itself seemed full of contradictions. A sophisticated medium format system disguised as a disposable point-and-shoot felt perfectly at home photographing imitation Venice inside one of the world’s youngest megacities.

Saying Goodbye

By the end of that trip, the LCD had finally died completely. Unfortunately, the problem turned out to be more serious than simply losing information on the display. Whatever electronics had failed also prevented the film from advancing correctly. Film would load, exposure compensation still functioned, but the camera simply refused to wind on. After years of faithful service, it had reached the end of the road.

Over the past decade this Fuji accompanied me across Europe and Asia. It documented family history, quiet personal moments and famous destinations alike. It visited places connected to my family’s experiences during the First World War, wandered through Aix-en-Provence, Kuala Lumpur, Japan and countless other cities, while also recording the ordinary family photographs that often become the most precious years later. Medium format has a wonderful way of preserving tiny details that you barely notice at the time but come to treasure with hindsight.

Looking back through its final rolls, there are still plenty of photographs worth celebrating. As always, they combine people, architecture and those odd little moments that somehow define travel better than famous landmarks ever could. The camera occasionally produced technical disasters alongside genuine gems, but perhaps that’s part of its charm.

I’ll genuinely miss the Fujifilm GA645Zi, although not enough to pay today’s inflated prices for another one. Losing it felt surprisingly similar to saying goodbye to an ageing pet: increasingly slow, occasionally unreliable and prone to little accidents, yet a loyal companion that had been there for some remarkable experiences.

Thankfully, medium format photography doesn’t end here. There are other cameras waiting for future adventures, including one substantially larger beast with enormous 6×9 negatives and, perhaps most importantly, absolutely no electronics waiting to self-destruct. It may make me look even more ridiculous carrying it through airports and city streets, but at least I won’t be worrying about ribbon cables every time I load a roll of film.

Road Testing the Nikon F50: Is this Nikon’s Ugliest Camera?

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Get ready for a first-hand look at my latest thrift find, the Nikon F50. As I awkwardly wrestle with the packaging, I can’t help but wonder if this will be a Hitchcock-level suspenseful experience, especially as I attempt to tackle that pesky bubble wrap without injuring myself.

And there it is, the Nikon F50, not exactly the epitome of elegance or charm. As a devoted Nikon SLR film camera enthusiast, I’ve got a long list of favorites, and this one definitely hasn’t made the cut. Every time I see it online, I can’t help but cringe at its less-than-appealing appearance.

But hey, when I stumbled upon it for just $19, I thought, why not take a chance? After all, it’s cheaper than a gallon of methylated spirits, and while I can’t drink it, at least I can take pictures with it, right? So, despite my reservations, I took the plunge and made it mine.

Now, let’s talk about its quirks and limitations. This camera is definitely not for the faint of heart. It’s designed for older Nikon lenses, lacks focus assist for manual lenses, and don’t even get me started on its menu system. It’s like solving a puzzle just to change a setting.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. After a quick test, I can confirm that it does indeed work, which means I’m stuck with it now. On the bright side, it’s time to load it up with some film and see what it can really do. So, despite its flaws, let’s keep an open mind and give it a fair shot. Who knows, it might just surprise us in the end.

An Imperfect Camera

Using this camera isn’t exactly a walk in the park, but here’s the kicker: it takes surprisingly good pictures! In the end, isn’t a camera just a tool? As I experimented with it, I managed to capture some impressive shots on just one roll of film. Sure, it wasn’t the most enjoyable experience, but the results spoke for themselves.

A big part of its success was probably thanks to the lens I used, a humble Tamron 28-200mm. Despite its quirks, like significant distortion, it produced sharp images with fine focus. Sure, the autofocus could be a bit shaky, but with careful adjustment, I got the shots I wanted.

This got me thinking: am I being too harsh on this camera? Am I judging it solely based on its looks? After all, beauty is subjective, right? Maybe this chunky, unassuming camera has its own unique charm that I’ve overlooked.

Sure, it’s not the most ergonomic or user-friendly camera out there. Its menu system can be frustrating, and it lacks some advanced features. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe its simplicity is its strength. If you’re not too hung up on aesthetics and just want a camera that gets the job done without fuss, then this might be the one for you.

So, here’s the bottom line: if you’re a budget-conscious film photographer who values function over form, this camera might just surprise you. Give it a chance, and who knows? You might end up with some Hasselblad-worthy shots after 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.

A MINI, an Olympus Pen F Digital, and the Concept of ‘Fun’

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What inspired me to create this video was the recent purchase of a new car. Well, when I say “new,” it’s all relative. Considering New College Oxford dates back to the 14th century and the New Seekers peaked in the 1970s, “new” takes on a different meaning. But fear not, this isn’t merely a video about cars. That’s not really my usual content. Nor is it about the New Seekers, although that might cement my status as the go-to YouTuber for the retirement community.

The truth is, I’ve never felt much of a bond with my cars beyond hoping they’ll get me to my destination without any breakdowns. Given my history of acquiring or inheriting beat-up cars, that’s never been a given. Plus, I’ve had a couple of mishaps along life’s journey that remind me cars can be dangerous—yes, I even blinked when I sneezed.

However, from the moment I test drove this car, actually, from the moment I laid eyes on it, there was an undeniable allure emanating from it, beckoning me to have some fun.And I think it’s because it’s a Mini. The Mini, as a car, epitomizes fun. It’s even ranked number 5 on Top Gear’s list of fun and economical cars, and even Chat GPT agrees with me on thi

That got me pondering about my most enjoyable camera. It’s a tough call. I’ve owned many cameras that I’d describe as ‘fun’, from the quirky Carl Zeiss Werra to the comically oversized Fuji medium format rangefinder. But ultimately, I settled on my Olympus Pen F Digital. Just as the Mini serves as my everyday ride, this camera is my everyday companion. While any dependable car can get me from A to Z, this camera provides the versatility I require to capture the photos I desire.

Sure, any modern camera can produce quality images, much like how any reliable car can get you where you need to go. But what sets apart the ‘fun’ factor in both cases compared to other similar tools? That’s the question I find myself exploring.

What is Fun? The Five Ss

It sounds like a simple question, but the answer can be complicated. Often we think of fun as something that has no purpose or meaning but cars and cameras are both tools. There has to be something more to it than that and I’ve come tho think about it as the Five Ss

Firstly, fun is a sensuous, not to be confused with sensuAL. It’s about the tactile quality of things, the immediate satisfaction they provide. Whether it’s driving a fast car or handling a camera, the user interface and tangible experience play a significant role in the enjoyment.

Take this car, for instance. Despite its modest engine size, the turbocharger gives it a surprising speed, accompanied by a distinct sound that adds to the sensory experience. Similarly, my Olympus Pen F camera feels fast in hand, capable of shooting at high speeds and providing a seamless interface for capturing images.

But fun isn’t just about speed; it’s also about surprises. Despite its compact size, both the car and the camera pack a punch, offering unexpected features and capabilities that enhance the overall experience.

Additionally, there’s an element of silliness to both. From quirky design choices in the car’s interior to overengineered buttons on the camera, there’s a sense of playfulness that adds to the enjoyment.

However, fun doesn’t always mean impracticality. Both the car and the camera serve practical purposes while still providing an enjoyable experience. In fact, the fun aspects can often enhance the serious outcomes, making mundane tasks more enjoyable.

Photos from the Olympus Pen F, exemplifying the Five Ss of Fun

Ultimately, whether it’s driving a fast car or capturing moments with a camera, fun can be found in the serious and the silly alike. And in the end, both the car and the camera prove to be more than just tools; they’re sources of enjoyment and satisfaction in their own right.

Here’s to Fun!

The word  ‘fun comes from the old English word ‘befon’ which is to make a fool of someone. In that sense I’m very fun.

It’s just a pity that there isn’t much attention paid to the concept of fun. Flicking through the pages of the Dictionary of World Philosophy takes you directly from Frankfurt School to God without any fun in between and that’s a shame. After all, wasn’t it that great philosopher Miley Cyrus who said, ‘Life is all about having a good time’?

Look, I’m not sure I completely subscribe to the simplistic notion of fun being pleasure without purpose. Sure, no-one’s expecting you to have a riotous time bagging your broccoli in the supermarket. But that doesn’t mean shopping can’t be both fun and purposeful. Similarly It doesn’t mean every useful tool or purposeful activity is going to be fun. Some of the most optimised experiences are so seamless that they are barely register with us. Neither the mini nor the Pen F are perfect. But if they were, maybe they’d be boring. The fact that the Mini Countryman is a little bubble box on an all wheel drive X1 chassis means you get all of the benefits and compromises of a crossover vehicle including having the turning circle of a camel train. The Pen F is full of compromises too with its smaller sensor and quirky autofocus. It’s love of dials means that they had to put the on-off switch on the top left of the camera body, which means you can’t operate the camera one-handed but these aren’t just the limitations you learn to live with, they are the qualities you come to love. The minor annoyances slip into the background but we can still occasionally be surprised and beguiled by some of the unexpected whimsy that this camera offers. It’s a serious tool for a serious job but it stimulates my creativity and after all, it WAS Einstein who said ‘Creativity is Intelligence having fun.’ And while not quite the intellectual heavyweight that is Miley Cyrus, Albert does make good case – relatively speaking. And yes, that was a really bad pun. But that’s what fun is. It’s the little things. It’s this little thing and all the S words that seduce and surprise us. This small, singular, sensuous block of knurled magnesium and electronics manages to be both silly and serious at the same time. And in that sense very special to me.

First Impressions of the Diana F Plus

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Today, I found myself facing a philosophical dilemma: is the Diana F+ truly a legitimate photography tool masquerading as a toy, or am I merely a tool for using a toy camera? As I embarked on this journey with the Diana, I couldn’t help but be drawn in by its quirky charm and historical associations with the goddess of the moon.

Inauspicious Origins

Despite my initial skepticism towards toy cameras, I remained open to the creative possibilities they offered. After all, some of the greatest art has been created using the most primitive of tools. Plus, snagging the Diana from a thrift store for a fraction of its original cost seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass up.

Delving into the lore of Lomography, I learned that the Diana had humble beginnings as a novelty item produced by the Great Wall Plastic Co. Yet, over time, it was embraced by a new generation of photographers seeking an alternative to the clinical perfection of digital imaging.

However, I couldn’t ignore the criticism that toy cameras often produce subpar photos due to their inherent flaws. Despite my doubts, I decided to put the Diana to the test by taking it out to a local wetland armed with Kentmere 400 medium format film.

As I loaded the film into the camera, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was about to embark on a futile endeavor. Would I be able to overcome the constraints of the Diana and capture meaningful images, or would I end up disappointed by the results?

Only time would tell as I ventured forth with the Diana in hand, ready to explore its creative potential and perhaps uncover some hidden gems amidst its quirks and imperfections.

It’s … Ok, I Guess

So, I’m here to give you my unfiltered take on this piece of plastic, based solely on my experience of shooting one roll of film with it. In short, it’s… meh.

Sure, it wasn’t a complete disaster. I managed to guess the focus and exposure fairly accurately, and the negatives turned out clean with decent density and no blown highlights. Despite encountering some light leaks and strange artifacts on the film, I can’t say I was entirely disappointed.

However, when it comes to usability, the Diana F+ falls short. It’s uncomfortable to hold, and the build quality leaves much to be desired. The viewfinder is virtually useless for framing, and the shutter sounds less than inspiring.

On the upside, it’s incredibly lightweight, making it a viable option for a day trip camera. But its lack of precision and flexibility means you’re limited in your creative control. You’re essentially along for the ride, with the camera dictating the final outcome.

While some may argue that these quirks are part of the Diana’s charm, they can also be seen as limitations. The softness of the lens, inconsistency across the focal plane, and tendency for highlights to glow are all baked into the final image, for better or worse.

As for recommending this camera, I’m torn. While it may have its niche uses, particularly for street photography where spontaneity is valued over precision, I can’t help but think there are better options out there. Personally, I’d lean towards something like the Agfa Isola, which may not be much better but at least offers a sense of authenticity with its glass lens.

In the end, my experience with the Diana F+ wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t exactly inspiring either. It’s unlikely to become my go-to camera, but it has piqued my curiosity enough to give it another chance in the future. After all, sometimes it’s worth exploring the unconventional, even if the results are a bit… unconventional themselves.

Road Testing a Beaten up Nikon F75 Film SLR

Posted on Posted in black and white, Camera Review, Film Photography, lens review, Photography, Photography Review, Street PhotographyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Well, what can I say? Like myself, this camera has seen better days. All of that millennial photographic optimism, crushed by the insurgency of digital and hindered by its flimsy build quality.

I harbor a peculiar fondness for Nikon’s less prestigious SLRs. Or maybe that’s just Stockholm Syndrome—a strange psychological bond forged between crappy old cameras and a crappy old photographer, both steeped in nostalgia. But let’s not dive into self-flagellation just yet; instead, let’s direct our attention toward the Nikon F75.

Now, I can’t be certain whether the last owner treated this camera as toilet paper or handed it to their three-year-old as a plaything before relegating it to the second-hand shelf alongside fallen aspirations—exercise bicycles and DVD copies of “Daddy Day Camp.” Suffice it to say, this camera wears its battle scars.

In its prime, I imagine the F75 stood tall—a photographic titan. But it followed the Mickey Rourke path of self-improvement. Let’s address the worst of its woes: the batteries drain suspiciously quickly, and the zoom ring turns as smoothly as a skier on asphalt.

Amidst the wreckage, though, there was promise. I’ve encountered several similar Nikons—the hideously ugly F50 and the perilously flimsy F55. Both have graced my channel, and while they’re crippled clones of what we’d associate with a “real” Nikon camera, the F50 at least had reassuring heft, and the F55 prided itself on being the smallest and lightest 35mm SLR in my collection.

Enter the F65, sandwiched between the F55 and our battered F75. Supposedly a notch up, the F75 boasts more segments for matrix exposure metering and spot metering—nothing groundbreaking. Unfortunately, the F55 refuses to play nice with newer lenses sporting built-in focus motors, and none of these cameras truly embrace manual lenses.

The F75 is just an incremental improvement on the F55 and F65. It sidesteps the plastic lens mount of the F55, supports TTL for external flashes, and claims the title of the first cheap consumer camera to support stabilization in VR lenses. Yet, it remains plagued by a low flash sync of 1/90 second and the inability to adjust ISO manually—limitations that hinder its outdoor flash photography prowess and bulk loading potential.

To unlock professional features, one must ascend the greasy pole of photographic power, reaching for cameras like the F80 and F100. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves; for now, let’s consider the F75 on its own merits.

First things first—it works. Quality-wise, I didn’t push the camera to its limits. I set it to program mode, peered through the viewfinder, ensured focus, and checked the shutter speed. Random shots ensued, and it was liberating not to overthink every click.

As for the lens—it’s acceptably sharp. The corners may smear a tad, but in the open areas, I didn’t need to wide open the aperture. It behaves much like the G version of the lens that accompanied the Nikon F55, albeit with an aperture ring—a touch more versatility for compatible cameras.

Venture beyond the focal zone, and things unravel. The bokeh—well, it possesses ‘character.’ Imagine Cartman from South Park—either mildly amusing or downright offensive, depending on your subjective taste. Personally, I don’t mind; the subject is so mundane that the background’s busyness bludgeons you into submission. Photography shouldn’t be a game of “spot the subject,” but here we are.

So, dear F75, you’re a relic, a survivor. And perhaps, in your pixelated embrace, I find solace—a connection across time and technology. Or maybe I’m just another crappy old photographer, capturing moments with a camera that’s seen better days.

First Impressions of the Canon Prima 5

Posted on Posted in Film Photography, Film Point and Shoot Review, Photography, Photography Review, Street Photography, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Who doesn’t love unboxing videos, right? Well, in my latest video, I attempted to build up some suspense as I clumsily opened what wasn’t exactly a box. Instead, I revealed the Canon Prima 5, a forgotten point-and-shoot from 1991, known by various names like the Canon Sure Shot Max and the Autoboy Mini.

I snagged this camera second-hand for just AU$15, a real steal considering its potential. But the big question remained: does it work, and can I create art with it? Well, let’s dive into my initial impressions.

First up, some specifications, because nothing is more exciting than reading a list of bullet points about the features of an old point and shoot camera:

  • Lens: 38mm, f/3.5 with 3-point smart autofocus.
  • Auto-exposure with shutter speeds of 1/8-1/250s.
  • Integral flash. (Guide No: 9m at ISO 100.)
  • ISO range: 25 – 3200 (via DX code – 25 Non-DX)
  • Auto-load, wind and rewind of DX-coded film.
  • Dimensions: 125x68x43mm.
  • Weight: 245g (with battery)
  • Power: One 3V CR123A lithium battery.
  • A version with an autodate function was available.

Nothing particularly exciting, let’s face it, but it it does shoot up to ISO3200 for DX Coded film and while the f/3.5 lens is quite modest, it’s better than most zooms and unlike zooms, you know with a prime that the quality will be tuned to that 38mm focal length. To really test this camera, I need to run a roll of film through it. Colour film is like gold dust these days, and the prices are soaring. Yet, armed with Kodak Colorplus 200, I was ready to test this camera’s capabilities.

Now, onto the shots. From capturing leaves backlit by sunlight to exploring human interactions in a park, I attempted to weave narratives through my photographs. Whether it’s a solitary figure masked by foliage or a couple on a bench, each image tells a story, prompting viewers to ponder human existence and relationships.

Moving from nature to urban landscapes, I sought to celebrate human resilience and the quest for enlightenment amidst the complexities of city life. Through frames within frames and minimalist compositions, I aimed to provoke thought and reflection.

Yes, you can make art with it. Or at the very least you can reflect on your artistic intent as you intersperse random snaps with pretentious musing.

Despite its simplicity, the Canon Prima 5 impressed me with its sharpness and reliability. Sure, it has its quirks like occasional flares and a default autoflash setting, but its performance outweighs these minor drawbacks.

Now, the big question: is this camera a hidden gem or just another addition to the plastic pile? I’m leaning towards the former, but I’m eager to hear your thoughts. Do you have any recommendations for budget compact film cameras? Let me know in the comments below.

As for me, I’ll continue experimenting with this camera while keeping an eye out for other photographic relics. Who knows what hidden treasures I might uncover next?

A Manifest of Misadventure with the Yashica 635 Twin Lens Reflex

Posted on Posted in black and white, Film Photography, Medium Format, Photography, Photography Review, Street PhotographyTagged , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

One Yashica 635 Twin Lens Reflex Camera, One Roll of Kodak Gold 200 Film, and One Clumsy Photographer. The stage is set for a comedy of errors. Picture it: a sunny day, a camera in hand, and me, the clumsy protagonist, eager to capture the world through the lens of my trusty Yashica 635. Little did I know, a series of misadventures awaited.

Now, let me preface this tale by admitting my limited experience with this particular camera. While I’ve owned it for some time, our relationship has been more acquaintanceship than intimacy. And let me tell you, befriending a TLR (Twin Lens Reflex) camera is akin to navigating a labyrinth blindfolded. The handling is unlike anything I’ve encountered before—akin to trying to juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle. If that sounds like an excuse, well, it probably is. But hey, let’s laugh at my foibles together, because trust me, if you haven’t wrestled with a TLR, you’re bound to stumble along the way too.

The journey begins innocently enough, the sun setting as I embark on my photographic escapade. Two shots down, and all seems well. But with the encroaching darkness, I failed to anticipate my utter ineptitude with this camera in low light conditions.

Armed with a tripod but sans tripod mount, I stumble through the dusk, it’s a scene straight out of a slapstick comedy—minus the laugh track. As I fumbled through the darkness I realised there’s a lesson to be learned amidst the chaos. Or at least that’s what I tell myself to salvage a shred of dignity from this debacle.

The Yashica 635

Now, let’s talk about the star of the show: the Yashica 635. Picture it as the middle child between the illustrious Rolleiflex and the humble Lubitel or Seagull. It may not boast the prestige of its elder siblings, but it holds its own in the quirky world of TLRs.

Dating back to 1958, this camera boasts a unique feature: the ability to shoot 35mm film with the help of an adapter—a rare gem for collectors, indeed. But beyond its novelty, the 635 operates like most TLRs, with its dual lenses and intricate mechanics.

Ah, but here’s where the fun begins—or rather, the frustration. You see, unlike modern SLRs with their handy prisms, TLRs present a topsy-turvy world. What you see through the viewfinder is but a mirror image of reality, leading to a dizzying dance of lefts and rights as I strive to frame the perfect shot.

But fear not, for science offers solace in the form of habituation. Yes, dear viewer, with time and practice, even the most topsy-turvy of worlds becomes familiar terrain. Just ask any psychology student who’s endured the “upside-down goggles” experiment—though I suspect their misadventures pale in comparison to mine.

Undeterred by my initial failures, I venture forth once more, this time bathed in the forgiving light of day. And lo and behold, progress! Though not without its hiccups, my second outing with the Yashica yields glimpses of its true character—quirks and all.

A Flawed but Beautiful Camera

Let’s not overlook its flaws. From film loading mishaps to the peril of double exposures, the 635 is not without its challenges. Yet, amidst the chaos lies beauty, because when it sings, medium format magic awaits, with its dreamy bokeh and timeless allure.

And let us not forget the charm of street photography with a TLR—unobtrusive, nostalgic, and occasionally mistaken for a relic of days gone by. For in a world of sleek digital wonders, there’s a certain romance to be found in the mechanical embrace of a Yashica.

But I digress. Let us return to the heart of the matter: the joy of failure. For in our missteps lie the seeds of growth, the kernels of wisdom waiting to be harvested. So here’s to the Yashica 635 and all who dare to dance with her—a flawed beauty in a world of perfection.

As Winston Churchill once said, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal, and it’s the courage to continue that counts.” So here’s to courage, to laughter, and to many more misadventures behind the lens.