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.