Digital Taking Options

I wrote, back in August, that "there are times when I will choose the more limited tool specifically for the way it will impose itself on the process and results." I'm mostly thinking about film cameras when I say that; the electronic perfection from digital cameras makes it much easier for me to accept a certain randomness and character from film cameras.

Limitations from digital cameras aren't quite as charming when they show up in the final print, and I'm having my patience tested by my newest acquisition, a Nikon V1.

The V1 is an obnoxious little camera, badly thought out and flawed in fundamental ways. But I wouldn't have taken the photo above without it, and it sparked a whole range of exploration for me. Yes, I made a special trip back to this subject so that I could point my D800 at it, but I can't say that I like its results any better than this. Something mundane – a pickup truck parked in my way – stopped my sharply prime-lensed D800 from bringing all of its pixels to bear, requiring a not-yet-made return trip with the heavy equipment. That seems like a lot of work to exceed what was originally a spontaneously found image.

The limitations that I face with the V1 are significant, though. This photo won't go above 18x12", and to get it that large I need to crop with the lens, not the computer. The camera has serious operational issues that have ruined many photos for me, and I'm not sure that I've discovered all of its little surprises. And it's about three stops worse than my D800 in most measurable ways, so I need to think very hard about solving problems that simply don't exist with the heavier Nikon.

And yet I use the V1 anyway, and have used it for thousands of photos in my first month of owning it. Its limitations don't negate its capabilities, and if it wasn't for the flexibility of small cameras like this – ones where image quality isn't the most important factor – then I wouldn't be able to specialize with my D800 and its small collection of prime lenses.

I stand by my belief that there is no "best" camera, digital or film. Different needs, and different questions, will always have different answers.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Photography is About…

Inspired – if that's the word – by a blog post, I decided to google the phrase "photography is about" to see what came up. That gave about eight million results, so I went through the first couple of pages to see what specifics were mentioned. Here are the survey numbers:

"photography is about the story", 497,000 results
"photography is about the moment", 496,000 results
"photography is about light", 121,000 results
"photography is about seeing", 59,300 results
"photography is about why", 56,100 results
"photography is about telling", 51,500 results
"photography is about finding", 29,400 results
"photography is about showing", 29,100 results
"photography is about relationships", 9,490 results
"photography is about passion", 4,910 results
"photography is about memories", 2,080 results

But then I decided to throw my own search ideas into the mix. "Photography is about the camera" produced 490,000 results. Gotta love the internet.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

"New York Telephone Conversation"

For some reason most of my street photography seems to happen in Manhattan. "New York Telephone Conversation" was taken on 8th Avenue at 34th Street, around 4pm on October 28, as the city was shutting down in anticipation of Hurricane Sandy making landfall.

What I see: The handsets have been left disconnected and ignored, dropped off the hook in an act of civic disregard for both the telephones and those who may need to use it. Dirty, discarded, and anachronistic, they have been left to their own devices and seem to be content with each other's company. But of course their apparent conjunction is a trick of perspective and the flattening of the picture space as they dangle alone.

The yellow phone is striking and unusual, but the focus is quite literally on the mundane black handset in the foreground, denying us the ability to make this photo into a story about novelty or the unexpected.

Despite this being New York there is no sense of bustling crowds; the foreground is empty sidewalk that adds a remoteness to the scene. The few people in the photo are represented just by their hurrying legs, and are dark, distant, and blurred. The disconnection and the superficial passing relationships aren't simply limited to these disregarded telephones.

What I did: Taking this photo involved a certain amount of patience to achieve the empty sidewalk; having the road empty as well proved too much to ask. It was shot from a crouched position to create the alignment with the phones' handsets, using a short telephoto lens at a wide aperture to blur everything but the black handset.

I chose to focus only on the black handset in order to stop the yellow one from dominating the image. It doesn't need the added weight, and the two have a closer visual balance in the finished image. The brighter colour also makes the yellow handset come forward visually, while the black one recedes, adding to the illusion that they're close to each other.

Post-processing for this photo was fairly straightforward. I straightened and trued the angles, adjusted the tones, and tightened the framing to remove some extraneous elements from the left side of the frame.

My assessment: I like the idea behind this photo, and think it comes across fairly well. However, the right edge is cluttered and detracts from the story. I've given it a three-star rating in my Lightroom catalog, marking it as a good photo, but not one that's remarkable in its own right. At the same time its personality is strong enough that I see it being a bad fit for a series, although it might be able to join a looser grouping of some sort.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Star Ratings

Star ratings are a funny thing. In some places a five-out-of-five rating seems to be the default – amazon, ebay – but that doesn't make sense when it's time to sort and rank my photos. On a scale of zero through five, here's how I make it work for me.

All photos start at zero, and after my initial sorting and ranking most of them stay there. To be promoted to a one-star rank a photo needs to have some potential; determining this will often involve a quick edit, but other times I'll assign it and move on. But only the most promising one or two of a particular sequence of similar photos will get a star – I'll backtrack and zero out a photo if I see one that's better.

A two-star rating is reserved for photos that are reasonably good. Sometimes I assign two stars to an unedited image so that I know to come back and pay attention to it, but usually these are former one-star images that have been more thoroughly edited and promoted. This is the lowest rank that I'll usually show to family and friends, and a two-star rating is as high as I'll go during my initial few edits.

I have a simple rule for a photo to get three stars: it has to be mine. I have to honestly assess whether another photographer, with the same equipment and skill, would have taken the same photo that I did. Not many photos of sunsets can meet this challenge, and even exquisite photos of lonely trees or red canoes – should I ever take them – would fail as well. Being promoted from a two-star to a three-star rank isn't a measure of quality, but a matter of personality.

A photo that has crossed the critical threshold of matthewness can be good enough to be elevated to four stars, but that's exceedingly rare. A five-star rating is even more uncommon – but that's just fine by me. My best work, as always, is still to come.


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Megapixels, Then and Now

"[Brand X has] reached the limit of what is sensible, in terms of megapixels on an APS-C sensor. … Even the sharpest primes at optimal apertures cannot (at least away from the center of the frame) satisfy the [redacted] megapixel sensors hunger for resolution. Considering the disadvantages that come with higher pixel densities such as diffraction issues, increased sensitivity towards camera shake, reduced dynamic range, reduced high ISO performance and the need to store, move and process larger amounts of data, one could be forgiven for coming to the conclusion that at this point the megapixel race should probably stop."

That's what DPReview had to say about the Canon 50D back in October of 2008. It seems quaint now that we were concerned about the quality ramifications of stepping up from ten to fifteen megapixels, which gives that old Canon about the same pixel density as my D800, and far less than any smaller-sensor camera currently on the market.* But the reality is that, when normalized down to a lower resolution, the 50D really didn't provide all that much of a performance improvement over the previous generation.

That's unlike the move from the Nikon D3100 to D3200, or D700 to D800, both of which provide a real step up from their predecessors. It's not nearly as revolutionary as the numbers – or marketing campaigns – suggest, but these things never are.

Looking back at DPreview's list of megapixel evils, two of them – reduced dynamic range, worse high-iso performance – have been resolved by improving technology. Diffraction and camera shake are false issues, as the higher resolution still give still an overall improvement, even if it's not as great as it could be. My D800 can show problems that I wouldn't have seen before, but it's also able to do a better job than any other camera I've owned whenever I need it too. This is a fundamental shift: we no longer have any reason to be afraid of resolution when we're working with something bigger than a point-and-shoot's sensor.

And reading about the weighty burden of "data storage and processing" of 20MB raw files – from SLR photography's pre-video era – is somewhat charming.

Old camera reviews are refreshing. It's not just a record of where we've been, it's also a hint of what today's greatest devices will look like a few years from now. There's no better reminder to have fun with what I have and not get overly caught up the hardware details – but I realize that that's an easy attitude to have when I already own a D800.

DPReview's full conclusion about the Canon 50D is here.


*Except for Nikon's 12Mpx D300s, which still remains available to order in Canada, but only a complete camera geek would ever think of that one.


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Perfection, circa 1997

I have achieved photographic perfection.

Not with a photograph, of course – I hardly expect that happy accident to ever happen, and if it did I'm not sure that I'd be pleased. No, I accomplished it in a much more predictable way. I've completed a perfect camera outfit.

Last summer I bought a Nikon F5, which is a film camera that I've wanted for years. It's huge, heavy, eats eight AA batteries at a time, and can rip through a roll of film in under five seconds if I'm foolish enough to let it. Even compared to other film cameras in this digital age, it's excessive and impractical – but it has autofocus, works with all of my Nikon lenses, and is unspeakably awesome.

I quickly added a new-old-stock Nikon F5 shoulder strap to it; the metal buckles are stamped "JAPAN". I've also tricked it out with an MF-28 command back, which adds an intervalometer and has a larger rear LCD than the one on my first digital SLR. That's about as fancy as any pre-Y2K camera can get.

But what has me really excited is a new lens: I found an absurdly great deal on a new Nikon 50/1.4D. That basic lens design is from the late 70's, and this still-current model was last updated in the mid-90's, making it the perfect contemporary for the F5. It's a snappy focuser, small enough to make the camera less ridiculous, and the viewfinder even has a little window that lets me use the aperture ring on the lens to control the camera. Perfect.

Yes, I already own the new-and-improved 50mm f/1.4G lens, and use it on my D800. But being "better" isn't the point.

My creative process starts when I choose my medium and select the tools to work it with. The F5 and 50/1.4D combination gives me a really compelling way to use 35mm film that compliments my existing small-format film rangefinders and digital SLR – I can almost make it sound rational. But the bottom line is simple: it makes me want to go out and take photos, and to try to make them better than what I've done before. Really, nothing else matters.


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Trade Show Season

This is an exciting time in Cameradom – so it makes sense that I would be excited along with it. There are all kinds of new toys being announced, including some very appealing cameras, and there's even the potential of a new lens or two that I would like. Yet I'm actually not all that enthused.

For this brief and glorious moment, there's nothing – no camera gear, at least – on my to-buy list. I wish that Nikon would redesign their 35/2, but the job they did on the 35/1.4 doesn't leave me desperate with anticipation. Carl Zeiss is teasing that they will release a new fast M-mount lens, but I have a hard time thinking that anything would beat the character of the 50/1.5 Sonnar or the perfection of the 35/2 Biogon. What I already have is perfect for me, and all's right with the world.

That won't last. It never does.

But for now I'm happy to take photos driven by passion and enthusiasm, to focus on art and expression. And yes, the gear is fun too, and I'm lucky that I can enjoy using it every day. Good times all around.


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Juggling the Cameras of Summer

The natural follow-up question to my summer camera count – after "you use how many cameras???" – was how I manage to use them all. Not just physically, but practically. It's hard enough to be familiar with just one camera, and full proficiency can take months to acquire. It's a fair question.

First of all, to some extent it's simply not possible for me to know any of my cameras as well as someone who only uses one will. I'm not claiming to be polymath, or someone who's an Olympic fencer by day and a concert violinist at night. And yes, there are times when I've missed a shot, or not done as well as I might have, because I didn't know the tool as well as I could have. But then again, I find that's usually true for people with only one camera as well.

I spend a huge amount of time with a wide array of cameras – working in a camera store certainly helps with that. Someone can hand me a model that I've never seen before, tell me what they want it to do, and I can usually set it up correctly without referring to any online resources. Knowing cameras, and how they work, is what I do.

Working in a camera store also gives me a lot of free time to play. I can use slow moments to reacquaint myself with each cameras' controls and handling before I need to use it for a project or event. I'm not taking photos, but doing drills is the next best thing – and sometimes it's even better.

And I do take photos as well – usually a lot of them. I'll take a camera for a walk and go through a roll of film, or fifty to a hundred digital frames, in the week before I use it for a project or event. I also make a point of "warming up" with some fun throw-away photos before getting to work, and I find this really helps me loosen up and produce better results no matter how much I've been using that particular tool.

But ultimately what I do isn't all that different from those who have only one or two cameras. Most photographers use one 'primary' camera and have lenses that cover a huge range of focal lengths. I just do the opposite. Almost every photo I take is between 35mm and 85mm. So even though the camera and character changes, the composition and perspectives stay familiar. For me that's easier than being able to range between ultra-wide and long telephotos for a single subject.

There's also the fact that sometimes taking photos isn't the point of using a camera. More on that later.


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The Cameras of Summer

I was recently sitting with a group of photographers over dinner, and as the conversation occasionally will, the talk turned to cameras. Most people in my critique group know that I'm using the still-novel Nikon D800, but I confounded some of them when I said that it's just one of a half-dozen cameras that I use. Now, I have to confess that I was guessing at the number, but it turns out that I was right.

Over the summer I've used five film cameras with the goal of producing print-quality photos. Two of my three medium format cameras have been out to play, the Hasselblad and Fujifilm 645, along with the Nikon F5, Zeiss Ikon, and Olympus XA in small format. And, of course, I've been out with the Nikon D800 a few times as well, bringing the total up to six.

But there's still more. I've also used three digital cameras for web-quality work: the Canon S100 and Panasonic TS3 compacts, and the grand-daddy Olympus E-1 SLR. I've even had my audio recorder out, gathering material for an upcoming project.

There are also three cameras that I haven't had a chance to use, and really miss. My big Fujifilm GX680III has been sadly neglected; I feel restless to get out and use it, but it's such a monster that I need a clear goal before it gets to leave the house. My Panasonic long zoom camera also hasn't seen any action, which is a shame since the summer really is the best time for infrared photography. Finally, my little Panasonic GH1 has been completely overshadowed by the D800, and I haven't been in the mood for ultra-wide-angle photography recently, which is its huge strength.

And no, that's still not quite all of the cameras that I own. There's the Nikon F100, which I'm half-heartedly trying to sell now that I own the F5, and an Olympus waterproof camera that I might eventually use to take underwater photos of the Panasonic TS3. My Canon APS compact has outlived its film format, so I'm not sure if it still counts as a camera or if it's simply an objet d'art. But it's still nice to have, if only so that I know which camera is the one I'm least likely to use.

Single Metrics

It happens all the time: someone will come come up with an interesting idea or theory that provides a simple answer by measuring only one thing. Larger sensors have shallower focus, smaller sensors allow better telecentricity; zoom lenses permit the exactly correct focal lengths, primes enforce discipline. Dynamic range, low noise, sharpness, contrast, wide, long: there's always some thought of the moment about what really makes a difference.

I'm a very technical photographer. I get hung up on the little things, I look for the small differences, and I try to figure out the setting that I'm missing. So I've been there. But as I become more experienced – read: cynical and jaded – I've realized that image quality isn't about solving a puzzle.

It's too tempting to want easy answers, or even to quest after elusive and esoteric ones. The reality is that it isn't a complicated question. Ultimately there's only one single metric that matters: is the photo satisfying?


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Protective Filters

The use of 'protective' filters – either UV-blocking or just clear glass – are one of those eternal internet arguments that people do instead of looking at photos. Naturally, I have a point of view about it: I don't see them having any actual use. I'm not about to say that anyone who disagrees with me is wrong – this is just my reasoning, and of course everyone else should ignore me and do whatever they're comfortable and happy with.

• Filters are the cheapest element in a lens. They're a high-margin item, so it's guaranteed that every step in the chain is making a healthy profit on it, and the materials and fabrication costs are going to be very low relative to the lens itself.

• By necessity, filters are the largest diameter glass in the lens, and are held in place only by narrow metal edges.

• In addition to their large span, filters are flat glass, rather than the domed shapes of the lens elements.

All of this adds up to a filter being the most fragile part of a lens. So to say "I dropped my lens, and the filter saved it" is a false syllogism. Just because the filter breaks on impact doesn't mean that the lens would have if it was absent. And just because all of the glass is intact, even if it's including the filter, doesn't mean that the impact didn't damage the internal mechanisms.

An analogy: Cars have a lot of safety systems built into them. Saying that a roll cage, airbag, or seatbelt saved a life could be a perfectly literal statement. Saying it about the bumper is not at all the same thing.

The other "protection" that a filter is supposed to provide is against scratches. I have talked to one person who had a small fleck of the surface coating flake off of a lens, but scratches and damage are exceptionally rare. Modern glass and coatings are very, very tough – including, incidentally, the ones on cheap filters. I once got my hands on a really cheap one – it was visibly off-colour and had a warped filter ring, brand new – and I tried to scratch it by hitting it with my keys. No luck. I eventually took my pocket knife to it, and still couldn't mark the front of it. If a no-name filter that couldn't have cost more than a dollar to produce can withstand that, then I don't see much reason to worry about the front element of a lens from a reputable manufacturer.

As a further example, I wear eyeglasses every moment that I'm awake, and have for twenty-four years. They've always been anti-reflective coated plastic, far softer than the glass in camera lenses. They're exposed to all kinds of abuse and neglect, worn in all weather, and I'll clean them more times in a day than I'll clean a camera lens in a month. Out of the half-dozen pairs of glasses that I've used in that time I can only think of one that I've scratched.

I do keep a hood on all of my lenses, which can provide both genuine impact protection and image quality benefits, but I rarely use lens caps. Two dozen lenses (or more) later, I've never seen a scratch or a fleck – and that includes on my used lenses, some of which have been older than I am.


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Colour Film

I have an ambivalent relationship with colour film.

I've recently spent a lot of time becoming familiar with the digital wonderchild D800, and it is a truly superb camera. It's effortless to use, and can do things that I wouldn't have thought possible. But now I've switched back to my hasselblad and zeiss rangefinder for a couple of weeks, and as it does any time I go back to a favourite, it feels like coming home.

I love the experience of using these cameras, and enjoy that they can't do some of the things that the digital ones do. Film really does have its own look, and it's one that I really like. There are 'filters' and 'plug-ins' available that are supposed to replicate some of that for the digikids; apparently there are techniques to make acrylic paint look like watercolour, but I don't see the point of that either.

But scanning colour film is one part of the processes that I do not enjoy.

When I started out with film I thought this would be easy: it has a fixed colour balance, so it should be consistent and straightforward. If only! When I'm at my best I will start the roll with a colour reference frame and set up the scan job for a consistent exposure and register the film base colour, and that helps. When I'm not at my best – like when I'm using my old light-leaking XA on a sunny day in New York City – then the results can be 'variable', to say the least. I can spend hours on a single frame and still come away with a result that maddeningly resists being good enough to be worth the effort.

Black and white is easy. It's also something that film is still superior to digital for. I just wish I didn't like colour as much as I do.


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Better Cameras, Part Three

Limitations aren't a bad thing for art or artists, although they can cripple work-for-hire photographers. The camera market and online photo-forum culture is very heavily driven by the idealized needs of the commercial photographer and the relentless march of More Better, but that doesn't mean that it has any bearing on creating actual art.

I believe very strongly that it's important to have different cameras, just as it's worthwhile to have different lenses. Working with different cameras, from pocketable to tripod-mounted, digital or film, is how I limit my choices and narrow my focus – figuratively speaking, of course.

My moving from generation to generation of digital cameras has been a process of removing technical limitations. I could print bigger, photograph in lower light, and have more maleable image files at every step. Removing restrictions can open up entirely new creative options and allow expression that simply wouldn't have been possible before. I can't advocate needless restrictions just for the sake of having some – everyone should be lucky enough to be able to experiment, find their own expression, and change as needed.

But being able to do anything isn't everything – and the people who are happy with what they do have generally found what they need already.


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Better Cameras, Part Two

I'm a big believer in working backwards: starting from the desired end result and then choosing the equipment that's suitable for it.

The photos that I'm most interested in generally have specific needs as they travel from being a digital file to a finished electronic image or print. Some need to be in black and white while others require colour; some have to be in a square crop while others are long skinny rectangles. Some photos require an immediate impact that can own a room, while others are best served by the more intimate and interactive experience of a hand-held print.

Of course, many photos aren't so temperamental. At that point it's a personal choice for what suits the purpose and vision the best. Projects naturally evolve and change, and the tools can be part of that. My ongoing 'time and motion' series started with my smallest film camera, the Olympus XA, moved on to a medium-format Fuji 645, and will probably involve my Hasselblad 6x6 next. And while I've picked an aspect ratio for them – 1:1.618 – I'm still not sure what size will be best for the prints, although I suspect it will be large.

Higher resolution digital and larger film formats can produce larger prints, and newer digital cameras generally provide better image quality than older ones. But that doesn't always matter, and there are times when I will choose the more limited tool specifically for the way it will impose itself on the process and results.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Better Cameras, Part One

I don't believe in the idea of a "best" camera, and I'm weaning myself off of the word "better" as well. Cameras are certainly different, which is a good thing, as otherwise I wouldn't be able to justify owning so many of them. But to call one camera "better" than another is to impose a value judgement, and assumes needs or criteria that are far from universal. Sometimes quite large differences can completely fail to be significant.

I have a functional definition of "significant difference". If a difference is big enough that I would choose one something over another, then it's significant. If my goal is to produce finely detailed hand-holdable prints, typically from 6x8 to 8x10" sizes, then the resolution difference between my five megapixel Olympus E-1, built in 2003, and my shiny new thirty-six megapixel Nikon D800 isn't significant. If I control the light and choose the subject, which I typically do, then the other generational differences can go away as well. Both cameras will produce excellent, if not indistinguishable, results.

If all other factors stay the same, but I want to change the print to a finely detailed 16x20, then the resolution difference becomes significant. If the light goes down, or the subject moves, the other generational differences become huge. Working with the D800 does open a huge range of options to me, although that's also a subject for another day. Overwhelmingly, the latest-and-greatest isn't even stressed in conditions that weren't even possible five or ten years ago – although it's fair to point out that moving the goalposts doesn't mean that it's a new game.

It seems absurd to resist calling the D800 "better" than the E-1. In almost every measure it's a far superior camera. But my E-1 is still what I choose when I need a tough and quiet digital SLR, giving me the ability to take photos that I otherwise wouldn't have. And I also use it for other reasons that can't be measured or compared: there are times when I simply want the experience of using it, and there are times when I want the particular look and temperament that it provides to the photographs.

How can I call the D800 "better" than my E-1 – or F5, or XA, or Zeiss Ikon, or Hasselblad, or Fujis, or Panasonics – when I still chose to put it down and pick up something else?


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Left or Right

I really like this photo, and it's one of the few that I thought would work even as I was taking it. Perhaps that's why I don't have any variations on it. I wasn't planning on spending much time taking photos that day, so I was only carrying my point-and-shoot, and didn't linger.

It feels like there could be the beginning of a series here: the geometric experience of vast and deserted suburban streets. In my downtown neighbourhood it's rare to see a street this wide, and it would never be completely empty. Yet the evidence of people is irrefutable: someone built this road, and quite recently at that, and it has already seen enough traffic to wear away the markings. I find that contradiction fascinating, and at least as compelling as the opposing arrows.

I've done three different edits of this photo, starting from a clean copy of the image file each time. It's a way to take a fresh start but with the benefit of experience. This version was put through DxO Optics as well as Lightroom, with noticeably better results than working with Lightroom alone. Unfortunately for this photo, it's still not improved enough for me to be happy with it as a print. I like my little Canon S100, but it just doesn't hold up under close examination.


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Staso / Gray Print

It started out as an extra image for my Lakefill 2011 series, a photo to add context to the project and capture the essence of a complex place. It's part of the Artist's Statement that's included in the complete portfolio, but isn't one of the 8x10" prints that are available singly.

Long after Lakefill 2011 was complete "Staso/Gray" continued to be a favourite, so it was time to put it on paper and let it stand on its own.

The finished print has an image area of 14 x 7" on 19 x 13" 'ultra premium luster' paper. It's signed with the print edition information on the bottom of the page. This first run consists of six prints, and they are priced at $150.

Due to its unusual size, I have no plans to make "Staso/Gray" available through any print-on-demand services.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Other Factors

There are certainly times when I don't know what I'm doing.

I've been working on a few prints recently, but one in particular has been vexing me. I've had to make three different versions of it, all identical except for their size.

I started with a print that was 16" across simply because I could – it fits nicely on the paper, and there are plenty of pixels to reproduce it properly. I looks the way I want it to, with no problems in the reproduction, but it didn't grab me. I put it on the wall and lived with it for a week, and it didn't grow on me.

I suspected that the size was the problem. It was reproducing as slightly larger-than-life, so I tried it as a 14" print. The result was immediately better, and spending another week with both photos side-by-side made it even more obvious.

Since a little smaller was a lot better, I took it one more step and tried it as a 12" print. This would let it fit a standard 11x14 frame with only a custom mat, which makes the whole package more affordable than a bigger – or custom – frame. I wanted it to work, but it just didn't. Those two inches left the print weak and uninteresting.

I can't explain much of what I do, and don't understand everything that goes into making decisions. In this case the photo only works as a print of a specific size, and while I could probably rationalize it, it would only be trying to make myself feel better. This is the way it needs to be, so I'm just going to let it stay that way.


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Never the Same Size

One of the most important rules I learned for photography is this: don't make two things the same size.

I don't mean compositionally – I'm a huge fan of symmetry, balance, and repetition. No, I mean this in the most literal and physical way possible.

If I need to cut down some foam-core to make a reflector, I won't just divide it in half, because then when I need a card that's larger or smaller I have no options. A sixty-forty split means that one of them is bound to be right for the job, including many of the jobs that I haven't even thought of yet.

Two tripods with the same height and weight capacity aren't nearly as useful as a light one and a heavy one. Having a camera that can fit in a pocket and another that needs its own backpack – and a half-dozen different ones in between – is an essential part of my creative toolkit that just can't be replaced by having a single allegiance to a brand or lens mount.

If things are different, one of them could be perfect, and with a creative endeavour there's really no way to know ahead of time which one it will be. If everything's the same size, there's an excellent chance that nothing will be the right fit.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Hard Work

Ultimately, taking a good photograph isn't the problem.

That's not saying that taking a good photograph is easy; if it was then I'd always do it, which I clearly do not. But success depends on failures, and if an artist fails often enough, and creatively enough, then success is inevitable.

The problem is recognizing a good photo when I see it.

I used to think that good photography was about the things that were photographed. Then I thought it was about light, or form, or tone, colour, line, pattern; I even briefly considered the idea that it was about intangibles like stories or emotion. But that's not right, or at least, it's not enough.

Good photography is about knowing what a good photograph looks like.

It's editing, selecting, and discarding. It's the visual sophistication and discernment to recognize what has value. It's the discipline to accept that, out of my last thousand photos, maybe none of them are worth showing.


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Lakefill 2011 Prints

Begun sixty years ago as a simple breakwater to protect Toronto’s Outer Harbour, the Leslie Street Spit has grown into an elaborate peninsula five kilometers long. Largely reclaimed by nature, the Spit now includes almost five square kilometers of cottonwoods, wetlands, and meadows, and is managed as one of the largest wildlife habitats in the city.

The Spit’s southern shoreline remains an active dumpsite for demolition and excavation rubble. It’s a changing landscape of construction debris: concrete poles and slabs build the headlands, tangles of weathered rebar, stone, and brick form the beaches. While they were once the buildings and structure of the city, this lakefill now creates the land itself.

Shaped and broken by machines and by the elements, very little is more humble than these bricks and scraps. Presented here without the surrounding context, they invite examination for their own character and qualities. Resolutely mute, each one still speaks to its past life and stands as a part of the history of Toronto.

Matthew Piers Robertson

June 2012

Lakefill 2011 is complete.

The project includes eighteen images that were taken in place on the Leslie Street Spit during August and September of 2011. Conceived as a set from the very beginning, I'm pleased to offer these as complete portfolios, including the photograph and artists' statement above, as well as as individual prints. The image area is sized for an 8x10" matt on 8.5x11" paper, and given the white field, there is some flexibility in its presentation.

As I have mentioned previously, I do not produce "Limited Edition" prints. Instead I create artist-signed photographs in small print runs. The quantity of each run and the price for those prints is fixed. When those have sold out I may print an additional run, but the price will be fifty percent higher with each edition.

The full portfolio of eighteen images, plus the title page and artists' statement page with the photo above, is priced at $600. Two sets are available in this print edition. As these images are meant to be seen unframed, they are printed on Premium Glossy paper.

The single prints are intended for framing and are printed on Premium Luster paper. The first print edition is in sets of three, and each is available for $40.

Each image is also available directly from a print-on-demand lab. These can be ordered via the gallery, and while I have every confidence in their quality, these are not images that I have inspected or approved. Printed on 8x10" paper, these unsigned and non-editioned photographs are offered at $25 each.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Software Upgrades II

Back in February I wrote a little lament about having to upgrade my software. Well, four months later, it's time for an update.

I have indeed moved my main computer to Lightroom Four so that it can handle images from my Nikon D800. It's an awesome program, but even version 4.1 is so slow that the thought of importing more than a dozen photos into it makes we want to cry. I've left my laptop running Lightroom three-point-something, which is fine for my little Canon S100.

I'm also working my way through a trial of "DxO Optics", which is an incredibly sophisticated program that does most of its work automatically. It looks like this will become my new intake program, letting me see a better-than-original redering of each photo, use some of its tools and tricks, and then export only the best candidates to Lightroom Four. That Adobe software can then add its own controls to the mix, and remains my foundation for organizing and printing photos.

Driving all of this right now is my upcoming jaunt to New York City. On my last trip, to the same place and on the same weekend, I took about four hundred photos using my manual-focus and manual-advance film rangefinder. With my D800 I'm going to carry enough power and memory for about two thousand images – I don't need to use it all, but I don't plan on missing many opportunities. So my workflow needs to be up to the task, to say the least.

Coming up next will be my first experience with scanning film into Lightroom Four. People talk about how big the 50MB files from the D800 are, but my film scans are typically double that. Even Lightroom Three was a little hesitant with those files, so this is going to be interesting.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Specific Bus Trip Tips

I enjoy taking bus trips. Well, perhaps 'enjoy' is too strong a word, but it can be good just the same. Long-haul intercity buses are an inexpensive way to go to sleep in one place and wake up in another. There are challenges and problems to overcome, and it imposes its own unique set of restrictions and opportunities, but can be an excellent experience.

In an earlier article I had some general thoughts on planning and executing a successful bus trip. Here are some of the more specific considerations for making it through the experience.


Use a friendly bag. The camera bag isn't going into the luggage compartment, so expect to sit with it for the round trip as well as carrying it all day. Avoid velcro and pointy bits.

Water is heavy. Bottled water is evil, but this is the time to use it. Small snacks are worth carrying; my favourite is Peanut M&M's because they're melt-proof.

Access to A/C power is uncertain and a time-consuming inconvenience. Carry ample batteries, and don't forget about a booster for your smartphone if it's important.

Charge all of your batteries and cover the terminals with tape. Fold a flap over for easy removal. Now it's obvious which batteries are depleted.

In emergencies, some things can be bought. SD cards are common; good film and CF cards are tougher. But those fancy modern camera batteries are never pre-charged.

iPhones and other touch-screen music players without physical controls are tough to use with closed eyes. Screens that light up are obnoxious on a darkened bus.

Noise-isolating earphones are worth their cost; ones that leak sound are offensive and unneighbourly. Turn off anything that beeps or buzzes during the trip.

GPS navigation isn't everything. Draw diagrams and note down the directions to key points; this is faster to use and doesn't depend on battery power or a data connection.

Buses are usually cold no matter what time of year it is, so travelling when the weather needs a light jacket is remarkably convenient.

Window seats are more popular, so on an older bus the aisle seat may be in better condition and provide a more pleasant trip. But resist the urge to recline, as its comfort is fleeting.

Carry at least three earplugs. They're small, light, and provide a welcome relief from just about everything, but are easy to lose.

A hat with a brim can block out light when sleeping, provide shelter against rain, and reduce sun exposure. Essential.

Sunblock is also vital for warm-weather trips, but find some that won't melt the rubber on your camera grip.

Hot-air hand dryers are popular, but it's easier to wash your face when there are paper towels around. Remember where to find them or collect some along the way.

Carry emergency cash and information somewhere other than your wallet and camera bag. The goal is to keep the ability to get home if the worst case happens.

Pacing is key. Taking twenty or thirty minutes to relax in a coffee shop can result in better photos and better decisions for the next several hours.

Remember that, no matter what other goals there may be, this is a voluntary activity and is presumably meant to be enjoyed. Stress is unnecessary.


And that's it for now – I'm working on my packing list, and may have a bit more to say about that later. My next departure is just one month away.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

General Bus Trip Tips

Road trips are a photographic staple, and mine have produced some of my favourite photos. The only catch is that instead of driving, I take the bus.

My routine is to find an interesting city that's one overnight bus ride away, spend the day, and then take another overnight bus back. It's cheaper than a hotel – and can really make for an interesting what-I-did-last-weekend story. With four trips behind me and another coming up, here are the bigger lessons that I've learned.


Pack light. If I'm not distraught over leaving something at home, then I'm carrying too much. Ten pounds for everything is my usual limit.

Minimize. Do you really need your lens caps? If they stay at home then they can't get lost and it's one less thing to fiddle with. Pare down your routine to the essentials.

Non-photographic items can take a significant amount of space and weight. Make efforts to minimize this as well, and get the most value from what you carry.

Know what you want. The most important thing to know when going to war is what "victory" will look like. Have both a specific photographic goal as well as an overall ambition.

Have a 'rain day' alternative. I'll use a bag that's small enough to bring into art galleries and museums, and will switch the second lens for my audio recorder if the weather looks bad.

Plan for being tired. Sleeping on the outbound leg is difficult, and then it's followed by a long day. Prefer simple over elaborate whenever possible, and have reasonable expectations.

Do a trial run. Pack everything except your passport, ride public transit until you're numb, and head to the same sort of environment to take the same kind of photos.

Be realistic. The way it is at home will be the way it is on the road. This isn't the time to finally use a tripod for every shot, or work on some new technique.

Finally: Don't bring home empty film containers, either physically or metaphorically.


Coming up next: more specific ideas to deal with the trip.


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Solving Dilemmas

When faced with choosing between two possible options, each with their own advantages, there's a lot to be said for doing both.

I've recently been trying to decide between wrapping up my Lakefill project, knowing that I could now do it better, versus continuing on and further delaying its completion.

So I'm doing both. I have a few little changes that I want to make to a couple of the prints, and the Artist's Statement needs some work, but I've selected a series of eighteen images that make a strong set of 8x10 prints. I'll have the gallery updated with the finished images once the full folio is complete.

And while doing that, I'm also gathering raw material for the next set. Literally. While all of the photos in "Lakefill 2011" were taken on-site, this time I'm bringing the bricks indoors. The first set was intended to be a book / folio from the very beginning; the 2012 project will be more refined, more consistent, and intended for gallery-quality 16x20" prints. I'm not ready to start photographing yet, but I'm excited.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Measuring Matthewness

This is something that I came up with in an idle moment: the "matthewness" scale.

There are five categories that I've broken it down into, and assign anywhere from 0 to 2 point in each, creating a nice X-out-of-10 rating. The higher the score, the more "me" the photo is. (As with all of these arbitrary and subjective ratings, intermediate scores and half-points are encouraged.) Here's how it works:

Picture Space: The flatter the better. A photo with a foreground and background with deep focus, like the receding streets of 44th and 5th, would score a "0". A photo where the entire frame consists of a brick wall – not an uncommon thing for me, even outside of my lens reviews – would score "2".

Geometry: For maximum points, we need straight lines, right angles, and square corners. Diagonals are rare, and there are no curves. A score of zero would be something like a field of wildflowers – not that I've ever taken one of those. An intermediate score of "1" would go to something like "Blue", where a composition of curves is still anchored by a line that's parallel to the bottom of the frame.

Framing: A 'passive' frame, which is simply where the photo ends and has no relation to the space or the subject, is a zero. A composition in which the frame creates negative space that's important to the success of the photo, such as my Lakefill series, would be a "1". For full points, the photo needs to have a subject or composition that's entirely created by the camera frame.

Words: Sometimes text and its treatment is the entire subject of a photo, which is worth "2", and if it's important in some way then I'll score that as a "1.5". If there's any legible text, then that still earns a "1".

Suitability: Somewhat recursively, this is an evaluation of the "matthewness" of the subject. Camera-clubby images of lonely trees, lonely docks, dilapidated barns, diaphanous flowers, and long-exposure streams are an emphatic zero, if not an outright deduction. On the other hand, people occasionally remember me for my abstracted photos of signs, so that would be a "2". Humour counts for something here, too.

I previously called "Swimming Pool Vicinity" the most 'me' of all of my photos. It scores a 8.5 out of 10 on this scale, being marked down only a half-point each for 'words', 'picture space', and 'framing'. Conversely, "Coney Island, 18 June 2011" shows few of my usual traits, would only acquire one point each for 'picture space' and 'suitability', with maybe a half-point for 'framing'.

It's not that this scale has any actual utility, or that I use it in evaluating or ranking photos in any way, but it's an amusing exercise for me to pass the time and a different framework to think about my favourites.


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An Analogy

I like to wander through the second-hand bookstore – I'll often find something that I didn't know to look for. It's a process of serendipity and discovery, a time for trying out ideas and themes, and it's okay that I put most of them back. I've spent almost two years choosing books by the author's last names, working my way through the alphabet twice, and found some gems that I never would have experienced otherwise.

Occasionally I'll finish a book and go right back to the beginning. When I read it all over again I can pay attention to the details and structure in a way that wasn't possible when I didn't know the story, and can make a good work even better. The tradeoff is that I only have so much time, and lose some of the potential for stories that I don't know yet.

This is a lot like photography.

My "Lakefill" series is nearly complete. I can wrap it up and move on to the process of discovering my next idea, which is intimidating because there's no way of knowing if it will be any good. Or I could take what I've learned from the process of doing the work, add in some improved equipment, and re-do the whole thing for a better result. I give up completing anything now, and miss the potential opportunity to apply those same improvements and experiences to the next big thing.

I haven't yet decided what I'm going to do. I may even be delaying taking the critical look at my existing photos, and doing the work to evaluate the series, specifically to avoid having to make that call.

But when I finish reading a book, I usually just go back to my own bookshelves. That's my reserve of favourites to revisit and some stories that had caught my eye when I didn't have the time to pursue them. It's familiar, comfortable, and unsurprising – a nice refuge to have, but not something that I want for my photography.


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Retraction

I have to admit that I've done something that I had said I wouldn't do. I've bought a Nikon D800.

Improvement is a funny thing.

The tools that I use are inseparable from the results that I attain: the process of creation starts when I select the implement, and that's true whether I'm picking a camera and lens or choosing between a brush and a palette knife. Each camera provides different abilities and opportunities, and the D800's potential to make high-quality prints larger and more easily proved too tempting to resist.

Yet while a better camera may take better photos, it doesn't follow that it will create better art.

There's a huge difference between the ambitions of being a better photographer versus being a better artist. The process might look the same, but the goals are different; I occasionally need to remind myself that I want to solve expressive problems, not just technical ones. It's far too easy to get caught up in the numbers and marketing and forget that my goals may not be the same as those of the people around me, and they certainly aren't the same as the camera companies.

But 36 megapixels means a high-resolution 16x20" print without needing to combine multiple images. That's exactly what I want. My Lakefill series may not be done after all.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

"Coney Island, 18 June 2011"

I would say that things usually work out well for me. After a successful trip to Coney Island in March, and ten days in Manhattan the previous October, I had planned a return trip for the end of June. There are a lot of different things that come into play when I pick a time to travel, and this particular day just happened to be the Saturday of the annual parade in Coney Island to mark the start of summer.

It was a good day, with lots of interesting things to see. I spent the morning in Manhattan, using black and white film in my rangefinder, and then switched to colour and a telephoto lens for most of the afternoon. Despite being a smaller format than what I had used for my March trip to Coney Island, the film is the same and I like the way they work together.

I'm still not done with Coney Island yet, and may have another trip or two there this year. Eventually I'll be able to put together a series that covers different seasons across a few years. Until then, this photo will stand on its own.


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"Fifth and Forty-Fourth"

One thing that I've noticed is that my photographic interests have narrowed over the years. I used to go out and just explore, never knowing what I would find, but these days I tend to visualize a specific image and then work to make it happen. At least, that's what I do when I'm at home – when I travel I'm much more likely to be spontaneous.

Midtown Manhattan is only a ten-hour bus ride from downtown Toronto, making it a relatively easy overnight trip. That's also why I'm more likely to be on Fifth Avenue at six-thirty on the morning than to see Toronto's own Yonge Street: I need a very good reason to be awake that early. All I could think about here was making sure that I had my Zeiss 35/2 lens set to infinity and f/5.6 as I brought the camera up for this shot – that and making sure there were no oncoming taxis as I crossed the street a block south from this gentleman.

This photo was taken on my third trip to New York, and it was the second time I brought my Zeiss Ikon rangefinder. This is my perfect camera for cities and streets, especially with the Zeiss 35mm f/2 Biogon, which is possibly the best wide-angle lens ever made. This is the setup I most associate with New York, and it's one of the cameras I'll be carrying when I return this fall.


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"Coney Island Furniture"

New York City is a very big place. While it doesn't suffer from a lack of photographers, the idea of creating any single body of work that can capture the breadth of it would be a daunting task even if I lived there, which I don't. Instead I need to focus on just a few themes and restrict myself to very specific parts of the city.

"Coney Island Furniture" is, naturally, from an ongoing series of photos from Coney Island. This is an iconic area of amusement parks with a boardwalk on the Atlantic ocean that always faces the sun, and it's the terminus for four different subway lines that run through midtown Manhattan.

My first trip to it was in March of 2011, before the rides opened for the season, making it a quiet and rather cold and windy place. I carried a tripod and my hasselblad, which made for an interesting day.

This store is on Surf Avenue, not far from the beach and attractions, but seems to have enjoyed better times. I like to linger on the storefront with its signs and unusual lettering, and typically for my cityscape photos, it's built out of rectangles with no people to be seen anywhere.


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"Swimming Pool Vicinity"

There are four traits that I recognize in many, if not most, of my favourite photos. Flat picture space. Strong geometry, typically square angles and no curves. An active frame: the photograph is created by its boundaries, rather than existing independently within them. And words.

"Swimming Pool Vicinity" combines all of these elements in one image, making it the most 'typically me' photo of any of my recent work. When I look at it I see the larger sign first, followed by the second sign; then I examine the detail in the wall. The sweeping clouds are what I look at last, and their implied movement brings me back to the wall and the idea that there's something beyond it.

I suppose there is a fifth element that is typically me: detachment. I may exult in geometric expression, but the photo is an act of precision, not passion. The viewer is invited to examine the scene in detail: to count the bolts, to notice the shifts in the concrete wall, to appreciate the humour of the warnings inherent in the deep end of a shallow pool. But we're a very long way from dancing about architecture.


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Considering Favourites

I was recently asked to put together a portfolio of seven photographs for review. Setting aside the specificity of that number, and my musing about how they chose it, the part of the request that struck me is that the prints need to show a range of interests and approaches.

I've spent the past year working on cohesive series, which is sort of the opposite of that.

The ones that I've provisionally chosen – i still have a week to finalize my choices – span almost two years. Three of them were taken in New York, across two separate one-day visits, but I haven't pulled any images from my trips to Montreal, Chicago, or Ottawa.

Over the next couple of weeks I'll take a look at some of the photos that I pick. Many are already included in my personal favourites, but I've reworked several of them and am looking forward to seeing them as prints.


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Little Jumps Forward

It's been a busy week.

A couple of things have happened. One is a small breakthrough on my Time and Motion project: I've finally found an aspect ratio that I like and can use for all of the prints. Since I've been working in three different formats – and counting – each with a different aspect ratio, this is a way to unify all of the photographs. It will require custom matting, but commercially produced frames should remain an option. I'm very excited about this.

I always enjoy being able to do a first pass with my photographs, to solidify my ideas on how I want them to look, and then let them sit for a while. In every case it provides better results, and sometimes those results aren't what I expect. I idly flipped one of the photos from colour to monochrome on my computer screen, and really liked the results. Encouraged by that, I then tried it on one that came out too rough for me to like in colour. Black and white suits it, and while I'm not sure if it will be part of the "finished" series, it's fun to have in the collection.

The other new thing this week is some camera-industry news. Nikon astonished me by proving the rumour websites correct, and announced the replacement for my D700 with three times the resolution. I pay minimal attention to rumour sites, partly because I have enough trouble keeping track of the cameras that actually exist, but the idea that Nikon would definitively restart the megapixel race was just too outlandish to believe. Never let it be said that I have a perfect track record.

I'm not one of those people who expects art-viewers to maintain a respectful distance from large prints and not notice blur and pixellation: if a print is big I want to be rewarded by additional detail. Clearly, my Time and Motion project depends on mood instead of minutia, but I did go to considerable effort to increase the starting resolution for my Lakefill series. A high resolution digital camera certainly isn't something that I would say no to.

But I'm not ready to say yes to the Nikon D800, either. It's not quite right for my needs, and my D700 and I still have a few years left together, but I'm certainly interested to see what else Nikon can come up with.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Software Upgrades

I refuse to consider that I might now qualify as an 'old dog'.

I'm not adverse to learning new things. I quite enjoy coming up with new solutions and techniques to improve my results. I just prefer change when it's my idea.

I use Adobe software as the core of my image editing routine. Lightroom handles 95% of it, while special tasks are farmed out to an older version of Photoshop. I use a specialist program to drive the two scanners for the film that I use, and a nifty little program for focus stacking and super-resolution processing with some digital images.

But nothing lasts forever. The next version of Photoshop will be my last chance to upgrade at a reduced price, and after that they're getting rid of their policy that lets people skip generations without penalty. There's nothing in the new versions that I need, but the raw files from two of the three digital cameras that I routinely use aren't supported in the version that I have. This affects my ability to easily merge multiple photos into layers or panoramas, and is generally a nuisance.

Lightroom is also changing. I've been using it longer than most people, and stayed with it through three generations. Now LR4 is in its public trials, and it looks great – but I've developed a few decent tricks in soon-to-be-old versons. My favourite was to work with the exposure and brightness controls in opposition to each other: exposure is global, and can cause highlight clipping, but brightness will try very hard not to clip, and only influences the brighter parts of the image. The contrast control works to change the range that the brightness influences. Between those adjustments an amazing range of control could be had, and it was quick and easy to create the results that I wanted.

Lightroom 4: no more brightness control.

Nobody says that I have to upgrade. I can stay with what I'm doing, keep the results I already have, and not need to do anything differently. But what fun is that?

So it's inevitable that I'm going to need to learn new tricks sooner or later. Lightroom Four is almost certainly in my future. But this also seems like a good time to re-evaluate what I want my software to do, and consider some new options that weren't out there when I first signed up with Adobe. I'm hearing interesting things about Apple's Aperture, and DxO Optics has a reputation as the best choice for photographers who want to squeeze the best from their cameras and lenses. That sounds fascinating – and they all offer free trials.

I may need a new computer soon.


Comments, questions, thoughts? You can find me on Twitter or via e-mail.

Camera Thoughts

There are a lot of recurring themes in photographic discussion, but the classic may be "the camera doesn't matter." The essential argument is that talent/skill/ability is what's important, and once that requirement is met 'all you need is a disposable, toy camera or a camera phone to create great work.'

Poppycock.

Of course technical proficiency doesn't mean that there's anything of value being created. But the assertion that great artwork can be done with inferior tools skirts the reality that artists typically use the best tools that they can. Yes, of course it can be done, but the point is to use the correct tool.

I've been learning a lot about the importance of cameras from my 'time and motion' project. The images themselves have very little detail and a limited tonal range, and certainly don't stress the equipment at all. So far I've taken these images with three different cameras, ranging from small format film and digital to medium format film, and I suppose a disposable toy camera would work as well.

But these simple photos are created from long exposures with impromptu setup, and it's the camera that's moving, not the subject. It's an unusual situation with unexpected requirements, and choosing the right camera has become an integral part of the creative process. The exposure controls, format, and even the weight of the camera change the results in subtle ways that can't always be predicted, and they certainly can't be synthesized.

But neither can meaning.


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Creative Accidents

Perfection isn't something I actually expect to achieve. I'm not that good, and I'm also aware that the drive for perfection is the antithesis of completion. But I'm someone who will take the largest SLR ever produced, which has tremendous technical controls and creates a negative larger than the screen on my phone, for a miles-long bike ride so that I can photograph bricks.

I really like perfection, but I also really like this photo.

Everything in this photo worked the way it should. It's not destined for greatness, but the process went just fine. There's plenty of detail to see in the spider webs, and while the composition isn't revolutionary, it's not bad either.

But months later – I don't use a lot of black and white film in the summer – when I was unloading the camera, there was a slight mishap. Rolls of 120 film are vulnerable to light leaks, and that's what happened to this one. It's actually the first time I've had that happen with any of my film.

In this case, I'm glad it did.
But I don't plan on doing it again.


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Subtle White

There's a photograph that I keep trying to take.

It's not even complicated. There's a large tank that holds some sort of chemical – I've never bothered to find out what – on the university campus that's near my home. It's a long horizontal cylinder, painted white, that's almost always in shadow from the neighbouring buildings. There's an elevated walkway next to it, so that it's easy to see across the top of the tank and along its length.

The tank is usually wearing rain-streaked dirt, giving it interesting detail and texture. The curve means that there are always highlights and shadows. Shade, reflections, and lights give it subtle colour variations. I'm fascinated by it, and try to take a photo most of the times I walk past it. I test out new cameras, lenses, and film with it. I've done this for years.

Completely without success.

I admit that I haven't gone all-out and made a project out of it. I could be unsporting and use the camera, lens, and colour controls that I routinely work with for my commercial photography. That would certainly give better results, yet I haven't done it. Ultimately, I know that what I like wouldn't really translate into a static photograph, and both film and digital are weak at capturing subtle variations of tone and colour.

I'm a big believer in having the right camera for the job, but there are jobs that cameras can't do.


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