Stop Trying To Turn Film Cameras Into Digital Cameras

Why are people obsessed with the idea of converting a film camera to digital?

On April Fool's Day in 2011, a German design company launched a website to promote a fake product called the Re35. The Re35 was ostensibly a module the size of a film canister with a flexible digital sensor that could be loaded into any film camera. The product would let film photographers use their film cameras to make digital pictures. The Re35 was nothing more than a render. It wasn't real. I wish we could go back to those days.

In 2016, a Swiss company crowd-funded a product called I'm Back, which was a large, boxy thing that you could attach to the back of many film cameras. It had a digital sensor connected to a focusing screen which fit onto the film plane behind a film camera's shutter. I don't actually recall if this product was successfully funded, because it looked (to me) like a terrible idea and I never wrote about it, nor followed its progress. But they again crowdfunded various versions of I'm back in 2017 and 2018 as well.

A couple of years later they launched a new Kickstarter campaign for the I'm Back 35, an improved digital back for 35mm film cameras that cost $350. This time it successfully raised just under $500,000.

I've never used one, nor have I met anyone who has. But the product was covered in all of the biggest photo and tech websites and magazines. It got a lot of publicity and coincidentally lots of people bought in. I suspect this has less to do with the product being amazing and more to do with the fact that the Kickstarter campaign was put together by a Kickstarter campaign marketing company that has successfully completed Kickstarter projects with a cumulative value of over $460 Million. They obviously know how to write a press release.

From my seat, the I'm Back 35 records pretty terrible photos. The creators say it makes images that fall somewhere "between film and digital." Or, as people not invested in the thing's success might describe them, bad digital photos. It's also an enormous and unwieldy ganglion hanging grotesquely from the back of your otherwise pretty and functional film camera. Win win?

Just a few months ago the world was blessed with another new option for shooting your film cameras without film. It's called the DiGi Swap, and it allows film camera users to turn their cell phone into a digital back by hanging it off of their beautiful and perfectly functional film camera using a big plastic adapter. The DiGi Swap (which costs $185) squeezes a low-quality lens and projection screen in between your cell phone's camera lens and the film plane of your film camera. There's a dedicated app that costs $50, and this app detects when the camera's shutter opens (I guess) and then records onto your phone whatever it sees through your film camera's lens.

The wonderful intermediary lens of the DiGi Swap adds a healthy dose of distortion and softness to the images made through your Leica M6 and its old, boring Summicron.

Finally, we film camera shooters can use our obsolete $6,000 film camera and lens in a way that just makes sense. We can achieve the look of $30 Holga and store those images onto our phones.

I'm typically not one to stand on my soap box and proclaim my opinion as truth, but these digital conversion products are terrible. They miss the point of film cameras entirely. We film camera likers like film cameras for two main reasons: the film, and the camera. We like the look of images made on film and the process of making them. We like the film cameras themselves because they're fun to use, exciting to collect and to own, and because they put us into a community that's usually much more inclusive and supportive than the digital photography community is (or was, for sure, a handful of years ago).

These film-to-digital products makes no sense. They take away the film and ruin the camera. And we just don't need them.

If you want a film camera, buy a film camera, buy some film, and help support the people in that industry. If you want a digital camera that feels nice to use, there are plenty of options out there. Leica's Q2 is one, and less expensive offerings come from Fujifilm's X series and the reborn Olympus OM cameras. Or pick both, film and digital, and enjoy each for their own merits.

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The Mamiya Watcher A is a 35mm Film Surveillance Camera Built Into a Clock

Earlier this month a thief broke into my home office and stole some of my most valued goods. There was no sign of forced entry. No damage. The stuff was simply gone. As I sat in stunned silence and replayed the previous days in my mind searching for any detail that might lead to a clue, I realized that the theft may not have been an isolated incident. Over the past three years, similar goods have habitually gone missing from my office on a regular basis - I'd just not noticed. I was the victim of a repeat burglar, and I vowed to end the cycle.

While these heinous crimes may not be of interest to the readers of this site, the method which I employed to identify the thief should be.

The camera that I used to catch the thief is a surveillance camera that I've owned for many years. But it's not just any surveillance camera. The Mamiya Watcher A is a computer-automated point-and-shoot 35mm film camera weirdly disguised as an ugly clock.

With the help of the Mamiya Watcher A, I was able to identify the thief in a matter of days. The authorities have her in custody and we're pressing charges.

Let's start at the beginning, by cataloguing what was stolen. The thief was greedy. She took a whole box of Cheez-it salted cheese crackers, a couple of Ghirardelli chocolate squares, and a pack of Sour Patch Kids gummy snacks.

See, despite being generally healthy and exercising regularly, for better or worse I'm a guy who likes his snacks. And no matter where I stash them in my office they always seem to get stolen. Up until the Mamiya Watcher, I'd had no idea who was taking them, or when, or how. But now I have the answers.

What is the Mamiya Watcher A

The Mamiya Watcher A is a clock with built-in circuitry to control a built-in hidden camera through use of a radio remote control. By setting the dials inside the camera we're able to control how many exposures are made in succession, and the interval of time between these exposures. By setting these settings it would be possible, for example, to press the remote control button just before a business associate enters the room and then have a multi-frame record of the events that happened in the room recorded on a roll of 35mm film.

The camera inside the clock is a Ricoh LX-33sW point and shoot, which was first released in 1993 (dating the Watcher more accurately than any other method I've found - the Watcher is a pretty rare object and not much information is available on it). This water resistant Ricoh point and shoot has a 34mm lens and a fixed focus point and a single exposure setting when the flash is turned off, which it always is in the Mamiya Watcher A (1/50th of a second). The camera does not offer auto-focus or auto-exposure and film above 400 ISO must be used in bright lighted rooms with 800 ISO or higher film used in average lighting (the covering over the lens is tinted quite dark to keep the camera hidden within the clock).

The camera runs on 2 AA batteries and the clock and its circuitry runs on six C batteries. The remote also runs on a small battery. Yeah, there's a lot of batteries.

And that's really all there is to it. You simply load the camera, the clock starts running, and then when you're ready to shoot your film you press the radio controlled shutter release and… I guess act natural?

The longest possible interval between shots is 15 seconds, so using a 36 exposure roll of film it's only possible that the Mamiya Watcher will capture a span of about nine minutes. I'm not sure how useful this would be.

The clock itself is, aesthetically, what's the word… hideous. A giant gold clock face with terribly gaudy face hands, a confused jumble of colorful shapes on a black plastic body. It's pretty ugly.

How I Caught the Thief

I knew that the thief was a repeat burglar, and that they'd taken my snacks on a nearly weekly basis for the prior three years, so the method by which I baited the trap was simple.

I poured succulent gummy bears into a bowl perfectly sized for stealing, and laid this glimmering bowl of rainbow sugar in the most conspicuous spot that I could find in my office. I then placed the Mamiya Watcher A on a small table opposite the bowl of candy and loaded it with JCH Street Pan 400 film (this is, after all, a surveillance film).

After that, all I had to do was wait.

A day later the gummy bears were gone. The bowl was gone. And as was the case in every previous robbery, there was no sign or clue as to where they went or who had taken them.

I rushed to the Mamiya Watcher and opened the back. The film had been exposed! I pulled the film from the back of the camera and rushed to develop the roll right there in my home office. A dozen minutes later I had my evidence, and my answers.

Alright, listen. I'm having a little fun with this, if you couldn't tell. The conceit of this article is that someone's been stealing my stuff and the Watcher helped me solve the crime. But what's really happened is that I needed an appropriate scenario in which to use the Watcher so that I could write about it in this article, and since my two daughters constantly steal the many snacks which I keep hidden for myself in my office, I figured that this would be a good imaginary crime to solve.

I sat there and directed my daughter frame by frame so that we could get some funny photos. The funniest flourish, I think, being the burglar mask that she pulls out of nowhere. I had fun, she had fun, we both ate some gummy bears and I think I've gotten a fun article out of it.

But could the Mamiya Watcher A solve an actual crime? I doubt it. You'd need to know when the crime is to happen and you'd need to fire the shutter yourself with the remote, which means you'd have to be in the room when the crime is occurring. Besides, the noise the Watcher makes is so raucous that it would pretty obviously give up the jig.

I suppose there could be other uses for the Watcher, none of which are anything I really care to think about. I think I'm just not insidious enough to dream up instances where I'd want to photograph people without them knowing it. And there's plenty about the Watcher, including the name, that seems a little creepy. The manual even makes sure to mention that "This product should not be used to intrude upon people's right to privacy." I agree, but I don't think people buying this product in the time that it was made felt that way.

Still, the Watcher A is a funny and interesting bit of film photography history, and I had fun messing around with it.

Find your own Mamiya Watcher on eBay

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[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

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Tripods, Lights, Grips, and Straps – Product Roundup October 2021

Companies and makers send me photography products pretty frequently, with the request that we write an article about or review their product on the site. The products usually fall into one of three categories - Good and interesting, we review it; Bad and boring, we don't review it; Good but there's not enough substance for a full article, and I don't know what to do with it.

For the past few years in cases where the product falls into that last category (being a product that's really useful or nice but not revolutionary or interesting enough to warrant its own in-depth article) I've typically sent the products back to their makers with a polite explanation.

But not anymore!

Lately I've held onto these types of products until I now have enough to fill a small office, and I'm going to begin rounding them up into a monthly article series unimaginatively called The Product Roundup. You can assume that any of the products in this and other upcoming Product Roundups have already passed the test - the products are useful, well-made, and I can envision some of our readers using and enjoying them.

Today's roundup showcases a travel tripod, a camera grip, a nice leather strap, and a life-changing (at least for me) LED light. Let's dive in.

Due North Leather Straps

Mark, from Due North Leather Goods Co., sent me a leather camera strap many months ago. It's nice looking, supple and smooth, and well-made in Canada. Unfortunately, even that many positive traits isn't enough to get me excited about writing a big-time review of a strap. But there's a nice balance struck by Due North's approach which I think puts their straps comfortably at home in this roundup.

Like many of the best leather camera straps on the market, this strap is made by hand, will age beautifully, and has that lovely leathery smell that we all love (at least, those of us who aren't vegan). I've written about straps from Tap & Dye and Hawkesmille, two luxury strap makers who truly make great products. The problem with those, however, is that they're expensive. Very expensive. Due North's strap is as good as any I've had from Tap & Dye (it actually feels softer than T&D's Legacy strap), but the Due North example costs quite a bit less. The savings are even greater when we compare Due North to Hawkesmille.

Short story even shorter - if you want a beautiful, Canada-made leather strap at a fair price, consider those from Due North.

Get a Due North Strap directly from the makers here.

Metro Case Leica M Hand Grip

Super lightweight, strong, and comfortable. That's what makes Metro Case's handgrips so appealing. Metro Case sent me their grip for Leica M cameras, and it did what it was supposed to do - made the Leica M (actually) holdable! It also adds an Arca-Swiss style tripod mount, a standard tripod screw mount positioned at the optical axis, comes off along with the baseplate when switching film, and protects the bottom of the camera.

It's inexpensive, strong and sturdy, and doesn't detract from the classic good looks of the M series. Metro Case also makes handgrips for plenty of other film and digital cameras, including Barnack Leicas and Fujifilm's ever-popular X Series mirrorless cameras. Not much to say beyond that - simply a good product.

Get your Metro Case handgrip here.

Magnus TR-13 Travel Tripod

Talk to enough photo nerds (or watch enough YouTube videos made by photo nerds) and you'll be convinced that you need a five-hundred dollar Gitzo tripod made of platinum and cored with mercury for that good, good weightiness. But that's all wrong. The tripod that most people need is this one - the Magnus TR-13 travel tripod.

Ever since the makers of this tripod sent me the TR-13, I've been using it almost exclusively as my big, beefy Manfrottos languish in the corner of my office. I've used it to shoot product shots for my site, I've used it to shoot video for a YouTube channel, I've used it to hold LED lights and diffusers, and it's worked great. No wobble, easy to articulate, it holds my stuff. Like the camera strap mentioned above, it's difficult to find things to talk about when reviewing a tripod. If it holds the camera in the position that you need it to, and if it holds that camera steady during your exposure, the tripod's done its job. This one does that.

What's really great about this tripod, however, is that it hits a super low price point without sacrificing features. It's got a dual-action ball head, a weight hook, an Arca-type quick release with level, quick-release legs, grippy feet, a travel bag, and it's even got a reversible stock for upside-down mounting of the camera.

Maximum load is a truly respectable 13.2 lbs (this is much better than the similarly priced and specced Manfrotto competition, which can only hold 3 lbs). Maximum height is 62.5 inches (same as the competition) and closed height is 18 inches. The unit's total weight is 2.9 lbs, which is great for travel! And all of this costs just $69.

It won't work for the largest medium format cameras, and landscape photographers in wild climates shooting in hardcore conditions will need one of the classic heavyweight tripods. And it doesn't have a boom to extend the camera out above subjects. But for most of us (and for the unbeatable price) this tripod will be all we need.

Get your Magnus TR-13 travel tripod from B&H Photo here!

Luxli Cello 10 Multicolor RGBAW LED Panel

This product probably could warrant its own complete article, but here we go. The Luxli Cello 10 Multicolor RGBAW LED Panel has completely replaced my big honkin' softboxes for all of my product photography (on this site and my shop).

Key features that I love :

• Adjustable color temperature from 3,000 to 10,000 K.
• RGB control makes it possible to blast virtually any color imaginable!
• Adjustable brightness control.
• LCD data panel on the back.
• Tripod socket mount, with included adjustable ball head.
• There's a one-year limited warranty.
• It's tiny!
• It's made in Norway, which brings my Norwegian household products count up to 1!

Things I don't like (or don't use):

• Diffuser screen is not included (sold together with the light in a kit for $30 more than the light alone, or the diffuser is sold separately for $49).
• DC power adapter not included, and the single battery with which the unit is delivered does not last very long.
• Can be controlled via apps on my phone? Never used.
• There are strobe modes, and lightning modes, and other modes which are made to look like, I suppose, aura effects? Never used.
• It's expensive.

If you're buying a lighting setup for product photos or video work, or you want a light to give splashy RGB tones (as in colorful low-key portraiture) I can't think of a light that I'd prefer over this one. It's been amazing to use.

That said, it's a bit pricey. But it's made my product photography better, added greater versatility than I've ever had in a light setup, and cleaned up my office quite a bit. Just get the one that comes with a diffuser.

Get your Luxli Cello 10 LED Panel Light from B&H Photo here.

Get the kit which comes with a diffuser here.

There's also a Mach 2 version, which includes a power adapter for $399.

Have a product you'd like featured on the site?

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[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

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A Brief History of See-Through Cameras

Camera manufacturers have always enjoyed showing off the otherwise mysterious innards of their mechanical masterpieces. Early brochures for lenses and cameras demonstrated the makers' engineering expertise through illustrations, schematics, and technical drawings, remarkably done by hand. This is well exemplified in one Kodak brochure from 1904 which featured, amongst other drawings, a detailed cross section of the famous Cooke portrait lens.

The trend continued in later brochures and manuals, which used computer-aided graphics and illustrations. In the 1980s, particularly, drawings of this kind were used to showcase astonishing new technologies like autofocus and advanced metering modes which would be otherwise challenging to visualize, or to showcase the cutting edge micro-computers, circuit boards, and ribbon cables which made these new features possible. Take for example the brochure for Minolta's Maxxum 7000, shown below.

Polaroid, another tech giant of the 1970s and '80s, similarly emphasized the inner workings of their amazing machines in ads and promo material for the press and for dealers. One of the photographic artifacts in my office is a holographic display promoting Polaroid's then-new Sonar autofocusing system, which mesmerizes with its faux-3D resistors and PCBs (and other things that I don't recognize).

In addition to showing off the insides of their creations via print materials, some camera companies went one step further and created physical displays known as "cutaways." These were actual production cameras which had been specially modified with segments of their bodies cut away to reveal the mechanical workings beneath. Leica created cutaway versions of many of their most popular cameras. These cameras were usually shipped to Leica dealers and camera shops, which would use the cutaway models to show prospective buyers exactly what was under the skin of their (potential) new camera.

These cutaway cameras are sought by collectors today, and they sell for a pretty penny indeed (see this Leica M2 listed for $7,000). I'll use this exorbitant price to shamelessly plug a much cheaper option - my Leica M3 Exploded View print, which you can buy in my shop here.

As the camera world shifted away from all-metal cameras to an epoch coated in plastic, so too did the cutaway camera shift. No longer were cutaway cameras simply band-sawed in half, or made with holidays in the casting. Instead, camera companies began creating "see-through" cameras. These new versions of the cutaway camera were identical in construction to their production model counterparts, however their external casings were made with transparent plastic. The effect is pretty mesmerizing, especially when we see the cameras in action, their mechanical components whirring to life, their electronic components illuminating.

Unfortunately for those of us who are simpletons and begin drooling over the idea of having and using a see-through special edition of our favorite model, sadly this isn't necessarily possible. Since the cameras are see-through, any film which we run through the camera will naturally be exposed to all sorts of unintended light. These are not, as the old description goes, "light-tight boxes."

Always keen to show off their technology, Polaroid made quite a few see-through cameras. The cream of the crop, for me, is the gorgeous, translucent-shelled Spectra camera called "Onyx." This is quite possibly my favorite Polaroid model. It is simply gorgeous. And it makes me so unhappy that Spectra film is no longer being produced. Interestingly, only the top plate of the Onyx Spectra is see-through, which means that the camera can actually be used like a normal camera without ruining the film.

Many manufacturers jumped onto the see-through camera bandwagon. I've at times owned see-through cameras from Minolta, Canon, and Pentax, and I'm sure that other companies made examples as well. But since these see-through cameras were often manufactured to be display pieces or sent as advertising materials to dealers and press, it can be nearly impossible (these days) to create a comprehensive list or to accurately represent production numbers. It is perhaps this mysteriousness which helps to create a market in which these see-through plastic cameras, like their mechanical cutaway counterparts of previous eras, are so sought by collectors.

Do you own a see-through camera? Share it with us in the comments below.

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[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

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Finding Joy Through Shedding Camera Gear

Let me start off by saying this: I’m usually not the type of guy to follow trendy self-help gurus or guides. I couldn’t be less interested in what people like Tony Robbins, Dale Carnegie or Deepak Chopra have to say about anything. More power to you if they or their books improved your life, but for me, they’re only a few steps ahead and one generation behind Instagram influencers and a few generations ahead of carpetbaggers and snake oil salesmen.

But, and I say this begrudgingly, there are a few interesting ideas out there. Which is how we come to Marie Kondo -- the one self-help guru that has taught me a valuable lesson.

If you haven’t heard of Kondo before, she is the author of four books and the creator of the KonMari Method, which stresses the power of “tidying up” to achieve inner peace. Kondo and her method have exploded in popularity after she got her own Netflix show.

If you want the “tl;dr” on her system, it’s that you should hold all your stuff in your hands and see whether it sparks in you a sense of joy. If it does, you keep the object. If it doesn’t, it gets chucked. I like the approach for its simplicity. It doesn’t require that you define that joy, or give it a value judgement. Joy equals good in this case, which makes decision-making much easier.

I don’t think Marie Kondo's method could be considered one of minimalism. In theory, all of your stuff could spark joy and you wouldn’t get rid of anything. But, in most cases, applying her rules almost inevitably results in a reduction of belongings. There’s only so much joy to go around and often way too many material objects.

Minimalism and the people that live a minimal lifestyle are endlessly fascinating to me. I totally agree with the mentality and believe it’s positive for mental health. I love tiny houses, sparse decoration, and the idea of only owning three shirts. The thought of living in a van for a few years is exhilarating to me.

Having said that, I was dealt a genetically bad hand when it comes to being a minimalist. There’s something in my blood that makes me enjoy being a collector of things. I have dozens of highway maps, I always buy certain records when I find them in vinyl shops, and I have a pull box at my local comic book store. My brain would likely be much more calm without these things, but I just can’t quit them.

It’s a lot like how I completely believe that a vegetarian or pescatarian diet washed down with water is the most healthy way to eat, but I also really love pork, Doritos and Coors Original.

So when I started shooting film again, a whole new world of collectable things opened up before my eyes. A world with brands that no longer existed, but who spent decades creating lenses, cameras and accessories that (at the time) could be snatched up and collected for pennies on the dollar. Laid out before me within the digital bazaar were camera bodies, lenses, flashes, light meters, straps made during a half dozen presidential administrations, junk, gems, and knick knacks galore. I plowed ahead, and over the next five years amassed a not insignificant collection of camera gear. I was limited only by my bank account and a very small number of tiny dusts. (That's a Japanese eBay seller joke, in case you need it explained.)

Laid out across the digital bazaar were camera bodies, lenses, flashes, light meters, straps made during a half dozen presidential administrations, junk, gems, and knick knacks galore. I was limited only by my bank account and a very small number of tiny dusts.

For a long time I focused on acquiring, and relied on every trope photographers use to convince themselves to spend their hard-earned money. "This lens will take me to the next level." "Maybe a different film format will spark some creativity." "You can't take money with you when your dead." "Life is entropy, cameras are salvation." The justifications were endless.

Fortunately, so were the opportunities to travel and make use of all this stuff. I'm going to Lisbon this weekend? What a great time to break in that new Minolta! A week in Krakow? Saddle up, pierogi, and pack the Rolleicord!

Then the pandemic hit and things like travel, motivation and focus started to shrivel up like prunes on a porch.

A few weeks ago, while spending the weekend in my apartment, doing the same vegetative dance that I’ve performed every five days for five months, I finally got sick of looking at all the camera stuff. What was once a reminder of questionable purchasing decisions was now a reminder of having photographed nothing of merit in nearly six months.

Then there’s the question of stewardship. How many of these cameras could find a new home and help someone else discover or develop a passion for photography? And on the reverse side, is there someone out there struggling because of a lack of gear that would otherwise thrive if they had my unused equipment. In truth, I was feeling more like a hoarder and less of a photographer (also, I realized long ago that I don’t really jive with the concept of collecting camera gear in the first place). The one thing that was clear was that I needed to make a change.

So I started pulling stuff out, picking it up and doing my best Howard Hughes impression as I asked myself, “Does this bring me joy?” (So far the lockdowns have not driven me to madness, or repeatedly asking to see the blueprints. But it’s not far off.)

Some answers came quickly, both in the affirmative and the negative. But many were more difficult to pin down, falling somewhere in the middle. So I thought I would share my thought process on what’s staying with me, and what will soon find a new home.

Out with a working Nikon, in with a broken one

Here we have a perfectly capable camera - one of the best that Nikon ever made, according to some. It’s capable of doing just about anything, and more than 90 percent of what the F6 can do at a fraction of the cost. The F100 was my companion on one of the best photo road trips I’ve ever taken, and gave me some of my favorite images. So I was surprised to pick it up and feel a noticeable lack of joy coursing through my veins. The chances are high that this one comes back to bite me, but for now it’s adios amigo!

But I have two much invested in Nikon glass to walk away willy nilly. Which is what I think as my gaze moves over to my F4. Two years ago while flying 40,000 feet above the north Atlantic, the AA batteries in my F4 started to leak. A few days later when I finally discovered the damage, it was beyond repair. Since then it’s sat collecting dust in a cabinet. You could (though I doubt successfully) make the argument that the F100 is the better camera. It’s certainly more modern. But only a few seconds after picking up the F4, there was no doubt I would be keeping the inoperable F4 and selling the near-mint F100. There's something about the design of the camera, its impeccable lens compatibility and absolute unit ruggedness that made me choose it over the newer F100. The F4 is my ride or die for life.

Is two broken TLRs better than none? No.

Two cameras sit on my bookshelf as decorative fixtures, showing everyone who sees them that I’m not just a photographer, but a quirky photographer. They’re both twin-lens reflex cameras, one German and one Russian, and neither functions in any respectable way.

The first is a Rolleicord, the Jeremy to the Rolleiflex’s Jason Giambi. It’s a beautiful camera that’s roughly 90 years old. It was my first experience with a TLR and also quite brief. Midway through the second roll of film, the focusing knobs somehow were disconnected and the camera is no longer able to focus. The second is a Lubitel, made by LOMO in the former Soviet Union. Either the translation from Russian to English wasn’t accurate in the camera’s online listing or I’m unable to read. Either way, the camera arrived with a non-functioning shutter.

One of these might be worth fixing, and both are interesting pieces of home decor. But neither will be staying rent-free in my apartment for much longer.

I’m (finally) done with point and shoots

In the last year I bought an Olympus mju II and a Minolta Hi-Matic AF2. It was the second time I bought each camera, and I paid much more for both the second time around. Both were companions on my first European vacation and I think my brain mistakenly attributed the overall awesomeness of that trip with each and every camera I packed. (You would be shocked how many I actually carried on that trip.)

The mju II I bought more practically to be an everyday carry. I got it for a good price, or rather a good price for the mju II market. It’s truly the most portable 35mm camera I’ve ever used, but I’m simply not blown away by the results. That has been a recurring experience that sounds like the old definition of insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. When I sit and hold these two in my hands, it’s not joy I feel, but buyer's remorse.

The only slam dunk was the stuff with "the bad reputation"

I don't think most people would assume that the part of my collection most obviously untouchable for resale was the stuff made in a Socialist country with a shaky reputation for quality. Well let me tell you something, comrade, there wasn't a second's hesitation when it came to the Pentacon Six and the four Carl Zeiss Jena lenses that go with it. Because it's a key part of the big photo project I've worked on over the last three years, I use the Pentacon more than any other camera I own. I've come to understand it - its quirks and personality traits. I've invested in it, having the lenses professionally serviced and investing in accessories that heightened the experience of using this medium format system. What about all the criticisms of the camera's reliability? They have proven to be as realistic as the goals of East Germany's five-year economic plans.

Why do I keep buying zooms?

Zooms suck. I suck. You think that’s enough overlap to make this relationship work out. Look, it’s time for some real talk. It’s time to come to Jesus, y’all.

Old zooms suck. They just do. Yeah, there are plenty of you out there that have or will choke (or at least guffaw) from reading this. That’s okay. There are always naysayers when The Truth comes down off the mountain. They’re soft, they’re slow, they vignette like the fade at the end of a Buster Keaton movie. And even if you’re shooting new ones, they’re heavy and cumbersome.

Alright, there’s a small amount of hyperbole going on here. Zoom’s aren’t universally awful (as James has previously written.) I actually think Canon’s current 24-70mm f/2.8 is one of the best multipurpose lenses ever made, and I say that as someone that doesn't care much for Canon. But lenses just don’t gel for me. I think the many advantages of prime lenses when it comes to image quality far outweigh the convenience of a zoom lens. So why do I own three zoom lenses? The three whose fate lies before me, Nikon’s AF 35-70mm f/2.8, 80-200mm f/4.5 AI-S and Minolta’s Rokkor 35-70mm f/3.5 are each well-reputed lenses and were class leaders when they debuted. I’ve even previously verified the sleeper hype of the Nikon mid-range zoom.

They’re all probably fine lenses, but I never find myself picking them up and giving them some exercise. It’s time to let someone else give these lenses some love. I've come around to the peace of mind that comes with accepting who you are as a person. I am but a simple prime lens shooter. Thus, the zooms must go.

Some accessories, but mostly not

I’ve found that accessories are a mixed bag, and I’ve given some advice on good accessory buying. But I’m not beyond making mistakes. That thought hits hard as I exhale, stare, and wonder why I own three Minolta battery grips and even more old Minolta flashes. Then there’s the pile of cheap filters that’s not even worth the time I would spend writing about them, let alone photographing and listing for sale.

Most of this stuff needs to go, either into the trash or online if it’s worth it. Old flashes don’t fetch much and old battery grips vary in price. It could be that, like me when I bought them, some poor soul is laying on the couch, romanticizing the concept of completionism and will spend actual money on this stuff. And maybe unlike me, they’ll actually put it to good use.

There is a purpose and place in your storage for accessories. I've found things like good straps, extra viewfinders and film holders are excellent at making life easier. But immediately after setting aside this surplus of junk, I already feel lighter, less weighed down, and my feeling of regret at buying them in the first place is slowly evaporating.

One man’s trash can also be his treasure

I will end on a weird note. Despite the aforementioned slander against point and shoot cameras, there is one that will always have real estate in my heart: the Nikon L35AF. My love for this camera damn-near entered cliche territory when I wrote about it in 2019, so I won’t wax poetic over it again. This temperamental old timer might have seen its last rolls, as the last three I have put through it were wound completely to the end by the camera’s motor. Every time I close the back door and push the shutter button to advance, it just winds and winds until the batteries or my ability to withstand misery are expended.

So it would be easy to think that this gets tossed on the “sell” pile. But I’ll be holding onto it. One reason is that it’s worth almost nothing the way it's currently (mal)functioning. I just don’t have the heart to put this stud out to pasture with a “FOR PARTS” branding on its backside. But I’m not purely driven by economics, there’s a substantial amount of joy I get while holding my L35AF. (Broken, malfunctioning, infuriating, are also emotions that come to mind.)

It’s further proof that I will never be a true minimalist, but the camera still gives me joy and I agree with Marie, that joy should have a firm place in our lives (and camera kits.)

Follow Casual Photophile on Facebook and Instagram

[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post Finding Joy Through Shedding Camera Gear appeared first on Casual Photophile.

#gearandaccessories #opinion

Finding Joy Through Shedding Camera Gear

Let me start off by saying this: I’m usually not the type of guy to follow trendy self-help gurus or guides. I couldn’t be less interested in what people like Tony Robbins, Dale Carnegie or Deepak Chopra have to say about anything. More power to you if they or their books improved your life, but for me, they’re only a few steps ahead and one generation behind Instagram influencers and a few generations ahead of carpetbaggers and snake oil salesmen.

But, and I say this begrudgingly, there are a few interesting ideas out there. Which is how we come to Marie Kondo -- the one self-help guru that has taught me a valuable lesson.

If you haven’t heard of Kondo before, she is the author of four books and the creator of the KonMari Method, which stresses the power of “tidying up” to achieve inner peace. Kondo and her method have exploded in popularity after she got her own Netflix show.

If you want the “tl;dr” on her system, it’s that you should hold all your stuff in your hands and see whether it sparks in you a sense of joy. If it does, you keep the object. If it doesn’t, it gets chucked. I like the approach for its simplicity. It doesn’t require that you define that joy, or give it a value judgement. Joy equals good in this case, which makes decision-making much easier.

I don’t think Marie Kondo's method could be considered one of minimalism. In theory, all of your stuff could spark joy and you wouldn’t get rid of anything. But, in most cases, applying her rules almost inevitably results in a reduction of belongings. There’s only so much joy to go around and often way too many material objects.

Minimalism and the people that live a minimal lifestyle are endlessly fascinating to me. I totally agree with the mentality and believe it’s positive for mental health. I love tiny houses, sparse decoration, and the idea of only owning three shirts. The thought of living in a van for a few years is exhilarating to me.

Having said that, I was dealt a genetically bad hand when it comes to being a minimalist. There’s something in my blood that makes me enjoy being a collector of things. I have dozens of highway maps, I always buy certain records when I find them in vinyl shops, and I have a pull box at my local comic book store. My brain would likely be much more calm without these things, but I just can’t quit them.

It’s a lot like how I completely believe that a vegetarian or pescatarian diet washed down with water is the most healthy way to eat, but I also really love pork, Doritos and Coors Original.

So when I started shooting film again, a whole new world of collectable things opened up before my eyes. A world with brands that no longer existed, but who spent decades creating lenses, cameras and accessories that (at the time) could be snatched up and collected for pennies on the dollar. Laid out before me within the digital bazaar were camera bodies, lenses, flashes, light meters, straps made during a half dozen presidential administrations, junk, gems, and knick knacks galore. I plowed ahead, and over the next five years amassed a not insignificant collection of camera gear. I was limited only by my bank account and a very small number of tiny dusts. (That's a Japanese eBay seller joke, in case you need it explained.)

Laid out across the digital bazaar were camera bodies, lenses, flashes, light meters, straps made during a half dozen presidential administrations, junk, gems, and knick knacks galore. I was limited only by my bank account and a very small number of tiny dusts.

For a long time I focused on acquiring, and relied on every trope photographers use to convince themselves to spend their hard-earned money. "This lens will take me to the next level." "Maybe a different film format will spark some creativity." "You can't take money with you when your dead." "Life is entropy, cameras are salvation." The justifications were endless.

Fortunately, so were the opportunities to travel and make use of all this stuff. I'm going to Lisbon this weekend? What a great time to break in that new Minolta! A week in Krakow? Saddle up, pierogi, and pack the Rolleicord!

Then the pandemic hit and things like travel, motivation and focus started to shrivel up like prunes on a porch.

A few weeks ago, while spending the weekend in my apartment, doing the same vegetative dance that I’ve performed every five days for five months, I finally got sick of looking at all the camera stuff. What was once a reminder of questionable purchasing decisions was now a reminder of having photographed nothing of merit in nearly six months.

Then there’s the question of stewardship. How many of these cameras could find a new home and help someone else discover or develop a passion for photography? And on the reverse side, is there someone out there struggling because of a lack of gear that would otherwise thrive if they had my unused equipment. In truth, I was feeling more like a hoarder and less of a photographer (also, I realized long ago that I don’t really jive with the concept of collecting camera gear in the first place). The one thing that was clear was that I needed to make a change.

So I started pulling stuff out, picking it up and doing my best Howard Hughes impression as I asked myself, “Does this bring me joy?” (So far the lockdowns have not driven me to madness, or repeatedly asking to see the blueprints. But it’s not far off.)

Some answers came quickly, both in the affirmative and the negative. But many were more difficult to pin down, falling somewhere in the middle. So I thought I would share my thought process on what’s staying with me, and what will soon find a new home.

Out with a working Nikon, in with a broken one

Here we have a perfectly capable camera - one of the best that Nikon ever made, according to some. It’s capable of doing just about anything, and more than 90 percent of what the F6 can do at a fraction of the cost. The F100 was my companion on one of the best photo road trips I’ve ever taken, and gave me some of my favorite images. So I was surprised to pick it up and feel a noticeable lack of joy coursing through my veins. The chances are high that this one comes back to bite me, but for now it’s adios amigo!

But I have two much invested in Nikon glass to walk away willy nilly. Which is what I think as my gaze moves over to my F4. Two years ago while flying 40,000 feet above the north Atlantic, the AA batteries in my F4 started to leak. A few days later when I finally discovered the damage, it was beyond repair. Since then it’s sat collecting dust in a cabinet. You could (though I doubt successfully) make the argument that the F100 is the better camera. It’s certainly more modern. But only a few seconds after picking up the F4, there was no doubt I would be keeping the inoperable F4 and selling the near-mint F100. There's something about the design of the camera, its impeccable lens compatibility and absolute unit ruggedness that made me choose it over the newer F100. The F4 is my ride or die for life.

Is two broken TLRs better than none? No.

Two cameras sit on my bookshelf as decorative fixtures, showing everyone who sees them that I’m not just a photographer, but a quirky photographer. They’re both twin-lens reflex cameras, one German and one Russian, and neither functions in any respectable way.

The first is a Rolleicord, the Jeremy to the Rolleiflex’s Jason Giambi. It’s a beautiful camera that’s roughly 90 years old. It was my first experience with a TLR and also quite brief. Midway through the second roll of film, the focusing knobs somehow were disconnected and the camera is no longer able to focus. The second is a Lubitel, made by LOMO in the former Soviet Union. Either the translation from Russian to English wasn’t accurate in the camera’s online listing or I’m unable to read. Either way, the camera arrived with a non-functioning shutter.

One of these might be worth fixing, and both are interesting pieces of home decor. But neither will be staying rent-free in my apartment for much longer.

I’m (finally) done with point and shoots

In the last year I bought an Olympus mju II and a Minolta Hi-Matic AF2. It was the second time I bought each camera, and I paid much more for both the second time around. Both were companions on my first European vacation and I think my brain mistakenly attributed the overall awesomeness of that trip with each and every camera I packed. (You would be shocked how many I actually carried on that trip.)

The mju II I bought more practically to be an everyday carry. I got it for a good price, or rather a good price for the mju II market. It’s truly the most portable 35mm camera I’ve ever used, but I’m simply not blown away by the results. That has been a recurring experience that sounds like the old definition of insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. When I sit and hold these two in my hands, it’s not joy I feel, but buyer's remorse.

The only slam dunk was the stuff with "the bad reputation"

I don't think most people would assume that the part of my collection most obviously untouchable for resale was the stuff made in a Socialist country with a shaky reputation for quality. Well let me tell you something, comrade, there wasn't a second's hesitation when it came to the Pentacon Six and the four Carl Zeiss Jena lenses that go with it. Because it's a key part of the big photo project I've worked on over the last three years, I use the Pentacon more than any other camera I own. I've come to understand it - its quirks and personality traits. I've invested in it, having the lenses professionally serviced and investing in accessories that heightened the experience of using this medium format system. What about all the criticisms of the camera's reliability? They have proven to be as realistic as the goals of East Germany's five-year economic plans.

Why do I keep buying zooms?

Zooms suck. I suck. You think that’s enough overlap to make this relationship work out. Look, it’s time for some real talk. It’s time to come to Jesus, y’all.

Old zooms suck. They just do. Yeah, there are plenty of you out there that have or will choke (or at least guffaw) from reading this. That’s okay. There are always naysayers when The Truth comes down off the mountain. They’re soft, they’re slow, they vignette like the fade at the end of a Buster Keaton movie. And even if you’re shooting new ones, they’re heavy and cumbersome.

Alright, there’s a small amount of hyperbole going on here. Zoom’s aren’t universally awful (as James has previously written.) I actually think Canon’s current 24-70mm f/2.8 is one of the best multipurpose lenses ever made, and I say that as someone that doesn't care much for Canon. But lenses just don’t gel for me. I think the many advantages of prime lenses when it comes to image quality far outweigh the convenience of a zoom lens. So why do I own three zoom lenses? The three whose fate lies before me, Nikon’s AF 35-70mm f/2.8, 80-200mm f/4.5 AI-S and Minolta’s Rokkor 35-70mm f/3.5 are each well-reputed lenses and were class leaders when they debuted. I’ve even previously verified the sleeper hype of the Nikon mid-range zoom.

They’re all probably fine lenses, but I never find myself picking them up and giving them some exercise. It’s time to let someone else give these lenses some love. I've come around to the peace of mind that comes with accepting who you are as a person. I am but a simple prime lens shooter. Thus, the zooms must go.

Some accessories, but mostly not

I’ve found that accessories are a mixed bag, and I’ve given some advice on good accessory buying. But I’m not beyond making mistakes. That thought hits hard as I exhale, stare, and wonder why I own three Minolta battery grips and even more old Minolta flashes. Then there’s the pile of cheap filters that’s not even worth the time I would spend writing about them, let alone photographing and listing for sale.

Most of this stuff needs to go, either into the trash or online if it’s worth it. Old flashes don’t fetch much and old battery grips vary in price. It could be that, like me when I bought them, some poor soul is laying on the couch, romanticizing the concept of completionism and will spend actual money on this stuff. And maybe unlike me, they’ll actually put it to good use.

There is a purpose and place in your storage for accessories. I've found things like good straps, extra viewfinders and film holders are excellent at making life easier. But immediately after setting aside this surplus of junk, I already feel lighter, less weighed down, and my feeling of regret at buying them in the first place is slowly evaporating.

One man’s trash can also be his treasure

I will end on a weird note. Despite the aforementioned slander against point and shoot cameras, there is one that will always have real estate in my heart: the Nikon L35AF. My love for this camera damn-near entered cliche territory when I wrote about it in 2019, so I won’t wax poetic over it again. This temperamental old timer might have seen its last rolls, as the last three I have put through it were wound completely to the end by the camera’s motor. Every time I close the back door and push the shutter button to advance, it just winds and winds until the batteries or my ability to withstand misery are expended.

So it would be easy to think that this gets tossed on the “sell” pile. But I’ll be holding onto it. One reason is that it’s worth almost nothing the way it's currently (mal)functioning. I just don’t have the heart to put this stud out to pasture with a “FOR PARTS” branding on its backside. But I’m not purely driven by economics, there’s a substantial amount of joy I get while holding my L35AF. (Broken, malfunctioning, infuriating, are also emotions that come to mind.)

It’s further proof that I will never be a true minimalist, but the camera still gives me joy and I agree with Marie, that joy should have a firm place in our lives (and camera kits.)

Follow Casual Photophile on Facebook and Instagram

[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post Finding Joy Through Shedding Camera Gear appeared first on Casual Photophile.

#gearandaccessories #opinion

Finding Joy Through Shedding Camera Gear

Let me start off by saying this: I’m usually not the type of guy to follow trendy self-help gurus or guides. I couldn’t be less interested in what people like Tony Robbins, Dale Carnegie or Deepak Chopra have to say about anything. More power to you if they or their books improved your life, but for me, they’re only a few steps ahead and one generation behind Instagram influencers and a few generations ahead of carpetbaggers and snake oil salesmen.

But, and I say this begrudgingly, there are a few interesting ideas out there. Which is how we come to Marie Kondo -- the one self-help guru that has taught me a valuable lesson.

If you haven’t heard of Kondo before, she is the author of four books and the creator of the KonMari Method, which stresses the power of “tidying up” to achieve inner peace. Kondo and her method have exploded in popularity after she got her own Netflix show.

If you want the “tl;dr” on her system, it’s that you should hold all your stuff in your hands and see whether it sparks in you a sense of joy. If it does, you keep the object. If it doesn’t, it gets chucked. I like the approach for its simplicity. It doesn’t require that you define that joy, or give it a value judgement. Joy equals good in this case, which makes decision-making much easier.

I don’t think Marie Kondo's method could be considered one of minimalism. In theory, all of your stuff could spark joy and you wouldn’t get rid of anything. But, in most cases, applying her rules almost inevitably results in a reduction of belongings. There’s only so much joy to go around and often way too many material objects.

Minimalism and the people that live a minimal lifestyle are endlessly fascinating to me. I totally agree with the mentality and believe it’s positive for mental health. I love tiny houses, sparse decoration, and the idea of only owning three shirts. The thought of living in a van for a few years is exhilarating to me.

Having said that, I was dealt a genetically bad hand when it comes to being a minimalist. There’s something in my blood that makes me enjoy being a collector of things. I have dozens of highway maps, I always buy certain records when I find them in vinyl shops, and I have a pull box at my local comic book store. My brain would likely be much more calm without these things, but I just can’t quit them.

It’s a lot like how I completely believe that a vegetarian or pescatarian diet washed down with water is the most healthy way to eat, but I also really love pork, Doritos and Coors Original.

So when I started shooting film again, a whole new world of collectable things opened up before my eyes. A world with brands that no longer existed, but who spent decades creating lenses, cameras and accessories that (at the time) could be snatched up and collected for pennies on the dollar. Laid out before me within the digital bazaar were camera bodies, lenses, flashes, light meters, straps made during a half dozen presidential administrations, junk, gems, and knick knacks galore. I plowed ahead, and over the next five years amassed a not insignificant collection of camera gear. I was limited only by my bank account and a very small number of tiny dusts. (That's a Japanese eBay seller joke, in case you need it explained.)

Laid out across the digital bazaar were camera bodies, lenses, flashes, light meters, straps made during a half dozen presidential administrations, junk, gems, and knick knacks galore. I was limited only by my bank account and a very small number of tiny dusts.

For a long time I focused on acquiring, and relied on every trope photographers use to convince themselves to spend their hard-earned money. "This lens will take me to the next level." "Maybe a different film format will spark some creativity." "You can't take money with you when your dead." "Life is entropy, cameras are salvation." The justifications were endless.

Fortunately, so were the opportunities to travel and make use of all this stuff. I'm going to Lisbon this weekend? What a great time to break in that new Minolta! A week in Krakow? Saddle up, pierogi, and pack the Rolleicord!

Then the pandemic hit and things like travel, motivation and focus started to shrivel up like prunes on a porch.

A few weeks ago, while spending the weekend in my apartment, doing the same vegetative dance that I’ve performed every five days for five months, I finally got sick of looking at all the camera stuff. What was once a reminder of questionable purchasing decisions was now a reminder of having photographed nothing of merit in nearly six months.

Then there’s the question of stewardship. How many of these cameras could find a new home and help someone else discover or develop a passion for photography? And on the reverse side, is there someone out there struggling because of a lack of gear that would otherwise thrive if they had my unused equipment. In truth, I was feeling more like a hoarder and less of a photographer (also, I realized long ago that I don’t really jive with the concept of collecting camera gear in the first place). The one thing that was clear was that I needed to make a change.

So I started pulling stuff out, picking it up and doing my best Howard Hughes impression as I asked myself, “Does this bring me joy?” (So far the lockdowns have not driven me to madness, or repeatedly asking to see the blueprints. But it’s not far off.)

Some answers came quickly, both in the affirmative and the negative. But many were more difficult to pin down, falling somewhere in the middle. So I thought I would share my thought process on what’s staying with me, and what will soon find a new home.

Out with a working Nikon, in with a broken one

Here we have a perfectly capable camera - one of the best that Nikon ever made, according to some. It’s capable of doing just about anything, and more than 90 percent of what the F6 can do at a fraction of the cost. The F100 was my companion on one of the best photo road trips I’ve ever taken, and gave me some of my favorite images. So I was surprised to pick it up and feel a noticeable lack of joy coursing through my veins. The chances are high that this one comes back to bite me, but for now it’s adios amigo!

But I have two much invested in Nikon glass to walk away willy nilly. Which is what I think as my gaze moves over to my F4. Two years ago while flying 40,000 feet above the north Atlantic, the AA batteries in my F4 started to leak. A few days later when I finally discovered the damage, it was beyond repair. Since then it’s sat collecting dust in a cabinet. You could (though I doubt successfully) make the argument that the F100 is the better camera. It’s certainly more modern. But only a few seconds after picking up the F4, there was no doubt I would be keeping the inoperable F4 and selling the near-mint F100. There's something about the design of the camera, its impeccable lens compatibility and absolute unit ruggedness that made me choose it over the newer F100. The F4 is my ride or die for life.

Is two broken TLRs better than none? No.

Two cameras sit on my bookshelf as decorative fixtures, showing everyone who sees them that I’m not just a photographer, but a quirky photographer. They’re both twin-lens reflex cameras, one German and one Russian, and neither functions in any respectable way.

The first is a Rolleicord, the Jeremy to the Rolleiflex’s Jason Giambi. It’s a beautiful camera that’s roughly 90 years old. It was my first experience with a TLR and also quite brief. Midway through the second roll of film, the focusing knobs somehow were disconnected and the camera is no longer able to focus. The second is a Lubitel, made by LOMO in the former Soviet Union. Either the translation from Russian to English wasn’t accurate in the camera’s online listing or I’m unable to read. Either way, the camera arrived with a non-functioning shutter.

One of these might be worth fixing, and both are interesting pieces of home decor. But neither will be staying rent-free in my apartment for much longer.

I’m (finally) done with point and shoots

In the last year I bought an Olympus mju II and a Minolta Hi-Matic AF2. It was the second time I bought each camera, and I paid much more for both the second time around. Both were companions on my first European vacation and I think my brain mistakenly attributed the overall awesomeness of that trip with each and every camera I packed. (You would be shocked how many I actually carried on that trip.)

The mju II I bought more practically to be an everyday carry. I got it for a good price, or rather a good price for the mju II market. It’s truly the most portable 35mm camera I’ve ever used, but I’m simply not blown away by the results. That has been a recurring experience that sounds like the old definition of insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. When I sit and hold these two in my hands, it’s not joy I feel, but buyer's remorse.

The only slam dunk was the stuff with "the bad reputation"

I don't think most people would assume that the part of my collection most obviously untouchable for resale was the stuff made in a Socialist country with a shaky reputation for quality. Well let me tell you something, comrade, there wasn't a second's hesitation when it came to the Pentacon Six and the four Carl Zeiss Jena lenses that go with it. Because it's a key part of the big photo project I've worked on over the last three years, I use the Pentacon more than any other camera I own. I've come to understand it - its quirks and personality traits. I've invested in it, having the lenses professionally serviced and investing in accessories that heightened the experience of using this medium format system. What about all the criticisms of the camera's reliability? They have proven to be as realistic as the goals of East Germany's five-year economic plans.

Why do I keep buying zooms?

Zooms suck. I suck. You think that’s enough overlap to make this relationship work out. Look, it’s time for some real talk. It’s time to come to Jesus, y’all.

Old zooms suck. They just do. Yeah, there are plenty of you out there that have or will choke (or at least guffaw) from reading this. That’s okay. There are always naysayers when The Truth comes down off the mountain. They’re soft, they’re slow, they vignette like the fade at the end of a Buster Keaton movie. And even if you’re shooting new ones, they’re heavy and cumbersome.

Alright, there’s a small amount of hyperbole going on here. Zoom’s aren’t universally awful (as James has previously written.) I actually think Canon’s current 24-70mm f/2.8 is one of the best multipurpose lenses ever made, and I say that as someone that doesn't care much for Canon. But lenses just don’t gel for me. I think the many advantages of prime lenses when it comes to image quality far outweigh the convenience of a zoom lens. So why do I own three zoom lenses? The three whose fate lies before me, Nikon’s AF 35-70mm f/2.8, 80-200mm f/4.5 AI-S and Minolta’s Rokkor 35-70mm f/3.5 are each well-reputed lenses and were class leaders when they debuted. I’ve even previously verified the sleeper hype of the Nikon mid-range zoom.

They’re all probably fine lenses, but I never find myself picking them up and giving them some exercise. It’s time to let someone else give these lenses some love. I've come around to the peace of mind that comes with accepting who you are as a person. I am but a simple prime lens shooter. Thus, the zooms must go.

Some accessories, but mostly not

I’ve found that accessories are a mixed bag, and I’ve given some advice on good accessory buying. But I’m not beyond making mistakes. That thought hits hard as I exhale, stare, and wonder why I own three Minolta battery grips and even more old Minolta flashes. Then there’s the pile of cheap filters that’s not even worth the time I would spend writing about them, let alone photographing and listing for sale.

Most of this stuff needs to go, either into the trash or online if it’s worth it. Old flashes don’t fetch much and old battery grips vary in price. It could be that, like me when I bought them, some poor soul is laying on the couch, romanticizing the concept of completionism and will spend actual money on this stuff. And maybe unlike me, they’ll actually put it to good use.

There is a purpose and place in your storage for accessories. I've found things like good straps, extra viewfinders and film holders are excellent at making life easier. But immediately after setting aside this surplus of junk, I already feel lighter, less weighed down, and my feeling of regret at buying them in the first place is slowly evaporating.

One man’s trash can also be his treasure

I will end on a weird note. Despite the aforementioned slander against point and shoot cameras, there is one that will always have real estate in my heart: the Nikon L35AF. My love for this camera damn-near entered cliche territory when I wrote about it in 2019, so I won’t wax poetic over it again. This temperamental old timer might have seen its last rolls, as the last three I have put through it were wound completely to the end by the camera’s motor. Every time I close the back door and push the shutter button to advance, it just winds and winds until the batteries or my ability to withstand misery are expended.

So it would be easy to think that this gets tossed on the “sell” pile. But I’ll be holding onto it. One reason is that it’s worth almost nothing the way it's currently (mal)functioning. I just don’t have the heart to put this stud out to pasture with a “FOR PARTS” branding on its backside. But I’m not purely driven by economics, there’s a substantial amount of joy I get while holding my L35AF. (Broken, malfunctioning, infuriating, are also emotions that come to mind.)

It’s further proof that I will never be a true minimalist, but the camera still gives me joy and I agree with Marie, that joy should have a firm place in our lives (and camera kits.)

Follow Casual Photophile on Facebook and Instagram

[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post Finding Joy Through Shedding Camera Gear appeared first on Casual Photophile.

#gearandaccessories #opinion

Polaroid Lab Review

Nostalgia is a powerful emotion. The faintest whiff of it sends us down an incredible slide laced with the lush aromas of yesteryear, always sharp and contrasty thanks to the 20/20 f/1.2 hindsight lens through which it’s viewed. If a fictional guy named Teddy who was referenced in a TV show during a meticulously crafted sales pitch is to be believed, nostalgia comes from Greek and translates to the pain from an old wound. A more official (and my favorite) definition of nostalgia is, “the state of being homesick.”

Unlike afflictions like the flu, which carry a uniform set of symptoms, nostalgia affects each person uniquely, attacking us through the experience of our lives. Some of us are immune to it, while others are disproportionately ruled by it. I have to admit to being among the latter. While recently browsing different types of face cream, my final selection was based solely on one particular cream being called “Virginia.” This particular product had nothing to do with the Old Dominion, nor the memories of it which I constantly carry with me while living, as I do now, in Europe. But despite only having the same name as my former home, that alone was enough for me to stop, look at, and buy it. The memories of summer nights in Richmond somehow played into my selection of face cream. You don’t have to say it - I know I’m a sucker.

That’s all a long and winding way to say that nostalgia is powerful and I bow before its alter. Or rather, I am often sacrificed upon it. It would take an army of heavily armed psychiatrists to diagnose the source of my malady, but for our purposes, just understand that I’m a sucker for nostalgia’s honey.

I’m wondering just how much of a sucker it makes me as I arrive at one of the many package shops in my Berlin neighborhood. I’m there to pick up a shipment from Polaroid. And not one that I ever expected to be opening. Inside is not a new i-Type camera, or packs of film for the cameras I already own. Instead, it’s the Polaroid Lab -- the company’s printer that creates Polaroids directly from a cell phone app.

If you’re rolling your eyes at the idea of a cell phone Polaroid printer, I completely get it. That’s why I went scurrying from the package shop under the cover of darkness, hoping to get home before anyone saw what I was enabling. I felt guilty of something deviant and only the power of my two legs could outrun the shame of the box in my arms.

If the shame isn’t self-evident, let me explain it in a little better detail. No matter what any of us film photographers might say in public, part of the reason that we make photos on film is because of its purity. I’m no exception. While I’ve become much less photographically dogmatic in recent years, I will always believe that light exposed on chemical celluloid is more “real” than a digital sensor which approximates the color it’s exposed to. Based on that perspective, an object that takes a phone photo and turns it into an instant film image could only be described as an abomination against nature (or at least against the "purity of film").

But as I hovered on the product page deciding whether or not to buy the Lab, I remembered what Don Draper said about nostalgia when he sold Kodak on the Carousel -- those beautiful words about going around and around and back home again -- and I slammed that buy button.

What is the Polaroid Lab

The Polaroid Lab is a device designed to take a photo from your cell phone and recreate the image on Poalroid's i-Type instant film. Initially I had the concept of a scanner in my mind, even though Polaroid never refers to it as such. But I was surprised to find that it’s actually more of a camera than a scanner, as it uses a 3-element 35mm lens to actually photograph your phone’s screen and expose what it captures onto the film.

I know, we have a reputation for doing deep dives on the things we write about. But it’s just not going to happen with this one. It would be boring for you and disingenuous for me to pretend that I even care about the technical specs of the Polaroid Lab. I didn’t buy it because of how the Lab works, but because of the ideas it put in my mind. (Though I will say that I love its design -- something both vintage and futuristic, like the Enterprise on Star Trek: The Next Generation.)

Using the Polaroid Lab

The Polaroid Lab costs $129 in the USA. I paid about 180 euros for the Lab and three packs of film, because I was genuinely interested in what it represents to a photographer like me. More than anything else, I wanted to see what it would be like to reproduce some of my favorite images in a Polaroid form, and whether they would pack the same emotional punch in a format designed to make people pine and swoon.

Even before the Lab arrived, I began picking out photos that I wanted to print. Some I selected because they already had a faded and worn look because they were either taken with expired film or with cameras tending toward light leaks. Others were personal favorites, or photos of close friends. Two thirds were color, which I was apprehensive over, and the other third black-and-white, which made me excited.

I am a huge promoter of Polaroid’s black-and-white film stock. I love how it looks, its contrast, embracing of messiness, and general awesomeness. I think it’s perfectly suited to Polaroid’s cameras and philosophy. I’ve been much less enthused by the new Polaroid color film, which I find maddeningly inconsistent, and its color shifts are much too magenta for my taste.

The beauty to anything made by Polaroid is its simplicity of use, and the Polaroid Lab checks that box. Using it is as simple as possible. Just insert a pack of Polaroid i-Type film (either black-and-white or color), use the dedicated Polaroid Lab app to select and crop your image into the Polaroid signature square, place the phone face down on the top platform, wait until you hear a dinging sound, and then push the big, red button. A photo spits out, which you should then keep in darkness until it's fully developed (which takes between 15 and 30 minutes).

You have the option to print a single image, or to make collages from two to nine images. (With the nine image option being the most efficient for blowing through an i-Type film cartridge.)

Results and Image Quality

So what about the results? How do these images stack up, especially when compared to those made with an actual Polaroid camera?

First, regarding the film: If you’re expecting a dramatic difference between images made with the Lab and images made with cameras, you will be disappointed. It’s the same film, taken with (generally) the same lens. It’s just pointed at a screen instead of the world. For me, that’s a disappointment. Don’t get me wrong, I love Polaroid. It’s a company built on the democratization of photography and the dignity of the personal snapshot. But the color film they’ve produced since reemerging from bankruptcy has never impressed me. The color shifts are always dramatic and unpredictable. The magentas are the worst offenders and they’re just as magenta-y with the Lab. In fact, I found that making prints with images that were already warm produced Polaroids that looked like they sat in the back window of a car through a Florida summer.

The black-and-white film is another story altogether. I really (really) love Polaroid’s black-and-white film. It’s incredibly contrasty, punchy and embraces randomness and mistakes with aplomb. While I find that approach less satisfying with the color film, it gives a magic to the black-and-white Polaroids. An image of the railroad tracks in Central Virginia is my favorite, and a great example of what I’m talking about. The original image was taken on a point-and-shoot of no great repute, and developed at home, which is to say, poorly. Filled with mistakes and technical errors, the Polaroid that came out of the Polaroid Lab created a magical effect that made the image look like it was taken just after the Civil War rather than in 2017.

So, the film is par for the course. What about the experience? I’d say it’s about what you would expect from what is essentially a funky printer. The Polaroid Lab will give you a Polaroid look to your images, but it doesn’t give you “the Polaroid experience” of looking through those plastic viewfinders and praying the scene is composed correctly before pushing the button.

There’s a detachment here for me, the experience of making these images happened long before I made them into Polaroids. Granted, 99 percent of those buying the Lab will not be taking my approach or come at the Lab from my perspective. For those that just want to make Polaroid versions of the selfies on their phone, the experience will still carry the Polaroid magic.

For me, looking at images made with the Lab vs. those made with my Polaroid camera, there’s something missing from the former. They lack that little bit of spice that connects us with the Polaroids taken in the moment, as the memories were happening and haven’t yet crystalized. It’s not a huge difference, but enough for the Lab Polaroids to fail the Voight-Kampff test.

Closing Thoughts **

**

There was something interesting on Polaroid’s website about the Polaroid Lab. They urge customers to use the Lab to ‘unforget” their favorite moments. I think that’s a good bit of advertising. Think of how many photos we take with our phones and never look at again. You can almost see the image falling out of someone's memory as they’re taking it with their phone. (That’s if the photo is meant to be memorable. 95 percent of photos I take with my phone are utilitarian -- where I parked, a white board filled with information, etc.)

The Polaroid Lab invites you to go through the photos on your phone and “unforget” them by making a physical representation of it on their film. It’s an interesting concept, and an ironic one considering that in their heyday Polaroids were the modern equivalent of cell phone images.

That irony is the most interesting thing about the Polaroid Lab. It’s a weird mutt-like creation, with its foot in different eras. It creates something, but what exactly is the final result? For most people (certainly all non-photographers) it’s a cool tool to take photos from the weekend at Myrtle Beach taken on your phone with the cracked screen, and turn them into something you put on the wall or into a scrapbook.

Memories are worth saving, no matter how you capture them. This goofy little tool takes them and makes them physical. In a world that seems to only exist on brightly lit screens, that’s something different and cool, and worth having around. And hopefully not just a few people will be enticed with the little celluloid square spit out by the Polaroid Lab enough to wonder what other opportunities the film world offers.

Buy the Polaroid Lab from B&H Photo here

Buy Polaroid I-Type film here

Follow Casual Photophile on Facebook and Instagram

[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post Polaroid Lab Review appeared first on Casual Photophile.

#gearandaccessories #instantcamera #polaroid #instantfilm

Polaroid Lab Review

Nostalgia is a powerful emotion. The faintest whiff of it sends us down an incredible slide laced with the lush aromas of yesteryear, always sharp and contrasty thanks to the 20/20 f/1.2 hindsight lens through which it’s viewed. If a fictional guy named Teddy who was referenced in a TV show during a meticulously crafted sales pitch is to be believed, nostalgia comes from Greek and translates to the pain from an old wound. A more official (and my favorite) definition of nostalgia is, “the state of being homesick.”

Unlike afflictions like the flu, which carry a uniform set of symptoms, nostalgia affects each person uniquely, attacking us through the experience of our lives. Some of us are immune to it, while others are disproportionately ruled by it. I have to admit to being among the latter. While recently browsing different types of face cream, my final selection was based solely on one particular cream being called “Virginia.” This particular product had nothing to do with the Old Dominion, nor the memories of it which I constantly carry with me while living, as I do now, in Europe. But despite only having the same name as my former home, that alone was enough for me to stop, look at, and buy it. The memories of summer nights in Richmond somehow played into my selection of face cream. You don’t have to say it - I know I’m a sucker.

That’s all a long and winding way to say that nostalgia is powerful and I bow before its alter. Or rather, I am often sacrificed upon it. It would take an army of heavily armed psychiatrists to diagnose the source of my malady, but for our purposes, just understand that I’m a sucker for nostalgia’s honey.

I’m wondering just how much of a sucker it makes me as I arrive at one of the many package shops in my Berlin neighborhood. I’m there to pick up a shipment from Polaroid. And not one that I ever expected to be opening. Inside is not a new i-Type camera, or packs of film for the cameras I already own. Instead, it’s the Polaroid Lab -- the company’s printer that creates Polaroids directly from a cell phone app.

If you’re rolling your eyes at the idea of a cell phone Polaroid printer, I completely get it. That’s why I went scurrying from the package shop under the cover of darkness, hoping to get home before anyone saw what I was enabling. I felt guilty of something deviant and only the power of my two legs could outrun the shame of the box in my arms.

If the shame isn’t self-evident, let me explain it in a little better detail. No matter what any of us film photographers might say in public, part of the reason that we make photos on film is because of its purity. I’m no exception. While I’ve become much less photographically dogmatic in recent years, I will always believe that light exposed on chemical celluloid is more “real” than a digital sensor which approximates the color it’s exposed to. Based on that perspective, an object that takes a phone photo and turns it into an instant film image could only be described as an abomination against nature (or at least against the "purity of film").

But as I hovered on the product page deciding whether or not to buy the Lab, I remembered what Don Draper said about nostalgia when he sold Kodak on the Carousel -- those beautiful words about going around and around and back home again -- and I slammed that buy button.

What is the Polaroid Lab

The Polaroid Lab is a device designed to take a photo from your cell phone and recreate the image on Poalroid's i-Type instant film. Initially I had the concept of a scanner in my mind, even though Polaroid never refers to it as such. But I was surprised to find that it’s actually more of a camera than a scanner, as it uses a 3-element 35mm lens to actually photograph your phone’s screen and expose what it captures onto the film.

I know, we have a reputation for doing deep dives on the things we write about. But it’s just not going to happen with this one. It would be boring for you and disingenuous for me to pretend that I even care about the technical specs of the Polaroid Lab. I didn’t buy it because of how the Lab works, but because of the ideas it put in my mind. (Though I will say that I love its design -- something both vintage and futuristic, like the Enterprise on Star Trek: The Next Generation.)

Using the Polaroid Lab

The Polaroid Lab costs $129 in the USA. I paid about 180 euros for the Lab and three packs of film, because I was genuinely interested in what it represents to a photographer like me. More than anything else, I wanted to see what it would be like to reproduce some of my favorite images in a Polaroid form, and whether they would pack the same emotional punch in a format designed to make people pine and swoon.

Even before the Lab arrived, I began picking out photos that I wanted to print. Some I selected because they already had a faded and worn look because they were either taken with expired film or with cameras tending toward light leaks. Others were personal favorites, or photos of close friends. Two thirds were color, which I was apprehensive over, and the other third black-and-white, which made me excited.

I am a huge promoter of Polaroid’s black-and-white film stock. I love how it looks, its contrast, embracing of messiness, and general awesomeness. I think it’s perfectly suited to Polaroid’s cameras and philosophy. I’ve been much less enthused by the new Polaroid color film, which I find maddeningly inconsistent, and its color shifts are much too magenta for my taste.

The beauty to anything made by Polaroid is its simplicity of use, and the Polaroid Lab checks that box. Using it is as simple as possible. Just insert a pack of Polaroid i-Type film (either black-and-white or color), use the dedicated Polaroid Lab app to select and crop your image into the Polaroid signature square, place the phone face down on the top platform, wait until you hear a dinging sound, and then push the big, red button. A photo spits out, which you should then keep in darkness until it's fully developed (which takes between 15 and 30 minutes).

You have the option to print a single image, or to make collages from two to nine images. (With the nine image option being the most efficient for blowing through an i-Type film cartridge.)

Results and Image Quality

So what about the results? How do these images stack up, especially when compared to those made with an actual Polaroid camera?

First, regarding the film: If you’re expecting a dramatic difference between images made with the Lab and images made with cameras, you will be disappointed. It’s the same film, taken with (generally) the same lens. It’s just pointed at a screen instead of the world. For me, that’s a disappointment. Don’t get me wrong, I love Polaroid. It’s a company built on the democratization of photography and the dignity of the personal snapshot. But the color film they’ve produced since reemerging from bankruptcy has never impressed me. The color shifts are always dramatic and unpredictable. The magentas are the worst offenders and they’re just as magenta-y with the Lab. In fact, I found that making prints with images that were already warm produced Polaroids that looked like they sat in the back window of a car through a Florida summer.

The black-and-white film is another story altogether. I really (really) love Polaroid’s black-and-white film. It’s incredibly contrasty, punchy and embraces randomness and mistakes with aplomb. While I find that approach less satisfying with the color film, it gives a magic to the black-and-white Polaroids. An image of the railroad tracks in Central Virginia is my favorite, and a great example of what I’m talking about. The original image was taken on a point-and-shoot of no great repute, and developed at home, which is to say, poorly. Filled with mistakes and technical errors, the Polaroid that came out of the Polaroid Lab created a magical effect that made the image look like it was taken just after the Civil War rather than in 2017.

So, the film is par for the course. What about the experience? I’d say it’s about what you would expect from what is essentially a funky printer. The Polaroid Lab will give you a Polaroid look to your images, but it doesn’t give you “the Polaroid experience” of looking through those plastic viewfinders and praying the scene is composed correctly before pushing the button.

There’s a detachment here for me, the experience of making these images happened long before I made them into Polaroids. Granted, 99 percent of those buying the Lab will not be taking my approach or come at the Lab from my perspective. For those that just want to make Polaroid versions of the selfies on their phone, the experience will still carry the Polaroid magic.

For me, looking at images made with the Lab vs. those made with my Polaroid camera, there’s something missing from the former. They lack that little bit of spice that connects us with the Polaroids taken in the moment, as the memories were happening and haven’t yet crystalized. It’s not a huge difference, but enough for the Lab Polaroids to fail the Voight-Kampff test.

Closing Thoughts **

**

There was something interesting on Polaroid’s website about the Polaroid Lab. They urge customers to use the Lab to ‘unforget” their favorite moments. I think that’s a good bit of advertising. Think of how many photos we take with our phones and never look at again. You can almost see the image falling out of someone's memory as they’re taking it with their phone. (That’s if the photo is meant to be memorable. 95 percent of photos I take with my phone are utilitarian -- where I parked, a white board filled with information, etc.)

The Polaroid Lab invites you to go through the photos on your phone and “unforget” them by making a physical representation of it on their film. It’s an interesting concept, and an ironic one considering that in their heyday Polaroids were the modern equivalent of cell phone images.

That irony is the most interesting thing about the Polaroid Lab. It’s a weird mutt-like creation, with its foot in different eras. It creates something, but what exactly is the final result? For most people (certainly all non-photographers) it’s a cool tool to take photos from the weekend at Myrtle Beach taken on your phone with the cracked screen, and turn them into something you put on the wall or into a scrapbook.

Memories are worth saving, no matter how you capture them. This goofy little tool takes them and makes them physical. In a world that seems to only exist on brightly lit screens, that’s something different and cool, and worth having around. And hopefully not just a few people will be enticed with the little celluloid square spit out by the Polaroid Lab enough to wonder what other opportunities the film world offers.

Buy the Polaroid Lab from B&H Photo here

Buy Polaroid I-Type film here

Follow Casual Photophile on Facebook and Instagram

[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post Polaroid Lab Review appeared first on Casual Photophile.

#gearandaccessories #instantcamera #polaroid #instantfilm

Polaroid Lab Review

Nostalgia is a powerful emotion. The faintest whiff of it sends us down an incredible slide laced with the lush aromas of yesteryear, always sharp and contrasty thanks to the 20/20 f/1.2 hindsight lens through which it’s viewed. If a fictional guy named Teddy who was referenced in a TV show during a meticulously crafted sales pitch is to be believed, nostalgia comes from Greek and translates to the pain from an old wound. A more official (and my favorite) definition of nostalgia is, “the state of being homesick.”

Unlike afflictions like the flu, which carry a uniform set of symptoms, nostalgia affects each person uniquely, attacking us through the experience of our lives. Some of us are immune to it, while others are disproportionately ruled by it. I have to admit to being among the latter. While recently browsing different types of face cream, my final selection was based solely on one particular cream being called “Virginia.” This particular product had nothing to do with the Old Dominion, nor the memories of it which I constantly carry with me while living, as I do now, in Europe. But despite only having the same name as my former home, that alone was enough for me to stop, look at, and buy it. The memories of summer nights in Richmond somehow played into my selection of face cream. You don’t have to say it - I know I’m a sucker.

That’s all a long and winding way to say that nostalgia is powerful and I bow before its alter. Or rather, I am often sacrificed upon it. It would take an army of heavily armed psychiatrists to diagnose the source of my malady, but for our purposes, just understand that I’m a sucker for nostalgia’s honey.

I’m wondering just how much of a sucker it makes me as I arrive at one of the many package shops in my Berlin neighborhood. I’m there to pick up a shipment from Polaroid. And not one that I ever expected to be opening. Inside is not a new i-Type camera, or packs of film for the cameras I already own. Instead, it’s the Polaroid Lab -- the company’s printer that creates Polaroids directly from a cell phone app.

If you’re rolling your eyes at the idea of a cell phone Polaroid printer, I completely get it. That’s why I went scurrying from the package shop under the cover of darkness, hoping to get home before anyone saw what I was enabling. I felt guilty of something deviant and only the power of my two legs could outrun the shame of the box in my arms.

If the shame isn’t self-evident, let me explain it in a little better detail. No matter what any of us film photographers might say in public, part of the reason that we make photos on film is because of its purity. I’m no exception. While I’ve become much less photographically dogmatic in recent years, I will always believe that light exposed on chemical celluloid is more “real” than a digital sensor which approximates the color it’s exposed to. Based on that perspective, an object that takes a phone photo and turns it into an instant film image could only be described as an abomination against nature (or at least against the "purity of film").

But as I hovered on the product page deciding whether or not to buy the Lab, I remembered what Don Draper said about nostalgia when he sold Kodak on the Carousel -- those beautiful words about going around and around and back home again -- and I slammed that buy button.

What is the Polaroid Lab

The Polaroid Lab is a device designed to take a photo from your cell phone and recreate the image on Poalroid's i-Type instant film. Initially I had the concept of a scanner in my mind, even though Polaroid never refers to it as such. But I was surprised to find that it’s actually more of a camera than a scanner, as it uses a 3-element 35mm lens to actually photograph your phone’s screen and expose what it captures onto the film.

I know, we have a reputation for doing deep dives on the things we write about. But it’s just not going to happen with this one. It would be boring for you and disingenuous for me to pretend that I even care about the technical specs of the Polaroid Lab. I didn’t buy it because of how the Lab works, but because of the ideas it put in my mind. (Though I will say that I love its design -- something both vintage and futuristic, like the Enterprise on Star Trek: The Next Generation.)

Using the Polaroid Lab

The Polaroid Lab costs $129 in the USA. I paid about 180 euros for the Lab and three packs of film, because I was genuinely interested in what it represents to a photographer like me. More than anything else, I wanted to see what it would be like to reproduce some of my favorite images in a Polaroid form, and whether they would pack the same emotional punch in a format designed to make people pine and swoon.

Even before the Lab arrived, I began picking out photos that I wanted to print. Some I selected because they already had a faded and worn look because they were either taken with expired film or with cameras tending toward light leaks. Others were personal favorites, or photos of close friends. Two thirds were color, which I was apprehensive over, and the other third black-and-white, which made me excited.

I am a huge promoter of Polaroid’s black-and-white film stock. I love how it looks, its contrast, embracing of messiness, and general awesomeness. I think it’s perfectly suited to Polaroid’s cameras and philosophy. I’ve been much less enthused by the new Polaroid color film, which I find maddeningly inconsistent, and its color shifts are much too magenta for my taste.

The beauty to anything made by Polaroid is its simplicity of use, and the Polaroid Lab checks that box. Using it is as simple as possible. Just insert a pack of Polaroid i-Type film (either black-and-white or color), use the dedicated Polaroid Lab app to select and crop your image into the Polaroid signature square, place the phone face down on the top platform, wait until you hear a dinging sound, and then push the big, red button. A photo spits out, which you should then keep in darkness until it's fully developed (which takes between 15 and 30 minutes).

You have the option to print a single image, or to make collages from two to nine images. (With the nine image option being the most efficient for blowing through an i-Type film cartridge.)

Results and Image Quality

So what about the results? How do these images stack up, especially when compared to those made with an actual Polaroid camera?

First, regarding the film: If you’re expecting a dramatic difference between images made with the Lab and images made with cameras, you will be disappointed. It’s the same film, taken with (generally) the same lens. It’s just pointed at a screen instead of the world. For me, that’s a disappointment. Don’t get me wrong, I love Polaroid. It’s a company built on the democratization of photography and the dignity of the personal snapshot. But the color film they’ve produced since reemerging from bankruptcy has never impressed me. The color shifts are always dramatic and unpredictable. The magentas are the worst offenders and they’re just as magenta-y with the Lab. In fact, I found that making prints with images that were already warm produced Polaroids that looked like they sat in the back window of a car through a Florida summer.

The black-and-white film is another story altogether. I really (really) love Polaroid’s black-and-white film. It’s incredibly contrasty, punchy and embraces randomness and mistakes with aplomb. While I find that approach less satisfying with the color film, it gives a magic to the black-and-white Polaroids. An image of the railroad tracks in Central Virginia is my favorite, and a great example of what I’m talking about. The original image was taken on a point-and-shoot of no great repute, and developed at home, which is to say, poorly. Filled with mistakes and technical errors, the Polaroid that came out of the Polaroid Lab created a magical effect that made the image look like it was taken just after the Civil War rather than in 2017.

So, the film is par for the course. What about the experience? I’d say it’s about what you would expect from what is essentially a funky printer. The Polaroid Lab will give you a Polaroid look to your images, but it doesn’t give you “the Polaroid experience” of looking through those plastic viewfinders and praying the scene is composed correctly before pushing the button.

There’s a detachment here for me, the experience of making these images happened long before I made them into Polaroids. Granted, 99 percent of those buying the Lab will not be taking my approach or come at the Lab from my perspective. For those that just want to make Polaroid versions of the selfies on their phone, the experience will still carry the Polaroid magic.

For me, looking at images made with the Lab vs. those made with my Polaroid camera, there’s something missing from the former. They lack that little bit of spice that connects us with the Polaroids taken in the moment, as the memories were happening and haven’t yet crystalized. It’s not a huge difference, but enough for the Lab Polaroids to fail the Voight-Kampff test.

Closing Thoughts **

**

There was something interesting on Polaroid’s website about the Polaroid Lab. They urge customers to use the Lab to ‘unforget” their favorite moments. I think that’s a good bit of advertising. Think of how many photos we take with our phones and never look at again. You can almost see the image falling out of someone's memory as they’re taking it with their phone. (That’s if the photo is meant to be memorable. 95 percent of photos I take with my phone are utilitarian -- where I parked, a white board filled with information, etc.)

The Polaroid Lab invites you to go through the photos on your phone and “unforget” them by making a physical representation of it on their film. It’s an interesting concept, and an ironic one considering that in their heyday Polaroids were the modern equivalent of cell phone images.

That irony is the most interesting thing about the Polaroid Lab. It’s a weird mutt-like creation, with its foot in different eras. It creates something, but what exactly is the final result? For most people (certainly all non-photographers) it’s a cool tool to take photos from the weekend at Myrtle Beach taken on your phone with the cracked screen, and turn them into something you put on the wall or into a scrapbook.

Memories are worth saving, no matter how you capture them. This goofy little tool takes them and makes them physical. In a world that seems to only exist on brightly lit screens, that’s something different and cool, and worth having around. And hopefully not just a few people will be enticed with the little celluloid square spit out by the Polaroid Lab enough to wonder what other opportunities the film world offers.

Buy the Polaroid Lab from B&H Photo here

Buy Polaroid I-Type film here

Follow Casual Photophile on Facebook and Instagram

[ Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates atB&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post Polaroid Lab Review appeared first on Casual Photophile.

#gearandaccessories #instantcamera #polaroid #instantfilm