In my previous post, I touched on the idea that not every photo needs to be epic and impactful. Not every moment needs to be recorded. We must always remember that seeing and feeling are at the heart of photographic practice. In cultivating the eye and heeding the pull of emotion, we enable synchronicity with the environment, and in this momentary state the camera records our imaginative trajectory through the world.
Yet, sometimes the photos are small and quiet. They’re not loud or imposing at all. These are the quiet corners and the scenes forgotten in a rush. They’re just as important and they’re the details we often miss.
Empty bottles in the sun at a second-hand shop in the country – Sony RX100
In a world where we often clamour for attention, hoping for some notoriety or virality, for some interaction on social media, for the epic amplification of our voice, being loud seems to have become the default mode for many. The intense desire to be heard above the digital cacophany may signify the ongoing trend to further isolation, loneliness, and insularity but the small and quiet photo, bereft of loud intentions and sweeping announcements, is a momentary escape. This is where we connect the eye, the heart, and the imaginationto the world.
The sun was out, there was a nice breeze, and we had an entire afternoon free. A drive to Blanchetown should have provided fruitful inspiration for photographs. But it didn’t, mostly. The weather was kind, the company good, the battery charged, and the Nikon Z5 ready for anything. So, what happened? It was me…
You know those days as a photographer when things just don’t come together? There’s a disconnect between what you see and how you feel. You compose and press the shutter but the result fails to inspire you. At times like this, I do a few things:
Remove the pressure from myself by leaning into other moments. Not everything needs to be camera-worthy and not every moment needs to be recorded. Enjoy the day and put down the camera;
Take out a different camera for fun and just focus on other scenes – details, textures, shadows. There’s good stuff in the small stuff.
Peeling and rusting – Sony RX100
Finding the details again
Sometimes, it’s easy to fall into the trap of wanting every photo to make a big impact. But those magical sunsets full of great colours don’t come around too often. Those moments when the photographic mind and heart are synchronised with the wider world aren’t always available to us. At these times, it’s important to take a step back and access other areas of the photographic process: enjoying the moment, seeing the details.
Peeling and rusting 2 – RX100
Accepting fate and below average photos
Sometimes, even when we dig into another bag of tricks, the photos don’t turn out great. Over time, we develop a sense of taste and curate our photographic output, so what might please someone else won’t please us. Part of the creative journey is developing taste and deciding which photos meet our taste standards to become the ones that really make an impact.
The remaining, less than stellar, photos are still important because they’re part of the journey to get to the photos that meet a well-developed artistic taste. Some days are about honing the eye and sensibility. Not every photo is going to be a winner and that’s OK. In fact, it needs to happen, otherwise things get boring and you don’t sharpen your eye, your imagination, your taste, and your art.
The Urban Dictionary defines an Opacarophile as someone who loves sunsets. It would be fair to say that many people find beauty in sunsets. Certainly, at the end of a day out on the road, our thoughts turn to whether we’ll find a suitable spot to witness the sunset and make a good photo. There’s always some resigned grumbling when heavy clouds obscure the sun!
The importance of the setting sun
The setting sun signals the end of the day and the turning of the earth. One might ponder our long line of ancestors, staring at the shifting hues and watching the sun retreat below the horizon. Such an event reminds us of our smallness and our place in the world.
Evolutionary science suggests that when we experience the beauty of sunsets, we tap into our evolved aesthetic faculties – brain wiring that allow us to see the rightness or harmony of something in order to judge its value and health. A healthy mate is vital to produce healthy offspring and continue the species, so beauty in this context represents a healthy mate and potential long-term survivability. A beautiful sunset stimulates the same aesthetic faculties that allow us to determine the health of a potential mate and the rightness and harmony of things.
Perhaps that theory is a long-bow to draw for many! My favourite is the Biophilia Hypothesis, which I’ve mentioned in a previous post. The idea that humans are drawn to natural areas because we have a deep-rooted connection to them, having lived in such areas for most of our history, is a compelling one.
Two sunsets, two interpretations
Sunset, Meningie SA – Nikon Z5
Having spent much of the day driving around the Cooring, Meningie provided us with the most wonderful of sunsets. A variety of colours, shifting from moment to moment, reflected in calm water. This single sunset made up for all of the sunsets we missed. Can you spot the lone duck in the above photo?
I’m glad I had my Nikon Z5 with me for this. I’d attached the excellent Nikkor 24-70mm F4 S lens after deciding that my usual lens, the Nikkor 40mm f2, needed a break. I know that many photographers prefer a tripod for such scenes, perhaps combined with Neutral Density filters, but our day-trips are about chance and hope, best represented by hand-holding the camera and moving to the next potential aesthetic wonder.
Sunset, Meningie SA – Nikon Z5
What a difference a moment makes to the colours of a sunset! I’m being a bit cheeky, as the colour in the photo above is actually a momentary interpretation of the automatic white balance in the Z5. Once I saw what white balance it had chosen, I decided to stick with it. The first photo is much more like the original sunset we saw. I simply exaggerated the blues and pinks by setting a Tungsten white balance during editing. It’s one thing I’ve noticed in my Z5: the automatic white balance is sometimes over-eager. Still, I find it’s best to grasp these chance moments and chance settings!
In my previous post, I went out with the Nikon D40 and made some street photos. Even though it’s an enjoyable experience, street photography can also be tiring if not in the right frame of mind. I find that placing too much pressure on myself to make good photos can take a lot away from the experience. And out in the street where you need to be alert to interesting scenes that may last mere moments, missing one can lead to frustration.
Gathering before busking – Nikon D40
As much as that experience can lead to moments of regret at having not been quick enough on the shutter button, going down that path simply leads to more frustration and lack of joy. There are so many moments on the street that it’s always possible to find another. In simple terms: don’t get stuck in a moment missed because you’ll have just missed another moment.
Fresh milk and soft toys – Nikon D40 with Tamron 17-50 2.8
What do we do as photographers?
A photographer collaborates with the world to make a photo of a moment that never repeats. As much as there’s pressure to record all of the moments that pass so quickly, the photographer also brings the attention of others to a framed moment in time. In doing so, the photographer creates an awareness in others of the larger world we inhabit. And how often do we inhabit it without much care for the present moment?
In this context, street photography is like being in a whirlpool of moments. That’s both exciting and potentially exhausting if the pangs of regret haunt us too easily when the camera and the moment don’t quite line up. In those cases, better to accept the passing moment and move into a new moment with open eyes and mind. And have we really missed a moment if we haven’t recorded it?
Celebration and relief after a street performance – Nikon D40
In my previous post, I wrote about driving through some of the towns along the Murray River. We’ve been here many times but I’ve often found myself uninspired in the photography department, though I’m not entirely sure why. Going for a day-trip with friends is always fun, but sometimes it doesn’t lend itself to me spending time fiddling with camera settings or framing scenes! This time was different though. I found myself with the trusty Olympus E-1 again and looking for the kinds of scenes that the old digital sensor can manage more easily.
Red paint and corrugated iron – Olympus E-1
There’s no substitute for time when it comes to photography, at least for me. I’m not one who clicks a thousand photos in an hour. I prefer to be as deliberate as possible. Admittedly, using an old camera like the E-1 teaches me to slow down even more to carefully consider the scene before me. That’s a good thing, I think.
Red paint and old wood – Olympus E-1
How often is it that we don’t get to slow down and really look at the world around us? How often are we pre-occupied with thoughts of the forever-gone past or the uncertain future? How often do we steal the present moment from ourselves? Once that moment is gone, it’s gone for good.
I like to think that photography has the capacity to teach us something about the hidden details of the world that are ordinarily missed. When I first started teaching myself how to use a DSLR, I turned to a practice called Contemplative Photography, or Miksang.
On such occasions, I found myself a little more in touch with both my mind and the world, with inner and outer touching at the very boundaries, one might say. At these times, there’s no judgement of a scene, just an image pressing gently on the mind, as though it leaps out of the water like a fish to be seen momentarily. There’s no setting up or messing with technology beyond what the eye sees and the press of the button. And arguably, the camera itself is not even needed to see those hidden details in the world.
All the red envelops you in this moment – Olympus E-1
I rushed out yesterday with the Olympus E-1, but it wasn’t a great photo session. The sun was out but I just didn’t see much that struck me as an interesting photo. This, of course, happens from time to time. While disappointing, it’s all part of the experience with the camera. You can’t force it.
Blue beams on blue – Olympus E-1
Despite my previous positive experiences with the E-1, this time there were no epiphanies. The sun was high and hot and controlling dynamic range with such an old camera isn’t always the easiest. There’s a point at which exposing for the highlights creates shadow noise and the in-built contrasty tone curve of this camera is a detriment at such times. Still, just look at all that blue! This camera does love plenty of blue.
So, I was left with just two photos from my session that piqued my interest. On the way home, I ran across some new house constructions and just loved the way that all the blue steel beams looked on such a sunny day.
Some days are just not going to be full of great photos. Some days, the eye just isn’t attuned. And that’s perfectly OK. I’ve learned not to worry about my mistakes and missing moments. I’ve learned that on some days the photographic mind is elsewhere and all that remains is forcing a moment. At those times, it’s best to accept the moment and look around. Not everything is for the camera.
I mentioned the town of Coober Pedy in a previous post. Going through my file folders tonight, I found some more ruins and the remains of dreams from this famous outback town. I often wonder how these places and things come to be abandoned and decaying.
No driver – Nikon D7100 with 35mm AFS Nikkor 1.8
Who once drove the bus? How did it get there? At some point, I imagine it will be nothing more than a pile of rusted metal, merging with the earth, gears and pistons embedded in thick soil. Perhaps a few blue paint flecks will provide some clue to a future explorer?
Decolonise – Olympus OMD EM5 Mark 2
Old walls become a canvas for political statements, the remains of a broken window framing the tension painted in bright pink. Thinking of photography as a voyeuristic pursuit, as Susan Sontag once wrote, such images can lend themselves to such consideration. Is there some voyeurism at work when photographing places like this? Perhaps. I certainly feel some drive to frame the political statement and focus on the socio-cultural tensions. Do I engage with it by recording it or do I step away from it by framing it as artfully as I can?
Homes not Tails – Olympus OMD EM5 Mark 2
Photography can only frame the world for others to view. Once out in the world, the audience applies their own values and beliefs. By providing the framing, the photographer must step aside for a moment to engage in the act of viewing rather than participating. But in the framing is the delightful devil – a story told by the photographer in cutting out a single view from the whole. What lies beyond the single frame and does it matter?
For a while now, I’ve taken some issue with the use of the word take when it comes to describing the making of photos. After all, we don’t take photos. We make photos in collaboration with the camera and the environment. It’s pedantic, I suppose, and it doesn’t truly bother me when someone uses the term. It’s just a word I try not to use.
The other bothersome term is shooting photos. The camera isn’t a gun, is it? Maybe I’m just a bit cranky because I’m not feeling the best at the moment!
Angel & Tina – Nikon Z5
So, why do we make photos? Why do we use cameras? What is it about photography that keeps us coming back for more? I can only speak for myself of course.
Photography allows me to see the world differently. It’s not always relaxing, as I might be prioritising Aperture values and the exposure over framing a scene, but when I see something that speaks to me, it feels as though I can frame it and place a focus on it to remind myself of details in the world that we often miss. It can remind others too.
The old glass still glows – Olympus E-1
Susan Sontag once said that photography is a voyeuristic activity that removes us from the meaning of events and diminishes their importance. I can see merit in that thinking even if others think of it as inflammatory. When behind the camera, how close are we to the events around us? Arguably, we immerse ourselves in a scene more fully when we focus on it through the lens, but the goal is also to frame that scene in a specific way so it follows the rules we deem personally important – rule of thirds, art of photography, light and shadow, marketability, appeals to social media followers, and so on. A photograph may have an audience with their own set of values. In this sense, a photo is like a cut-out of a small part of the world, presented for viewing and criticism.
Ladder pathway – Sony RX100 Mark 1
Consider the photo above, for example. Is it voyeuristic? The photo of a home, possibly abandoned, but likely still owned by someone, is a deliberate cut-out of the entirety of the home that creates a separate reality. What does it say? What was my intention in making the photo? Am I merely highlighting the abandonment of buildings where people once lived and loved? Am I doing so callously and without regard for those who may still live there?
Late night contemplation in orange and blue – Nikon D7100 with 50mm 1.8 AF-D
Street photography has a long and rich history of provoking thoughts along these lines. Is it ethical, for example, to make photos of vulnerable people on our streets? In some photography classes, it’s made clear that photographers are best-advised to ask for permission first. Yet, there is nothing surer to diminish spontaneity than to create a contrived street scene through such permission seeking.
If we are to document human life across a wide range of experiences through time, then street photography is an important tool. The photographer may, at the time, be vilified for lacking ethics, but as time relentlessly moves forward from the event, new audiences may view those photographs as historical artifacts. Perhaps there is no right or wrong in these cases – merely changeable thoughts and beliefs that drive culture.
Yes, it was another cloudy day and I was out with the Finepix 6500fd. Driving around tiny old towns, largely forgotten and left to people with desires to escape the rest of the world, can be surprising sometimes. Yes, there are plenty of interesting ruins to look at and photograph, but occasionally there are also encounters with unfriendly locals.
Old Post Office – Finepix 6500fd
Admittedly, not an awesome photo, but the old Post Office above is an interesting building. I’m always careful when it comes to remaining in public areas, as there’s largely few restrictions on what can be photographed as long as it can be viewed from a public area that one is occupying. I can walk along any public road or path and photograph buildings and most other things without a problem.
The confrontation
So, there I was in the middle of an old dirt road, pointing my camera at an old Post Office. A car pulled up and out hopped a local. She asked me in a very pointed manner: “Why are your taking photos of my house?”. A little surprised, and somewhat curious, I replied, “You live in the Post Office building?”.
It turns out she didn’t live there, but in the house next door. I assured her I had no interest in photographing her home, but only the old building because it “looks cool”. She clarified and told me that she only uses it for storage. I tried to de-escalate the situation and asked about the history of the building and when it was closed down. She responded but still was very unhappy and asked me again why I was making photos of her home. At this point I politely fare-welled her and left, knowing that it was pointless to continue the conversation.
Mangroves at sunset – Finepix 6500fd
Reflecting on feelings and laws
I knew I wasn’t doing anything illegal and this was simply a case of an unhappy and suspicious local. That’s perfectly understandable, of course. There’s a difference between what I can legally photograph and how someone feels about it. I’d tried to cool things down and assure her that I wasn’t interested in photographing her home, but rather just a nice old building with some history. Rather than argue any legal point about public land, it was simply better for me to leave.
I’m often in two minds about these, thankfully rare, situations. On one hand, I understand that someone might be suspicious of a stranger coming to town and having an interest in their property. Would I also react similarly if someone was camped outside my home with a camera pointed at it? I may, though I’d likely be mostly interested in the camera gear. On the other hand, it’s certainly not illegal to photograph things from the vantage point of public land.
If the person is open to a conversation, I think it’s reasonable to explain what you’re doing and why you have an interest. I don’t think it’s helpful to start a conversation about legalities around the act of photography because this may be more likely to cause more upset. There’s an understandable emotional response involved that does cause some personal dilemma but I think it’s wise to consider both sides.
It’s certainly perfectly reasonable to photograph the world around us, yet remain aware of the private and public boundaries that are sometimes difficult to define. It’s also reasonable to consider the potentially strident reaction that a person might have to the act of photography in an area they consider, legally or not, their turf. Despite the dilemma, I remain on the side of photographing the world within legal limits, and if there’s a confrontation, explaining why I’m there in hopes this will provide context and calm the situation.
I’m not a scientist. I’m not an engineer of any sort. I’m certainly not a designer of optical devices or digital sensors, just so you know. There has been debate in some corners of the web about old cameras with CCD sensors rendering better colour and their images looking more film-like. I think a pleasing photo is a subjective thing and people are free to decide what that looks like. I’m just curious about the nature of the debate and why people might think this way.
CCD sensors were the dominant type of digital sensors at the dawn of digital photography. Around 2010 or so, CMOS sensors started to appear in new camera models. At the time, I really didn’t think about it, as I couldn’t even afford any of the better CCD cameras anyway. And believe me, there are plenty of CCD cameras that make junk photos! Interestingly, the CCD colour is better pundits rarely discuss those junk cameras, perhaps because their output doesn’t suit the argument that CCD colour is better.
Of Nikons, Canons, Pentax, and Fujifilm
When people talk about those lovely CCD colours, they usually reference the same cameras: most of the early Nikon CCD cameras, the Fuji Super CCD cameras, early Canons and compacts of a certain model, the Olympus Evolt series, the Leica M9, and a handful of compacts with excellent output. Of course, those cameras were always considered excellent. Reviews at the time of their release praised them, so it’s no surprise that they’re still great cameras today.
I used a few CCD cameras at the time, and then moved to CMOS cameras because that’s what was being sold. I don’t remember anyone discussing the merits of CCD colour versus CMOS colour. I do know that the output of many cheap and cheerful CCD cameras at anything higher than 200 ISO is pretty awful – there’s lots of chroma and luminance noise, and the colours don’t look so great. If you read reviews of those old consumer cameras online, you’ll see there was a focus on accuracy of colour. This is because camera makers saturate certain colours to make the output more attractive for consumers.
Consider the quote above about an old CCD camera. Evidence that colour reproduction has always been on the mind of the photographer and that CCD cameras, for all their current hype, have issues with accurate colour reproduction. This is not to say that inaccurate colours are less attractive. Many cameras are sold based on how their on-board JPG conversion software renders colour, after all.
What influences the colour of a digital photo?
First of all, whether it’s a CCD sensor or a CMOS sensor, the sensor itself is actually colour-blind. The sensor only sees lightness/brightness and not colour. The Colour Filter Array on top of this slice of silicon filters wavelengths of light into Red, Green, and Blue. All of this data is transferred to AD converters and the signal amplified. The on-board software takes this data and, in the case of JPG output, it does some clever stuff to render a compressed file. To achieve the Canon look or the Olympus look, or whatever, the software also applies a tone curve, temperature and tint settings, and may saturate certain colours more heavily.
The Fuji-Chrome look in digital
Fuji is pretty well-known for offering users lots of film presets in their digital cameras. These settings emulate some of the qualities of certain films, including colour, grain, and tone curve. The photo above is from an old Fuji Finepix S7000. It’s a JPG straight out of the camera on the Chrome setting. Note that there’s a slight green bias in the white balance, as well as extra contrast. Definitely a pleasing photo.
On some makes of camera, the White Balance is known to bias warmer or cooler. Nikons tend to have a cooler look to photos, and this helps to produce better colour in some scenes where a warmer bias would create unnatural colours, such as in some types of skin tones. But these things largely matter only when JPG file output is needed.
Choice of lens also has some influence on how a photo looks. People talk about the Leica look, for example, noting that there’s some mystique about it. I don’t have the money to buy a Leica of any sort, so it’s hard for me to comment on this phenomenon. What I do know is that a poor lens can produce poor output, and a great lens can produce great output. Leica have always been known for the superiority of their optics, so it’s most likely that the signature Leica look has a lot to do with the contrast and sharpness imparted by the lens.
Hype and reality
So, why are some people talking about the inherent superiority of CCD sensors and how they render colour? Is CCD colour a question of hardware or software? Here are some common reasons and assumptions, including my thoughts on them, from people who believe that CCD sensors produce better or more film-like images:
The old CCD sensors have thicker Colour Filter Arrays that separate colour better and produce stronger images: As I said, I’m no engineer, so this is tough to question. If this is true, then all a camera maker would need to do is to put a thicker CFA on a new CMOS sensor, and it would approximate all of those great colour results from old cameras. I strongly suspect that the CFAs have very little, if anything, to do with it though, given that there are other strong influences on how a photo looks, such as white balance and camera software.
Camera manufacturers stopped using CCD because CMOS was cheaper, which led to less organic images: Companies do things to save money all the time, but would they really intentionally hobble the output of their cameras to the extent that many CCD enthusiasts believe?
Camera X with a CCD sensor makes photos that look so much better than camera Y with a CMOS sensor, so therefore the CCD sensor must be superior: Let us not forget that most CCD pundits never mention all the junk CCD cameras from that era (is anyone talking about those plasticky Nikon L series compacts that produce average photos?). They mostly talk about the CCD cameras that are still good, even today. They were praised then, and they are still making good photos now. I think that some people who were too young to remember the digital transition now cultivate the mistaken assumption that old camera technology is mostly inferior to today’s technology, and that those great cameras from yesteryear make photos look great because there’s some hidden and forgotten technology in them – the CCD sensor.
CCD cameras make images that are film-like: Let us be clear – only film looks like film. I grew up with film cameras and remember the cheap cameras (I couldn’t afford anything else), powerful in-built flashes, and cheap consumer film. I think the look that many young people talk about relates to the softer quality of many film photos due to low-grade lenses and the appearance of highlights from low-priced consumer film cameras. Those old CCD cameras have limited dynamic range, often creating blown highlights. The best CCD sensors, at low ISOs, do produce less digital noise due to the chip’s architecture, and some people say that this means it’s closer to film. But modern CMOS sensors have advanced greatly in these areas and have far more dynamic range, colour accuracy, and noise control. Just look at the crappiest CCD cameras at anything above base ISO and you’ll see some pretty ugly chroma and luminance noise. The best CCD cameras from that era can make some very nice low noise images, even up to 800 ISO, but none of this means it looks like film. Plenty of people know more about it than I do, but film grain is random and organic. Digital noise is square and uniform. Where an old and highly regarded CCD camera may be useful is at the lowest ISOs and almost no perceptible digital noise. That could make for some nice black and white conversions. The low noise might also make it a better fit for overlaying scanned images of film grain. I’ve never seen much point in overlaying film grain over digital photos that already have digital noise.
You’ll have unlimited film-like images if you buy this cheap CCD camera: There are lots of YouTube videos touting the benefits of these old digicams, even going so far as to label them Y2K cameras. This is a hook to lure people in to watching the videos so that the creators can game the algorithm and snag subscribers, with a little magical thinking and potential profiteering thrown in. Growing up, I saw thousands of photos from film cameras of all sorts. The so-called Y2K camera, the moniker itself a pointer to the generational interest in digicams, doesn’t make film-like images.
If you want to read a pretty in-depth, though only loosely scientific, article on CCD versus CMOS colours, take a look at this site. Spoiler alert: there isn’t a visible difference between them for most people, and any colour output differences seem to come down to company preferences with regard to on-board software processing. CMOS also offers so much more low-light performance that it’s little wonder CCD was replaced by it in the end.
There is something curious about the Olympus E-1 I’ve been using recently, in light of this speculation about sensors. The RAW files it produces are not as flat and dull as you’d expect. They require little editing when exposure settings are nailed. Is that the sensor? Maybe. More likely a tone curve applied, though it seems odd that this can be seen in the RAW files? You can read my thoughts about it here.
Nikon Z5, when paired with sharp lenses, can produce wonderful output
Does it matter?
People love the photos they love. And I’m not an engineer, so I don’t have all the answers. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Humans are always looking for meaning somewhere and often latch onto narratives despite the data. And that’s OK. Creating and finding greater meaning in life is what we’ve always done.
What I do find interesting is how much prices have risen for the CCD cameras that get the most attention in these online forums and social media discussions. No doubt, some people in those corners have enough interest in profits and online followers that they’ll keep pushing the CCD vs CMOS colour narrative, even unconsciously. I think this is what bothers me the most: the fact that a lot of young people are being duped into paying a three figure sum for a point and shoot from the early 2000s just because some YouTubers told them that the CCD sensor it features produces filmic photos.
In the end, whatever the truth, it’s all part of the marketing and hype cycle. It’s a snake-oil trend that will eventually fade. A generation that grew up seeing family members use those early digital cameras are now looking back to find inspiration in a world that’s over-saturated by AI and overly processed images from smartphones. They feel nostalgic about those old cameras from their childhood and that’s perfectly OK and understandable.
Are digicams worth using now?
The short answer is: yes, of course old cameras are worth using now! Admittedly, I like some of those old cameras because I can afford some of the best ones and their history interests me. And where else would they end up? In the junkyard, thoughtlessly tossed and abandoned as old XD cards and Compact Flash cards molder and rot in their plastic slots? We don’t need the latest and greatest cameras to make interesting photos, that’s for sure.
I do have one thing to thank the Y2K digcam craze for: it has provided me with the impetus to explore some of the early digital cameras I always wanted and could never afford at the time. I can now appreciate some of the great technology in some of those cameras and see how we ended up where we are now. It has also taught me something else: image-making hasn’t advanced as much as the big companies want us to believe.
The Rusty Ruin Journal 