What I do insist upon, however, is that they get a fast prime. It’s the surest way I know to make your photographs look better. Lose the flash, think about composition, be inconspicuous. It’s a winning formula.

But what brand, I’m always asked. They seem so similar!

Well yes, they are. Which gives a pretty clear indication that it doesn’t matter which brand. If you’re looking to go pro one day, yes it matters. Then there a number of reasons to pick one brand over another. But otherwise? Nikon, Canon, Olympus, Pentax, Sony. They’re all good cameras. They’ll all do what you need. They all have deceptively similar spec sheets, perhaps with the exception of video. I’m a Nikon man, so people assume that I’m going to recommend a Nikon. That is more an accident of circumstance however, and in actual fact I’m pretty brand agnostic The low end Nikons don’t autofocus with the faithful 50mm 1.8, for example, so it’s not Nikon all the way. You won’t be a better photographer for having picked a Nikon over a Canon, or any brand over another. You will be better by using it.

I, like all photographers who don’t have the benefit of, or who don’t heed, good advice, learnt this the hard way, by spending a lot of money on useless rubbish. I’m still prone to it, of course, but I’m a little better informed nowadays. And some of it is tax deductable.

So, here’s my advice. I you are interested in getting a DSLR to try your hand at photography a little more seriously, and you genuinely want to improve, do the following.

1) Buy a low end body. The second up in the range is often a good plac to start – still cheapish, but it’ll allow you to grow without restriction.

2) Get the kit zoom. Then take it off, and put it somewhere safe. You’re not going to improve all that quickly with it on.

3) Buy a cheap, fast prime. Nikon and Canon both make decent, cheap 50mm 1.8, and I know that Nikon makes a cheapish 35mm 1.8, which would be perfect. I don’t know about other brands, but hopefully they have similar offerings.

Erm, that’s it. Don’t take that prime off until you are much more confident with te camera. At first it will be limiting, but soon it will be liberating. And don’t be tempted to take it off. Learn to live with it. Trust me on this one, even if you choose not to believe me at the moment.

Now that you’re free of the shackles of choice, enjoy the extra time spent taking photographs!

In any case, my liking for this little camera is in no way diminishing (I have since had a little go on the first m4/3 camera, the Panasonic G1. More on this in another post.). I thought someone out there might be interested in how it works as a landscape camera. And the answer is, erm, quite well, actually.
One thing that I did not (for some reason) expect it to do well was a long exposure. So I thought I’d test it out. I got hold of a cheap IR filter, which, along with the fact that the e-p1 has a pretty effective IR filter (God, I haven’t explained that well. Perhaps I shall someday) means that exposures with it are quite long. The photograph above was shot with the kit lens at its widest setting (14mm) at f6.7, with the shutter open for 20 seconds. The camera locked up for about another 20 seconds, for noise reduction voodoo. The results, as far as I’m concerned, are absolutely great. I’m not going to go into 100% crops and the like, but I can tell you that it is sharp, noise free, and generally beautiful. I’m pretty gobsmacked, actually. Now, I’m not by any means a big landscapist, but if I were, I suspect I’d be ecstatic with this result. Certainly, the tonality in the above image is, to my eye, lovely. You may well not like the image itself; I do, in fact, and I normally hate my landscapes. But I think it’d be quite hard to fault the tonality of the thing.

The upside of this is that I am finding more and more applications in which the e-p1 is far more than adequate, and I am picking up and carrying around my dirty great D700 less and less. It’s not something that I was expecting, to be frank, and it’s very pleasing indeed. A little less philosophy in this post, I’ afraid, and a little more photo geekery. Hope that’s not too off putting – if anyone wants to pop back in a few posts time, I might have some proper camera prn for you. I gave in and tricked it out a bit (with a purpose, I promise…)

I have mentioned before that the iPhone has essentially unlimited depth of field. Practically speaking, under most circumstances, this is true. But not always. The photograph above has had a bit of colour correction done, but other than that, nothing. You can produce out of focus areas, but bear in mind that the flowers and grass in the foreground are about an inch from the camera. Not the most versatile of cameras, but it just goes to show – don’t take generalities as absolutes.

A great deal is said about depth of field, incidentally, often by people who know est to nothing about it. I do not pretend to. I have a pretty good idea how it works in practical situations, and that’s good enough for me (and, unless you’re a scientist whose interests are something other than the visual, it should be good enough for pretty much anyone). You would be astonished how people get themselves tied up into knots about it, though. They’ll tell you  that a m4/3 camera is inherently not as good a full frame camera because “it doesn’t have as shallow a depth of field.” Well, that is, and it isn’t true. The fact is, even the smallest sensors (and you don’t get much smaller that the iPhone’s) can be forced to appear to have a very shallow DoF. And I suspect that a number of people have no idea at all about the practicalities of the issue.

Like so many things on the internet, it’s just not worth getting worked up about. Feel free to flame in the comments…

You may have noticed in the last post that the images that accompanied it had been manipulated to a certain extent. Just a little tweaking, but the black and white pictures, for example, had been run through a film grain/spectral response reproduction program, and had a border added to them to suggest darkroom printing. The colour photographs just had the border added.

I went through a phase of adding film borders to my digital images, thinking, I suppose, that it would make the images themselves more interesting. I was wrong, of course, and I’ve since learnt that it’s the photograph itself that counts. The question remains, however, as to whether attempting to replicate analogue processes has any validity, aesthetically.

The reason that I’ve been taken with this particular look is down to a wedding photographer whose blog I follow, Jeff Ascough. He’s pretty well renowned, and is somewhat famous for his reportage photography. He used to shoot his weddings with a couple of Leicas. This is, firstly, very cool, and, secondly, gave his work a certain look, which I would imagine has become something of a trademark. He now shoots digital, but goes to quite some lengths to reproduce the look of film, with sets of custom actions to approximate the tonal range, using higher isos than is necessary to introduce an element of noise, and borders to give the look of hand prints. It strikes me that this is a perfectly valid use of the technology, and his care of the images certainly shines through.

Similarly, I have a project on the go where I have combined different formats of film, and used more than one digital camera. I feel pretty happy with emulating black and white film here to give some consistency across the project, simply so that the viewer is not jarred by the aesthetic differences between photographs, which I feel would distract from the experience.

But what about changing things just for the individual image? I did it with my nightime shot here, and actually I think that the border is over the top. It detracts from the shot, and offers little to enhance it. I did it as a shortcut to approximate the look of street photography(i.e. the look of film from a 35 mm rangefinder), and it strikes me as cheating, as trying to give the photograph an impact which it should be able to earn on it’s merits, not by standing on the shoulders of other, similarly presented photographs.

Take exhibit A, above. I’ve added a much less in-your-face border, and used a grain-replication program (It’s hard to see at this size. Take a look at the grey area in the house window in the background – you may be able to see it there.). Let’s be honest, I’ve added little to the photograph, have I? My feeling is, oddly, that the addition of grain adds something of some significance, in the way that tweaking curves would, but the border crosses the boundary into artifice. Perhaps it’s a matter of subtlety; the former is not something that you would notice, but, like a good film soundtrack, makes all the difference. The latter is overt, making a statement, and as such announces itself, drowning out something of the image.

However, if I were to print a negative in the darkroom with a sloppy border, I’d feel completely justified. So what’s the difference? And what about the image from this post? The border there is created from the full area of which my film scanner is capable, which exceeds the boundaries of the frame on the left and rioght. I find myself wishing it had a similar effect at the top and bottom, as well. So what if I artificially added a film border, perhaps scanner from another frame, to this image? Would that be legitimate?

It’s something of a minefield, but in the final analysis, I suspect it’s only important in that pursuing these effects it is likely only to detract from my taking of images themselves. It’s often a little too easy (as I suspect it always has been) to allow ourselves to be swayed from what is good by what is fashionable, new or gimmicky. I’ll try and stick with good.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that, after a long and very interesting discussion with the owner (well, I assume he is the owner), I got what turned out to be a very good deal on a Cooke Ivotal 1 inch 1.4 c-mount lens, which mounts beautifully (and looks good to boot) on the Olympus.

First of all, the disadvantages. The focusing ring, whilst smooth, has a fair amount of resistance, and a lot of travel, so focussing is by no means quick with the lens. In fact, it’s glacial, which is something of a disadvantage. Another thing (and this is by no means the lens’ fault) is that with the adapter that I purchased for it, the focussing scale and aperture markings are on the bottom of the camera, so you have to actually turn the whole thing over to zone focus or set a specific aperture. These factors do make using it a little clumsier than I would like, and has diminished my enjoyment a little.

The other thing is that, inevitably, there’s some fairly heavy vignetting going on. I don’t mind this at all, and if one shoots in a square format, it’s not really an issue. But it does mean that the lens has a very distinct look, so it’s not really a general application lens – you’re going to have to live with, and take advantage of, the fact that it looks vintage.

So these are the downsides. What it does give me, however, is a 50mm equivalent, fast lens. If I have my physics right, the equivalent depth of field on a 35 mm camera at 50mm would be that of a 2.8 lens, which is nice, although obviously won’t isolate your focal point to the same degree as a 50mm 1.4. You still get the advantage of the 1.4 speed in terms of light flooding in, however. Again, tasty. It has a dreamy look in low light, or when facing into a bright light source, but appears pretty sharp in good light, even wide open.

Looking back at my previous post, this appears to be precisely what I opined over. So, is it what I wanted? Hmm. Yes, and no. As in all things, it’s a bit of a compromise. Being used to modern lenses (even my oldest manual focus nikon lenses could still be called modern, in terms of the principles of their design) this one is taking a bit of getting used to. The slowness in focussing is certainly something of a bugbear – I’m used to my Zeiss 40mm Summicron, which has a focusing tab, and which is quick and accurate. This lens is neither.

It also seems rather difficult, for some reason, to take advantage of the sharpness that is there. I don’t know why that is, but it’s certainly an issue. Im going to have to investigate this further, but again, maybe it’s just being spoiled by modern lenses and autofocus. Maybe I just need to care a little less. (By way of an aside, I was surprised when looking through the Henri Cartier_Bresson book just how many of the subjects were manifestly out of focus. And how I cared not one jot.)

So, talking about this lens is difficult. I’ll certainly be hanging on to it (although, investigating on ebay, and taking into account the price that I paid for it, I could actually turn enough profit on t to pay for the Panasoinc 20mm outright. Now, there’s a thought.). As photography is a visual medium, It’s probably best if I just post some photographs below – hopefully that will give you a better idea as to whether this is a path you’d consider taking yourself.

Addendum: Having uploaded these photos, I find that I really quite like them. Hmm. Maybe I need to re-appraise…

I did come across one particular sentence in the first of these introductions that I thought it interesting to make a quotation of:

“There is nothing new in regarding every portrait as a self-portrait – painters have often said as much, and photography as [Cartier-Bresson] practised it is clearly a very personal view of the world.”

It struck me that much of my work is, in fact, portraiture. My wedding work is primarily a series of individual, candid portraits, mainly of people looking happy and having fun. This struck me a couple of years ago when I was trying to pin down my strengths and weaknesses, and I’m pretty comfortable with it. In my personal work, too, it strikes me that it’s portraits that constitute much of my output, normally of my family and friends. I have never really realised this previously, as it rarely consists of formal, seated portraiture, but informal, candid shots (rarely truly candid; I am given to understand that in a true candid, the subject is not aware of the camera at the time of capture. That is certainly not the case with my family; they’re just so used to it that they ignore it.).

However one likes to pigeonhole it, this style does, in fact, say at least as much about me as it does my subjects. Looking through the Cartier-Bresson book, it struck me that there was not a single smile amongst the hundred or so images. The predominant expression was one of melancholy or wistfulness, or even distraction. Now, I am certain that not every one of these people were wistful, but clearly this is the artist’s expression; his outlook, if you will.

My portraits are invariably of joy and happiness. Admittedly, this is, I like to think, my own outlook on life, so perhaps that fits. But occasionally I capture something else. The above is a portrait of my mum. I won’t tell you much about the circumstances, but  I think that it’s one of those rare moments where the subject comes to the fore to a greater extent than the photographer. I think it’s something I’d like to strive for a little more often.

The point here is that Cartier Bresson has a body of work for which he is well known and justly praised. Any photographer that you admire is likely to have the same quality. I’m certain that Ansel Adams took some portraits, but you’d have no interest in them, as I’m sure no-one cares about a (fictional) retrospective of Bailey’s landscapes. What I, and I suspect a large number of photographers, struggle with, is the concept of developing a body of work – finding a common thread.

When I first started as a photographer, I was interested in architecture, namely good, clean lines and angles, making the most of the symmetry and order of modern building. I tired of this after a while, and consequently have dipped into all sorts, including music photography, portraiture, street photography, and so on. None of it has really stuck, however, and it tends to leave me at a bit of a loss, because I suspect one cannot really excel without at least some kind of specialism.

As a result of this, I find it hard to distinguish for myself a style, a signature way of looking at the world whereby an independent observer could say, “that’s a Prestney.” Now, it appears that I’m advocating a distinction based on subject matter; I’m not. It’s just that if one finds a sense of purpose in ones vision, one is more likely to settle on a subject (it’s a symptom not a cause.).

So a question, really. Do you have a purpose in your photography? Something other than “make an attractive/stunning image”? I hope the answer is yes, because that means you’re well ahead of me. And if the answer is “No,” it just might be worth thinking about.

I am something of an accidental photographer. I take photographs, rather than construct images. I have great, great admiration for those who can construct, not least because it takes a great deal of imagination and dedication to do so. But I’m lazy, so I look for images that appear, rather than try to build them up from an idea in my head.

This is both an advantage and a disadvantage. In my line of work I’m pretty good, if I do say so myself, at capturing the moments of a day, and knowing my craft well enough that I can take a photograph when the light and timing is right. What I am not so good at is the posed photograph. I’m not bad at it by any means, but it’s not my forte. This is fine; my clients tend to come to me because they don’t like being posed themselves, nor do they like the pictures that result of their posing. As a result, my process normally consists of the couple spending a few quiet moments chatting to each other, walking around, and generally joking and laughing. It’s as fun as I can make it, which involves as little rigmarole as possible.

That does not mean that I am not occasionally jealous of those photographers who do have the persistence and ability to pull of beautiful posed photographs. I suspect that they spend a little more time on this part of the day than I would be willing to spend, but the results can be spectacular, and I suspect that their clients are willing to spend that time in order to get those fantastic images.

I do, however have a compromise, an ace up the sleeve. The one part of the day where I go to great lengths to produce something that looks like it may have been posed, and certainly looks spectacular, but is almost certainly the part of the day when the couple care little that they are even being photographed, let alone what the final image will look like. And for this, I can’t just use the light that’s available.

I never used to use flash. I shunned it. Mainly because I didn’t understand it, to be honest. Then I met Strobist. If you have any interest at all in using flash, then dear God you need to visit this blog. It’s incredible. My problem was this; how does one get a reliably good first dance photograph? My previous method, taking a lot of shots with an on-camera flash, then a lot using ambient light, would produce at least one decentish photograph. But rarely many more than that. And when I say decent, I mean no better than that. Just ok. Passable. Not the sort of thing with which to round off a photo album.

So I did something different. I realised that the first dance was the one part of the day where the couple could be relied upon to be in one place at a set time, with no-one around them. If only I could rely on the light. So I started bring the light with me.

A single remote strobe (you know – the sort of thing you see permanently stuck on top of an average wedding photographer’s camera) placed on the opposite side of the dance floor. (I now use two of them, which widens my options still further). A small amount of know how to ensure that you’re not capturing any of the ambient light, and the strobe becomes a spot light. All that remains is to change your position relative to the couple dancing, and you have a range of effects to play with. I personally love a silhouetted shot, but interestingly couples prefer something a little less abstract. Nevertheless, I’ll always get one shot that I would consider putting in my portfolio.

And that’s the sort of hit rate I’m aiming for. I’m going to start playing around with off-camera lighting a bit more. I’ll let you know if anything interesting develops.

When did I start taking good photographs? Well, when I say “good” I mean “not so bad that your eyes bleed a little”? It was when I abandoned my do-it-all-for-you Canon EOS 300, and bought a Nikon FE- a manual focus (mostly) mechanical camera, with a single, 24mm lens. I went on to use this combo, plus a couple of cheap primes, for a couple of years, and it was great. Really great. I learn so much, because I couldn’t just let the camera take over. It wasn’t clever enough, so I had to be.

I mentioned in the last post how I like a manual focus lens on my e-p1, and it is for exactly this reason – the thought process is just a little more involved. The fact is, once I was the one worrying about focus and exposure, the whole act of taking a photograph became more creative, more abstract, and something interesting happened. Without realising it, I stopped worrying about subject.

This is something the beginning photographer, unless they are particularly aware, often doesn’t realise. The subject does not make the photograph. The name photograph itself means, essentially, drawing with light, and it turns out that this is the most important thing that you can concentrate upon.

Think about it. How many of the great photographs depend exclusively on the subject? Very few. There are, of course, great photographs of historical events, and occasionally the event itself is sufficient to make the photograph great (the astonishing images of the “Tank Man” at Tiananman Square are perhaps The most obvious example*). However, a great subject is neither a necessary nor a sufficient condition – most certainly not the latter. There was a point where I must have realised that the subject itself did not make the photograph. As we have all discovered after returning from a particularly picturesque destination, taking a photograph of a spectacular sunset does not, unless you know your craft, make for a spectacular photograph of a sunset.

The secret here is light. This is what one is photographing. Not a subject, not a thing, but the way that that thing is represented in two dimensions, represented by the interplay of light. Don’t believe me? Go and take a look on Flickr. Note down the photographs that really take your breath away. In how many of those photographs is the subject itself of much interest? How many of these “things” would you stop and photograph yourself if you were to walk past them? Yes, quite. Sobering.

A humbling lesson for me, certainly. So often, I’ll go out, and just not be able to find anything to photograph. Maybe I just shouldn’t go so far afield.

*this is a better example than you may think. There’s a fair chance that the photograph that you think you know is not the photograph that you think you know. Very similar images were taken by at least three different photgraphers, all from very similar angles, and are used pretty much interchangably. A very rare example of the circumstances being far and away the most important thing about the image (I hope that I am in no way denigrating the photographers or the photographs in question. They remain extraordinary, and taken under extraordinary circumstances. They’re just not quite as unique as you may believe.).

Auofocus, my friends. I don’t want it. I don’t want it all to be too easy. Of course, I could turn it off. But, and here’s the rub, I know I’d use it, and my photographs would suffer as a result. This is stupid, of course. I’m an intelligent man, these things shouldn’t make a difference. But I’m afraid they do. It’s writing in pen, not pencil; it’s leaving a black run as the only route down a mountain; it’s commiting to leaning in for the first kiss, where your intentions are unmistakable. These are the things we do because they’re harder, and they challenge us, and the results cannot be separated from the method.

No-one makes a 20mm 1.7 compact lens other than Panasonic, and they don’t make a manual focus version. Hence my bind. Maybe I’ll try using the 17mm as a purely manual affair, and see how I get on. If it works, I’ll upgrade. Otherwise, I’ll have to venture down other, hitherto unchartered, avenues.