Over the past few years, I’ve sat back and watched most of my photography friends upgrade their cameras to mirrorless technology.  I say ‘sat back’, because I’m still using my trusty Nikon D4 that I’ve had for the past 10 years.  I collect old cameras, some of which are over 70 years old, but that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of luddite when it comes to photographic technology, far from it.  The D4 was Nikon’s newest professional DSLR when it came out in 2012 and, despite not winning any prizes in the modern-world obsession with megapixels, it still holds its own in terms of image quality.  As long as severe cropping isn’t your thing, it is still a fine camera and as such, I currently feel no need to change it.

The progression to mirrorless does interest me, though.  For the uninitiated, a DSLR (Digital Single Lens Reflex) camera has a single lens (duh!) which is used for both composition and acquisition.  The camera achieves both by using a mirror that, when down, covers the sensor (or film) and directs light from the lens into the viewfinder so you that can see the scene.  When the shutter button is pressed, the mirror flips up out of the way and allows the light to fall on the sensor when the shutter opens, making the image.  This arrangement has been around for decades and was seen by many as the most convenient way to shoot, because what you see is essentially what you get.  The alternative rangefinder and viewfinder cameras at the time relied on precise alignment of the viewfinder optics and a little guesswork to accurately compose the image, but they had the advantage of not needing a mirror.  The mirror has always been seen as the SLR/DSLR camera’s Achilles’ heel, as the act of quickly flipping a mirror requires mechanical stabilisation, vibration damping etc to avoid any problems with blurring of the image.  It also adds size and weight to the design of the camera body as well as making the shutter-release process noisy.  When I’m shooting in burst mode, which fires the shutter at up to 10 frames/second, it literally sounds like a machine gun.  Forget any ideas of being the next Cartier-Bresson and shooting in discreet pictures of people and events unfolding on the street, as they will almost certainly hear you. The great man used a selection of Leica rangefinder cameras, which I know from experience to be near silent.

As the name suggests, mirrorless cameras don’t have the same arrangement as DSLRs, with the viewfinder being a direct, live preview of what the lens sees provided by the sensor itself.  When the shutter is released, the sensor quickly switches off the preview mode and the image is made like any other camera.   Removing the mirror means that camera manufacturers have been able to exploit advances in electronics to achieve smaller size, lighter weight, higher shutter speeds and burst rates, as well as using the most advanced sensors available today.  All sounds perfect, doesn’t it?

Well, not quite.   There are some problems that I’ve noticed with mirrorless technology that means I won’t be moving to it any time soon.   The first is that the systems use different lenses to their DSLR counterparts.  There are several reasons for the difference, but the main one is that with the mirror mechanism removed, the distance between the lens’ rear optic and the sensor can be greatly reduced, which in theory makes for improvements in lens design where size and weight are concerned.  I say ‘in theory’ because like everything, it’s not quite as simple as that.   Suffice to say, the lenses are different and, in many cases, they are lighter than their DSLR counterparts.  However, I have about £20k worth of excellent lenses for my DSLR that I’ve collected over the past decade, so what do I do with those if I move to mirrorless?  To get around compatibility, Nikon have produced an adapter that allows DSLR lenses to work with their Z series mirrorless cameras (the same is true of the other major DSLR manufacturers).  The drawbacks of the adapter are that it makes the now-slim camera rather bulky, even before the bulky lens is fitted.  Also, in some cases there have been reports of the adapter’s interface affecting the available apertures and dramatically reducing the autofocus performance, particularly on some of the large telephoto lenses that I have.   In my case then, I would have to trade in the lenses as well as my D4, which is essentially the same hassle as changing camera brand entirely.  Add to that the fact that there are currently fewer lens options available for mirrorless, and it’s not looking like an enticing proposition. 

Another potential issue is the battery life.  One of the interesting things about modern use of cameras is the way that phones have influenced how we compose photographs.  We hold up the phone and use the screen to compose, focus and take the picture.  Mirrorless cameras also offer some of that convenience with their reviewing screen, so it’s not surprising to see photographers taking advantage of it.  All that screen time, coupled with the high-performance functions like burst-mode and enhanced videography, can quickly drain the battery.  I was on a photography trip earlier this year and saw the issue first-hand as one of my friends had to keep swapping batteries throughout the day.  Even using the dedicated viewfinder involves a small digital screen to be active during composition, unlike the optical arrangement of a DSLR.  Sure, the mirror is moved electrically in modern DSLRs, but the manufactures have had a long time to refine the efficiency of that.  Naturally, there are steps that can be taken to reduce mirrorless power consumption, but for me it’s an added complication when my camera’s batteries last for days at a time, no matter how much abuse they get.  It might seem like an unfair comparison given that my D4 was designed for professional work and its batteries are enormous, but I suspect the same is true of my other, consumer DSLR.

They say that life is a series of compromises, which is definitely true when it comes to the choice of camera gear.  I really like where the mirrorless technology is going and the cameras my friends have been buying are spectacular performers.  It’s true that when I want to shoot on the street, I’m forced to take one of my film rangefinders in order to be quiet, but that introduces a whole series of other problems.  In Cartier-Bresson’s day, nobody paid him or his camera any attention as he walked around the streets.  Today however, the sight of a Leica (particularly an M model) has fellow photographers coming over to ask about the camera.  If it’s a Rolleiflex TLR like the one in the picture, the attention is exponentially increased.  People are genuinely fascinated to see old gear like this (this Rollei was made in 1958) still being used, so want to ask lots of questions about it.  A mirrorless camera would definitely be an advantage in that situation if I grew tired of it (I’m not, though – I love their interest).  

My 1958 Rolleiflex T, a beautiful Twin Lens Reflex camera that always attracts attention

In the end, it comes down to personal choice – how much effort we want to put into the upgrade vs. the potential payoff.  For me, the balance isn’t right yet so any upgrade I’d make right now would be one of Nikon’s flagship DSLRs, the Nikon D6 or the D850.  With the pace of technological advance, it may soon be that I won’t have any choice in the matter.  Rest assured though, when the time is right, I’ll be a willing convert. 

Bought a new camera or found an old one in the loft?  Get started with some personal tuition for beginners.  It's tailored to your particular area of interests and can be delivered either in person or via video call.  Drop me a line at [email protected] for more details. 

For more about Henri Cartier-Bresson, the father of street photography, visit www.henricartierbresson.org/en/

Last month, my wife and I left for a road trip to Austria in the camper.  Ordinarily this would have been quite the adventure its own right, given that last time I drove in Europe, we were all one big happy family of nations. This trip was particularly exciting and nerve-wracking because my wife was competing in Ironman Austria.  For those who don’t know the full extent of this madness, Ironman is a triathlon with the following distances:  3.9km swimming, 180km cycling and 42km running.  In context, that last one is a full marathon.  Needless to say, I’d been in awe of her commitment to training, as I am with all of our friends and family who have taken on such a challenge.  However, it wasn’t until the end of the event, after some 15 ½ hrs of gruelling competition in 35°C heat, that I gained some sense of how it affects the mind as well as the body.  She crossed the line to the sounds of the cheering crowd and the loud music as expected, but after she received her medal, she headed for the platform next to the DJ and started dancing! Why? Because the track was a favourite of hers.   I couldn’t believe it.  She had finished the culmination of many months hard training, the long journey and the intense heat and just fancied a boogie.  When I asked her about it afterwards, she told me that she had no idea why, it just seemed like something to do. 

Fast forward to last Sunday and we found ourselves standing by a lake in the Cotswolds, with me about to start a challenge that I’d set myself nearly 2 years ago.  I was going to swim 10km open water, in an event aptly described as ‘a marathon’.  I’d had a false start last year, when training was interrupted by my falling down a flight of stairs (another tale entirely).  This year, I had worked very hard to prepare for this day and it was finally here.  Although nervous as we set off, I completed the first 7km without any drama – I was actually enjoying the experience.  Then it started.  The slight aches in my shoulders became stabbing pains.  My calf muscles decided to cramp in unison, and I began to worry that with 3km still to go, I’d struggle to get to the finish.  Here is where my conscious and subconscious went their separate ways too.  I am normally someone who thinks they are aware of the level that is ‘doing my best’ and generally, when I reach that without completing something, I stop. It’s been a defence mechanism for most of my adult life against the risk of provoking my anxiety, something I’ve suffered from form many years.   The idea is that if I don’t think something is possible despite my best efforts, pushing further is a bad idea.  This is, of course, completely unhelpful nonsense.  In the swim, my conscious mind had started to freak out, while my subconscious was on auto-pilot.  Call it the inbuilt knowledge that I’d trained for this if you like.  A friend of mine quoted the character Dory from Finding Nemo, with her chant of “Just Keep Swimming”, which I think was actually reciting during laps 8 and 9.  Whatever the motivation, I just moved on to the next 1km loop, regardless of the pain I was in.   When I reached the end, it was all matter of fact; no excitable celebration or emotional outburst, those would come later when the scale of the achievement had sunk in.  

Tired but happy.  Note that the clock is the time of day - I wasn't swimming for 13 hours!​​​​​

The golf legend Gary Player once said, “the more I practice the luckier I get”, which I think is a good description of all training and experience.  I had recalled this quotation when I was fortunate enough to shoot the Malvern Pride event a few weeks ago.   As the official photographer, it was up to me to represent the what the day meant both in terms of the struggle for equality and the celebration of self – no pressure there, then.  As I began the shoot, I noticed a few errors creeping into my technical process, which led to some shots not being as I expected.  My mind started to panic at the prospect of not doing a good enough job.  Then I thought “hang on, I know photography and how to use a camera.  Just relax and let your knowledge take over!”.  Almost immediately, the shoot started to go well and I was really happy with the outcome.   

What I learned from this race was that I have the tendency to talk myself out of things when I subconsciously know that I am more than capable of doing them.   Our subconscious is responsible for our basic instincts, which includes whether to stand and fight or run away.  Stands to reason that it has some idea of how confident we are in a situation as well.  I’m definitely going to listen to it more in future instead of letting my conscious mind run away with itself. 

As for the swimming, my plan to complete one of the toughest lake swims in the UK, the 18km Windermere One Way, within the next two years, is on track.   Just need to make sure I am as ‘lucky’ as I can get. 

For details of personal beginners' tuition in photography, please drop me a line at [email protected]

The Malvern Pride photographs can be found at: https://www.richperspective.co.uk/p82495918

My other work can be found in the gallery at www.richperspective.co.uk

I was recently chatting to a member of my family about my progress as a photographer, both in terms of leaving my previous career and my academic studies.  I pointed out that I had changed a lot when it came to my own work, but also in how I view the work of others.  I’ve never been shy in offering my opinion on a wide range of subjects, but when it comes to photography, I’ve had to learn to keep them to myself unless asked.  This could be seen as my mellowing as I get older or it could be that I’ve just decided to stay away from artistic ‘judgement’ because I have developed a broader view of what for me, makes a ‘good photograph’.  During our conversation, it was pointed out to me that the majority of people don’t look at photographs with a critical eye, that they simply like it or not, depending on their perspective or life experience.  I’ve talked about this before in earlier blogs and my assertion was that there is nothing wrong with going with our immediate emotional reaction to an image.  I’ve also made no secret of my contempt for what I call the ‘camera club mentality’ where work is often judged merely on its technical merit.   My critical approach to looking at photographs is being shaped by what I continue to learn about visual codes and artistic genres through my study, which results in an appreciation of an image that is very personal to me.  I realised that this is what I mean by keeping my judgements to myself. 

The discussion got me thinking about some of these critical ideas that I base my interpretations upon and my most recent research into the concepts of the beautiful, the picturesque and the sublime, which exist across the genres, but none more obviously than in landscape.  When thinking about beauty, we all rightly believe what that means to us.  We associate beauty with liking or loving something, a provocation of a sometimes-overwhelming sense of wellbeing.  In landscape art, the idea of beauty was associated with nature and the elements in the natural world that create an almost primeval sense of wonder.  Natural light, colour, texture and scale can all combine visually in landscape invoke a sense of beauty, but nature is also capable of creating a sense of fear and despair.  If the landscape image contains treacherous rocks or violent weather, our experience changes.  We still take a pleasure from viewing the image, but it is now an excitement at the danger or threat to our lives that might ultimately result in death.  It might sound perverse, but this concept, known as the sublime, has been an important part of art history for centuries. 

It won’t be a surprise to learn that these are not simple categories that pictures can be placed in through some form of scientific analysis.  Discussions about whether the natural world in the form of wilderness is actually real or whether human impact has practically eliminated it, have continued since the 18h Century.  If you place yourself in wilderness, is it really still wild or at some level colonised?  The idea of artists shaping and representing the aesthetic beauty of nature for their own purposes became the basis of the third category, the picturesque, which was conceived by the artist William Gilpin at the end of the 18th Century.  Picturesque (as in a picture) imagery contains a romanticised notion of the landscape which often means idealised weather conditions and carefully placed buildings, structures or features in carefully constructed compositions.  They are pleasing on the eye but don’t necessarily provoke any extreme emotions in the viewer.  Not surprisingly, the majority of landscape photographs that surround us are picturesque and these tend to be what most people hang on their walls.  A simple Google search of a famous location such as Durdle Door in Dorset provides us with many examples of the picturesque.

Almost every image is the same view, with only the weather and foreground details changing between photographs.  We get no real sense of the natural formation of the cliff from them, nor the conditions under which it might have been formed over the millenia.  The are ‘nice’ photographs, but personally they have little emotional impact beyond “I’d quite like to go there”.  However, in the photographer the vision was unlikely to have been ‘you should go there’.   They would have seen the rock formation and the lighting conditions and wanted to represent its beauty.   The resulting image though, is directed by the idea of the picturesque which presents us modern photographers with a problem.  The main issue with the idea of a beautiful or sublime landscape photograph is that it cannot really exist.  As with the arguments about man’s impact on the wilderness, the landscape photograph is still driven by a specific observation by the photographer about the scene.  The events leading up to the decision to shoot the picture may well contain elements of the sublime, but the image itself still tends towards the picturesque, i.e what makes it look good in a picture.  The sublime then, is a visual code for analysis of elements that provoke the emotions, rather than a classification or specific artistic intent.  It makes us think differently about the picture we are looking at and how it makes us feel. 

In preparing my thoughts for this post, I looked through my own collection for landscapes that could be considered sublime and found only one.  Many years of considering landscape photography as the representation of something pleasing that I might want to print, have directed me, like everyone else, to shoot toward the picturesque.   

In this scene, I was struck by how quickly the conditions change in the Yorkshire Dales and how man’s efforts to tame the landscape, with walls and fences, is insignificant compared to the power of nature.  What I hadn’t considered as I pressed the shutter, was how to best represent that power; the sublime element not really occurring to me until afterwards.  You can bet that my future landscape images will consider precisely what I want to say about what I am seeing and feeling.  That’s nice, or perhaps not. 

Interested in taking up photography?  Bought a new camera and don't know how to use it? Why not have some beginners' tuition that is tailored to your interests.  Drop me a line at [email protected] for more details or have a look at my work at www.richperspective.co.uk for some ideas.