Unplugged...

I think it was MTV that first made popular the "unplugged" approach to music performance. It came as a reaction to the at the time almost inescapable use of electric this, synth that. I particularly remember the acoustic version of Layla by Eric Clapton - still recognisably the same song, but completely re-interpreted. Different. Fresh. What interests me about the very concept of doing something "unplugged" is that it implies a state of plugged-in-ness preceding it - less unplugged than post-plugged.

A musician performing acapella with nothing but an acoustic guitar is in effect putting their talent on the line. They cannot hide behind producers with mixing desks, or digital enhancement. It is them, their capabilities, their instrument and the music. It separates the men (and women) from the boys (and, er, girls). Not everyone can do it. Not everyone, to be fair, feels the need. Those that do, however, show a new dimension to their skills, and earn the respect of their peers and audience as a result.

In the photographic world, the relentless drive to bigger, faster, better digital cameras has led to an explosion of innovation. Product cycles have dropped from years to months or even weeks. From nowhere, it is now possible to buy, for considerably less than the price of a decent weekend break, a digital SLR that produces clean, high quality images without a film in sight. It is all so easy, quick, predictable, efficient, clean, clinical... did I mention soul-less?

I have in the past owned some of the finest film equipment in the world - Nikon, Leica and Contax SLRs and rangefinders, with lenses that were (and are) second to none. When digital happened, I joined the bandwagon after a while, then sat out a few rounds of innovation before rejoining in the shape of an Olympus DSLR. It does all that I ask of it and more, but like the most sophisticated film cameras, you are not always sure what it is doing, or, more crucially, why. There is so much inherent complexity in the modern DSLR - any modern DSLR, not just the Olympus - that it is indeed possible to get yourself caught at the bottom of a sub-menu and trapped there forever until your air runs out and you drown. The modern viewfinder is now more like a dashboard than an optical instrument, with head-up displays and overlays.

*sigh*

I had been aware of screwmount Leicas for as long as I had been aware of the brand. I knew they were the precursors to the M, and much more primitive for that. Separate view and rangefinders, the need for accessory finders for anything other than 50mm focal length, even the need to trim the leader - none of this was lost on me. It all seemed a bit old-fashioned, a bit anachronistic - even, for modern use, a bit masochistic. Why, I thought, would I ever want to use something that didn't even have a built-in meter? Where's the fun in that?

It was about two and a half years ago that I succumbed and bought my first "Barnack". My local dealer had a IIIc in the window, complete with 3.5cm Elmar - still the most compact lens in that focal length ever produced by Leica. It winked at me through the window like a rascally old lady - past her prime but still full of charm, fun and joie de vivre. It took minimal thought for me to go in, plant down my money and walk out with it in my pocket.

I resolved from the outset to go the whole hog and live the Barnack experience - I didn't own a handheld meter, so I decided to rely upon "Sunny 16". I also decided, to make my life a little easier, to only feed the old girl a limited diet - Kodak 400CN. Reasonably fast to compensate for the slow lens, easy to get developed in the high street (even today, if you know where to go), plenty of latitude and somehow black and white just seemed appropriate.

I cheated a little - I used a Panasonic digicam as a back-up to my exposure guesstimation at first, treating it as a meter that could take photos. I kidded myself that I was carrying it as a backup, but I soon realised that I didn't need it - practically or psychologically.

A couple of rolls of film through the gate also made me realise that, in the UK at least, Sunny-16 is nearer to Sunny-12. The little IIIc became my constant companion, in my bag, briefcase or pocket at all times - partly because it was small enough, and partly because it was really just that much fun to use. I got used to the poky rangefinder, and with switching over to the viewfinder for composition. Mostly I used it for "street photography"... I lived the HCB dream, or at least I wandered about with a Leica and snapped people doing vaguely interesting stuff in the street.

Caught with a camera older than you and me put together...

Continuing with the unplugged analogy, if the IIIc is equivalent to an acoustic guitar, then the II that followed is probably nearer to a lute. The II was an impulse buy, from the US via eBay. You know what I mean - I put in a bid and went to bed, and woke up with less money and a parcel on the way. When it arrived it was, er, "crispy" to say the least. Years of gunge meant it handled like a chewy toffee and the view and rangefinders were "atmospheric". A trip to CRR in Luton soon sorted that out, and a new chapter began.

My II is actually a I - it started life in 1930, and was factory-upgraded in 1934. It is both a demanding mistress and a delight - there is nothing between me and my subjects except a thin layer of brass and glass. I don't miss the slow speeds at all, and I find the wider spacing of the view- and rangefinders actually, if anything, make life easier. There are (many) days when it is the only camera I carry.

So does it take more skill to use a Barnack than a modern DSLR? In some respects, I would contend that it does. If you nail it - if everything comes together and you get it right - then the resultant image is all your own work. When you trip the shutter on an old Leica gears whir, springs contract and silk curtains part. When you press the shutter release on the DSLR, you send a command to the CPU that in turn starts a process that...

Let me conclude with this thought; the 40th anniversary of the Beatles' Sgt Pepper album has been marked by some of today's "stars" going into the studios at Abbey Road, using the original analogue 4-track equipment to record cover versions of the songs from the album. Their only recourse to getting it wrong was to re-record... Again, and again, and again... Without the aid of the Antares Autotune - the technology that ensures that however sharp or flat your voice is, you can appear pitch perfect when you "perform" (we have it to blame for the Spice Girls and many others) - the "Talent" struggled to rise to the occasion...

Enough said.

Bill

--o-O-o--

- All images on this blog are copyright Bill Palmer and may not be reproduced in any format or medium without permission.

The Indecisive Moment

In the world of photography, there are some names that stand head and shoulders above the rest. Capa, McCullin, Parkinson, Karsh, Atget, Salgado... Asked to name ten famous photographers any snapper worth their developer will be able to do so without batting an eyelid. The list will vary from person to person, mirroring their likes and dislikes. Ansel Adams is famous, for instance, but I find his images - and his writing - as interesting as watching yogurt ferment and he would not feature on mine.

If I were a betting man, I would say that the name that would appear most frequently is Henri Cartier-Bresson. There is a whole lot of myth and malarky around the tall, well-heeled Frenchman who "invented" the Decisive Moment. Did he or didn't he crop? Did he or didn't he only use a 50mm lens? Some "get" his work, others find it trite, but there is no doubting his impact. I'll wager that any given weekend worldwide hundreds of thousands of photographers go out with one aim in view - to capture their very own Decisive Moment on film (or SD card if that is what floats your boat). There are many more who, once the shutter is pressed, look at the results with the quiet satisfaction of having "nailed it" - there in their hand is their very own slice of time.

But what is that moment, and what makes it decisive? Is there a purity to being in just the right place at the right time - a nobility of spirit and purpose that comes together at the split second of pressing the shutter? Or is that bollocks? Which is nobler? The chap walking around with a screwmount Leica - older than he is, and carrying the patina of tens of years of use, relying on his reflexes to capture the peak of the action - or the man with the state of the art DSLR complete with movie mode, who hoses the action and later, in the privacy of his own lightroom, slices the best image from a hundred thousand others?

Does it matter?

The two approaches are poles apart. The two hypothetical individuals have as much in common as a pikeman and a machine gunner. But they are both after the end result. Both can achieve that result - does the means matter, or just the end?

I'll put my stake firmly in the ground - I'd rather be carrying the Barnack than the bazooka. Part of the pleasure for me comes from achieving more with less. The sense of achievement that comes from getting that shot, knowing that I have captured it through my own reflexes, hand to eye co-ordination and vision, rather than setting a course on the bridge of the starship Canon is part of the pleasure.

Consider this shot. I took it as an entry for a competition. The theme was "The Decisive Moment". I went out with a Barnack Leica with a single aim in view - to capture that elusive slice of time. I came across this street entertainer and burned a roll of film on his antics.

As I worked I repositioned myself to get the best background, and the best view of the action. As I realised what he was planning to do - to throw his hat from his foot and catch it on his head - the statue to the left of the shot suddenly became important - as much a part of the composition as the street performer himself.

It took him three goes to get the hat from foot to head - therefore I had three "decisive moments" to choose from. This is the second of his - our - three attempts, and the only one in which all the elements - for both him and me - came together.

You don't always get time to prepare.

You don't always get a second chance.

...or a third.

Is this a "Decisive Moment"? Enough others thought so for me to win the competition. Was I proud of it? Yes, for I had captured the image with just my reflexes and a basic camera. Could I have taken the same shot with a DSLR? Of course I could. But it would not have been so satisfying. Did I cheat? Ah - there's the question. By having a number of attempts to "practice" on, you could argue that hitting the sweet spot was that much easier for me. Practice makes perfect, after all. No. I don't think I cheated. I still had to get it right, and on another day I may have just produced something worthy of the bin.

I don't want to be HCB.

But it's nice when it all comes together.

Bill

--o-O-o--

You can see a larger version of this image here: Decisive Moment