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.

Calm down, Dear, it's only a photo...

Photographers of every shape and size, amateur, professional, journeyman or craftsman are all as guilty as the average "creative" when it comes to occasionally taking themselves and their outputs just a tad too seriously. I blame Barthes, myself, and that Sontag woman. The problem starts when the "serious" snapper - that is one who takes their photography seriously, either as a hobby or a profession - starts to fret that they do not have a "personal style". HCB did, so did Chatwin, Weston and Adams. So does Rankin, O'Neill, Parr, Myerowicz, McCullin, Salgado - the list is endless.

"I have no recognisable style..." the panicky little inner monologue declaims. "I cannot be a proper photographer, I will not be taken seriously, until I have a recognisable style of my own." This pernicious little thought drives out any concept of learning the craft and letting a style evolve on it's own. Oh no.

The next "logical step" (for which read "hare-brained idea") is to work slavishly to become "the next [insert as applicable]". This leap of blind faith ignores an inconvenient truth - style does not spring full-formed overnight. and certainly cannot be adopted, like donning a suit. Those who our little lost photographer would choose to emulate built their instantly recognisable signature bodies of work over a period of years; their less polarised work has faded, either through time or assiduous editing, from the public consciousness. There is simply no short-cut to greatness, although there is a fairly easy footpath just over there that leads to mediocrity.

The other funny thing about personal style is that it tends to be structured and codified by those around you. For the most part it is their positive (and negative) feedback that encourages the photographer, like a lab rat, to understand that pressing the shutter on a particular camera, using a particular lens, pointing at a particular subject, in particular lighting conditions, results in his getting a "treat", and if he does the same thing over and over again, the treats (or plaudits, or work, or money) just keep coming.

Problems can also arise when inexperienced photographers try to run before they can walk and start to believe a little too much in their still slender abilities. "I am working on a project", they will say with a faraway gleam, or "I am building a portfolio" - just like the big boys. No they're not. They are taking lots of similar pictures in the hope that they might "hang together" in some sort of recognisable theme. At this point, the skill lies not in the execution of the image, but in the editing out of the also-rans. The photographer who declares his mojo found, his style settled, is fooling no-one but himself. No amount of Flickr slideshows or vanity publishing can disguise a lack of talent, ability, or self-awareness.

Don't get me wrong. It is very laudable to try to hone your skills, and to sharpen your eye. A good photographer works, if not with a pre-visualised idea of what he wants, at least with intent. Random snapping is not for him; he can go out with a single camera and a single lens, knowing that the shot he wants can be obtained with just that equipment. Instead of wandering, our boy follows a golden thread, exploring around and beyond it, but keeping one foot firmly on the path. He lets his subjects evolve, rather than trying to ossify and regiment them, safe in the knowledge that he has the skill and the vision to extract what he wants to draw out.

Just a photo. Anything you can "see" in it that relates to walking toward the light, or taking a journey, or striding out, is the product of your own fevered imagination...

There is another trap for the unwary. Not everything has to have a meaning or a reason. Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh and a photo is just a photo. No amount of jesuitical debate can bring three dimensional depth to a motif or subject that is inherently shallow. Images that are too weak or diffuse to stand on their own, and require explanation, or any captioning beyond a brief title, to "speak" to the viewer are by definition in and of themselves, mute.

Always remember, there is no shame in being an amateur (or jobbing) snapper. We can't all be first violinists - some of us have to push the wind through the trombone. Don't rush, and don't panic. Your style - if it is truly there within you - will evolve and emerge when it is ready, and you have the maturity and ability to let it come to the surface. In the meantime content yourself with the thought that you are still part of the orchestra...

...even if you are only playing the triangle.

Bill

--0-O-o--

- All images on this blog are copyright Bill Palmer and may not be reproduced in any format or medium without permission.
- If any of this makes you laugh nervously you are probably taking yourself too seriously. Put the project down, back away, go out and take some pictures.

The Invisible Man in the Street

Many who have tried their hand at "street photography" have surely, at one time or another, wished that they could find a Harry Potter-esque invisibility cloak at their local photo dealer, nestled in alongside the wibbly tripods, card readers and tobacco grad starburst filters. I say "many" rather than "anyone" because there are of course those who go out of their way to influence the scene before them. Like an old-school, tweed-suited wedding photographer, they will not be happy until they have stage-managed the people in shot, getting them to pose and smile. They are probably the same people who, as children, endlessly rearranged their Airfix 1/72nd scale commando platoon in height order by hat size. This type of invasive approach is "portraiture" in my view, not "street photography".

Those of you with a scientific background ( I know you are out there, I can hear your test-tube bubbling) will understand the "Hawthorne Effect" - a form of reactivity (it says here) whereby subjects improve an aspect of their behaviour that is being measured in direct response to the fact that they are being measured. In photographic terms, this is the equivalent of someone noticing that you are framing them up and pulling their stomach in, either voluntarily or involuntarily as a result, in order to make themselves "look better". In so doing they may very well no longer be as "interesting" as they were in the first place, and indeed may no longer be worth tripping the shutter.

So, in the absence of magic cloaks, what is the answer for the photographer who wants to capture life as it happens, without changing, or being a part of, what's going on? The natural coward has a couple of options - use a long lens (which is great if you are in a hide of some sort shooting wild birds, but is still likely to attract unwelcome attention if spotted in your local high street), or, in the finest tradition of the Wild West, shoot 'em in the back. The latter is not a bad technique per se, but if it is the only approach used it does call into question the photographers' motivation, let alone his ability to look people in the eye. No. Unobtrusive discretion is the keyword... er, words. Cartier-Bresson was a big gawky Frenchman, and he got away with it for years, so surely it can't be that hard.

Can it?

Then there is a whole school of thought that theorises that the size of one's equipment has a major influence on whether or not one is noticed. Whilst this may have some truth in the porn movie industry, it is far less relevant to the budding street snapper than many would like to believe. In all honesty, sticking tape over the red dot on your Leica is more likely to arouse curiosity of the "When did you break your camera?" variety. It does not make you look more "street" - it does make you look like an obsessive nerd with issues and too much time on your hands. Of course at the extreme there is a point at which your kit will get you noticed. One of those nice big white zoom lenses for SLRs with a front element the diameter of a Starbucks' super-grande soya latte are hard to avoid - I know, for I have been clouted by one in a crowd in the past.

My personal preference is to blend in, plant myself and keep movement to a minimum. Let the images come to me, rather than go seeking them like a demented ninja. Like any good fisherman you do have to choose what the military would refer to as a "target rich environment", of course - it's no good stationing yourself on a deserted country lane and expecting a decisive moment or two within the lifetime of the average snail. In a busy street the way the human mind works is that you will rapidly become part of the scenery. Even if you are wearing a yellow jerkin of the sort favoured by road-sweepers and lollipop ladies, this will be the case. You are there, and therefore you fade from direct consciousness.

You can enhance this effect by dressing appropriately. Going out in a "photo vest" and a pair of zip-off Rohan trousers, with a camera suspended around your neck on a strap that screams "CANON DIGITAL" in big friendly day-glo letters will make it that bit harder for you to convince people that you have just parked yourself there for a quick cappuchino and a biscotti. In general, people see what they expect to see, and disregard the rest. So if you are at Henley, a stripey blazer will help you to blend in. If you are in the City, a pinstripe suit will probably be more helpful, and so on.

There is also an interesting reverse effect, that relies upon what Douglas Adams christened the "SEP Field", where SEP stands for "Someone Else's Problem". Again, this is a bit of mental sleight of hand that relies upon the laziness of the human brain. People do not tend to look - really look - at certain types of people - "Big Issue" sellers, charity muggers, street workers and urban inhabitants in general. The ubiquitous yellow jerkin previously referred to may make you feel conspicuous when you first don it, but put on some old jeans, a tatty sweater, heavy work boots and said jerkin and notice how quickly you fade from people's consciousness. They will actively go out of their way not to make eye contact, or to "take you in".

There are two other factors to consider in our lexicon of unobtusiveness. Firstly, movement. In very simple terms, a jerky, rapid movement catches the eye, while a slow and deliberate one does not. Don't blame me for that - blame our cave-dwelling ancestors and your primitive "monkey brain". Ug and Og realised that a sabre-toothed tiger tends to move faster, and more belligerently, than a three-toed sloth, so their descendants are hard-wired to this day to notice, and react to, sudden and possibly threatening movements. Swinging your camera to your eye as if you are about to launch a grenade in someone's direction is far more likely to cause a negative reaction than a slow, gentle swing up to your eye and away again. I also have a theory, by the way, that people are getting more and more habituated to the mobile 'phone stance for picture taking - small device held in portrait fashion, up high at half-arm's length, peering at a screen - than a small camera raised to the eye. I have no scientific proof for this, but if you try it out let me know.

I think I was spotted...

Last, but far from least, comes the power of "assumed authority". Con artists rely on this all the time. If you look like you know what you are doing, and that you should be there, people will accept that as the status quo. Again, it relies on the laziness of the human brain - if it looks right, it must be right, and we will look no further. Try wearing a reasonably smart suit on a Saturday and standing still with your hands clasped behind your back in a branch of Austin Reed (or Brooks Brothers, for transatlantic readers). I guarantee that within two minutes someone will come over and ask if you have a shirt in a 14 and a half collar in the stockroom. Similarly, if you handle your camera about as if you know how to use it (I am assuming that you do) and make no effort to hide, or look even remotely furtive, you can get away with murder (and the shot).

My most extreme example of this was at a convention in Brighton for the most ardent followers of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer". I was there to shoot the fans, some of whom go to the most extraordinary lengths to dress and make themselves up as their favourite characters. Because I was dressed and looked like a security man's idea of a photographer rather than a fan I was not challenged when I unintentionally passed a "no-entry" sign and found myself in the presence of some of the stars of the show. I quickly asked them to pose, which they did without demur. I got off at least half a dozen shots before my lack of ID badge was noticed and I was politely asked to "buggeroff".

The pictures? Well, I would love to show you, but strangely enough, they were mostly blank. I suppose it must be true what they say about vampires...

Bill

--0-O-o--

- All images on this blog are copyright Bill Palmer and may not be reproduced in any format or medium without permission.
- Why do all cameras, on film or tv, sound like a Nikon F3 with a motordrive?

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