This is a special end of the year for me.  On one hand, I am turning 50 at the end of the year but I  am also celebrating 10 years since I picked up film photography again. I first learned on my fathers OM-1 camera and back in 2013 he gifted me his old camera.  I put it away and forgot about it until 2014 when I pulled it out, put in a battery and some film and shot my first roll.  I still have those negatives and adore some of the photographs that came out of it. I was hooked and never looked back.

I thought that in celebration of this occasion I would write up a simple, straightforward list of lessons I learned in photography.  They are in no particular order and I will not bore you with the reasoning behind it.  Consider it a grocery list of lessons I learned.  Let's keep them down to 10, one for each year of my film photography journey....  

1. I already gave away the first lesson. Photography is a journey not a destination. Learn, practice, be patient, be proud and grow.
2. Pick a camera and a lens and leave it at that. You need to be able to see the camera perspective without lifting the camera. You should know the mechanics by heart. This is called craftsmanship and it is critical for your journey.
3. Craftsmanship and artistry are two sides of the coin of photography. You need to work and build on both. Talented photographers have an eye but often lack the craftsmanship to be reliable. 
4. True...it is not the gear but the photographer...and the light, and the film, and the darkroom technique, and luck...it takes a host of things to capture good shots and yes gear is important but not in the way most think. Good gear is reliable gear. If your gear is reliable chances are it is more than good enough.
5. Copying the work of others is great practice. Feel free to steal anyone's idea and try it out yourself.  Don't be ashamed, give credit, capture the image and learn from it. The ONLY person you should never copy from is yourself. As much as you would like to revisit a location where you took an amazing shot, you will not learn anything from it. Your journey must move you forward not backward. 
6. Always leave yourself and out. Photography gear is expensive, but it does you no good to keep it at home unused. You need to take it out and use it but that opens you up to theft. When you are on the street with your gear, leave yourself and out. Look around you and always have another way out in mind. Train yourself to think like this. Be aware of your surrounds, the people around you, and where you will run if needed and what is your other way out.
7. Be prepared to lose your equipment.  This is key. You need to be ready to have your gear stolen and not let it break your love of photography. This is a risk we must take and while you can mitigate the risk, you must accept some residual risk is beyond your control.Be mentally ready to lose it and remember that your safety is more important than gear.
8. Print your pictures...and yes they will end up in a box under your bed. This is where they should go. But your photography is not over until a print is made. Your lessons are not learned until you see the photo in print form. You need to hold it, feel it and then consider its artistic value. Composition in a viewfinder is different than in a print and that is different again from composition in a framed print. Learn the difference.
9. Don't overpack. All you need is a pocket full of film and a reliable camera with a single lens. You can take more but you don't NEED to take more.
10. Finally, and this is key, the 50mm lens is perfect. Sure I can talk of the advantages of longer focal lenses or wider ones. But that 50mm....get a good 50 and move on. It will outshoot you any day, everyday.  

I stumbled upon a YouTube channel where a young photographer spoke about his introduction to film.  I love to hear how young people were drawn to film because it is so different than what I experienced.  I grew up with film, but never took photography seriously until I was older and shot digital.  After a bit, my father gave me his OM-1 and I took it out to shoot and never looked back.  I was reintroduced to film.

But young people did not grow up with film and had to be introduced to it fresh. This is a massive undertaking so I respect their journey greatly.  I probably would have given up at the third frustrated loss of images.

Back to the YouTube channel, here was this young man speaking about film and he mentioned something very insightful.  The size of film you shoot dictates the camera you use and the camera will dictate your style.  The example he gives us is the following...

If f you are new to film and pick up a roll of 35mm and then reach over for a simple camera for a beginner you will grab onto a pocket sized automated, point & shoot camera. This has all manner of electronics to focus, determine exposure, decide if a flash is needed and shoot the picture with a single button press!  But if you select medium format lets say in 6x6 then you would pick up a Hasselblad which has no light meter, no automated function and nothing to help or guide you.  

So the film size you select dictates the camera choice and the camera choice then determines your photography. A Hasselblad 500com is a wonderful camera, one of my favorites but it is not for street photography. It is for portraits and perhaps some landscape but certainly nothing fist action like street or sports. 

So, young grasshopper, pick your film wisely as all you do after that will be determined by your film size.  

Ah, the Leica camera—an instrument so revered that it inspires a dedicated following comprised of enthusiasts, zealots, and fanboys. You know the type: the Leica loyalists who believe that unless you’ve committed to that little red dot, you're simply not a “real” photographer. They’re the ones with an arsenal of gear that could fund a small country, and let’s be honest, we all love to roll our eyes at them. Yet, despite this, I can’t help but count myself among the Leica admirers. 

There’s something undeniably magical about the rangefinder format. Maybe it’s the promise that one of these beautifully crafted machines could, in some miraculous way, turn me into a photography god (hey, we all have our delusions, right?). Plus, the thought that a Leica can last a lifetime is tantalizing—imagine passing it down to future generations, who might use it to capture their own awkward family moments. What a legacy!

But here’s the kicker: while I adore my Leica M series cameras, I find myself rather underwhelmed by their lenses. Don’t get me wrong; they’re exceptional pieces of glass. It’s just that the price tag is so intimidating it might as well come with a side of therapy bills! 

Years ago, I splurged on a used M6 for a cool $2,000 (it was either that or redesign my living room to fit my hoarding tendencies). Naturally, I needed a lens, but the thought of surrendering my entire paycheck—maybe even my dog's college fund—for that pristine Leica glass made me break into a cold sweat. So, in what I can only describe as a poor life choice wrapped in the delusion of practicality, I opted for a used Zeiss 50mm f/2 lens. The moment I attached it to my M6, I was hooked.

Now, let me sing the praises of this “backup” lens for a moment: it’s sharp, full of character, and boasts fewer shortcomings than my last romantic relationship. It’s perfectly built and offers a buttery-smooth focus within a two-inch range that makes me feel like a photographic ninja. I can nail my focus quickly without worrying about glare or other pesky artifacts, and the bokeh? Let's just say it’ll make angels weep tears of joy. It matches the silver aesthetic of my M6 perfectly, and honestly, this lens has become somewhat of a permanent resident—it's rarely detached from my Leica.

Here’s the real conundrum, though: despite my occasional dalliance with a Leica lens (I did buy the Leica 28mm f/2.8 while on vacation—what can I say, I was feeling spontaneous), nothing compares to my beloved Zeiss 50. I mean, I might as well serenade it; it’s been with me on epic journeys, shoved into hotel room safes like a rare treasure, and put on display atop some world-class restaurant tables. 

This camera-and-lens duo has traveled to crazy places: Germany, England, Indonesia, Australia, Argentina, Cambodia, Malaysia—the list goes on like an overzealous travel vlog. There was that one time in the UK when my camera meter failed me, but honestly, it was just some moisture—like the unreliable friend who promises they won’t bail on plans and then ghost you at the last minute. But my trusty Zeiss lens? Flawless.

So here’s my take: great cameras are wonderful tools, no doubt about it. They won’t magically transform you into the next Ansel Adams or Henri Cartier-Bresson—trust me, I’ve tried. But a good lens, one you truly understand and bond with, is like a sturdy partner who sticks with you through thick and thin. Those lenses that resonate with us, that help us realize our creative visions and fit so seamlessly into our style? They deserve a celebration.

While I’m not exactly waving a flag for Leica as a brand (I do own a M9 after all), I’ll gladly defend my love affair with this specific Zeiss lens. It's a faithful companion, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: in the quest for photographic excellence, what matters more than the name on your camera is the glass you choose to put in front of it. So here’s to Zeiss—the lens that makes me feel like a superhero, even if my photography skills still put me in the sidekick category!

Ah, large format photography! That lofty realm where the phrases “Wait, I just need to adjust the tilt,” and “Did I remember to close the lens cap?” blend seamlessly into an art form that resembles an ancient ritual (some call it the "dance"). My journey into this universe began with a simple question: if medium format is the tastefully-sized bento box of photography, why not opt for a grand buffet of 4x5 large format? After all, what could possibly go wrong with lugging around a camera that weighs more than your average toddler?


From Medium to Mammoth: What Drove Me

My love affair with film photography kicked off with medium format, wielding a lovely 6x6 camera that allows for some darkroom magic, giving me the luxury to recompose without sacrificing image quality. With a cool dozen shots, finishing a roll isn’t the kind of protracted saga that keeps me cataloging indefinite “half-rolled” films. Trust me, a half-finished roll is the film photographer's equivalent of wearing mismatched socks—always there, glaring at you, mocking your lack of decisiveness.


So, bigger must be better, right? My sparkling ambition was further fueled by a desire to slow down and embrace the complexity of large format. With a camera sporting movements that could make an origami artist weep, I anticipated profound creative choices and—here comes the big one—greater control over exposure. This, I thought, felt like a Picasso painting compared to a stick figure. 


Thus, I delved into the world of large format photography, investing about $2,500 to acquire a 4x5 camera, two used lenses, and a brand-spanking-new spot meter (stay tuned for the review—I’m still wrestling with it). 

The Roller Coaster of Reality 

As I wandered deeper into the realms of 4x5, reality took a friendly jab at me. I quickly realized I had signed up for a rigorous masterclass in “Mistakes 101.” Sure, it slowed me down—the rhythm of shooting transformed from the quick click of the shutter to a meticulous five-to-ten-minute setup. In that time, I’ve seen many scenes slip away like summer rain in London. 


And my past life, trained in the decisive moments of Henri Cartier-Bresson, became laughably irrelevant. Instead of capturing gestures and fleeting reflections, I found myself studying composition and subject matter as though it were a game of chess, only the pieces were made out of glass and wood and could decide to flip over at any moment.


Ansel Adams, bless his soul, chose mountains that gracefully stood still for the duration of his slow exposures. Me? I'm anxiously watching the clouds shimmy in an existential ballet, awaiting the moment a magical shot is apparently just about to happen. Oh, but wait! My camera is still adjusting its position. 


The Learning Curve: A Steep and Humbling Ascent

Each foray into large format is like peeling an onion. So many layers, and every tear has a lesson attached. What did I learn? Well, large format is technically demanding. Dozens of choices induce profound anxiety, and each decision—be it tripod placement or focus adjustment—has a monumental impact on the final image. Contrast this with good ol’ medium format and 35mm, where you simply set the exposure index and move on like you’re cruising on a Sunday drive. 


With large format, I must bypass the instant gratification of shooting into a world of carefully orchestrated, deliberate movements. My camera starts to feel less like an extension of my eye and more like a trusted (yet overly complicated) drunk friend who’s teaching me life lessons at every turn. 


For instance, if I changed my camera orientation to capture a different shot, I had to mentally prepare myself for a cataclysm of decisions—a kaleidoscope of considerations that could make or break the shot. Suddenly, humility became my closest companion, and I felt like I was fumbling my way through eye surgery after years of confidently operating at a desk job.

A Long Way to Go: The Road of a Humble Novice

As I sit here contemplating my 20th negative out of 50 on this grand journey, I remind myself that being a novice again has its merits. The recent inquiries I’ve dared to make of those wiser and more experienced in the large format world have been met with varied responses—ranging from thoughtful insights to the occasional eye roll at my “dumb questions.” 


Yet, this journey isn’t solely about perfect images; it’s about learning and the humility that accompanies the mistakes often swept under the rug in the realm of social media perfection. Each misstep provides a nugget of wisdom, revealing my limitations and encouraging deeper respect for the titans of photography like Adams, Strand, Weston, and Avedon. 


In conclusion, while the gulf between their mastery and my own could be likened to the distance between Earth and Mars, the journey through this intricate world of large format is bound to teach me invaluable lessons. So, here’s to many more mistakes, a labyrinth of learning ahead, and eventually capturing magic on those large, glorious negatives! Stay tuned, for my next adventures might involve wrestling with technology and perhaps a photography guide to setting up camp in awkward public spaces. Because who doesn’t love a little chaos with their creativity?

When Your Leica M6 Light Meter Takes a Holiday in London
Ah, London! The charming city of double-decker buses, endless gray skies, and my dearly departed light meter. Yes, the universe has a sense of humor, and it decided to test mine while I was on a work trip, looking forward to a glorious morning of film photography—just me and my Leica M6. 

After a successful day capturing memories on the bustling streets, imagine my shock when I woke up to discover my trusty light meter had gone on strike. One minute I was happily snapping photos, and the next, my meter was as dead as my enthusiasm for cloudy weather. (And if you’ve ever been to London, you know the feeling—cloudy is basically the national mood.)

Standing right in front of the iconic Westminster, I found myself fiddling with my camera like it was a Rubik's Cube. I jiggled it, I changed batteries, and I may or may not have pleaded with it to start working again. No luck! It was almost poetic—every bit of frustration echoed by the low-hanging clouds above. 

Now, let’s be honest; I don’t live in London anymore. I had been daydreaming about revisiting my favorite snappable locations and capturing the essence of this vibrant city again. Instead, there I was, at the mercy of a meter that apparently decided to drift off into the great unknown. It was a bit like taking a trip back to your childhood home only to find that your old toys have been replaced with nothing but sentimental regrets.

In utter desperation, I glanced upward at the typical London sky: gray, flat, and as welcoming as a wet sock. “Ah, London weather,” I mused, recalling a classic quote: "If you don’t like the weather in London, wait five minutes.” Well, I didn’t plan on waiting—I needed a light meter, and I needed it now!

So, what’s an enterprising film photographer to do? I whipped out my iPhone, turned on the trusty light meter app, and began to gather my readings. First, a shot of the sky—a cloudy palette that would leave every artist in a fit of jealousy. Then, taking a reading in deep shadow, I could feel that creeping sense of strategy begin to replace my initial frustration. Finally, I even measured the gray cement path I was standing on because, hey, every bit counts, right?

With this newfound knowledge, I established my light meter boundaries. I’d keep everything on the middle marker unless I was shooting something in the horizon or deep in shadow; then I’d bump it up a bit. It felt oddly triumphant—like I had cracked a secret code buried deep within the shadows of Westminster. 

With my DIY light meter method in place, I spent the entire day capturing shots—two rolls’ worth of pure bliss. Each frame was well exposed thanks to my unconventional approach, using the magic of Ilford HP5 B&W film. Sure, color film would have turned this exercise into a guessing game, and slide film? Forget it—it would have sent me into existential despair!

In the end, what started as a frustrating morning transformed into an unplanned adventure in urban light management. My Leica M6 and I ended that day not just with excellent exposure but also with a hilarious story to tell. So, let this be a lesson to all you aspiring film photographers: when technology fails you, remember to improvise, embrace the clouds, and always carry an iPhone for backup. After all, creativity often flourishes in the most unexpected situations—just like my photos from that London trip!