Canon EOS-1 camera, two lenses, notebook, pen, and coffee by window

The Canon EOS-1D Mark IV: A Photographer’s Trusty Companion

cameras, canon, Lenses, opinons, thoughts, photography, pictures, street, Travel, war

Old Photographer Series

I have owned more cameras than I care to count. Nikons, Canons, Fujifilms—professional bodies, battered workhorses and supposedly obsolete machines that remain perfectly capable of making meaningful photographs.

Almost all of them came to me used.

I have never felt especially comfortable paying the premium demanded for the latest camera. Let somebody else enjoy that intoxicating new-camera smell, decipher the instruction book and absorb the first painful tumble in value. I would wait until the excitement had cooled, the reviews had settled and the camera had begun appearing on the second-hand market.

There was one exception.

The Canon EOS-1D Mark IV was the only camera I ever bought brand new.

Front view of a Canon EOS-1D Mark IV camera with a 50mm lens attached.

That fact alone tells you something about the confidence I had in it. This was not a casual purchase or an impulsive indulgence. The 1D Mark IV was an expensive professional machine, bought with the expectation that it would work hard and keep working. It was not intended to sit inside a glass cabinet, protected from fingerprints and admired for its specifications. It was bought to be carried, knocked about and used in the places where pictures actually happen.

And it did not disappoint me.

A camera made for working

Released at the end of 2009, the 1D Mark IV arrived when Canon’s professional cameras still looked and felt like industrial equipment. It had a 16.1-megapixel APS-H sensor, a fast ten-frames-per-second shooting rate and a substantial autofocus system designed for sport, news and action photography.

None of that fully explains the camera.

A specification sheet can tell you what a camera contains, but it cannot tell you how it behaves when something important suddenly happens in front of you.

The 1D Mark IV felt ready.

Its integrated vertical grip, large battery and weather-sealed body gave it the unmistakable presence of a professional camera. It was not small, light or discreet. Nobody could mistake it for a tourist’s compact camera. When you raised it to your eye, you were clearly there to take photographs.

For some street photographers, that would be a disadvantage. For me, it was often quite the opposite. The camera’s physical certainty encouraged my own. It made me commit to the picture instead of hovering around its edges.

You picked it up, wrapped your hand around that deep grip and felt immediately that it was built for work.

Confidence rather than convenience

Modern cameras have become extraordinarily convenient. They recognise faces, find eyes and follow subjects across the frame with almost unsettling intelligence. The 1D Mark IV came from an earlier stage of that development. Its autofocus was fast and highly capable, but the photographer still needed to understand it.

You had to select the right mode, place the focus point where it mattered and anticipate movement. The camera would help, but it did not relieve you of responsibility.

I liked that relationship.

The 1D Mark IV gave me confidence without making me lazy. Its speed was available when required, but shooting at ten frames per second was never a substitute for recognising the decisive instant. Filling a card with nearly identical frames does not necessarily improve the chances of making a meaningful photograph. Sometimes it merely postpones the decision until you sit at the computer.

The best pictures still came from watching, waiting and pressing the shutter at the right moment.

That shutter had a proper, mechanical authority to it. The camera did not whisper. It announced that a picture had been taken. In a quiet room it could sound almost brutal, but outside—among traffic, crowds, ceremonies and the restless theatre of the street—it felt entirely appropriate.

This was a camera with a pulse.

The APS-H compromise that worked

Canon placed an APS-H sensor inside the 1D Mark IV, giving it a 1.3-times crop factor. It sat between full frame and the smaller APS-C format.

On paper, that might look like an awkward compromise. In practice, it worked remarkably well.

Lenses gained a little extra reach without the field of view becoming as restricted as it would on a 1.6-times crop camera. A 50mm lens behaved rather like a 65mm, while an 85mm offered a field of view close to 110mm. For portraiture, documentary work and events, this could be extremely useful.

The sensor produced detailed files with strong colour and a character that I still find pleasing. Sixteen megapixels may sound modest now, when manufacturers casually offer three or four times that number, but it was—and remains—enough for serious photographs and substantial prints.

A good sixteen-megapixel file is not made obsolete by a newer camera having forty-five.

Resolution has become one of photography’s favourite distractions. We inspect eyelashes at 200 per cent, worry about corners nobody will ever notice and forget to ask whether the picture itself deserves attention. The 1D Mark IV made files large enough to reveal poor technique but not so enormous that every image became an exercise in storage management.

It was a sensible amount of resolution inside an exceptionally capable body.

Not a camera for everybody

The 1D Mark IV had faults.

It was heavy. Carrying it all day with a professional lens could turn photography into physical labour. Its menus and autofocus options demanded familiarity. The rear screen now looks small and dated, and the controls lack some of the polish and flexibility found on modern cameras.

High-ISO performance was excellent for its time, but technology has moved on. Current full-frame cameras can produce remarkably clean results in light that would have made the 1D Mark IV struggle.

Its APS-H sensor also created complications with lens choice. Canon’s EF-S lenses could not be fitted, while wide-angle full-frame lenses no longer appeared quite as wide. Anyone wanting an extremely compact or discreet street camera would have been looking in entirely the wrong direction.

Even so, these limitations never prevented it from doing its job.

That distinction matters. A camera can be surpassed technologically without becoming incapable photographically.

A busy street scene with a tuk-tuk passing by, surrounded by shops including a coffee shop and a sports store. Motorcycles are parked along the roadside, and there are banners displaying various promotions.

The price of buying new

Buying a camera new is partly about certainty. Nobody else has dropped it, drowned it, worn out its shutter or explored its menus with sticky fingers. The battery begins its life with you, the body carries no mysterious scars, and every mark that eventually appears has a story you recognise.

But buying new also means witnessing depreciation at close quarters.

Professional digital cameras were—and remain—expensive. Their financial value can fall alarmingly quickly as a replacement appears and the market rushes towards the next promise of perfection. The photographs do not depreciate, but the machine certainly does.

Perhaps that experience helped confirm my later preference for buying used equipment.

A professional camera that has already lost much of its original price can represent extraordinary value. These machines were designed to survive enormous workloads. A well-maintained older body may have years of life left in it, even after fashion and marketing have declared it yesterday’s news.

The 1D Mark IV was the only new camera I ever bought, and it may remain the only one. That is not because I regretted buying it. Quite the reverse. It taught me what a genuinely dependable professional camera could feel like.

It also taught me that I did not need to repeat the experience every few years.

When the equipment disappears

The finest compliment I can give any camera is that, after a while, I stopped thinking about it.

The controls became instinctive. The shutter button sat exactly where my finger expected it. Changing settings became muscle memory rather than a negotiation with the machine. The camera stopped being an object I was testing and became something I used.

That is when equipment begins to matter less and photography begins to matter more.

The 1D Mark IV gave me that kind of confidence. It was quick when the situation became chaotic, solid when the conditions became difficult and predictable when there was no opportunity for a second attempt.

It did not need to flatter me with novelty. It simply worked.

There is something almost unfashionable about that idea now. Cameras are marketed through spectacular features and yearly improvements, each generation presented as a cure for problems we may not have known we possessed. Yet working photographers rarely need endless novelty. They need reliability, familiarity and confidence.

They need a camera that does not get between them and the picture.

A young girl with unkempt hair stands beside a metal gate, looking pensively into the distance. She is wearing a large plaid jacket and has a thoughtful expression in black and white.

What remains

Would I recommend that somebody buy a Canon EOS-1D Mark IV today?

That depends on what they expect.

It is not the obvious choice for someone wanting a light camera, silent operation, modern video features or the latest autofocus intelligence. Batteries, chargers and the condition of surviving bodies also need careful consideration. These are ageing professional machines, and many have lived professional lives.

But for a photographer who appreciates a substantial camera, an optical viewfinder and the directness of a traditional DSLR, the 1D Mark IV can still be a deeply satisfying instrument. Its image quality remains more than adequate, its performance is still formidable and its construction belongs to an era when professional cameras were expected to earn their scars.

I no longer believe that buying a new camera automatically buys better photography. In most cases, it merely buys untouched equipment.

The Canon 1D Mark IV was different. I bought it new because I believed it would give me the speed, strength and confidence to work. It did exactly that.

Every scratch was mine. Every polished edge came from my hands. Every mark on the body was part of the distance we travelled together.

It was the only new camera I ever bought.

Looking back, I think I chose rather well.

Old Photographer Series: Getting the Best from Your Lenses

Lenses, Travel, pictures, photography, opinons, thoughts, street, viltrox, nikon

We photographers spend an extraordinary amount of time blaming our lenses.

The corners are soft. The autofocus is slow. There is too much distortion, too little contrast or a faint trace of colour fringing around the branches of a tree. Before long, we are reading reviews, studying laboratory charts and wondering whether another expensive piece of glass might finally transform our photography.

It probably will not.

An indoor entertainment venue featuring a 'GO-KART' sign in neon pink, with digital screens showing game details and a vibrant colorful atmosphere.

Most modern lenses are better than most photographers need. Even many old lenses, dismissed as obsolete by people who spend more time examining pixels than making photographs, remain perfectly capable of producing beautiful work. The real question is not whether a lens is good enough. It is whether we have learned how to use it.

Every lens has a personality. Some are clinically sharp and almost invisible in their rendering. Others soften the edges, flare when pointed towards the light or produce backgrounds with a character that cannot be measured by a test chart. Getting the best from a lens begins when we stop demanding that it behave like every other lens and start discovering what it does well.

A 50mm lens does not see like an 85mm. A 24mm cannot be treated as though it were merely a wider 35mm. Each focal length changes the distance between the photographer and the subject, and that distance changes the photograph.

With a wide-angle lens, you must step into the scene. You cannot hover safely across the road and expect the picture to possess any intimacy. You have to enter the crowd, feel the movement and accept that the foreground may become exaggerated. Used carelessly, a wide lens creates empty edges, leaning buildings and tiny figures stranded in the centre. Used properly, it can make the viewer feel physically present.

An elderly man with gray hair smiling while sitting on a motorcycle in a market setting.

A longer lens works differently. My much-loved 85mm allows me to stand back a little, watch a face and wait for the gesture that matters. It separates the subject from a confused street without completely removing the surroundings. But it brings its own dangers. It can make the photographer lazy, encouraging us to remain at a comfortable distance and turn every scene into a blurred background with a sharp head floating in front of it.

The focal length should influence how we move. Our feet remain one of the most important pieces of photographic equipment we possess.

A lens also has an aperture at which it gives its best technical performance. This is often somewhere around f/5.6 or f/8, but technical perfection is not always what the photograph needs. A portrait made at f/1.8 may be slightly softer than one made at f/5.6, but the isolation, atmosphere and delicate transition into the background may be far more valuable than additional sharpness.

Close-up portrait of an elderly man with a blue turban and glasses, wearing a striped light blue shirt.

Use the aperture deliberately. Do not shoot everything wide open simply because the lens allows it.

At very wide apertures, depth of field can become brutally thin. With an 85mm lens at close distance, focusing on the eyelashes instead of the eye may be enough to spoil a portrait. If the subject is moving, f/1.8 can turn a promising photograph into a collection of nearly sharp failures. Stopping down to f/2.8 or f/4 provides a little insurance while still separating the subject from the background.

At the other extreme, closing a lens down to f/16 or f/22 does not automatically produce greater sharpness. Diffraction can begin to soften fine detail, while dust on the sensor suddenly announces itself across every patch of clear sky. There are occasions when those apertures are necessary, but they should be chosen for a reason rather than from habit.

Shutter speed matters just as much. Many photographs blamed on poor lenses are actually suffering from camera movement or subject movement. High-resolution cameras such as the Nikon D810 and D850 expose sloppy handling without mercy. A lens can resolve astonishing detail, but it cannot preserve detail that was smeared across the sensor while the shutter was open.

A flock of pigeons taking flight and foraging on a paved surface in a public area, with ornate buildings and greenery in the background under a partly cloudy sky.

The old rule of using a shutter speed equal to the focal length was useful in the days of film, but it should now be treated as a starting point. With an 85mm lens, I would rather use 1/250 second than rely on 1/80 or 1/100. If people are moving, I may go to 1/500. I would sooner accept a little extra noise from a higher ISO than lose the expression because the subject’s face moved.

Hold the camera properly. Support the lens with the left hand, bring the elbows towards the body and press the shutter rather than stabbing at it. If possible, lean against a wall, post or doorway. Take a breath, steady yourself and make the exposure. These small disciplines cost nothing and improve almost every lens you own.

Autofocus must also be understood rather than blindly trusted. Learn which focus mode suits the subject. Single autofocus may be ideal for a stationary portrait, while continuous autofocus is generally safer for someone walking through the frame. Place the focus point where you need it instead of expecting the camera to interpret the entire scene.

If a lens repeatedly focuses slightly in front of or behind the subject, test it under controlled conditions. Some DSLR bodies allow autofocus fine-tuning. But do not begin adjusting equipment after one soft photograph. Check the shutter speed, depth of field and your own technique first. Photographers have created endless problems by trying to calibrate lenses that were not faulty.

Lens hoods are among the simplest ways of protecting image quality. They reduce stray light, help maintain contrast and offer physical protection from knocks and fingers. I usually leave mine attached. A cheap clear filter may protect the front element in dust, rain or difficult working conditions, but poor-quality filters can introduce flare and reduce contrast. Use one when the situation justifies it, not because somebody behind a shop counter told you that every lens must wear one forever.

Keep the glass reasonably clean, but do not become obsessive. A few specks of dust inside a lens will rarely appear in a photograph. Constantly dismantling, blowing and polishing equipment can cause more trouble than the dust itself. A soft brush, blower and clean microfibre cloth are normally enough. Old photographers know that cameras are tools, not surgical instruments.

Pay close attention to backgrounds. The quality of a lens is often most visible not in the sharp subject but in the way it renders everything else. Before pressing the shutter, look around the edges. Move slightly to remove a bright sign, a pole growing from somebody’s head or a patch of distracting colour. An expensive fast lens cannot rescue a careless background. Blur does not automatically turn confusion into beauty.

Light will reveal more about a lens than any review. Try it in hard sunlight, shade, window light and at night. Point it towards the sun and see how it flares. Photograph a face at minimum focusing distance and then from several metres away. Use it wide open, stopped down and at different subject-to-background distances.

Do not merely test the lens. Make photographs with it.

If you own a zoom, spend a day treating it as several prime lenses. Set it to 24mm and leave it there for an hour. Then try 50mm, 85mm or 120mm. This teaches you how each position changes your relationship with the street. Otherwise, zooming can become an unconscious attempt to avoid moving or making a decision.

With a prime lens, accept the restriction. It is often the restriction that sharpens our attention. After several hours with one focal length, we begin to recognise possible frames before lifting the camera. The lens becomes less like an object attached to the body and more like a way of seeing.

That is when a lens begins to give its best—not when it achieves the highest laboratory score, but when we stop thinking about it.

The finest lens is not necessarily the sharpest, fastest or most expensive one. It is the lens whose behaviour you understand: how close it allows you to work, how it treats a face, where its autofocus struggles, what happens when light strikes it from the side and which aperture gives you the balance you want.

A joyful baby wearing a patterned shirt is being held by a woman in a maroon blouse, with a soft smile on the baby's face.

Use one lens for long enough and its supposed shortcomings may become part of your visual language. A little flare may provide atmosphere. Gentle softness can flatter a face. Vignetting can hold the eye inside the frame. What the laboratory calls a defect may be precisely what gives the photograph its character.

Buy good equipment when you need it, but do not keep replacing lenses in search of a solution to problems that belong to technique, patience or imagination. Learn what you already own. Take it into the street in good weather and bad. Use it until your fingers know the controls and your eyes know the frame.

A lens does not make a photographer see. It simply records the consequences of where the photographer chose to stand.

And getting the best from it begins, as it always has, with paying attention.

Why an 85mm Lens Still Belongs on a Full-Frame Camera

cameras, canon, Lenses, nikon, opinons, thoughts, photography, pictures, street, Travel, viltrox

The 85mm Lens: Standing Back, Getting Closer :

Old Photographer Series.

There are lenses that show you the world, and there are lenses that ask you to choose something from it.

The 85mm belongs to the second group.

Put one on a full-frame Nikon or Canon and the street immediately becomes a little quieter. The frame tightens, unnecessary clutter falls away and people begin to take precedence over their surroundings. It is not a lens for collecting everything in front of you. It is a lens for deciding what matters.

That is probably why I have always liked it.

A photographer capturing an image of a woman sitting on a stool beside a fruit stand in a bustling street market during golden hour.

The 85mm is usually described as a portrait lens. That is true, but it is only part of the story. On a full-frame camera, it offers a particularly useful balance between intimacy and distance. It lets me photograph somebody closely without having to put the camera inches from their face.

A 35mm lens asks me to step into the scene. A 50mm puts me somewhere near its edge. The 85mm lets me stand back, watch and wait.

That extra distance can make all the difference.

People behave differently when a photographer is almost on top of them. They become conscious of the camera. Faces change, bodies stiffen and natural expressions are replaced by the smile people believe they are supposed to produce for a photograph.

An 85mm gives the subject breathing room. It does not make the photographer invisible, nor should it, but it makes the encounter less physically intrusive. I remain close enough to acknowledge the person, yet far enough away to allow the moment to unfold.

Oddly, standing farther away can sometimes produce a photograph that feels much closer.

An 85mm also renders faces naturally. Used from a sensible distance, it avoids the exaggeration that comes from moving too close with a wider lens. Noses remain noses rather than becoming architectural features. Ears do not retreat around the back of the head. The proportions of the face appear comfortable and believable.

That is why generations of portrait photographers have trusted this focal length. It does not manufacture beauty, but it gives a face a fair chance.

For street portraiture, its narrow angle of view is just as important. Phnom Penh is a wonderfully untidy city. There are signs, wires, motorbikes, market stalls, plastic chairs, delivery carts and people moving through every available gap. A wider lens collects all of it, whether I want it or not.

The 85mm helps me impose some order.

A woman smiling while preparing fresh vegetables at a local market, surrounded by various goods and shoppers in the background.

It allows me to find one face in the confusion, one pair of hands at work or one fleeting expression in a crowded street. By showing less, it often says more.

That does not mean the background must disappear completely. The obsession with blurred backgrounds has become one of modern photography’s more tiresome habits. Open an 85mm lens to f/1.8 or f/1.4 and almost anything behind the subject can be turned into expensive-looking mush.

It can be beautiful, but beauty is not always the same thing as meaning.

The background may tell us where the person works, how they live or what sort of world surrounds them. A market trader without the market can become merely a pleasant face. Sometimes I want that separation; sometimes I want the vegetables, battered shopfront and passing motorbike to remain recognisable.

I do not automatically use an 85mm wide open. At f/2.8 or f/4, it still separates the subject while retaining enough of the surroundings to give the photograph context. At f/5.6, the street may become an active part of the story.

The aperture should serve the photograph. The photograph should not exist merely to demonstrate the aperture.

The lens changes the way I look as well.

With a 35mm, I tend to see complete scenes. With an 85mm, I notice fragments: a glance across a market, a tired hand resting on a counter, the texture of an old face or the moment somebody stops pretending to ignore me.

A man in a blue shirt and mask sitting on a chair, holding a hose that sprays water into a bucket and a red basket filled with plastic bottles, in front of a makeshift shop with various items and a red wall in the background.

It encourages patience and selection. I cannot simply point it towards a busy street and hope that everything will somehow arrange itself. I have to identify the picture before I make it.

That is a valuable discipline, particularly after many years of photography. Experience can sharpen the eye, but it can also make us lazy. We begin to rely upon familiar habits. The 85mm demands a decision. It asks a simple question every time I raise the camera:

What exactly are you looking at?

On a Nikon D700, D810 or D850, an 85mm feels wonderfully purposeful. The older D700 produces files with a character I still enjoy, while the resolution of the D810 and D850 records almost frightening amounts of detail. Canon full-frame cameras—from the original 5D and 5D Mark II to the newer mirrorless bodies—give the lens the same natural field of view and portrait-friendly perspective.

A father helps his daughter with a toy on a scooter while a woman looks on, all in a bustling market filled with fresh fruits.

The badge on the camera matters far less than the relationship between focal length, photographer and subject.

Nikon’s 85mm f/1.8G is a sensiblely—[Correction: deservedly]—popular because it is sharp, reasonably light and does not require selling a kidney. Canon’s EF 85mm f/1.8 USM has performed the same honest service for generations of Canon photographers. The newer mirrorless versions may focus faster and test better, while the expensive f/1.4 and f/1.2 lenses offer more light and smoother backgrounds.

They are all capable of excellent work.

I have reached an age when carrying a heavy lens all afternoon is no longer evidence of professional commitment. It is simply a good way of acquiring a sore shoulder. The lighter f/1.8 lenses make sense. They are quick, discreet and good enough to expose every weakness in my own technique.

And the 85mm will expose those weaknesses.

It magnifies camera movement more readily than a 35mm or 50mm. On a high-resolution body, the old rule of using a shutter speed close to the focal length is often insufficient. I prefer at least 1/250 second for people, and frequently 1/320 or faster if they are moving.

I would rather increase the ISO than return home with a perfectly clean but slightly blurred photograph.

Image stabilisation can help with my movement, but it cannot stop the person in front of me from blinking, turning or lifting a hand. For street work, shutter speed remains one of the best forms of insurance.

At close distances and wide apertures, depth of field becomes thin. Focus must be deliberate. I concentrate on the nearest eye when the face is the centre of the picture, and I use continuous autofocus if the subject is moving. There is nothing romantic about missing focus. A soft photograph may possess atmosphere, but an accidentally soft eye is usually just an accidentally soft eye.

The lens has its limitations. It can be too tight inside buildings and frustrating in narrow streets. A full-length portrait may require so much backing up that I find myself against a wall, in somebody’s shop or dangerously close to moving traffic.

It is not the lens I would choose when the whole environment carries the story. Sometimes a 28mm or 35mm is the honest choice because the surroundings matter as much as the person.

A DSLR camera placed on a wooden table next to a small cup of coffee and glasses, with a street view including vehicles and pedestrians in the background.

Nor does using an 85mm absolve the photographer of responsibility. Distance is not permission. Photographing from several metres away does not turn a human being into public property. The same judgement, respect and decency apply regardless of focal length.

For me, the 85mm occupies a useful middle ground. It is not a wide-angle lens pushed aggressively into somebody’s personal space, and it is not a huge telephoto used from the safety of the opposite side of the road.

It keeps me involved without making me overpowering.

After decades of buying, selling and carrying cameras, I no longer believe that equipment creates a photographer’s voice. But certain lenses encourage certain ways of seeing. The 85mm makes me slow down, simplify the frame and pay attention to individuals.

Bright arcade game featuring a large spinning wheel labeled 'Boardwalk Big Spin' in a lively gaming environment.

It reminds me that street photography does not always have to be wide, frantic and packed with visual cleverness. Sometimes it can be one person, standing in decent light, giving away something of themselves for a fraction of a second.

The photographer’s job is to notice it.

That is why I use an 85mm on a full-frame Nikon or Canon. Not because it creates fashionable bokeh. Not because somebody on the internet has measured its sharpness. Not because portrait photographers say that I should.

I use it because it gives people space.

It allows me to stand back without becoming detached—and, every now and then, to make a photograph that feels remarkably close.

The Canon 5D Mark II: When a Camera Was Built to Make Pictures

cameras, canon, Lenses, opinons, thoughts, photography, street, Travel

Old Photographer Series

I have always had a soft spot for cameras that know what they are. The Canon 5D Mark II is one of them.

It is not a pocket computer pretending to be a camera. It does not recognise every living creature on the planet, track an eye through a crowd or offer fourteen different ways of photographing a sleeping dog. It is a solid, straightforward full-frame DSLR, built at a time when the photographer was still expected to provide most of the intelligence.

A person holding a Canon EOS 5D Mark II camera in front of a café with outdoor seating.

Canon introduced the 5D Mark II in 2008. Its 21.1-megapixel full-frame sensor was considered something rather special then, and I would argue that it remains perfectly adequate now. Twenty-one megapixels will produce a fine large print, allow a reasonable crop and record more detail than most photographs genuinely need.

If I cannot make a worthwhile picture with 21 megapixels, another 30 or 40 million of the little buggers are unlikely to rescue me.

That is something we occasionally forget. Cameras have improved enormously, but photography has not changed nearly as much. We still need light, timing, composition and a reason to press the shutter. The subject must still matter. The photographer must still notice what everybody else walks past.

The 5D Mark II provides everything necessary to do that.

Its autofocus system is modest by present standards. There are nine visible autofocus points, and most photographers quickly discover that the centre point is the one to trust. That was never a serious problem for me. I learned photography when cameras could not detect eyes, faces or animals. We focused on the part of the picture that mattered, recomposed when necessary and got on with the job.

There is nothing wrong with modern autofocus. It is astonishingly clever and genuinely useful. But clever equipment can encourage lazy cameramanship. When a camera promises to find the subject, focus on the correct eye and follow it around the frame, it becomes tempting to stop thinking.

The 5D Mark II makes no such promises. It asks you to participate.

You lift it to your eye and look through a proper optical viewfinder. You see the world as it is, not as an electronic screen thinks you would like it to appear. The camera does not brighten the shadows, simulate the exposure or show the finished photograph before it has been made. You read the light, choose your settings and take responsibility for the result.

Then the mirror rises and the shutter fires with a satisfying mechanical clack.

A photograph has been made. You can hear it and feel it.

A photographer captures a street scene at sunset, featuring people walking and traffic in a busy marketplace.

I like that. Perhaps it is because I am an old photographer, but I enjoy a camera that behaves like a machine. I want buttons I can find without looking, a decent grip and controls that make sense. I do not want to negotiate with pages of menus before taking a picture of somebody standing in good light.

The Canon’s large rear control wheel remains one of the best pieces of camera design ever produced. It falls naturally beneath the thumb, and after a little use, the camera begins to disappear in the hands. That is the point at which a piece of equipment becomes useful. You stop thinking about operating it and begin concentrating on what is happening in front of you.

The files from the 5D Mark II still have a lovely quality. They contain plenty of detail, attractive colour and particularly pleasing skin tones. Faces look warm and human rather than clinically perfect. With a decent lens and sympathetic light, it can produce portraits with depth, subtlety and character.

It does require reasonably accurate exposure. The sensor does not possess the extraordinary dynamic range of more recent cameras. If you badly underexpose a file and then try to drag three or four stops of detail out of the shadows, you may encounter noise or banding. Highlights also need watching.

I consider that a useful lesson rather than a fatal weakness.

Photography was never meant to be an endless exercise in rescuing careless exposures. The 5D Mark II encourages me to look at the light, check the histogram and get the picture close to correct when I take it. The RAW file gives me room to work, but it should not become an ambulance sent to collect every photographic mistake.

Put a 35mm or 50mm prime on the camera and it becomes a straightforward walkabout companion. There is no crop-factor arithmetic and no enormous collection of lenses to carry. A 35mm allows me to work close and include some environment. A 50mm gives a natural view of the street without making everything feel either stretched or compressed.

Fit an 85mm and the 5D Mark II becomes a very capable street-portrait camera. That combination gives me enough working distance to observe without immediately crowding the subject. I can concentrate on the eyes, expression and background. The autofocus may not put on a technological performance, but the central point is dependable. Place it carefully, confirm focus and take the picture.

One accurate focus point is worth more than a hundred dancing in the wrong place.

The 5D Mark II is not a lightweight camera, but neither is it the great lump that a Canon 1D-series body can be. It feels substantial without becoming a punishment. Add a small prime lens and it is perfectly manageable for a day on the street—although, at my age, I reserve the right to complain about the weight after several hours.

A Canon EOS 5D Mark II camera is positioned on a wooden desk, surrounded by a notebook, a pair of glasses, and black and white photographs.

The camera is famous for something beyond still photography. Its ability to record Full HD video with a full-frame sensor helped to change filmmaking. Independent filmmakers could suddenly create shallow depth of field and a cinematic look without hiring hugely expensive equipment. It appeared in television productions, documentaries and music videos, and its influence reached far beyond ordinary photography.

That is an important part of its history, but it is not the reason I would carry one.

I would carry it because it makes photographs.

Not photographs processed by computational trickery before I have even seen them. Not perfectly sanitised files scrubbed of every trace of noise, texture and imperfection. Photographs made with a shutter, a mirror, a good lens and a photographer who was paying attention.

Buying a 5D Mark II today requires some care. These are old cameras, and many were worked hard by wedding photographers, studio photographers and filmmakers. A few scratches would not worry me, but I would check the shutter, sensor, card slot, control wheels, buttons and autofocus. I would rather buy a clean, honest example from somebody who used it carefully than save a little money on a camera that has spent fifteen years being hammered.

Its CompactFlash cards feel old-fashioned. The rear screen is dated, live view is slow and video operation is primitive compared with modern machines. There is no in-body stabilisation, no electronic viewfinder and no miraculous autofocus system waiting to save the day.

Good.

Sometimes removing convenience restores concentration.

I would never claim that the Canon 5D Mark II is technically better than a modern mirrorless camera. It is not. New cameras offer cleaner high-ISO images, faster shooting, greater dynamic range and autofocus systems that appear to perform small acts of witchcraft.

But technical superiority does not automatically produce better photographs. Cameras can recognise an eye, but they cannot recognise sadness, dignity, humour or loneliness. They cannot understand why one gesture matters and another does not. They cannot know when an ordinary street scene has briefly become something worth remembering.

That responsibility remains with the person holding the camera.

This is why old cameras still matter to me. They have character, personality and soul. They are not simply tools; after enough years and enough miles, they become companions. We learn their strengths, forgive their weaknesses and stop asking them to be anything other than what they are.

The Canon 5D Mark II comes from a time when a camera was built to make pictures and the photographer was trusted to provide the ideas. It does enough without attempting to do everything. It gives me a full-frame sensor, pleasing files, a clear optical viewfinder and direct control over the exposure.

The rest is up to me.

Charge the battery, insert a card, attach a good lens and take it into the street. Forget its age. Forget the latest specifications. Look through the viewfinder and pay attention to the world.

If I return home with nothing worthwhile, I cannot blame its nine autofocus points or its 21 megapixels.

If I return with one photograph that genuinely matters, the Canon 5D Mark II will have done everything a camera was ever built to do.

Pixel Peeping: When the Photograph Gets Lost in the Pixels

printing, printers, Travel, pictures, photography, opinons, thoughts, street

Old Photographer Series

There was a time when we looked at photographs rather than inspected them.

We made a print, held it in our hands and stood back far enough to see the whole picture. We looked at the light, the composition, the expression and the moment. If the photograph moved us, informed us or held our attention, it had done its job.

Today, we can enlarge an image until a human eye fills the computer screen. We examine individual eyelashes, count skin pores and search the darkest shadows for traces of noise. We inspect the corners for softness and worry about details that nobody would ever notice in a print.

An older man with glasses thoughtfully gazes at a large computer monitor displaying a pixelated image of an eye, while sitting at a wooden desk cluttered with photography equipment and prints.

This is pixel peeping, and most photographers have done it.

I certainly have.

There are sensible reasons for looking closely at an image. If I want to know whether I nailed the focus, whether camera shake has crept in or whether a particular lens is behaving properly, viewing the file at 100% can be useful. It can expose poor technique rather quickly.

Modern high-resolution cameras can be unforgiving. Cameras such as the Nikon D810 and D850 record an extraordinary amount of detail, but they also reveal every small mistake. A shutter speed that would once have appeared perfectly adequate may leave the image looking slightly soft when enlarged on a large monitor. Poor handling, careless focusing and excessive noise reduction become much easier to see.

A close-up of a printed black and white photograph of a man with a beard and hat, accompanied by a magnifying glass placed over the eye in the image, resting on a wooden surface.

Pixel peeping can therefore teach us something.

If an entire set of photographs is soft, there is probably a reason. Perhaps the shutter speed was too low. Perhaps the autofocus point landed on the ear instead of the eye. Maybe the lens needs adjustment, or perhaps I was simply tired and failed to hold the camera steadily.

That is not obsessive inspection. It is diagnosis.

Close-up of a person's eye on a computer screen during photo editing, with a photographer at work, surrounded by a camera, notes, and coffee.

The problem begins when we stop using magnification as a tool and start using it as the final judge of a photograph.

Photography is not a laboratory test. A photograph does not become important because every hair is sharply resolved. Nor does it automatically fail because the shadows contain a little noise or because the far corner is not clinically sharp.

Some of the most memorable photographs ever made are technically imperfect. They contain grain, blur, missed focus and blocked shadows. Yet nobody cares because the photographs have life. They show something worth seeing.

The history of photography was not made at 200% magnification.

It was made in streets, homes, factories, demonstrations and war zones. It was made by photographers responding to the world in front of them. Many worked with slow film, manual focus and lenses that would probably receive rather ordinary scores in today’s technical reviews.

Their photographs survive because they possess meaning, not because the bricks in the background are sharp from edge to edge.

Street photography makes this especially clear. A gesture can disappear in a fraction of a second. A face changes, two people briefly connect, or a shaft of light falls across somebody passing through the frame. There is rarely time for technical perfection.

If I capture the expression but miss absolute focus by a whisker, I may still have a worthwhile photograph. If I wait until every setting is perfect, the moment will probably be gone.

I would rather have a slightly imperfect photograph of something than a perfectly sharp photograph of nothing.

Sharpness matters, of course. I am not suggesting that we should become careless. Good technique gives us a better chance of bringing home the picture we intended to make. The eyes in a portrait should usually be sharp, and camera shake is rarely attractive unless it contributes something to the image.

But “sharp enough” is not the same as technically flawless.

A person sitting at a desk, gazing at a computer screen displaying two black-and-white photos of a man wearing a hat, with an old camera and notebook to the side.

A photograph is normally seen as a complete object. It might appear on a website, in a book, on a wall or as a print held in the hand. Nobody studies a normal-sized photograph with their nose pressed against it, searching the corners for optical weakness.

Viewing a 36- or 45-megapixel image at 100% on a monitor is rather like examining an enormous print from a few inches away. It is not a natural viewing distance. Small faults appear enormous simply because we have enlarged them beyond any reasonable use.

This can become damaging. Photographers begin rejecting perfectly good images because of tiny technical imperfections. They start blaming their cameras and lenses. Before long, they are searching for sharper glass, more megapixels and better autofocus when there was nothing seriously wrong with the equipment they already owned.

The manufacturers must love pixel peeping. It keeps us dissatisfied.

There will always be a newer camera promising more resolution, less noise and smarter focusing. There will always be a lens that measures slightly sharper in the corners. We can spend a small fortune pursuing technical perfection and still fail to make an interesting photograph.

No camera can supply curiosity. No lens can recognise a meaningful moment. No amount of resolution can rescue an empty picture.

An elderly woman laughing and playing with a young child in a bustling market, captured in black and white. The scene has various baskets of fresh produce in the foreground and other market-goers in the background.

After many years of making photographs, I have learned to look at the complete image first. Before enlarging anything, I ask the important questions.

Does the photograph hold my attention? Is the composition working? Is there emotion, atmosphere or information? Does it show something beyond the simple fact that my camera and lens function correctly?

Only then do I look more closely.

If critical focus is slightly off, I decide whether it genuinely harms the photograph. Sometimes it does, and the image has to go. At other times, the moment is strong enough to carry a little imperfection. That is a judgement, not something software can decide for me.

Printing remains one of the best cures for pixel peeping. A print brings the photograph back into the physical world. It gives the image boundaries, scale and a proper viewing distance. Details that seemed troublesome on the monitor often disappear, while weaknesses in composition become much more obvious.

An elderly person holding a black and white photograph of a young child running on a rainy street, surrounded by pigeons and historical buildings in the background.

A technically perfect file does not always make a satisfying print. A slightly rough file sometimes makes a wonderful one.

That is because photographs are meant to be experienced, not dissected.

Pixel peeping has its place. Use it to check focus, examine technique, test equipment or prepare a photograph for a large print. Let it help you understand what went wrong and how to improve next time.

Then zoom back out.

Look at the people. Look at the light. Look at the moment you were trying to preserve.

Pixel peeping can tell us whether a lens is sharp. It can tell us whether the autofocus landed in the correct place and whether we selected a sensible shutter speed. What it cannot tell us is whether the photograph has a soul.

After all these years, that remains the part that matters most.

Nikon D300S and Nikkor 50mm f1.4D: Still There?

cameras, Lenses, Travel, pictures, photography, opinons, thoughts, street, nikon

The Nikon D300S is old. There is no point pretending otherwise. It appeared in 2009, when 12 megapixels were considered quite sufficient and cameras were still expected to be cameras rather than computers with lenses attached.

Today, it is dismissed as obsolete. Too few pixels, too much noise and none of the modern wizardry that identifies eyes, animals, vehicles and possibly the intentions of the photographer. Yet attach a Nikkor 50mm f/1.4, charge the battery and take it into the street, and the old Nikon quietly reminds you that it has not forgotten how to make a photograph.

On the D300S, the 50mm gives roughly the same field of view as a 75mm lens on a full-frame camera. That makes it less of a general-purpose standard lens and more of a short portrait lens. It is particularly well suited to faces, small gestures and those moments on the street that benefit from a little distance.

The f/1.4 aperture gives the camera something its ageing sensor appreciates: light. The D300S is at its best between ISO 200 and 800. ISO 1600 remains useful if the exposure is right, but this is not a camera that enjoys having badly underexposed shadows dragged back from the dead in Lightroom.

You have to expose properly.

That was once considered a normal part of photography.

The 50mm is not perfectly sharp at f/1.4. It can be slightly soft, with lower contrast and a little colour fringing around bright edges. That does not always matter. Used for a portrait, the gentler rendering can be rather attractive. Stop it down to f/2 or f/2.8 and it becomes a different lens—sharper, stronger and still capable of separating the subject from the background.

Both the older 50mm f/1.4D and the newer f/1.4G work properly on the D300S. The camera has its own autofocus motor, so the screw-driven D lens is perfectly at home. Autofocus may not possess modern eye-detection intelligence, but the D300S has Nikon’s excellent 51-point system. Put the focus point over the eye and it will usually do exactly what it is told.

The body still feels magnificent. Solid, purposeful and designed for a photographer’s hands. Important controls have proper buttons and dials. The viewfinder is clear, the shutter response is immediate and the camera will keep working without trying to offer advice.

The files are only 12.3 megapixels, but “only” is doing rather a lot of unnecessary work in that sentence. Twelve megapixels are enough for strong prints, websites, publications and most of the ways photographs are actually viewed. A poor photograph does not improve because it contains 45 million pixels, and a good one does not become irrelevant because it contains twelve.

Naturally, there are limitations. Highlights require care. The shadows cannot be opened endlessly. High ISO files show their age, and the video function is best forgotten. There is no stabilisation, no electronic viewfinder and no autofocus system clever enough to find the subject while you think about something else.

You must hold the camera steadily. You must choose the focus point. You must watch the shutter speed, understand the light and press the button at the right moment.

In other words, you must take the photograph yourself.

Perhaps that is why I still enjoy cameras such as the D300S. They do not attempt to flatter us. They reward good technique and expose lazy habits. When the picture is sharp, properly exposed and alive with something worth seeing, you know that you had a hand in making it.

The D300S and 50mm f/1.4 combination is particularly good for street portraits. The lens gives enough distance to observe without crowding people, while the wide aperture separates a face from the usual confusion of the street. It is a simple combination: one camera, one lens and one way of looking.

Is it old? Certainly.

Is it technologically outdated? Of course.

Is it obsolete? Not while it still makes the pictures you want to make.

The Nikon D300S does not know that the camera industry has left it behind. Fit the 50mm, walk into decent light and it simply gets on with the job. Quietly, reliably and without fanfare.

Sometimes an old camera is not waiting to be replaced.

It is waiting to be used.

The Travelling Photographer’s Essentials: Old Photographer Series.

cameras, fujifilm, Lenses, Lowepro, nikon, opinons, thoughts, photography, pictures, street, Travel

There was a time when I travelled with enough photographic equipment to open a small camera shop. Two camera bodies, several lenses, flashguns, filters, chargers, spare batteries, cleaning equipment and a tripod heavy enough to support a railway bridge.

Age—and several decades of sore shoulders—has taught me differently. The travelling photographer does not need to carry everything. He needs to carry the right things and, more importantly, understand how to use them.

My first essential is a dependable camera. It does not have to be the latest model, possess the most megapixels or arrive with artificial intelligence hiding behind every button. It must simply be a camera I know and trust.

For me, that might be an old Nikon D700, a D3S or the magnificent D850 when I want every last piece of detail. The important thing is familiarity. When something happens in front of me, I do not want to search through menus or wonder which button controls the focus mode. The camera should feel like an old friend—slightly battered perhaps, but always ready.

Then there is the lens.

One good lens is often enough. A 35mm or 50mm prime makes a wonderfully simple travelling companion. A practical zoom such as a 24–70mm or 24–120mm gives greater flexibility without requiring a bag full of glass. If I know that people will be my principal subject, an 85mm may earn its place.

The temptation is to pack a lens for every possibility. Resist it. Too many choices slow the photographer down. You begin changing lenses instead of making pictures.

A spare battery is essential. Two are better if the day will be long. Batteries have a wicked sense of humour and usually expire just as the light becomes beautiful or something interesting begins to happen.

Memory cards should be reliable, sensibly sized and carried somewhere safe. I would rather use several moderate-capacity cards than trust an entire journey to one enormous card. Cards can fail, disappear or be accidentally formatted. Spreading the work across more than one is a small form of insurance.

Every evening, whenever possible, I copy the day’s photographs onto a laptop or portable drive. Ideally, I keep two copies in separate places. A camera can be replaced. The photographs from a journey cannot.

A comfortable camera strap matters more than most people realise. The strap supplied with the camera may be adequate for an afternoon, but after eight hours in the heat it can begin to feel like a cheese wire. A good shoulder or wrist strap keeps the camera secure without advertising its value to everybody in the street.

The camera bag should be small, strong and ordinary-looking. I do not need something that resembles military luggage and announces that expensive equipment is inside. It must protect the camera, provide quick access and leave enough room for the unglamorous necessities: water, tissues, a notebook and perhaps something to eat.

Good footwear may be the most important photographic equipment I own. Travelling photography is done with the feet. Interesting pictures are rarely made while sitting in an air-conditioned hotel room complaining about the midday light.

Comfortable, broken-in shoes allow me to keep walking, turn down another street and stay out for another hour. That extra hour is often when the best photograph appears.

Clothing should suit the place rather than the photographer’s imagined appearance. Lightweight, loose clothing works in the Cambodian heat. A hat offers protection from the sun, while a light waterproof layer can save both photographer and camera when the sky suddenly opens.

Water is not optional. Neither is sun protection. An exhausted, dehydrated photographer stops seeing properly and begins making foolish decisions. Travel photography requires enough energy to remain observant, patient and respectful.

A small cleaning cloth and blower are useful, especially in dusty streets or humid conditions. There is no need to carry a laboratory. Most cleaning can wait until the evening. Changing lenses in wind, dust or heavy rain should be avoided whenever possible.

I also carry a notebook. A mobile phone can record names and details, but a notebook never runs out of power and does not distract me with messages. If I photograph somebody and speak with them, I can write down their name, the location and a few details about the encounter. Those notes may later give the photograph its proper meaning.

The phone remains valuable. It provides maps, weather information, translation, emergency communication and a perfectly capable backup camera. I may be an old photographer, but I am not foolish enough to ignore a useful tool simply because it does not have a Nikon badge.

Documents, money and emergency information need careful thought. I keep copies of my passport, insurance details and important telephone numbers separately from the originals. A little local currency should be kept somewhere accessible, with the remainder divided between safer locations.

Respect is another essential, although it weighs nothing.

Learn something about the country. Understand local customs. Notice when a camera is welcome and when it is not. A photograph is never worth humiliating somebody, entering a sacred place improperly or creating trouble for a person who has allowed you into their life.

Finally, carry curiosity.

Equipment may help us record what we find, but curiosity is what leads us towards it. Walk slowly. Look behind you, look up. Leave the obvious tourist route. Sit somewhere and allow life to continue without chasing it. Talk to people without immediately raising the camera.

The travelling photographer’s essentials are not really about preparing for every possible picture. They are about remaining light enough—physically and mentally—to recognise the picture that is actually there.

After all these years, my packing list has become shorter. One trusted camera. One useful lens. Batteries, cards, water, good shoes and somewhere safe to store the photographs.

Everything else is negotiable.

The eyes are not.

Getting Sharp Photos with the Nikon D3S

Lenses, nikon, opinons, thoughts, photography, pictures, street, Travel

Old Photographer Series

The Nikon D3S has never needed much help making a good photograph. It was designed for working photographers—people standing beside football pitches, waiting outside courtrooms, covering dimly lit concerts and photographing events where failure was not considered part of the job.

Even so, a professional camera cannot rescue careless technique.

The D3S may be built like a small armoured vehicle, but sharp pictures still begin with the person holding it. After all these years, I have learned that softness is rarely the camera’s fault. More often, it comes from asking too much of the shutter speed, mishandling the autofocus or simply failing to hold the bloody thing properly.

Fortunately, the D3S is one of the easiest cameras to hold properly. Its substantial body sits naturally in the hands, particularly with larger lenses. There is enough weight to steady the camera without making it feel lifeless. With the left hand supporting the lens from underneath and the right hand controlling the camera, the whole arrangement becomes remarkably stable.

Do not hold the lens from the side as though you are gripping a beer bottle. Support its weight underneath. Bring your elbows closer to your body, relax your shoulders and press the shutter smoothly rather than stabbing at it. If there is a wall, post or doorway nearby, use it. Pride has never produced a sharper photograph.

The old advice about using a shutter speed equal to the focal length remains useful, but it should not be treated as a guarantee. With a 50mm lens, 1/50 second might be possible. With an 85mm, 1/100 second sounds reasonable. In practice, however, people move, photographers sway and moments happen quickly.

For street photography with the D3S, I would rather use 1/250 or 1/320 second as my starting point. If people are walking briskly, I will move to 1/500. For lively children, performers or unpredictable action, 1/800 or 1/1000 second is far safer.

There is little honour in using a low ISO if the resulting photograph is blurred.

That is where the D3S still earns its keep. Its 12-megapixel sensor may appear modest beside the enormous files produced by modern cameras, but its high-ISO performance remains excellent. ISO 1600 presents no serious problem. Neither does ISO 3200 when the exposure is right. I would happily use ISO 6400 if it gave me the shutter speed needed to secure the picture.

A sharp photograph with a little noise is still a photograph. A perfectly clean but badly blurred file is usually just something to delete.

Autofocus technique matters just as much. The D3S uses Nikon’s 51-point Multi-CAM 3500FX system, and although it predates the subject-recognition systems found in the newest cameras, it remains fast, dependable and remarkably capable.

For stationary subjects, AF-S with a single focus point works well. Place that point over the most important part of the picture—usually the nearest eye—and make the exposure. Do not let the camera decide that a shirt collar, ear or background sign is more interesting than the face.

For moving people, AF-C is the better choice. I generally prefer Dynamic-area AF, using either nine or 21 points depending on how erratic the subject is. The selected point tells the camera where to begin, while the surrounding points help maintain focus if the subject shifts slightly.

The important thing is to keep the active point on the subject and continue following the movement. The D3S cannot focus through carelessness. If the focus point drifts onto the background, that is often where the camera will focus.

Back-button focusing can also make the camera easier to control. Separating autofocus from the shutter release allows me to focus with my thumb and take the picture with my forefinger. It takes a little time to become accustomed to it, but once learned, it removes much of the indecision from shooting.

For a portrait, I can focus on the eye, release the button and make several frames without the camera attempting to refocus each time. When something starts moving, I hold the button down and the camera tracks continuously. It is a simple arrangement that works particularly well with a professional Nikon body.

Lens choice also plays its part. Every lens has its limits, and even an excellent prime may not deliver its best performance wide open. A fast 85mm f/1.8 can produce beautiful pictures at f/1.8, but the depth of field at close distance is extremely narrow. Focus on the eyelashes and the iris may already be soft. Focus on the near eye and the far eye may fall outside the sharp area.

That is not faulty equipment. It is optics.

Unless I specifically want the shallowest possible depth of field, I often stop down to f/2.8, f/3.2 or f/4. The lens becomes more forgiving, depth of field increases and there is a better chance that the important parts of the face will remain sharp.

With a zoom lens, f/5.6 or f/8 can be an excellent working aperture in decent light. The D3S was built for photographers who needed usable pictures, not for people determined to prove that they owned an f/1.4 lens.

Exposure must also be correct. Underexposing badly and then dragging the shadows upwards in editing increases noise and weakens fine detail. The D3S handles poor light very well, but it still benefits from receiving enough light in the first place. I watch the highlights, expose generously without clipping anything important and avoid relying on software to repair a lazy exposure.

Burst shooting can help, but it should be used with some restraint. The D3S can shoot at professional sports-camera speeds, yet firing a dozen frames does not guarantee that any of them will be good. For a moving subject, a short burst of two or three frames is often enough. One may catch the exact point where the person’s movement settles and everything becomes sharp.

The camera should be checked occasionally as well. If one lens consistently front-focuses or back-focuses, the D3S provides autofocus fine-tuning. That feature is useful, but it should not become the first suspect every time a picture looks soft.

Before adjusting anything, put the camera on a firm support, use good light, choose a clear target and test it carefully. Many supposed autofocus problems disappear when tested properly. The original fault was often camera movement, subject movement or unrealistic expectations at maximum aperture.

There is another advantage to the D3S that is sometimes overlooked: its relatively modest resolution. Twelve megapixels are sufficient for strong prints, editorial work and normal online use, but they are not quite as merciless as today’s 45- or 60-megapixel sensors. Minor imperfections are less obvious, files are easier to handle and the pictures retain a natural quality.

That does not mean the D3S produces soft images. With good technique and a decent lens, its files are crisp, detailed and wonderfully solid. They simply do not shout about sharpness in the brittle, overprocessed manner we sometimes see today.

My basic D3S arrangement for photographing people is straightforward: AF-C, Dynamic nine-point autofocus, a minimum shutter speed of around 1/250 second, Auto ISO allowed to rise as necessary and an aperture chosen for the depth of field I actually need. If the subject is moving quickly, I increase the shutter speed. If the light is poor, I raise the ISO. If the face needs more depth, I stop the lens down.

Nothing clever. Nothing fashionable. Just settings that help bring the photograph home.

Sharpness matters, but it is not the purpose of photography. A perfectly sharp photograph of nothing remains a photograph of nothing. Expression, timing, light and human presence will always matter more.

But when the moment does arrive—when the face changes, the eyes meet yours and the picture suddenly presents itself—you owe it to that moment to be ready.

The Nikon D3S will do its part.

The old photographer must still do his.

Mastering Camera Technique for Sharp Photos

cameras, Lenses, Travel, pictures, photography, opinons, thoughts, street, nikon

Old Photographer Series.

There is an uncomfortable truth about sharp photographs that photographers don’t always want to hear.

Sometimes it isn’t the lens.

It isn’t the autofocus.

It isn’t Nikon.

It’s us.

More specifically, it’s the person holding the bloody camera.

I’ve found this particularly noticeable with two cameras I know well: the Nikon D810 and Nikon D850. The D810 gives you 36.3 megapixels and the D850 raises that to 45.7 megapixels, both without an optical low-pass filter. These are cameras designed to record an enormous amount of fine detail.

That’s wonderful.

It also means they are very good at recording your mistakes.

When I first started examining files from these high-resolution Nikons, there was an obvious temptation when something wasn’t quite sharp.

Was the autofocus slightly out? Was the lens soft? Did the AF need fine-tuning? Perhaps I needed a better lens. Perhaps the shutter was causing vibration.

All of those things are possible.

But increasingly I’ve found that the main culprit is considerably simpler.

Camera shake.

And the more resolution you have, the easier it becomes to see.

High resolution demands something from the photographer

This is one of the peculiarities of modern digital photography. The fundamentals haven’t changed. We still have aperture, shutter speed and sensitivity. We still have to focus the lens.

And if we’re hand-holding the camera, we still have to hold it steady while the exposure is being made.

What has changed is our ability to examine the result.

Take a 45.7-megapixel D850 file and display it at 100% on a large monitor and you’re examining the photograph at a scale we rarely contemplated in the film days. Suddenly tiny movements become visible. A photograph can look perfectly respectable on the back of the camera and then appear slightly disappointing when opened on the computer.

Not horribly blurred. That’s easy to diagnose.

I’m talking about that irritating sort of softness where you think: That should be sharper.

That’s when I start looking at shutter speed and technique before blaming the equipment.

Forget blindly following the old reciprocal rule

For generations we’ve been told about the old hand-holding rule.

With a 50mm lens, use roughly 1/50 or 1/60 second.

With an 85mm, use around 1/80 or 1/100.

With a 200mm, use 1/200.

It was useful advice. It still provides a reasonable reference point. But I don’t regard it as a guarantee with the D810 or D850. Certainly not with the D850.

If I’m walking around with my D850 and Nikkor 85mm f/1.8G, I’d much rather have something around 1/200 or 1/250 second as my normal minimum for photographing people. And if I can get 1/320 or 1/500 without paying too much of a price elsewhere, I’m perfectly happy to take it.

Why gamble?

ISO performance is good enough that I’d rather increase ISO than sacrifice the photograph because I was determined to keep the camera at ISO 64 or 100. A sharp photograph at ISO 800 beats a blurred photograph at ISO 100 every time. We sometimes become so frightened of noise that we forget blur is usually far more destructive.

Noise can be reduced.

A photograph ruined by movement generally stays ruined.

There are two things moving

This becomes particularly important when photographing people.

There’s the camera. And there’s the person.

You can hold the D850 perfectly still at 1/60 second and still end up with a soft photograph because the person moved.

A head turns. A hand moves. Somebody takes a step. An expression changes.

That’s why I like a little shutter-speed insurance.

Street photography isn’t landscape photography. People don’t stand still simply because we’ve decided to photograph them. With the 85mm, especially, I want enough shutter speed to control my movement and theirs.

How you hold the camera matters

This sounds ridiculously basic. Good. Basic things matter.

The left hand belongs underneath the lens, supporting the weight. Not hanging off the side of it. The right hand grips the camera firmly but doesn’t strangle it. Elbows come towards the body rather than sticking out like wings. The camera comes gently against the face.

And your stance matters.

Feet reasonably apart. Balanced. Not leaning forward on one leg while twisting yourself into some impossible position and expecting 45 megapixels of perfection.

We’re photographers, not bloody contortionists.

If there’s a wall nearby, I’ll use it. Lamp post? Use it. Railing? Use it. Tree?

Perfect.

Anything solid that removes a little movement from the equation is useful. There’s no prize for making life unnecessarily difficult.

Then there’s the shutter finger

This one makes me smile. I’ve watched photographers spend ages carefully composing a photograph, steadying the camera, holding their breath… …and then stab the shutter button as though they’re trying to start a lawnmower.

The shutter should be squeezed. Smooth pressure. Nothing dramatic. That tiny downward jab with the index finger can move the camera just when everything else is perfectly positioned.

At fast shutter speeds it may make no difference. At marginal shutter speeds it certainly can.

The same applies to breathing. I’m not talking about turning photography into sniper training, but there’s a reason good shooting technique has traditionally involved breathing.

Get comfortable.

Compose.

Breathe normally. Let the breath out. Settle. Squeeze.

Click.

After enough years, it becomes automatic.

The D810 and D850 themselves can produce vibration

There is another complication worth mentioning because not every slightly soft photograph is caused by the photographer.

DSLRs contain moving mechanical parts. There’s a mirror and a shutter.

Nikon itself provided both the D810 and D850 with electronic front-curtain shutter options specifically to reduce blur caused by shutter movement. Nikon also recommends techniques such as mirror-up and exposure delay when maximum stability is required.

That’s significant. Even on a tripod, tiny internal vibrations can matter when you’re chasing maximum resolution.

For ordinary handheld street photography I’m not going to wander around using mirror-up and waiting two seconds for every exposure. The person I’m photographing would probably have gone home by then.

But it’s useful to understand what’s happening.

For landscapes, architecture, copying work or anything static where absolute sharpness matters, these features are worth using.

For hand-held people photography, my solution is generally simpler:

Give me more shutter speed.

Don’t be frightened of ISO

This is probably where my thinking has changed most over the years.

I used to protect low ISO. Many of us did. With film, choosing the film speed was a decision you made before taking the photograph. Put ISO 100 film in the camera and, barring some creative processing, you had ISO 100 until you finished the roll.

Digital changed that completely. Yet sometimes we still behave as though changing ISO is somehow admitting defeat. It isn’t.

ISO is a tool.

If I’m walking around and the light changes constantly, Auto ISO can be enormously useful. I’ll choose the aperture I want. I’ll establish a shutter speed below which I don’t want the camera falling. And I’ll let ISO move around within sensible limits.

With the D850 and 85mm f/1.8G, I’d rather see the ISO climb than watch the shutter speed quietly fall from 1/250 to 1/125 to 1/60 while I’m concentrating on what’s happening in front of me.

The D850 is capable of a standard sensitivity range from ISO 64 to 25,600. We have plenty of room to work with. Use it.

Sharpness isn’t everything

Now, having spent all this time talking about sharpness, I’ll contradict myself.

A photograph doesn’t have to be perfectly sharp to be a good photograph.

Some of the greatest photographs ever made wouldn’t survive five minutes in an online camera forum. There’d be somebody enlarging an eye to 400% and announcing that the photographer had missed critical focus.

Who cares?

If the photograph works, it works.

Emotion matters.

Timing matters.

Composition matters.

Light matters.

Gesture matters.

What the photograph says matters.

Technical perfection with nothing to say is still a boring photograph.

But there’s a difference between deliberately accepting movement because the photograph matters and accidentally ruining a photograph through sloppy technique.

That’s the distinction I’m interested in.

If the photograph is soft because somebody moved at exactly the right moment and that movement gives the picture life—wonderful.

If it’s soft because I couldn’t be bothered to hold the camera properly?

That’s on me.

Stop blaming the lens

Modern photographers have become slightly obsessed with lens sharpness. We read MTF charts. We watch people photograph brick walls. We worry about corner sharpness at f/1.8.

Then we go outside, shoot an 85mm lens at 1/60 second while standing badly, jab the shutter button and wonder why the £500 lens isn’t tack sharp. The lens never stood a chance.

Before deciding a lens is soft, I’d check some very ordinary things. Was the shutter speed high enough? Was the focus actually where I intended it to be? Was the subject moving? Was I moving? Was I balanced properly? Did I squeeze the shutter? Was depth of field sufficient?

Only after eliminating those would I start accusing the equipment.

The D850 teaches discipline

Perhaps this is one of the things I like about the D850. It rewards good technique. But it doesn’t hide bad technique.

The resolution is unforgiving enough to remind me that all the technological progress in the world hasn’t abolished the basic responsibilities of the photographer.

I still have to look. I still have to compose. I still have to focus.

And I still have to hold the bloody camera still.

After more than forty years of making photographs, I find something rather reassuring about that. We spend thousands on cameras capable of extraordinary resolution. We buy beautifully sharp lenses. We have autofocus systems that can follow moving subjects around the frame. We have RAW processors capable of extracting extraordinary detail.

And yet one of the most effective improvements we can make costs absolutely nothing.

Stand properly. Support the lens. Tuck the elbows in. Watch the shutter speed. Control your breathing. Squeeze rather than stab. And if the light isn’t sufficient, raise the bloody ISO.

That’s it.

No firmware update required. No new lens. No new camera. Just better technique.

The Nikon D810 and D850 are extraordinary photographic machines. But neither can repeal the laws of physics.

Forty-five megapixels don’t make the photographer steadier.

They simply make it easier to see when he wasn’t.

And perhaps that’s one of the best things a camera can do.

Make us improve.

Old Photographer Series

Nikon D850 and 85mm: A Perfect Street Photography Duo

cameras, Lenses, photography, opinons, thoughts, street, nikon

Old Photographer Series

There are camera and lens combinations that make perfect sense on paper. And then there are combinations that make sense when you actually go outside and use them.

For me, the Nikon D850 with the Nikkor 85mm f/1.8G belongs firmly in the second category.

On paper, it’s an impressive combination. The D850 gives me 45.7 megapixels, excellent dynamic range, a serious autofocus system and one of the best optical viewfinders Nikon ever put into a DSLR. The 85mm f/1.8G gives me a relatively small and light short telephoto with a fast aperture and excellent image quality.

That’s all very nice. But specifications aren’t why I like it.

I like it because of the way it makes me photograph people.

I’ve always enjoyed the 85mm focal length. There is something about the distance it puts between me and the person I’m photographing. I’m not standing six feet away with a 35mm lens pointing a camera directly into somebody’s face. I’m farther back. I can watch.

And watching has always been one of the most important parts of photography for me. You begin to notice things. The way somebody stands. A hand resting against a wall. Two people talking. A face suddenly illuminated as somebody turns towards the light. A cigarette being raised. A glance across the road.

These things happen quickly, but they don’t always need to be photographed from three feet away.

Sometimes standing back allows the photograph to happen.

The 85mm gives me that space.

And the D850 gives me the confidence that when I press the shutter, there will be plenty in the file.

The 85mm changes the way you see

Put a 35mm lens on a camera and the street becomes part of the photograph.

Put an 85mm on it and you start selecting pieces from the street. That’s an important difference.

With a wider lens I’m thinking about foreground, background, architecture, people and how everything fits together.

With the 85mm I’m looking for something else.

I’m looking for the picture inside the scene.

A person framed against a doorway. A face separated from a chaotic background. A splash of colour. Someone caught for a second in good light. A small gesture that would disappear inside a wider composition.

The 85mm simplifies things.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve always liked it.

After enough years taking photographs, I’ve become less interested in putting everything into the frame. Quite often I’m trying to remove things.

The 85mm does some of that work before I even press the shutter.

Then put 45.7 megapixels behind it

This is where the D850 becomes interesting. The 85mm f/1.8G is easily good enough to produce beautifully detailed files on the D850. And those files are enormous.

I don’t photograph with the intention of cropping everything afterwards. I still want to make the composition in the viewfinder. That’s part of taking the photograph.

But I’m not precious about cropping either.

If taking a little off the edge improves the picture, I’ll do it. If changing the proportions makes the photograph stronger, I’ll do that too.

The photograph matters more than some imaginary rule about preserving every millimetre of the original frame. And 45.7 megapixels gives me tremendous freedom.

I can photograph somebody slightly more loosely, leaving a little room for movement, and decide afterwards exactly where the edges belong. That’s particularly useful with people because people have the irritating habit of moving.

The D850 gives me room to work.

Sharpness isn’t everything

People talk endlessly about sharp lenses. This one certainly is. The Nikkor 85mm f/1.8G is capable of producing an enormous amount of detail on the D850, particularly once stopped down slightly.

But I don’t walk around photographing resolution charts.

For me, the more interesting characteristic is what happens to the background. At wider apertures the 85mm separates a person beautifully from everything behind them.

You don’t necessarily need to shoot at f/1.8. In fact, I often prefer a little more depth of field. At f/2.2, f/2.8 or f/4, there is still plenty of separation while giving me a little insurance if the person moves. That’s important.

At close distances, f/1.8 can give very little depth of field. Get the focus slightly wrong and you can have wonderfully sharp eyelashes and soft eyes. That’s not quite the triumph we were hoping for.

Sometimes photographers become obsessed with shooting a fast lens permanently wide open because they’ve paid for f/1.8. You don’t have to.

The aperture ring isn’t welded in position. Use what the photograph needs.

The D850 isn’t subtle

Let’s get this out of the way. Nobody is going to mistake a Nikon D850 for a discreet little street camera. It’s a substantial lump. People notice it.

But the 85mm f/1.8G helps.

Instead of putting a huge 70–200mm f/2.8 on the front and walking around looking like I’ve been assigned to photograph the Olympics, the 85mm keeps the whole arrangement relatively sensible. The lens weighs roughly 350 grams. For an 85mm full-frame lens capable of f/1.8, that’s refreshingly reasonable. The balance on the D850 is excellent. The body gives me something substantial to hold while the lens doesn’t drag the whole thing forward.

It’s still not light. After several kilometres my feet and shoulders will happily provide a second opinion. But it is a combination I can actually walk with. And that’s important because street photography involves an awful lot more walking than photographing.

Distance without detachment

There’s a criticism sometimes made about longer lenses in street photography. People say they make the photographer detached.

I don’t agree.

Distance and detachment aren’t the same thing.

You can stand two metres from somebody and make a photograph containing absolutely no connection whatsoever. Or you can stand fifteen metres away and notice a tiny human moment that says something. The connection comes from the photographer. Not the focal length.

What the 85mm gives me is breathing room. I can observe before I photograph. That’s important to the way I work.

I’m interested in people, but I’m not interested in turning every encounter into a confrontation between photographer and subject. Sometimes I’ll talk. Sometimes I’ll ask. Sometimes somebody knows perfectly well I’m photographing them. And sometimes I’m simply observing ordinary life unfolding in a public place. The 85mm allows all of those approaches.

Autofocus that simply works

Modern mirrorless cameras have extraordinary autofocus. Eye detection is wonderful technology. But I don’t find myself struggling with the D850.

Its 153-point autofocus system remains extremely capable.

Put an AF point where I want it. Focus. Take the photograph. That’s basically it.

The 85mm f/1.8G focuses quickly enough for the kind of work I’m doing. I’m not photographing Formula One cars coming towards me at 200 mph. I’m photographing people.

Walking. Talking. Working. Waiting. Living.

The combination handles that perfectly well.

And because I’ve used Nikon DSLRs for years, I don’t spend much time thinking about the controls. That might be the greatest advantage of all.

A familiar camera becomes almost invisible to the photographer.

My fingers know where things are. My eye stays in the viewfinder. I’m watching what’s happening rather than searching through menus.

The viewfinder matters

This is another reason I enjoy the D850. That big optical viewfinder with an 85mm attached is a lovely way to look at people. There’s no electronic screen between me and what’s happening. Just glass, mirror, light and the subject.

Perhaps I’m showing my age. That’s fine. I’m an old photographer. I’m allowed.

I don’t dislike electronic viewfinders. They’re extremely useful and modern ones are superb. But an optical viewfinder still feels different.

It’s immediate. The world doesn’t suddenly become brighter because I’ve changed exposure compensation. The photograph hasn’t happened yet. I have to judge it. I rather enjoy that.

It’s not a perfect combination

Nothing is.

The D850 is heavy. The shutter isn’t quiet. There is no in-body stabilisation. Forty-five-megapixel RAW files consume storage at an impressive rate.

And 85mm isn’t a universal focal length. Sometimes there’s simply nowhere to stand. You’re backed against a wall wishing you’d brought a 35mm. Sometimes something happens close to you and the 85mm is just too tight. You miss photographs. That’s the price of using a prime lens.

But there’s another side to that.

Restrictions make you work.

If I’ve got an 85mm attached, I start looking for 85mm photographs. Instead of constantly zooming in and out, I move. Or I wait.

Or I accept that a particular photograph isn’t mine. That’s not necessarily a bad discipline.

One camera. One lens.

There’s something wonderfully uncomplicated about leaving home with one camera and one lens. No bag full of alternatives. No standing on a street corner wondering whether I should change from the 35mm to the 50mm or perhaps try the 70–200mm.

Just the D850. The 85mm. A spare battery that I’ll probably never need. And my feet.

Then the photography begins.

The longer I take photographs, the less interested I become in having every possible option available.

Too much equipment can become its own distraction. You start thinking about cameras instead of pictures. I love cameras. I’ve owned plenty of them and enjoyed most of them.

But eventually the camera has to shut up and let me work.

The D850 and 85mm f/1.8G do that.

They give me extraordinary image quality without requiring much thought. I know what 85mm looks like. I know roughly where I need to stand. I know how the D850 behaves. So I can concentrate on the difficult part.

Finding something worth photographing.

And no camera manufacturer has found an autofocus mode for that yet.

Standing back, looking closer

That’s really what this combination means to me. The 85mm lets me stand back. But it makes me look closer. Instead of photographing everything, I start noticing individuals.

Faces. Expressions. Hands. Small interactions. Little fragments of ordinary life that exist for a second and disappear.

The D850 records those moments with almost ridiculous amounts of detail.

But the detail isn’t the photograph. Neither is the bokeh. Neither is the sharpness. Neither is 45.7 megapixels. Those things are merely ingredients.

The photograph is still about the person.

After more than four decades of making pictures, that is increasingly what matters to me. Not whether my camera is the latest. Not whether another photographer thinks 85mm is the correct focal length for street photography. Not whether my equipment scores brilliantly in somebody’s laboratory test.

Just whether the combination works for me. And this one does. The Nikon D850 and Nikkor 85mm f/1.8G aren’t small. They aren’t fashionable. They aren’t particularly discreet. And neither is remotely new.

Good.

I’ll leave fashionable to somebody else.

Give me the D850. Give me the 85mm. Give me a street full of people and a few hours to walk. I’ll find the pictures.

That’s what the camera is for.

Old Photographer Series

A camera made for working

Confidence rather than convenience

The APS-H compromise that worked

Not a camera for everybody

The price of buying new

When the equipment disappears

What remains

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The 85mm Lens: Standing Back, Getting Closer :

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Old Photographer Series

Share this:

High resolution demands something from the photographer

Forget blindly following the old reciprocal rule

There are two things moving

How you hold the camera matters

Then there’s the shutter finger

The D810 and D850 themselves can produce vibration

Don’t be frightened of ISO

Sharpness isn’t everything

Stop blaming the lens

The D850 teaches discipline

Share this:

The 85mm changes the way you see

Then put 45.7 megapixels behind it

Sharpness isn’t everything

The D850 isn’t subtle

Distance without detachment

Autofocus that simply works

The viewfinder matters

It’s not a perfect combination

One camera. One lens.

Standing back, looking closer

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