canon

Why I Almost Never Buy Cameras New

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Old Photographer Series

I have been taking photographs for more than 45 years, and in all that time I have bought precisely one camera brand-new.

A Canon EOS-1D Mark IV.

That’s it.

Every other camera has, in one way or another, already had a life before it reached me.

Some photographers might find that strange. Photography is an industry built around the excitement of the new. New cameras arrive accompanied by countdowns, rumours, previews, launch events and endless YouTube videos explaining why the perfectly capable camera we owned yesterday has apparently become hopelessly inadequate overnight.

I’ve never been particularly interested in playing that game.

Not because I don’t appreciate technology. I do.

Modern cameras are astonishing.

But I’ve learned something rather useful over the years:

Let somebody else chase the technology. I’ll chase the photographs.

Buying used started partly because it made financial sense.

Good photographic equipment has never been cheap, particularly professional equipment. But photographers are peculiar creatures. We will spend thousands on a camera and then, three or four years later, sell it for a fraction of what we paid because another camera has appeared with a few more megapixels and an autofocus system capable of recognising the left eyeball of a swallow at 200 metres.

That’s fine by me.

I’ll wait.

Depreciation is one of the used-camera buyer’s greatest friends.

A professional camera doesn’t suddenly stop being professional when its replacement appears. It simply becomes cheaper.

The photographer who bought it new absorbs the frightening part of the depreciation.

I arrive later.

The Nikon D700 is perhaps one of the best examples.

When it appeared, it was a serious professional tool. Its full-frame sensor was superb for the period, its autofocus was dependable, the body was built properly and photographers used it to make pictures that appeared in newspapers, magazines, books, exhibitions and probably on more wedding albums than anyone could count.

Today it’s old. Twelve megapixels. No sophisticated video. No eye-detection autofocus. No electronic viewfinder. No artificial intelligence trying to work out whether I’m photographing a human, a bird, a dog or somebody’s motorcycle.

And yet I still love using it.

More importantly, it still makes excellent photographs. That fact tends to get lost whenever we talk about camera technology. A new camera may be better than an old camera. That doesn’t automatically make the old camera worse.

My recently acquired Nikon D850 demonstrates the madness particularly well.

It cost me $380.

There’s a reason. The shutter count is over 300,000.

If you spend too much time reading camera forums, that number might have you reaching for smelling salts. But the camera is externally in A1 condition. It sounds right. It works.

So I bought it.

The D850 was once one of the most desirable DSLRs in the world. It has a 45.7-megapixel full-frame sensor, excellent dynamic range, formidable autofocus and enough image quality for almost anything I’m ever likely to ask of it.

None of that disappeared because the shutter counter passed 300,000. And none of it disappeared because Nikon subsequently concentrated on mirrorless cameras.

I paid $380 and started taking photographs. If the shutter dies eventually, I’ll deal with it then. That’s the advantage of buying equipment at this end of the depreciation curve.

I’m not frightened of it.

Then there’s the lens currently sitting on the front.

An AF Nikkor 70–210mm f/4–5.6.

Cost?

$35.

I’ve already used it on the D700 and know it can produce excellent results.

Now I’m going to see what happens when I put that $35 lens in front of the D850’s 45.7-megapixel sensor.

Total investment:

$415.

A Nikon D850 and an autofocus 70–210mm zoom. There’s something wonderfully ridiculous about that. But it also illustrates why I’ve spent so much of my photographic life buying used equipment. I don’t need equipment to be new. I need it to work.

There is another advantage that has become increasingly important to me.

Freedom.

Buying an expensive new camera can sometimes make you strangely protective of it. You notice every mark. You worry about scratches. You buy covers and protectors. Rain appears and suddenly you’re wondering whether you should put the camera back into the bag. You start treating the tool as though its purpose is to preserve its resale value.

I’ve never wanted to photograph that way. A used camera already has a history. Someone has already put the first scratch on it. Thank you very much. That’s one less job for me. Now I can get on with using the bloody thing.

I don’t abuse equipment.

There’s a difference between using something and deliberately mistreating it. I look after my cameras. But cameras accompany me into the real world. They get carried. They get dusty. They get sweaty. They get knocked occasionally. Paint wears. Rubber becomes shiny. Little marks appear around the edges. To me, those aren’t necessarily defects. They’re evidence.

They say:

This camera has been somewhere.

I rather like that.

Buying used also teaches you something about what really matters.

When you aren’t chasing the newest equipment, you stop thinking quite so much about specifications.

Instead, you start thinking about suitability.

Does the camera fit my hand? Do I trust the autofocus? Can I operate it without thinking? Do I like the files? Does the viewfinder allow me to concentrate on what’s happening in front of me? And perhaps the most important question:

Do I want to carry it?

A camera that makes you want to go outside is worth considerably more than a technically superior camera sitting in a cupboard.

I’ve owned and used enough equipment to understand that the relationship between photographer and camera is difficult to measure.

Some cameras simply feel right. The D700 is one. There are others. You pick them up and within minutes you’re no longer thinking about the camera. You’re looking.

That’s when equipment becomes useful.

The camera industry doesn’t particularly benefit from people thinking this way. It needs us to believe we’re perpetually one generation behind. More resolution. More speed. Better autofocus. Higher ISO. More dynamic range. More computational photography.

And again, none of these things is bad.

Progress is good.

But technological progress and photographic progress are not the same thing.

You can improve your camera without improving your photography.

That’s an uncomfortable thought in an industry that would much rather sell you another body than suggest you spend a year properly learning the one you’ve already got.

The Canon EOS-1D Mark IV remains the odd one out in my history.

The one I bought new.

And I’m glad I did.

It was a magnificent professional camera and buying it new gave me the experience of owning a serious tool from the beginning of its working life.

But apparently once was enough. Because I never developed the habit. Instead, I’ve spent decades wandering around the second-hand market looking for cameras that other photographers have decided they no longer need. And I’ve benefited enormously from their impatience.

Someone wants the latest model? Wonderful. Sell me the old one.

Someone needs another ten megapixels? Excellent. I’ll take the supposedly obsolete camera.

Someone has decided DSLRs are finished because mirrorless has taken over?

Even better.

Now we’re talking about prices I like.

There is, of course, some risk. Buying used means checking equipment properly.

Shutters wear. Autofocus systems can be damaged. Sensors can be scratched. Card slots fail. Batteries die. Old lenses can develop fungus or haze.

You need to know what you’re looking at.

But after enough years around cameras, you develop a feel for these things.

Pick it up. Look through it. Press the buttons. Turn the dials. Listen to the shutter. Take photographs. Examine the results. A camera will often tell you quite a lot if you’re prepared to pay attention.

And sometimes you take a gamble.

My $380 D850 is one. Over 300,000 shutter actuations? Fine. At that price, I’ll take the bet.

Perhaps my attitude has changed with age as well. When I was younger, equipment represented possibility. Maybe the next camera would make me better. Maybe the next lens would change everything.

After 45 years, I know better.

Cameras don’t find photographs. Photographers do.

The equipment matters, certainly. Anyone claiming otherwise is being silly. The right lens can change how you see a situation. A better sensor can allow you to work in conditions that would once have been impossible. Reliable autofocus can mean getting a picture rather than missing it.

But eventually equipment reaches a level where good enough really is good enough.

Photography doesn’t begin when you have the best camera. Photography begins when you stop thinking about the camera. That’s probably why old equipment appeals to me. There’s no expectation attached to it. Nobody is asking whether my ten-year-old DSLR justifies its purchase price. Nobody cares whether my $35 lens resolves 45.7 megapixels.

Good.

Neither do I.

I want to know whether it resolves the expression on somebody’s face.

Whether it catches the light falling across a street. Whether it isolates a gesture. Whether, when I look at the photograph later, I feel something. If it does those things, the equipment has succeeded.

So I’ll continue buying cameras the way I always have. Late. Used. Depreciated. Occasionally battered. Preferably cheap. I’ll let somebody else enjoy opening the box and peeling the protective plastic from the screen.

They can watch the reviews.

They can debate the specifications.

They can upgrade when the replacement arrives.

And a few years later, when that once revolutionary camera has somehow become yesterday’s technology, perhaps I’ll buy it from them. For considerably less.

Then I’ll put an equally unfashionable lens on the front and take it onto the street. Because after all these years, I’ve finally worked out which upgrade matters most.

It isn’t another camera. It’s another photograph.

Let somebody else chase the technology. I’ll chase the photographs.

Old Photographer Series

The Essay I Wish I’d Found Twenty-Five Years Ago

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If I could slip a single envelope into the camera bag of the photographer I was twenty-five years ago, this is what it would say.

Stop worrying.

Not because everything will work out exactly as you hope—it won’t—but because you’re worrying about almost all the wrong things.

You’re spending too much time wondering whether another camera, another lens or another bag will somehow transform your photography.

It won’t.

Better equipment will certainly make some things easier. Cameras will become faster. Sensors will become cleaner. Autofocus will become astonishing. Technology will continue to improve long after you’ve stopped trying to keep up with it.

Buy good equipment when you can. Look after it. Enjoy it.

But don’t mistake it for photography. Photography happens somewhere between your eyes and your heart.

The camera simply records the outcome.

You’ll spend years reading reviews.

One day you’ll realise you’ve forgotten to read people.

You’ll compare sharpness. One day you’ll discover that the photographs you treasure most are rarely the sharpest ones.

You’ll become fascinated by lenses.

One day you’ll understand that curiosity has always been your most valuable piece of equipment.

Carry it everywhere. Be kinder than you think you need to be.

The people you photograph are not subjects.

They’re people who have trusted you with a tiny piece of their lives.

Never forget that. Treat them with respect. Listen more than you speak.

Sometimes the conversation will become more important than the photograph.

Allow that to happen.

Don’t rush. The world will try to convince you that speed is everything.

It isn’t. Good photographs often belong to patient people.

Stand still. Watch. Wait.

You are under no obligation to fill every memory card you own.

Some days you’ll come home with two photographs.

Some days with none. Neither day is a failure. The walking matters too.

There will be times when you’ll wonder whether you’ve lost whatever it was that first made you pick up a camera. You’ll go for walks and barely raise it to your eye.

That will frighten you.

You’ll think the passion has gone forever. It hasn’t.

Sometimes creativity simply goes quiet for a while.

Leave it alone. Don’t force it.

One day an old camera or a forgotten lens will remind you why you started in the first place.

It will return as quietly as it left.

Print your photographs. Not because anyone else demands it.

Because photographs deserve to exist somewhere other than a screen that will be forgotten tomorrow. A print asks people to stop.

The world needs more stopping. Take more pictures of ordinary days.

At the time they won’t seem important. Years later they’ll become priceless.

Photograph your friends. Photograph your family.

Photograph the streets you walk every day.

One day those streets will have changed beyond recognition.

You’ll be grateful that you noticed them while they were still ordinary.

Don’t become trapped by other photographers’ opinions.

Some will tell you your camera isn’t good enough.

Others will insist your lens is too slow.

Some will dismiss cameras you’ve grown to love.

Smile politely.

Then go out and make photographs anyway.

Remember that every camera has its own character.

Some are loud. Some are quiet. Some demand attention.

Others simply become companions.

You will eventually discover that your favorite cameras aren’t necessarily the newest or the most expensive.

They’re the ones that make you want to leave the house.

Keep them. One day they’ll become old friends.

And here’s something nobody tells you when you’re young.

Photography changes. Not photography itself.

You.

The photographs you make at twenty-five won’t be the photographs you make at fifty or seventy. Nor should they be.

Experience changes the way you see people.

Joy changes it. Loss changes it. Love changes it. Failure certainly changes it.

Let all of those things find their way into your photographs.

Don’t try to photograph like someone else.

You already have enough famous photographers.

The world only gets one version of you.

Trust it.

Finally, remember this.

There will come a day when someone asks why you’re still carrying an old camera that everyone else considers obsolete.

You’ll smile. Not because they’re wrong.

But because you’ve finally learned something that took a lifetime to understand.

The camera was never the important part. It was simply the excuse.

The real gift was that it persuaded you to slow down.

To wander. To notice. To meet people you would otherwise have walked straight past.

To pay attention to a world that is constantly asking you not to.

If you can do that, consistently, over the course of a lifetime, you’ll have succeeded.

Not because you’ll become famous. Not because you’ll own remarkable equipment.

Not because you’ll make perfect photographs. You’ll have succeeded because you’ll have lived as a photographer.

And believe me…

That’s more than enough.

Why Some Cameras Never Really Leave Us

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Old Cameras, New Eyes

Every photographer has owned a camera they should probably have sold years ago.

Mine are still sitting on the shelf.

A Nikon D1H. A D2Hs. A D300S. A D3.

A Canon 1D Mark II, Mark III and Mark IV.

An original Fujifilm X100.

According to the internet, most of them are obsolete. Their sensors are too old, their rear screens too small, their autofocus too slow and their specifications hopelessly outclassed by almost anything you can buy today.

They’re probably right.

I still wouldn’t part with them.

People sometimes ask me why I keep using cameras that have long since disappeared from shop windows.

The answer has very little to do with photography.

I love my old cameras because they have character, personality and soul. They’re not just tools. They’re old friends. Like old friends, each one has its own personality.

The Nikon D2Hs is calm, dependable and quietly confident. It never shouts about what it can do. It simply turns up every morning and gets on with the job.

The D300S is the reliable companion that never lets me down. It doesn’t demand attention or admiration. It simply asks where we’re walking today.

The Nikon D3 feels like that friend who’s seen everything, survived everything and somehow still remains unflappable.

Then there are the Canons.

The 1D series always felt as though they had been built with one purpose in mind: work. No fuss. No drama. Just absolute confidence that whatever happened next, they’d cope with it.

The original Fujifilm X100 was different again.

It was the quiet one.

The camera that persuaded me to slow down, stop fiddling with settings and simply watch the world unfold.

None of these cameras are perfect. Thank goodness.

Perfection has never interested me very much.

Character has.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve never understood the obsession with constantly replacing cameras. Every new model promises to be faster, sharper and cleverer than the one before.

Some of those promises are true.

But none of them explain why I still smile when I wrap my hand around a camera that’s twenty years old.

These cameras have travelled with me through different chapters of my life.

They’ve wandered streets with me.

They’ve waited patiently while I stood watching people.

They’ve shared quiet mornings and long afternoons.

They’ve been there on days when everything seemed to come together and on days when nothing worked at all.

Strange as it may sound, they have become companions.

The best part? They’ve never judged me. Not once.

They’ve never complained about a bad hair day.

They’ve never mentioned my increasingly questionable fashion sense.

They’ve never laughed at mismatched socks or criticised an idea before I’d even tried it.

They’ve simply waited by the door, ready for another walk.

There is something wonderfully reassuring about that kind of friendship.

Over the years I’ve come to realise that the cameras themselves are only part of the story.

The real story is what happens to the photographer.

When we’re young, we chase equipment.

When we’re older, we chase light.

When we’re beginning, we collect cameras.

When we’ve been doing it for decades, we collect moments.

That’s why these old cameras still matter to me.

Not because they’re technically remarkable by today’s standards.

But because every scratch tells a story.

Every polished edge reminds me of somewhere I’ve been.

Every shutter release carries memories that no specification sheet could ever record.

Photography has given me many things over the years.

Pictures. Friendships. Conversations. A reason to wander. An excuse to be curious.

These cameras have quietly accompanied me through all of it.

Perhaps that’s why I still reach for them.

Not because I believe old cameras are better than new ones.

They’re not.

I reach for them because they remind me of something the photographic industry rarely talks about.

The finest camera you’ll ever own isn’t necessarily the newest one.

It’s the one that makes you want to leave the house.

The one that disappears in your hands.

The one that quietly whispers, “Come on… let’s go and see what’s happening today.”

Mine just happen to have a few more wrinkles than they used to.

Then again…

So do I.

Three Cameras That Taught Me to Trust Myself

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There are cameras that pass through your hands without leaving much of an impression.

Then there are cameras that quietly shape the photographer you become.

Looking back over the years, three Canon cameras stand out for reasons that have very little to do with megapixels, autofocus points or laboratory tests. They arrived at different times in my life, answered different needs and, without my realising it at the time, each taught me something about photography that I still carry with me today.

The Canon 1D Mark II was my introduction to what a truly professional camera felt like.

Until then I had used good cameras, but the 1D Mark II belonged to a different world. It wasn’t designed to impress people in a camera shop. It was built to earn its living. From the moment I picked it up, I understood that.

The weight wasn’t a burden; it was reassuring. The shutter sounded purposeful. Every button felt as though it had been placed exactly where it needed to be. It gave the impression that someone had spent years thinking about photographers before designing the camera.

It didn’t feel clever.

It felt dependable.

There’s a difference.

The first lesson that camera taught me was that confidence is one of the most valuable things a camera can give its owner.

When you trust your equipment, you stop checking it every few minutes. You stop wondering whether the autofocus will cope or whether the exposure will be right. Instead, you start watching people. You begin anticipating moments instead of worrying about settings.

The camera fades into the background. That’s exactly where it belongs.

Then came the Canon 1D Mark III.

If ever there was a camera judged before it had the chance to speak for itself, this was it.

Its autofocus problems became one of photography’s best-known stories, and for many people that was the end of the conversation.

I never found life quite that simple.

Like every camera, it had strengths and weaknesses, but I’ve always believed equipment should be judged by the photographs it helps you make, not by endless debates on internet forums.

The Mark III reminded me that photographers can sometimes become prisoners of other people’s opinions.

It’s easy to dismiss a camera because someone you’ve never met says it isn’t good enough.

It’s much harder—and much more rewarding—to pick it up yourself and find out.

Photography has always been full of accepted wisdom.

“This lens isn’t sharp enough.” “That camera is outdated.” “You need more megapixels.”

Most of those statements contain a grain of truth. Very few contain the whole truth.

The Mark III encouraged me to trust my own experience over popular opinion.

That was a lesson worth learning.

Then there was the Canon 1D Mark IV.

That camera occupies a special place in my memory for one simple reason.

It is the only brand-new camera I have ever bought.

Everything else arrived second-hand, already carrying someone else’s story before becoming part of mine.

The Mark IV was different.

Buying it wasn’t about owning the latest technology.

It was about reaching a point where I knew exactly what I wanted from a camera.

No guesswork.

No wishful thinking.

No chasing fashion. Just confidence.

By then I had spent years making photographs, learning through mistakes and slowly discovering that cameras don’t create vision. They simply support it.

The Mark IV felt like the natural companion to that stage of my life.

Fast when it needed to be. Reliable when it mattered. Strong enough to work all day without complaint.

Most importantly, it never demanded my attention.

Like every great camera I’ve owned, it quietly stepped aside and allowed me to concentrate on the photograph.

Looking back now, I realise these three cameras chart more than the evolution of digital photography.

They chart the evolution of a photographer.

The first taught me confidence.

The second taught me independence.

The third confirmed that experience matters more than specifications.

Today the photographic world moves at extraordinary speed. New cameras appear almost before we’ve learned the menus on the old ones. Marketing departments tell us that everything has changed, while social media encourages us to believe that our equipment is somehow holding us back.

I’m no longer convinced.

The longer I photograph, the less interested I become in owning the newest camera. Instead, I find myself asking a much simpler question. Does this camera make me want to go out for a walk?

If the answer is yes, then it has already done most of its job.

I still enjoy reading about new equipment. I admire good engineering. I appreciate innovation.

But somewhere along the way I stopped believing that photography was about owning the latest technology.

It’s about recognising a fleeting expression. Waiting for the light to fall in just the right place. Seeing relationships between people that exist for only a heartbeat. No camera has ever created those moments. It can only preserve them.

When I think back to the Canon 1D Mark II, the Mark III and the Mark IV, I don’t remember the specifications.

I remember the places they travelled. The people they introduced me to. The confidence they gave me to keep pressing the shutter.

That’s their real legacy.

Not because they were perfect.

No camera ever is.

But because, for a significant part of my photographic life, they became trusted companions rather than pieces of technology.

In the end, that’s all I’ve ever really wanted from a camera.

Not perfection.

Just the confidence to keep looking.