cameras

The $380 Nikon D850: When Shutter Count Stops Mattering

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

The Old Photographer Series

There comes a point in a photographer’s life when numbers begin to matter less.

Megapixels. Frames per second. Dynamic range. Autofocus points. Shutter counts.

I’ve spent more than 45 years taking pictures, and I’ve lived through enough generations of cameras to know that we photographers have a peculiar ability to worry about things that aren’t actually stopping us from making photographs.

And then I bought a Nikon D850 for $380.

There had to be a catch.

There was.

The shutter count was north of 300,000.

For some photographers, that number would be enough to put the camera straight back on the shelf. Nikon rated the D850 shutter mechanism for 200,000 cycles, so 300,000 sounds rather like buying a car with 300,000 miles on the clock.

Except cameras aren’t cars. And shutter ratings aren’t death sentences.

The camera was sitting there looking almost ridiculously good. Externally I’d describe it as A1. It hadn’t been knocked about, the body wasn’t scarred from years of abuse, and nothing immediately suggested a camera that had already made more than 300,000 exposures.

I picked it up. That familiar Nikon solidity was there. Then I pressed the shutter. It sounded good. Not tired. Not hesitant. No strange metallic noises or anything suggesting the mechanism was preparing to throw itself across the room. Just that wonderfully purposeful D850 shutter. Clack.

A photograph. And suddenly I wasn’t terribly interested in the number anymore.

I’ve owned and used enough cameras over the years to understand that mechanical things eventually wear out. A shutter can fail at 50,000 exposures. Another can carry on well beyond its manufacturer’s rated life. Two hundred thousand actuations doesn’t mean that the D850 shutter self-destructs at exposure number 200,001.

It is a durability rating, not an appointment with the undertaker.

My camera has already proved the point rather convincingly. It’s passed 300,000.

The interesting question isn’t how many photographs the camera has already taken.

It’s how many photographs it still has left in it.

And nobody knows. Perhaps the shutter will fail next week.

Perhaps it will make another 100,000 exposures. That’s the gamble. But at $380, it’s a gamble I’m perfectly comfortable taking.

There was a time when I might have thought differently.

When you’re younger and buying equipment represents a substantial investment, you tend to protect it. Every scratch hurts. Every little mark on the baseplate feels like a personal tragedy. You buy protective screens. Protective filters. Protective cases.

Then you put your expensive camera inside an expensive bag designed to protect the protective things protecting the camera.

Eventually you realise something.

Cameras are supposed to be used.

That’s particularly true of the Nikon D850.

When Nikon introduced the D850 in 2017, it was one of those rare cameras where almost everything came together.

The 45.7-megapixel full-frame sensor delivered extraordinary detail. Dynamic range was superb. Autofocus was inherited from Nikon’s professional D5 generation. It could shoot quickly enough for serious action photography while simultaneously producing files capable of enormous prints.

It wasn’t really a specialist camera. It was a camera that could do almost everything.

Landscape photographers loved it. Studio photographers loved it. Wedding photographers used it. Wildlife photographers used it. Photojournalists used it.

And people like me discovered that despite its size, it could make a formidable street camera.

Nearly a decade later, none of those abilities have disappeared.

That’s something we sometimes forget.

A camera doesn’t become worse because something newer has appeared.

The photographs coming out of a D850 today are every bit as good as the photographs that came out of one when photographers were queuing to buy them new.

Technology moves forward.

Image quality doesn’t move backwards.

And 45.7 megapixels is still an enormous amount of information.

In fact, for most of what I photograph, it’s far more than I actually need.

The great advantage of my particular D850 is that I don’t have to worry about it. That’s worth more than people realise.

I didn’t spend several thousand dollars on it. I spent $380. If I put another scratch on the bottom plate, I won’t lose sleep. If the rubber gets polished from my hands, good. If the paint eventually wears around the edges, even better. That’s what cameras are supposed to look like. They’re tools.

I’ve always had a fondness for old cameras precisely because they develop character. A camera that’s been used carries something of its history with it.

And this D850 certainly has a history. Three hundred thousand photographs.

Think about that for a moment. I have no idea what those photographs were. Perhaps weddings. Perhaps portraits. Perhaps products photographed in a studio. Maybe somebody used it for time-lapse work. Perhaps there are thousands upon thousands of photographs of things completely forgotten now.

I’ll probably never know.

But somebody pressed that shutter more than 300,000 times. Now it’s my turn. There’s something I rather like about that.

The obsession with shutter count has grown alongside the used-camera market.

Mention that you’re looking at a used DSLR and one of the first questions you’ll hear is:

“What’s the shutter count?”

Fair enough.

It’s useful information.

If two otherwise identical D850 bodies are sitting beside each other at the same price and one has made 20,000 exposures while the other has made 300,000, I’d take the 20,000-exposure camera.

I’m an old photographer. I’m not completely daft. But price changes everything. At $380, I’m not comparing this camera with a pristine low-mileage D850. I’m asking a different question.

How much photography can I get for $380?

And the answer is potentially quite extraordinary.

For less than the cost of many modern lenses, I’ve got one of the finest DSLRs Nikon ever produced.

A professional-grade body. A magnificent sensor. Excellent autofocus. Superb handling. An enormous optical viewfinder.

Files with enough latitude to take considerable punishment in processing.

And, perhaps most importantly, a camera that makes me want to go out and take photographs. That’s the bit specifications can’t measure.

I’ve reached an age where I’m increasingly uninterested in owning cameras simply because they’re new.

I’ve watched photography travel from film to early digital cameras, through the DSLR revolution and now into the mirrorless age.

Every generation arrives accompanied by claims that everything before it has suddenly become obsolete.

It never quite happens.

My old Nikon D700 can still make wonderful photographs. So can a D800. So can a D810.

So can the professional Nikon bodies that once sat in newspaper offices and photographers’ bags around the world.

And the D850 sits very close to the summit of that entire DSLR era.

Perhaps it is the summit.

It arrived when Nikon had decades of experience building professional SLRs and nearly two decades of experience making serious digital SLRs.

Everything Nikon had learned seemed to end up inside it. The ergonomics. The viewfinder. The autofocus. The metering. The sensor. The durability.

It feels like the final flowering of a particular philosophy of camera design.

Put your eye to the viewfinder and you’re looking through the lens. Not at a tiny television.

At the world.

There’s still something wonderfully direct about that.

I don’t know when the shutter in my D850 will eventually stop. That’s part of the deal.

If it happens, I’ll make a decision.

If replacing the shutter makes financial sense, I’ll replace it.

If it doesn’t, I’ll have had my money’s worth. But I’m certainly not going to spend whatever life remains in the shutter worrying about its death. That would be rather ridiculous. Imagine buying an old Leica and refusing to use it because operating the shutter might wear it out. Or buying a classic car and never driving it because the engine has already done too many miles.

Objects designed to work should work. Cameras designed to take photographs should take photographs. So this D850 is going into the bag. It’ll walk the streets. It’ll get hot. It’ll get dusty. It’ll probably acquire a few marks. And every time I press that shutter, the supposedly frightening number will increase.

300,001.

300,002.

300,003.

Good. Keep going. Because after all these years, I’ve realised that the shutter count that really matters isn’t the number already on the camera. It’s the number of photographs still inside the photographer. That’s the count I’m interested in now.

And at $380, this battered-in-spirit but beautiful-in-the-hand Nikon D850 and I have made a rather simple agreement.

I’ll keep looking. It’ll keep clicking.

And we’ll see which one of us gives up first.

Old Photographer Series

Photography as Life: Lessons from 45 Years Behind the Camera: Old Photographer Series

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I have been making pictures for around forty-five years. Put like that, it sounds faintly ridiculous. Forty-five years of carrying cameras, buying cameras, selling cameras, regretting selling cameras, walking miles with cameras that were too heavy, and occasionally wondering why on earth I was still doing it.

And yet I am.

Photography has changed beyond recognition during those years. I started in a world where every press of the shutter cost money. Film had to be bought, processed and printed. You couldn’t look at the back of the camera to see whether you’d got the picture because there was nothing there to look at. You learned to trust the meter, the camera and, eventually, yourself.

Today I can put a memory card into a Nikon D850 and make more photographs in an afternoon than I might once have made in a month.

But strangely, the reason I make pictures hasn’t changed very much at all. I make pictures because I notice things. That may be the simplest explanation I can give.

Photography has trained me to look at the world differently. I notice the old man sitting alone outside a café. I notice the expression on somebody’s face when they think nobody is watching. I notice two people talking across a market stall, a shaft of afternoon light falling across a wall, a child staring curiously at a stranger, the hands of an elderly woman, the tired face of somebody finishing a day’s work.

Most people walk past these things. I stop.

Not always physically. Sometimes the stopping happens entirely inside my head. Something catches my attention and that little photographic instinct, developed over decades, whispers: There’s something there. After forty-five years, that instinct is almost impossible to switch off. I don’t think I would want to.

Photography has become less about cameras as I have grown older. That might sound strange coming from somebody who still enjoys old cameras enormously. I love them. I love the solid lump of a Nikon D700, the wonderful excess of a professional DSLR, the simplicity of a fifty millimeter lens and the satisfying clunk of a proper mechanical shutter.

Old cameras have character. But I know perfectly well that the camera isn’t the reason I go out. The camera gives me an excuse. It gives me permission to wander.

That is one of photography’s great gifts, and perhaps one we don’t talk about enough.

Give an old photographer a camera and suddenly walking around without any particular destination becomes perfectly reasonable. I can disappear down a side street simply because the light looks interesting. I can stand beside a market for twenty minutes watching people come and go. I can sit somewhere with a coffee and watch the theatre of ordinary life unfolding in front of me.

Without the camera, perhaps I would feel I should be going somewhere. With the camera, I already am. And after forty-five years, I have realised that these apparently insignificant wanderings have formed a considerable part of my life.

Thousands upon thousands of little journeys. Some produced photographs I still care about. Many produced absolutely nothing. That doesn’t mean they were wasted.

Because photography has never really been about collecting successful pictures. It is about being present while life is happening. That matters more to me now than it did when I was younger.

When you’re young, photography can become competitive. You want sharper lenses, better cameras, stronger pictures, publication, recognition, compliments. You compare yourself with other photographers. You worry about whether your photographs are good enough.

Age has a useful way of knocking some of that nonsense out of you. I still want to make good pictures. Of course I do. There would be little point otherwise. But I no longer need every photograph to prove something.

That is enormously liberating.

A photograph can simply say: I was here. I saw this. This person existed. This moment mattered to me. That is enough.

Perhaps that is also why pictures of people have always mattered so much to me.

Buildings change. Streets disappear. Shops close. Cars become old-fashioned. Entire neighbourhoods can be transformed almost beyond recognition.

But people make photographs breathe. A face gives a picture its humanity.

When I look through older photographs, it is rarely the technical perfection that interests me. I don’t sit there thinking, Wonderful corner sharpness.

I look at the people. Who were they? What happened to them? Where are they now?

Sometimes I remember everything about making the photograph. The weather. The conversation. The camera I was carrying. The walk home afterwards.

Other times I remember almost nothing. And that is when photography becomes slightly magical. Because the photograph remembers for me. That small rectangle of paper or collection of pixels has preserved something my own memory has lost.

After forty-five years, I increasingly understand that I have not simply been making photographs. I have been building an archive of a life. Not deliberately. Nobody begins photography at twenty or thirty thinking, I shall now document the next forty-five years of my existence. You simply keep taking pictures. One year becomes five. Five becomes twenty.

Then one day you look behind you and realise that the photographs have become breadcrumbs scattered along the road you travelled.

Cameras I once carried. Places where I once stood. People I once knew. People I loved. People I met for thirty seconds and never saw again. Cities before they changed. Streets before they disappeared. And versions of myself that no longer exist.

That is powerful stuff.

It also explains why printing photographs still matters to me. A photograph on a screen exists, certainly, but a print has presence. You can hold it. Put it on a table. Stick it on a wall. Find it unexpectedly twenty years later.

A print becomes an object. And objects survive us in peculiar ways. I sometimes wonder what will happen to all these photographs eventually. Every photographer who has worked long enough probably thinks about it. Will anybody care?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ve become surprisingly comfortable with that.

I didn’t make most of these pictures for an imaginary audience fifty years in the future. I made them because something in front of me made me raise the camera.

That’s enough. Photography has given me something far more valuable than a collection of images. It has given me curiosity.

Even after forty-five years I can walk down a street I have walked down a hundred times and still wonder whether today there might be a photograph there.

That possibility gets me out of the door. And some days, particularly as we get older, getting out of the door is no small thing. The camera provides purpose. Not some grand artistic purpose. Nothing quite so pompous. Just a reason to walk another street. Look around another corner. Talk to another stranger. Wait another five minutes because the light might change. Photography keeps me engaged with the world.

And the world, for all its madness, cruelty, stupidity and noise, remains endlessly interesting when viewed through a camera.

There are still faces I haven’t photographed. Still streets I haven’t walked. Still moments I haven’t seen. And perhaps somewhere tomorrow afternoon there will be one of those tiny combinations of person, expression, gesture and light that lasts for half a second and then disappears forever.

I’ll raise the camera.

Click. Gone. Except it isn’t. I caught a little piece of it.

After forty-five years, I think that is why making pictures remains so important to me.

Photography has been a companion for most of my adult life. Cameras have come and gone. Film became digital. Darkrooms became computers. Thirty-six exposures became memory cards holding thousands. Autofocus became astonishing. Cameras became capable of things we couldn’t have imagined when I started.

None of that is really important. The important part happens before the shutter is pressed. You notice. You care. You decide that this tiny fragment of ordinary life deserves to be remembered.

Then you make the picture.

Forty-five years later, I’m still looking. And I’m still curious about what might be around the next corner. As long as that curiosity remains, I’ll keep carrying a camera. Because somewhere along the way photography stopped being something I did. It became part of the way I live.

And perhaps that is the real privilege of being an old photographer.

You eventually understand that all those years you thought you were making pictures of the world. But quietly, picture by picture, the world was making a photographer out of you.

Nikon D850 + AF-S Nikkor 50mm f/1.4G

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One Camera One Lens

The Old Photographer Series

There is a peculiar disease among photographers. I have suffered from it myself for years.

We convince ourselves that we need another lens.

A 24mm for when things get tight. A 35mm because it is supposedly the perfect street lens. A 50mm because everybody ought to own one. An 85mm for portraits. A zoom because changing lenses is inconvenient. And perhaps a telephoto because, well, you never know.

Before long we’re heading out to take photographs carrying enough equipment to document the invasion of a small country.

Then, after walking around all day with several kilos hanging from our shoulders, we get home and discover that most of the pictures were taken with one lens.

Eventually an old photographer begins to see the absurdity of it.

So here is my alternative.

One Nikon D850. One AF-S Nikkor 50mm f/1.4G. Nothing else.

Well, perhaps a spare battery.

I’m old, not stupid.

The Nikon D850 is hardly anybody’s idea of a small camera. It is a substantial DSLR, built in that wonderful Nikon tradition of cameras that feel as though they could survive considerably more punishment than their owners.

And I like that.

I’m not looking for a camera that disappears into a jacket pocket. I want something that sits properly in my hands. Something with a real grip, proper buttons and dials, and an optical viewfinder through which I can simply look at the world.

The D850 gives me that, together with a 45.7-megapixel FX sensor capable of producing quite extraordinary files.

But here’s the important bit.

I don’t need to think about any of it.

After enough years using Nikon DSLRs, the controls become familiar. Aperture. Shutter speed. ISO. Focus point. Exposure compensation.

Everything else can largely bugger off.

The camera is there to make photographs.

Then we put the little 50mm f/1.4G on the front.

And suddenly this enormous photographic machine becomes beautifully simple.

The AF-S Nikkor 50mm f/1.4G is an interesting lens because it isn’t one of Nikon’s modern optical monsters.

It dates from 2008. It has eight elements in seven groups, weighs only about 280 grams, focuses down to 45cm and uses a nine-bladed rounded diaphragm. Its Silent Wave Motor provides autofocus, while M/A mode allows immediate manual adjustment.

In other words, it is refreshingly ordinary.

And I mean that as a compliment.

On the D850’s FX sensor, 50mm gives us that classic normal perspective. Not dramatically wide. Not compressed like a telephoto.

Just 50mm.

You look. You frame. You photograph. There is nowhere to hide.

Your feet are the zoom

The first thing that happens when you spend an entire day with a prime lens is that you stop thinking about lenses.

At the beginning you might see something and think:

I wish I had the 35mm.

Twenty minutes later:

An 85mm would be handy here.

Ignore it. Keep walking.

Something rather interesting eventually happens. Your brain begins adjusting to 50mm.

You start seeing pictures in 50mm before the camera reaches your eye.

You know roughly what will be in the frame. You know how close you need to get. You begin moving instinctively.

Want the person larger? Walk closer.

Want more environment? Walk backwards.

Can’t walk backwards because there’s a wall behind you?

Good.

Find another photograph.

That limitation is part of the exercise.

Modern photography has become obsessed with eliminating limitations. I increasingly think limitations are good for us. They make us think.

And 50mm makes you participate

This is particularly important when photographing people.

With a long lens, I can stand well away from somebody and photograph them almost anonymously.

With a 50mm, I can’t.

If I want somebody to occupy a significant part of the frame, I have to get reasonably close. I have entered their world. That changes the photograph.

There’s an intimacy to 50mm street photography that I like. I’m not right under someone’s nose, as I might sometimes feel with a very wide lens, but neither am I standing across the road pretending I wasn’t there.

I’m part of the scene.

For the sort of photography I enjoy — people, faces, gestures, little human moments and the environment around them — that feels right.

About that f/1.4

Naturally, the great attraction of this particular 50mm is written around the front of the lens.

1:1.4.

That’s fast.

It means I can keep working when the light begins to disappear. It means I can isolate somebody against a distracting background. And that rounded nine-blade diaphragm can produce very pleasant out-of-focus areas. Nikon itself positions the lens for low-light work, portraits and general photography.

But here’s something I’ve learned. Just because I’ve bought an f/1.4 lens doesn’t mean I have to photograph everything at f/1.4.

There seems to be a modern fascination with obliterating backgrounds.

Eyes sharp. Ears blurred. Nose blurred. Background transformed into expensive-looking soup.

Very impressive.

But sometimes I actually want to know where the person is.

For street photography especially, the background frequently provides the story.

So I’ll happily use this lens at f/2.8, f/4, f/5.6 or f/8.

I want the aperture that makes the photograph work.

Not the aperture that proves what is engraved on the lens barrel.

The D850 will expose your mistakes

There is another reason I like this combination.

The D850 doesn’t flatter sloppy technique.

That enormous resolution records an extraordinary amount of detail, which means that when focus is right and the camera is steady, the results can be beautiful.

But miss focus slightly? You’ll know.

Use a shutter speed that’s a little too slow? You’ll know.

Get lazy with technique? Oh, you’ll definitely know.

And I rather like that.

A camera should occasionally remind the photographer that he is still involved in the process.

The D850 is capable of extraordinary image quality, but it doesn’t magically create good photographs.

Neither does the 50mm f/1.4G.

That’s still my job.

Leave the bloody camera bag at home

This might actually be the most important part.

Don’t put the D850 and 50mm into a bag containing another four lenses.

Because then the temptation remains.

Take the D850. Attach the 50mm. Put a spare battery and memory card in your pocket. Walk out of the door. That’s it.

For the next few hours, 50mm is the only focal length in existence.

It is remarkably liberating. No lens changes. No sensor dust. No wondering whether the photograph might look better at 35mm. No staring into a bag while the interesting human moment happening three meters away disappears forever.

Just photography.

One camera, One lens changes the way you work

The longer you use the combination, the less you notice it. And that’s when things become interesting.

The camera stops being the subject. You start noticing light.

A face appearing through a doorway. Someone sitting alone at a café.

A child running through a shaft of afternoon sunlight. Two people arguing. Someone laughing. A hand resting on a shoulder. A tired face on a bus.

The ordinary theatre of the street. These are the things that matter. Not whether Nikon has released something newer. Not whether another lens resolves another hundred lines on somebody’s laboratory chart. Not whether my autofocus system contains the latest artificial intelligence.

Did I see the picture?

That’s the question.

Could I really live with just this?

Photographically?

Yes.

The D850 and 50mm f/1.4G could cover an astonishing amount of what I enjoy photographing.

Street. Portraits. Environmental portraits. Travel. Documentary work. Family. Night photography. Details. Even landscapes, if I stop believing landscapes must automatically be photographed with wide-angle lenses.

Would there occasionally be photographs I couldn’t make?

Of course. That’s life. I’ve missed photographs while carrying three lenses as well. Usually because I was fiddling with the bloody equipment.

After decades around cameras, perhaps the greatest luxury isn’t owning more equipment. It’s needing less.

When I was younger, another lens represented another possibility. Now I increasingly see it differently. Every additional lens is another decision. And every second spent thinking about equipment is a second I’m not looking at what is happening around me.

So give me the Nikon D850. Put the AF-S Nikkor 50mm f/1.4G on it. One battery in the camera. Another in my pocket. An empty memory card. Good walking shoes. And send me out onto the street.

No zoom. No second body. No bag full of alternatives.

If the photograph is too far away, I’ll walk towards it.

If I’m too close, I’ll walk backwards.

And if neither works, I’ll wait for another photograph. Because there is always another photograph. You just have to be looking.

One camera. One lens. One photographer.

After all these years, perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps it always was.

— The Old Photographer Series

Old Photographer Series: The Fujifilm X-E2 Reminds Me What Matters

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Every few years the camera industry tells us that everything has changed.

More megapixels. Faster autofocus. Better tracking. Artificial intelligence. More video features than most of us will ever use. The message is always the same: if you want to make better photographs, you need the latest camera.

Then I pick up something like the Fujifilm X-E2.

Suddenly all of that noise fades into the background.

The X-E2 is not a modern camera by today’s standards. It doesn’t have image stabilisation. It won’t recognise birds, trains, aeroplanes or your neighbour’s cat. It isn’t built for shooting thirty frames a second. It certainly won’t impress anyone who measures cameras by specification sheets.

Yet somehow it reminds me why I picked up a camera in the first place.

As an old photographer, I have reached the point where I no longer confuse technology with photography.

That sounds obvious, but it took me years to understand.

When I was younger, every new camera felt like the answer. If only I owned that body. If only I had that lens. If only autofocus was a little quicker or the sensor a little cleaner at high ISO. I convinced myself that the next purchase would somehow improve my vision.

It never did. Experience did. Failure did. Walking the streets for thousands of hours did. Meeting strangers did. Getting things wrong over and over again did.

The Fujifilm X-E2 fits beautifully into that way of thinking. It asks very little of you, except that you pay attention.

Its sixteen-megapixel sensor is still capable of producing wonderful photographs. The colours are rich without being exaggerated. Skin tones have warmth. Black and white conversions possess a gentle tonality that reminds me why I fell in love with monochrome in the first place.

Most importantly, the files simply look like photographs rather than digital demonstrations. There is a softness to the experience that modern cameras often lack. The autofocus isn’t lightning fast, but then neither am I. Perhaps that is why we get along.

Instead of spraying hundreds of frames, I find myself waiting. Watching. Anticipating. Pressing the shutter when something actually happens rather than hoping one frame in fifty will rescue me later.

Funny enough, that is exactly how I learned photography.

There is another thing I appreciate about the X-E2. It disappears. The camera is small enough that people stop noticing it after a few moments. I stop thinking about it too. That matters more than many photographers realise. Every ounce of attention you spend worrying about equipment is attention taken away from the person standing in front of you.

Street photography has never really been about cameras. It has always been about people. Their faces. Their gestures. Their loneliness. Their laughter. The split second when something ordinary becomes unforgettable.

The X-E2 understands this. It never tries to dominate the experience. It quietly gets out of the way.

Older photographers eventually discover that this is one of the finest qualities any camera can possess.

Could I buy something newer? Of course.

Would it autofocus faster? Without question.

Would it make me notice that elderly couple holding hands on a Phnom Penh street? Would it encourage a nervous stranger to smile back at me? Would it teach me patience? No. Those lessons cannot be purchased. They have to be lived.

Photography has given me many cameras over the years. Nikon workhorses that survived impossible conditions. Heavy professional DSLRs that felt like extensions of my hands. Tiny mirrorless bodies that slipped unnoticed through crowded markets. Every one of them taught me something.

The Fujifilm X-E2 belongs comfortably in that company. Not because it is the best camera ever made. Because it reminds me that “best” was never really the point.

As photographers grow older, our priorities begin to change. We stop chasing perfection and start searching for meaning. We care less about clinical sharpness and more about emotional honesty. We become less interested in proving ourselves and more interested in understanding the world around us.

That is the gift age can bring. It slows us down. It teaches us to see before we shoot. It reminds us that a photograph is not an exercise in technical achievement. It is a conversation between ourselves and the world.

The X-E2 is old enough now that many photographers dismiss it without a second thought.

That’s their loss.

There is something quietly rebellious about carrying yesterday’s camera through today’s streets. It says that you have confidence in your own eye rather than confidence in the latest marketing campaign.

And perhaps that is what being an old photographer is really about. Not resisting change. Not pretending the past was better. Simply understanding that good photography has never depended on owning the newest machine. It has always depended on curiosity. On patience. On kindness.

On being willing to walk one more street, wait one more minute, and speak to one more stranger.

The Fujifilm X-E2 cannot give you those things. But every time I pick one up, it gently reminds me not to lose them.

Nikon D800 Review: A Classic Camera Still Shines

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The Nikon D800 is one of those cameras that refuses to become obsolete. Released in 2012, it is now well over a decade old, yet in many respects it still competes surprisingly well with much newer cameras. If someone handed me a clean D800 today, I wouldn’t hesitate to take it out for a day’s street photography, portrait work, or landscape photography.

Image quality ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

This is where the D800 still shines.

Its 36.3-megapixel full-frame CMOS sensor produces files that remain exceptional by modern standards.

  • Excellent detail.
  • Wide dynamic range.
  • Natural colour.
  • Plenty of room to crop.

At low ISO, it’s difficult to tell the difference between a D800 file and one from many current cameras costing several times more.

For landscape photographers especially, the D800 remains outstanding.

Dynamic range ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Even today, the D800’s dynamic range is among its greatest strengths.

You can recover:

  • shadows remarkably well
  • highlights with confidence
  • subtle tonal transitions

For photographers who like to edit RAW files, it remains an incredibly capable sensor.

High ISO ⭐⭐⭐☆

This is where age begins to show.

ISO 100–1600 is excellent.

ISO 3200 is perfectly usable.

ISO 6400 starts becoming noticeably noisy compared with today’s sensors.

Modern Nikon Z-series cameras have roughly a stop to two stops advantage here.

Autofocus ⭐⭐⭐☆

The 51-point Multi-CAM 3500FX system was superb in 2012.

Today it feels…

  • reliable
  • predictable
  • but not especially clever.

It lacks:

  • Eye AF
  • subject recognition
  • AI tracking
  • advanced face detection

For wildlife or fast sport it is clearly behind today’s mirrorless cameras.

For portraits, documentary and street photography it still performs very well.

Speed ⭐⭐⭐

4 fps full-frame

5 fps in DX crop

It isn’t a sports camera.

But unless you’re photographing birds or Formula One, it rarely feels limiting.

Build quality ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

This is classic Nikon.

Magnesium alloy body.

Weather sealing.

Excellent ergonomics.

Buttons exactly where your fingers expect them.

Many photographers still prefer its handling over modern mirrorless cameras.

Battery life ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Outstanding.

Around 900 shots is entirely realistic.

Many users comfortably exceed that.

Mirrorless cameras still struggle to match this.

Viewfinder ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

One of Nikon’s best optical viewfinders.

Bright.

Large.

100% coverage.

If you enjoy actually looking through a camera rather than at a screen, the D800 remains deeply satisfying.

Video ⭐⭐

Video is where it shows its age.

1080p only.

No 4K.

No modern autofocus.

No stabilisation.

For serious video work there are much better options.

Street photography

Interestingly, despite its size, the D800 is still an excellent street camera.

Pair it with:

  • Nikon 35mm f/2D
  • Nikon 50mm f/1.8G
  • Nikon 85mm f/1.8G

and you’ll have image quality that is genuinely world-class.

The downside?

The shutter is louder than modern mirrorless cameras, and the body is considerably heavier.

Compared with modern cameras

The D800 loses on:

  • autofocus intelligence
  • video
  • silent shooting
  • high ISO
  • live view performance
  • weight

It still wins on:

  • image quality
  • dynamic range
  • colour
  • ergonomics
  • optical viewfinder
  • battery life
  • value for money

Value in 2026

This is perhaps its biggest strength.

Used prices have become extremely attractive, making it one of the best bargains in full-frame photography. If your priority is making photographs rather than owning the latest technology, it delivers extraordinary performance for relatively little money.

Is it still worth buying?

Absolutely—provided it matches the way you shoot.

Choose the D800 if you photograph:

  • Landscapes
  • Portraits
  • Street photography
  • Documentary work
  • Architecture
  • Studio photography
  • Fine-art photography

Look elsewhere if your main interests are:

  • Fast wildlife
  • Professional sports
  • Heavy video production
  • Frequent shooting in very dark conditions

Final thoughts

The Nikon D800 has become something of a modern classic. It was revolutionary when it launched, and unlike many cameras of its era, its strengths haven’t faded. The sensor remains superb, the build quality is exceptional, and the photographs it produces still look contemporary.

In Praise of Program Mode: The Setting Too Many Photographers Ignore

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Photography has always had its share of myths. One of the most persistent is the belief that the more control you exercise over your camera, the better photographer you become. Somewhere along the way, Manual mode became a badge of honour. If you weren’t adjusting shutter speed, aperture and ISO yourself, some would have you believe you weren’t taking photography seriously.

I have never bought into that idea. The camera is a tool. Nothing more. If it helps me make the picture I saw in my mind before the moment disappears, then it has done its job. The photograph is what matters—not the mode dial.

For years I have walked the streets with cameras ranging from old Nikon D2Hs bodies to the D700, D300S and D810. They are cameras I know almost instinctively. Yet one of the settings I return to time and again is Program mode. Yes, Program mode.

Mention it in some photography circles and you’ll almost hear the sharp intake of breath. “That’s for beginners,” they’ll say. It isn’t. It’s for photographers who understand that timing often matters more than technical perfection.

Street photography rarely gives you a second chance.

The woman laughing with her friend won’t repeat the gesture because your shutter speed was set too low. The child looking directly into your lens won’t wait while you decide whether f/5.6 or f/8 is the better artistic choice. The old man stepping into the shaft of afternoon light certainly won’t freeze the moment while you adjust your exposure.

Life moves. Your camera should move with it.

Program mode is often misunderstood. People assume the camera makes every decision. It doesn’t. It simply chooses a sensible combination of shutter speed and aperture based on the available light. You still decide almost everything else.

You choose the ISO. You choose the autofocus mode. You choose the metering pattern. You choose white balance. You choose exposure compensation. Most importantly, you choose where to stand, when to press the shutter and why the picture matters in the first place. Those decisions are infinitely more important than whether the aperture happened to be f/4 or f/5.6

One of the great strengths of Nikon’s implementation is Program Shift. Turn the command dial and the camera cycles through different shutter speed and aperture combinations while maintaining exactly the same exposure.

Need a faster shutter speed because someone has started running across the street? One click. Want a wider aperture to soften a distracting background? Another click. The exposure remains correct, but you influence the way the image is made. It is an elegant compromise between automation and creative control.

For street photography, I often pair Program mode with Auto ISO. I set a sensible upper limit—usually ISO 3200 or 6400 depending on the camera—and specify a minimum shutter speed around 1/250 second. If people are moving quickly, I may increase that to 1/500 second.

The result is a camera that quietly manages changing light while I remain focused on people. And people are why I carry a camera.

I have never gone into the street hoping to photograph an aperture.

Photography isn’t a competition to see who can remember the exposure triangle under pressure. It is an attempt to notice something that everyone else walked past.

The expression. The gesture. The hesitation. The connection between strangers.

These moments last fractions of a second. Miss them, and no amount of technical brilliance can bring them back.

Some photographers will argue that Manual mode offers complete consistency. They are absolutely right—in situations where the light remains constant. In a studio, during portrait sessions, or while photographing landscapes at sunrise, Manual mode can be the perfect choice.

But streets are not studios. Clouds move. People step from bright sunlight into deep shade. Buses reflect light. Shop windows throw highlights across faces.

You are constantly adapting. Let the camera shoulder part of that workload.

There is another advantage that rarely gets discussed. Program mode reduces mental fatigue. Every photographer has only so much attention available. Every second spent thinking about exposure is a second not spent watching expressions, anticipating movement or noticing the relationships unfolding around you.

I’d rather spend my concentration reading people than reading the light meter.

The older I become as a photographer, the more I value simplicity.

When I first started, I wanted to control everything. Every dial. Every setting. Every technical variable.

Experience teaches a different lesson. The camera should become almost invisible.

When that happens, photography stops being about operating machinery and starts becoming about observation.

Some of my favourite photographs were made without me remembering what settings I used. I remember the person. I remember the conversation. I remember the smell of the street after rain or the sound of traffic disappearing behind laughter.

Those memories matter. Whether the picture was taken at f/5.6 or f/6.3 does not.

There is an unfortunate culture within photography that equates complexity with skill. It is the same mindset that insists expensive cameras automatically produce better photographs or that only prime lenses create meaningful work.

Reality is much simpler. Good photographers make good photographs because they see. Not because they twist more dials.

Program mode won’t make anyone a better photographer. Neither will Manual mode. Neither will Aperture Priority. The mode dial has never created a memorable photograph. The photographer has.

So if you’ve ignored Program mode because someone once told you it wasn’t “serious,” perhaps it’s time to ignore that advice instead.

Take your camera into the street.

Set it to P.

Use Auto ISO.

Keep an eye on your exposure compensation.

Trust Program Shift when you need it.

Then forget about the camera.

Watch people.

Wait.

Observe.

Because in the end, nobody looking at your photograph will ask what mode you used.

They’ll only ask whether the picture made them feel something.

And that has always been the only setting that truly matters.

The Heartbeat of Street Photography: Capturing Human Stories: an Old Mans thoughts.

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People are the heartbeat of street photography. Strip them away and you are left with architecture, light, geometry, and atmosphere—interesting in their own right, but missing the pulse that turns a photograph into a human story.

Every face carries a lifetime. Every gesture hints at an unseen narrative. A glance between strangers, a tired worker waiting for a bus, a child chasing pigeons through a square, an elderly couple walking hand in hand—these fleeting moments remind us that the ordinary is often extraordinary when we stop long enough to notice it. Street photography is less about places than it is about the lives unfolding within them.

To photograph people well is to acknowledge that every person passing your lens has a history you will never fully know. The camera captures only a fraction of a second, but that fraction can speak about loneliness, joy, determination, humour, resilience, love, or loss. The photograph becomes less about identifying an individual and more about recognising something universal within them.

That is why people matter. They transform a street from a backdrop into a stage where life reveals itself without rehearsal. They provide scale, emotion, tension, and meaning. A perfectly composed street corner is simply a location until someone steps into the frame. In that instant it becomes a story.

Photographing people also demands something from the photographer. It requires patience to wait for the decisive moment, curiosity to notice what others overlook, and courage to stand close enough for life to reveal itself. It asks for empathy rather than judgment. The best street photographers are rarely hunters looking for trophies; they are observers trying to understand the world around them.

Working with people inevitably raises questions of ethics. We photograph strangers without knowing their circumstances, and with that privilege comes responsibility. Respect should always outweigh ego. Every time we press the shutter we should ask ourselves not only Can I make this photograph? but also Why am I making it? A compelling image should never come at the cost of another person’s dignity.

Perhaps that is why street photography remains endlessly fascinating. It is as much an exploration of ourselves as it is of others. The people we choose to photograph reveal what catches our attention, what moves us, what we fear, and what we value. Our portfolios become quiet self-portraits, assembled from the lives of strangers.

After decades of photographing people, I have come to believe that cameras are merely tools for paying attention. The real skill lies in seeing humanity where others see only crowds. Every stranger has the potential to become part of a visual conversation that stretches across countries, cultures, and generations.

The streets will always change. Buildings rise and fall, fashions evolve, cities expand, and technology reshapes the world. Yet people remain the constant. They laugh, argue, wait, dream, work, embrace, mourn, and celebrate. Those timeless human moments are what give street photography its enduring power.

That is why I continue to point my camera towards people. Not because they are subjects to be collected, but because they remind me that photography, at its very best, is an act of witness. Every frame is a small acknowledgement that someone was here, living an ordinary life that, for one brief moment, became worth remembering.

Without people there are streets. With people there are stories. And stories are the reason street photography continues to matter.

I Never Imagined It Would Last This Long: message from an Old Photographer.

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When I first picked up a camera, I thought I was learning photography.

I wasn’t. I was learning curiosity.

A person wearing a hat seated in front of a table with a glass of beverage, with a fan in the background, captured in black and white.

Back then I was fascinated by the machinery of it all. Cameras, lenses, film, developers, enlargers—everything seemed magical. I wanted to understand how light could be persuaded to leave its mark on a piece of film and somehow preserve a moment that would otherwise disappear forever.

Like most beginners, I assumed there would come a day when I’d finally understand photography.

A day when I’d know enough.

A day when the questions would stop. It never happened. I’m grateful that it didn’t.

Because photography has turned out to be far more generous than I ever imagined.

Every camera has taught me something.

Every lens has shown me the world a little differently.

Every person I’ve photographed has quietly reminded me that there is always another story waiting to be told if I’m prepared to slow down and listen.

When I was younger, I imagined photography would become easier with experience.

In some ways it has. The technical decisions come more naturally.

The cameras have become familiar companions.

I trust my instincts more than I once did.

But the mystery has never gone away. If anything, it’s grown.

The more photographs I make, the more I realise how much I still haven’t seen.

That’s one of the great gifts of photography.

It never allows complacency.

Every morning the light is different.

Every face carries a different story.

Two young boys standing on a ledge, one holding a plastic bottle and the other holding two balloons, with people sitting in the background.

Every walk offers the possibility of seeing something I’ve somehow overlooked for years.

After all this time, that’s still enough to make me pick up a camera and head out the door.

Looking back, I realise I never really became the photographer I imagined when I was younger.

I became someone far more fortunate.

Someone who never stopped being fascinated by the world.

And I can’t think of a better way to spend a lifetime than that.

The Camera Evolves. So Should We.

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Every year the camera manufacturers tell us the same story.

The new model is faster.

The autofocus is smarter.

The sensor sees further into the shadows.

The dynamic range has improved.

Artificial intelligence now helps the camera recognise people, birds, trains, cars, aeroplanes and almost anything else that moves.

And every year, photographers ask themselves the same question.

“Do I need it?”

Sometimes the answer is yes.

Technology has transformed photography in remarkable ways. There are pictures being made today that would have been impossible when I first picked up a camera. Better equipment has opened doors, removed technical barriers and made photography accessible to more people than ever before.

I’m grateful for that.

Good engineering deserves admiration.

But somewhere along the way I began asking myself a different question.

If cameras continue to evolve every year… Shouldn’t I?

That thought has stayed with me for a long time.

It’s easy to become fascinated by technology because technology changes so visibly. New sensors arrive. Processors become faster. Specifications grow longer. Progress can be measured on a page.

Personal growth is different. It happens quietly. You don’t wake up one morning and suddenly discover you’ve become a better photographer. You simply notice that you’re waiting a little longer before pressing the shutter. You’re listening more carefully when talking to strangers. You’re seeing light that you would once have walked straight past.You’re beginning to recognise moments instead of merely reacting to them.

Those changes don’t come from firmware updates. They come from living.

A camera improves because engineers redesign it.

A photographer improves because life keeps teaching them how to see.

The older I become, the less interested I am in the camera itself.

Not because cameras have stopped fascinating me. Far from it.

I still admire beautiful engineering. I still enjoy handling a well-made camera. I still appreciate thoughtful design, whether it comes from Nikon, Canon, Fujifilm or anyone else.

But I no longer expect a camera to transform my photography. That responsibility belongs to me.

When I was younger, I believed experience came from making thousands of photographs.

Now I think experience comes from paying attention.

The two are not always the same thing.

Some photographers make a hundred thousand exposures and never really learn to see.

Others make relatively few photographs but invest themselves completely in every one.

Photography has taught me patience. It has taught me empathy.

It has taught me that listening often matters more than talking.

It has taught me that conversations sometimes become more valuable than the photographs that prompted them.

No camera could ever have taught me those lessons.

Life did.

Photography simply encouraged me to notice them.

Perhaps that explains why I still enjoy using old cameras.

They’re reminders. Not of the past. Of the person I was when I carried them.

Each one represents a different chapter in my life. One reminds me of youthful enthusiasm.

Another reminds me of growing confidence. Another reminds me that slowing down isn’t the same as standing still.

The cameras haven’t changed.

I have.

That’s the real story.

I sometimes wonder whether photographers spend too much time asking, “What’s the best camera?”

Perhaps the better question is, “How can I become a better observer?”

Those are very different conversations.

The first ends in a camera shop.

The second never really ends at all.

Technology will continue to improve long after I’ve stopped buying cameras.

That’s exactly as it should be.

Innovation keeps photography moving forward.

Experience keeps photographers moving forward.

The mistake is believing they’re the same journey.

One is measured in megapixels.

The other is measured in wisdom.

One can be purchased. The other has to be earned. Slowly. Patiently. One walk at a time.

One conversation at a time. One photograph at a time.

If I could leave one thought with photographers just beginning their journey, it would be this.

Enjoy the new cameras. Celebrate the remarkable engineering. Marvel at what modern technology can do. Then put the camera to your eye and forget about it.

Look at the person standing in front of you. Look at the street. Look at the changing light.

Look at the ordinary moments everyone else is too busy to notice.

Because in twenty years’ time, you probably won’t remember what processor was inside your camera.

You won’t remember how many autofocus points it had.

You may not even remember how many megapixels it recorded.

But you will remember the people. You will remember the places.

You will remember how photography quietly changed the way you looked at the world.

Technology never stops evolving. Neither should you.

The difference is that cameras improve because someone invents a better sensor.

Photographers improve because life never stops teaching them how to see.

And in the end, I think that’s the only evolution that really matters.

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.