you have to be there

Posted on February 27, 2025 by greg

The question came up again today. “Is there a relationship between the way you write and the way you shoot photographs?” Somebody asked me a similar question a couple of years ago, and this was my response:

My response was pretty simple: Never thought about it. And then, of course, I started thinking about it.

And, of course, since the question came up again, I started thinking about it again. The last time I was asked the question (yeah, I actually had to go back and find that blog post and re-read it to know how I responded last time), I focused on writing and photography as matters of craft. I said they were two very different crafts, and…

[W]hile writing and photography are both vehicles for self-expression, they’re completely different vehicles. Asking if me if I write the same way I shoot photos is like asking me if I drive a truck the same way I paddle a kayak.

That’s still true. But this morning it occurred to me that there’s another fundamental difference between the two crafts. It’s this:

Photography is the only medium of self expression that requires you to be physically present.

You can paint a picture of a house on the edge of a mountain meadow without being there. You can write a scene that takes place in 17th century Venice or on the planet Tralfamadore. You can dance the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy without being in an enchanted garden. But to shoot a photograph, you have to be there. (Yeah, sure, you can set up a tripod and rig some sort of timed or remotely triggered shutter release, but c’mon, you know what I mean.)

I can write anywhere. To shoot a photo, I have to be there. Right there, at that precise spot in that precise moment. Five seconds earlier, five seconds later, it’s a different moment. Five inches higher, five inches to the right, it’s a different photo. When you shoot a photo, you’re right there.

This isn’t to say photography is more real, or more powerful. I could write a scene…or, better yet, a poem…about the way light falls on a coffee cup that would be as emotional or more emotional than a photo. I could write a scene about a man crossing a street as the light is ten seconds away from turning green that would be full of tension.

A photograph is just now. That both limits its power AND gives it power. A photograph is a real moment as it’s happening.

I hear a lot of people saying stuff like, “This photo tells a story.” No, it doesn’t. A story has a beginning, an ending, and a middle. Again, a photograph is just right now. It might suggest a story, but it’s the viewer who supplies it. It’s not inherent in the photo. A story is what’s taking place outside the frame, what the guy is looking at, why he’s looking, what he’s NOT seeing. A story is what’s in his pockets, what he’s thinking, where he’s going, where’s he’s been, what he did when he was there.

The photo is just a guy with his hands in his pocket, crossing the street while the Don’t Walk warning is flashing.

Back to the question. “Is there a relationship between the way you write and the way you shoot photographs?” Sort of. They both require practice to be consistently good, they both require a certain degree of disciplined composition, they both require a weird merging of passion and control. And (for me, at least), both writing and photography require me to be open and welcoming to the moment. Sometimes a random thought will completely change what I’m writing.

The difference is I can edit and correct what I’ve written. Reality isn’t so easily revised.

EDITORIAL NOTE: This isn’t really relevant to what I’ve just written, but it’s been a while since I’ve mentioned how critical it is to burn the patriarchy to the ground. Burn it, gather the ashes, grind the ashes into dust. Wait for a high wind then scatter the dust so that no two particles exist within a mile of each other. Then bake some bread and eat it with butter and honey.

reflected

Posted on January 18, 2025 by greg

So here’s me, noodling around the city, shooting photos (okay, I know it’s way too soon for a tangent, but let me just say that I’m totally smitten with my Ricoh GR3X, oh lawdy, it’s SO much fun to shoot) and basically having as fine a time as is possible on a cold January day. The sun’s out, the sky is blue, the people I meet on the street are uniformly pleasant and smiling despite the chill in the air. It’s a nice way to spend an hour or so.

As I’m walking along I notice a mural reflected in a window. The mural includes a massive cartoon-styled woman’s face, showing alarm or horror. It’s cool, but it’s not particularly photo-worthy. But what the hell, I take a shot. Why not? I keep walking and keep looking at the mural hoping a better shot will appear, and then I reach a spot where I’m also in the reflection. There’s a giant cartoon hand reaching for me, and I’m thinking that must be the reason the giant woman is so alarmed. Still not photo-worthy (in fact, it’s even less photo-worthy), but it amuses me. So what the hell, I take a shot.

And I keep on walking (which is what you do on a photo-walk, after all). I stop now and then when the light or shadow catches my attention. I notice a particularly fine bollard. A stack of tires in an alley. There’s an ambulance and a fire truck flashing their lights in front of a hotel, but the light sucks and whatever is happening is happening inside the hotel and there’s nothing to see, so I keep walking. And I see an empty shop window, with a clothes rack devoid of clothes but with a fine collection of empty hangers. The lines are nice, the light is acceptable and there’s me again, reflected in the window along with a nice bare tree. So what the hell, I take a shot.

And I keep walking. Down along the river, which is running low. There’s about a million Canada Geese milling about as the ice is breaking up, making a colossal noise, and ignoring the mallards that are paddling around, minding their own business. Then I’m down a street with nice shops and fine restaurants, and the light is catching a table through a window, with the remains of somebody’s salad and an empty water carafe (which is a lovely word to say aloud; French, from the Arabic gharraf meaning “a drinking cup”; go ahead, say it out loud, nice and slow…isn’t it nice?). And, once again, there’s me in the reflection, ruining what might have been a nice photo. But what the hell, I take a shot.

This is a thing I seem to do…reflection selfies. They’re never good photographs, they’re never interesting photographs, and I almost never post those photos (for the reasons just stated). They’re more of a reflex action–like when your doctor taps your patellar tendon with a rubber mallet. I see myself reflected in a window, my shutter finger jerks. It’s a reflection reflex.

But as I was sorting through the day’s photos, deciding which ones were worth keeping, I found myself reflecting on my reflection reflex and c’mon, there’s no way I’m not going to use that phrase. So yeah, this blog post exists solely so I can write ‘reflecting on reflex reflections.’

the curious incident of the diner at midday

Posted on December 16, 2024 by greg

Here’s one of those photography ethics things. I was sitting in a booth in a quintessential American lunch-car diner with my camera on the table. While looking at the menu, I heard the sound of stressed voices coming from across the diner. I glanced over, saw two women who I thought had a family resemblance staring at each other. The light was nice and the scene had some drama. What to do?

Mind your own business?
Turn your camera on the table and shoot a quick photo without looking?
Pick up your camera and photograph the situation?

Obviously, the most ethical thing to do is 1) Mind your own business. I had no idea what the situation was, it had nothing to do with me, and the two women involved would almost certainly prefer to be ignored.

But if you’ve ever practiced street photography–or if you’ve ever wanted to practice street photography–you know that people are often most interesting and most honest during emotionally charged moments. And those moments are almost always worth photographing. So some/many photographers would at least consider options 2 and 3.

You have to be a complete asshole to choose option 3; to pick up your camera and openly, deliberately invade their privacy. Option 3, however, has the dubious advantage of being honest and direct, whereas option 2 is, let’s face it, sort of underhanded. The thing about option 2–shooting without looking, without composing–is you’re allowing the fickle Gods of Photography determine if you get a decent shot or not. If the shot sucks, then it will get binned and nobody has to think about it.

If the result works as a photograph, then both options 2 and 3 set up a secondary ethics challenge: do you further violate the privacy of these two women by posting it? If you choose to post it, do you post it on a very public social media platform (like, say, BlueSky or Instagram) or on a significantly less popular platform (like, say, your blog)?

Obviously, I chose option 2. Well, sort of. I mean, it’s not like I sat there and considered all the ethical questions. I took the photograph without considering anything at all, completely unhindered by any thought process. I turned the camera on, turned it toward their table, touched the shutter release, turned the camera off, and didn’t think about it again until I got home and looked at my photos.

And hey, I got lucky. It’s a pretty good shot (in my opinion).

Obviously, I decided to post the photos here, on my personal blog. I’ll also post links to the blog on Facebook and BlueSky. How do I justify this? I’m relying on the Men in Black defense. If you’re in a public place: don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing. If you raise voices in a public setting, the public will look at you. Sure, few of them will take your photo, but a photograph is essentially nothing more than an extended look. You don’t have a reasonable expectation of privacy in a public setting.

Another thing: I’ve no idea what these women were talking about. I don’t know if they were arguing, if they were upset with each other or with something else, if their distress was sincere or in jest, if one was distressed and the other wasn’t. I don’t know because I didn’t pay any attention to them (other than to note their voices were momentarily raised). They could have been outraged by the portions or the size of their bill, for all I know.

That said, it’s important (to me, at any rate) not to fully absolve myself. The women may not have had a reasonable expectation of privacy while talking to each other in a very public diner, but I didn’t have to pay attention to them. While I didn’t make any effort to take a good photograph, the fact remains that by taking any photograph I invaded what they probably thought of as a private moment.

Was it worth it? I don’t know. I think it’s an interesting photograph. The chance that either of them will ever see this…or that anybody they know will ever see this…are incredibly slim. I could probably legitimately make the ‘No harm, no foul’ argument. But maybe this type of photography is a social harm in and of itself. I don’t know.

Here’s the thing: I spent several years as a private investigator. Much of my work (which was primarily criminal defense investigation) involved making ethical decisions in the immediate moment–and there was rarely any obviously correct decision in those moments. So I’m used to questioning my ethics. It’s easier with photography. With photography, you can always take the shot and delete it later IF you decide it was inappropriate or unethical. In photography, you have that leeway.

Looking at the photo, I don’t think the level of tension between the two women is terribly obvious–unless you’re looking for it. I don’t think there’s any ethical reason NOT to publish it. Others may disagree, but I’m comfortable with my decision.

clothes with history

Posted on November 17, 2024 by greg

Okay, first: here’s a photograph shot in October of 2020 of a blue flannel shirt draped over a stairway railing. You may be wondering why I’m posting a photo of a blue flannel shirt. Patience, grasshopper.

Now, here’s me loafing on a Sunday morning, drinking coffee, scrolling through Bluesky, and I see a post by my friend Kim Denise. It’s about knitting, a subject in which I have absolutely no interest at all; something to do with ‘fingering/4-ply/sock yarn,’ whatever that means. But she’s included a delightful photo of a young girl wearing a colorful knit jacket thingy, pushing a wheelbarrow. Kim explains, “This is a long cardigan/coat I made for a young friend of mine who was four at the time. She requested a number of specific elements. She wore it for years!“

I don’t know when Kim knitted that cardigan or who she knitted it for, but the child wore it for years, which means she had a history with that piece of clothing. I have a thing for clothes with history. Everybody has some item of clothing they cherish, whether they use that term or not. A shirt, a hat, a jacket, a sweater–something they’ve worn for years, something that’s comfortable or comforting, something that’s been through the wars and shows its age. Something they’ve become irrationally attached to.

For me, it’s that blue flannel shirt. In fact, I’m wearing it right now, this morning. I was wearing it when I saw Kim’s post, which is why I’m writing this blog post.

Here’s the weird thing: it’s not really my shirt at all. I didn’t buy this shirt. In 2001, when I moved from Manhattan to an old farm house in rural Pennsylvania, one of the movers accidentally left this shirt behind. Initially, I considered contacting the moving company to return the shirt. But then I discovered the movers had also walked off with my shepherd’s crook (yes, I owned a shepherd’s crook; it’s a long story) and a hand-carved mushroom-hunting stick made for me by my brother. The moving company informed me no such sticks were reported by the movers. So I kept the shirt. I’ve moved twice since then.

I don’t know how old the shirt is; it wasn’t new in 2001. Twenty-three years later, it’s getting pretty threadbare. These days I wear it exclusively around the house or to do yardwork; it’s too ratty to wear in public now. I’ve actually worn two holes in the front shirttails by fussing with them; the holes occasionally catch on doorknobs and drawer handles, jerking me to a halt. My partner sometimes teases me about the shirt; she says a hobo wouldn’t be seen wearing it.

The shirt is soft with age now. Comfortable. I’m afraid to put it in the washing machine for fear it’ll disintegrate. A quarter of a century is long enough to turn flannel into something like gossamer. I have a history with this shirt. I have an irrational affection for it. I’ll wear it until it’s rag-worthy. But I’ll never turn it into rags. This shirt is my friend.

the truck is a macguffin

Posted on November 1, 2024 by greg

So here’s me, larking about in alleys again. I’ve always had a thing for alleyways. I used to do this frequently, wandering through alleys, looking for stuff that might make an interesting photo. It eventually became a small photo project. I’ve written about how that project came into existence. But like all projects, eventually it came to an end. That was about a decade or so ago.

But yesterday I took a little walk. It was cold and cloudy, damp and dismal, and the light seemed fairly listless. I passed by an alley and thought, “What the hell, why not?” There’s almost always something worth photographing in an alley. And there’s always a lot of stuff that’s almost, but not quite, worth photographing. For example, an old, partially dismembered pickup.

When I spotted this unit, I was certain it had potential. It was a sort of blue-grey; I couldn’t tell if the color was a primer coat or the actual color of the truck. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was similar to the color of the sky. Again, that seemed like it ought to have potential. The truck also had a tumbleweed caught below its frame, which I thought might contribute something.

But, no. Nothing seemed to work. I looked at the truck from a distance, I looked at it close up, and while I kept seeing potential, I couldn’t see anything worth photographing. It didn’t help that it was parked next to a cinderblock structure that was painted an unfortunate tawny port color. Had the building been a different color, them maybe something might have worked. But it wasn’t. It was just blah.

I gave it a few minutes, trying to find an angle or an approach that appealed to me. I considered shooting it in monochrome, but even then it felt inert, bland, static. So I gave up and started to walk away. Sometimes the photo just isn’t there.

As I started back down the alley, I saw a guy approaching. He was also rather drab, dressed in grey and black. But he was moving—and, lawdy, his hoodie was almost the same color as the truck. I thought maybe…maybe…adding an active figure in the frame might make a photo of the truck work. So I turned around and headed back.

This is where years of shooting photos paid off. I had only a moment to compose the photo. I knew what I wanted. The truck, of course, but I also wanted that crooked sign on the left half of the frame; I wanted those buildings on the right side of the frame to give the image more depth; I wanted the transformers on the telephone poles along the top. Since I was shooting with a fixed focal length lens, I had to position myself in the right spot (rather than zoom in or out). A step forward, a step back, a step to the left or right—every step made a difference. A step back would have brought in the top of a telephone pole, but it would diminish the figure of the guy. He’d be too small in the frame. Easy decision.

I got the composition I wanted just a second or two before the guy arrived. I also knew I wanted to isolate him and his dark clothing against the light grey building backdrop. I knew I’d only get one chance. I was maybe a tenth of a second late. Not enough to matter, but still enough to make me wince. But still, I had my photo of the truck.

This morning, when I started reviewing yesterday’s photos, I realized this wasn’t actually a photo of the truck at all. It’s a photograph of the guy. The truck is, in effect, a MacGuffin. If you’re not familiar with the term, a MacGuffin is a movie device; it refers to an object or event that sets the plot and characters in motion but is essentially insignificant, unimportant, or irrelevant in itself. The truck that drew me in turned out to be largely unimportant.

I thought I was taking a photo of a truck. It turned out I was taking a photo of that guy. The guy—because he’s in the right clothing, in the right spot at the right moment—holds the photograph together. Without that guy, this would be a dull, static, uninteresting photo. With the guy, it becomes a photograph of a single moment in the long course of his life. The truck is just there; the photo is about some guy wandering by himself down an alley for purposes known only to himself.

Now I think of it, that guy could be me.

Okay, I didn’t expect this post to get so weird.

weird is good

Posted on September 22, 2024 by greg

Strangest thing. I’ve been shooting photos since about the Triassic period and in all that time I very rarely shot photos in portrait orientation. Well, I mean, except when I was shooting actual portraits, of course. Landscape orientation has always seemed more natural and organic to me.

But since I’ve been using this Ricoh GR3X, I find myself shooting more shots in portrait style. I really can’t explain it. Is it because the camera is so small and light that I’m more willing to turn it on its side? That doesn’t make much sense to me, because I tend to pre-visualize almost all of my shots. I generally ‘see’ them before I shoot them. So why would the camera matter? Maybe it’s the fixed lens? I don’t know.

Or maybe I’m just ‘seeing’ more portrait-oriented shots? Maybe it’s just a coincidence that I’ve started doing that shortly after picking up a new camera? That seems improbable too. Doesn’t it?

Another thing. I’m not entirely sure this is true, but it seems like when I shoot something in portrait orientation, I pay closer attention to the edges of the frame. I like to think I do that with most shots, but I find myself actively thinking about the edges when I’m shooting in portrait. Maybe that’s just because I’m not used to it? Maybe I do it so automatically in landscape orientation that I just don’t notice it as much? That seems possible.

Take this photo, for example. I wanted that tiny bit of chimney in the upper right. And that sliver of the window frame on the left side. And along the bottom, that white line of the parking strip and the blob of shadow from a parked car. I wanted those things, but I didn’t want very much of them. Which, because the GR3 has a fixed lens, meant stepping forward just an inch or two, then stepping back half an inch. It meant doing the goddamn hokey-pokey in the middle of the street until I had it just right.

When I got home and downloaded the photos, I noticed that of the 24 photos I shot during that brief photo-walk, 7 of them were in portrait orientation. Seven. Almost a third of the photos. I’ve never in my life done anything like that.

It doesn’t bother me. It’s just a bit of a shock. Has this happened to anybody else? Have you suddenly found yourself shooting in a different orientation? Or have I maybe had a stroke and just failed to notice it? Maybe it’s a tumor. I don’t know. All I know is that it’s weird.

Happily, I believe weird is good.

thoughts on wonder woman

Posted on August 29, 2024 by greg

There’s been a fun and interesting ‘challenge’ on Bluesky this month, revolving around movies. Each day there’s a prompt; something like ‘movie with the greatest opening scene’ or ‘best book-to-movie adaptation’ or ‘movie you love that everybody hates.’ Some folks just respond with a title of the movie and a still photo, but others offer thoughts and explanations about why they chose that particular movie. The whole thing has been entertaining.

Yesterday’s challenge was ‘a good movie in a genre you dislike.’ I generally dislike and avoid superhero movies and movies based on comic franchises. The protagonists almost always have a ‘origin story’ explaining how/why they became superheroes. This usually involves either a traumatic incident that shaped their future (parents are murdered, planet explodes, etc.) or they get caught up in some scientific or mystic mishap that somehow imbues them with superpowers. I’m actually okay with that. The problem is these superheroes tend to be rather incestuous because they share a common comic franchise, which provides the characters with arcane, massively inter-related, overly-complicated backstories and histories that only fans appreciate. The resolutions of these movies depend way too much on epic battle scenes between super-characters. I don’t mind that the outcome of those battles is predictable. I DO mind that as battle scenes go, they’re generally dull—explosions take precedence over acting. And one last thing; in superhero movies ordinary people (and the cities they live in) are usually just props and backdrops; their destruction is only used as a metric to demonstrate how important the superhero is.

None of that applied to the movie I chose: the 2017 film Wonder Woman, starring Gal Gadot as Diana. She didn’t have some sort of complex, traumatic past that caused her to take up superheroing as a career or hobby. She didn’t experience some scientific or mystical event that gave her superpowers. Her parents weren’t murdered in front of her, her planet wasn’t destroyed, she wasn’t bitten by a radioactive spider, she’s not avenging anything in particular. In most ways, she’s not really a superhero. She was born an Amazon and trained to be a warrior. The training included a philosophy that the point of being a warrior was to fight for folks who can’t fight for themselves, to fight against injustice. That’s basically it, it’s just that simple. There’s a purity and innocence to her motives. She’s doing what she was born and raised to do. She’s not there to fight super-villains; she’s there to punch Nazis.

In the movie, that eventually means fighting in World War Two. There have been other movies and television shows in which a woman leads men into battle. In every other case I can think of, that’s depicted as a woman doing something transgressive, doing something women aren’t supposed to do. In other movies, it’s usually explained as an extension of some maternal instinct. They’re momma lions fighting to protect their families and the families of their people. That’s all very commendable, but it’s also very traditional.

Again, that’s not Diana. She’s a warrior. Her motive for leading others into battle isn’t just to protect others; it’s to fight injustice. It’s a subtle but important distinction. And it works because there’s an amazing training sequence at the beginning of the film. The training involved warriors being gracefully lethal, but the gracefulness was an integral aspect of the lethality. They were being graceful because it was pretty; they were being lethal with an economy of motion.

When a squad of Nazis landed on the island, the Amazons attacked. It wasn’t women against men; it was warriors against soldiers. There was a savage beauty in that attack, not because the Amazons were beautiful but because they were well-trained and graceful. Later in the movie, Diana leads an assault against an entrenched Nazi army. The physicality of the training scene made the assault on the trenches work. All that jumping and twisting and swinging in the beautiful setting of the island was translated onto the bleak horror of No Man’s Land. Again, the fact that Diana was a woman wasn’t even an issue; there was a palpable sense that THIS was what she’d been training for.

One other thing. I very much liked the way the writers/director dealt with Gal Gadot’s appearance. They acknowledged a few times that she’s physically beautiful—then just moved on, because that was the least interesting aspect of the character. This was smart, in my opinion, because the director and writers knew they HAD to address beauty in order to get it out of the way. They did the same thing with her outfit (and c’mon, it’s a ridiculous outfit for anybody to wear in modern combat). They provided both practical and symbolic reasons for Diana to dress the way she did.

Earlier in the film, the characters spent some time in London. We saw how Diana the warrior being confined by custom to wearing restrictive clothing, being confined to silence by patriarchal convention. There was a momentary respite from that in a scene in which Diana kicks ass in the alley fight. But it’s not until she’s facing Nazis in trenches that we get to see her become Wonder Woman. She shrugs off the cloak she’s been wearing over her outfit, and it’s like she’s also shrugging off all those tiresome patriarchal conventions. When she climbs over the top of the trench, it’s a liberating moment, for the audience as well as the character.

But after that battle, the movie became disappointing. One of the Nazis is revealed to be Ares, the god of war…and what had been a smart, funny film became silly and stupid. It became another dull superhero versus super-villain flick. Gal Gadot was largely replaced with CGI, and they CGI’d the life and heart out of the character. We had the usual super-villain speech-making, the usual massively catastrophic damage to structures and regular people, the usual explosions and fireballs, and all the personality of the actors disappeared. It became a cartoon; it became everything I dislike about comic and superhero movies.

But damn…the first two-thirds of the movie was just fucking brilliant.

the flâneur school of photography

Posted on July 20, 2024 by greg

There are people–lots of people–who like to name things. I know people who’ve given names to their car, who’ve named their computer, who’ve named their favorite camera. I’m not one of those people. I don’t anthropomorphize gear. A camera is just a tool. You choose the tool best suited for the job you’ve got planned.

I say that, but lawdy, I’m starting to develop a relationship with my new camera. My Ricoh GR3X and me, we’re becoming buddies.

Why? Because this camera seems to have been designed almost specifically for the way I shoot photographs. I’m not a street photographer, although I enjoy shooting street. I’m not a landscape photographer, or a fine arts photographer, or a portrait photographer; I don’t really belong to any of the more common photographic traditions. I belong to what I like to call the flâneur school of photography.

If you’re not familiar with the term, a flâneur is somebody who roams around idly observing the world while being somewhat emotionally detached from it. Somebody who’s not necessarily involved in what’s taking place around them, but is keenly aware of it. One writer described a flâneur as “an amateur detective and investigator of the city.” The term is usually applied to urban life, but it’s a philosophical approach to the world that can take place anywhere. It’s a strange nonjudgmental balance between being analytical and emotional.

(By the way, the term flâneur is French but it’s derived from the Old Norse verb flana, which meant “to wander with no purpose.” And if you’re wondering how a French word is derived from an Old Norse word, you need to read more about Vikings.)

I don’t think those guys were intentionally walking in step, but…

That’s how I shoot photographs. Hell, that’s largely how I’ve lived my life. I’m a flâneur both by nature and by training. Almost every career I’ve had involved the same basic process: observe, analyze, filter the analysis through emotion (or the emotion through analysis), then act. It’s a skill set that helped me as a medic in the military, as a counselor in the Psych/Security unit of a prison for women, certainly as a private investigator specializing in criminal defense, and even (to a lesser extent) as a teacher.

In terms of photography, being a flâneur just means noodling around, paying sharp attention to detail, and seeing stuff in terms of composition. What’s cool is that when it all comes together–the scene, the light, the moment–there’s an immediate emotion, a serotonin hit that’s generated whether you have a camera or not.

My Ricoh GR3X is ideally suited to the flâneur school of photography, partly because it’s so compact and easy to carry everywhere. I’d heard you could carry it in a regular pants pocket, but I assumed that was mostly bullshit. It’s not. I’ve done it; I’ve walked around–I’ve ridden my bike–with this unit IN MY GODDAMN POCKET. It also turns on almost immediately, which is incredibly handy. Best of all (I’m not sure this is actually the ‘best of all’ because there are so many ‘best’ things about this camera), you can shoot with one hand. Even in the manual mode, you can control all the settings you need with one hand.

Seriously, you can pull the camera out of your pocket, turn it on, compose the shot, adjust all the elements of exposure with one hand, take the shot, turn the camera off, and put it back in your pocket…and you can do all that in just a moment. Which is pretty much what I did with the photo above. As I was walking down the street I noticed the ginger cat. I stepped off to one side so as not to spook the cat, which is when I noticed the woman’s legs. Her legs were in shadow, so I had to quickly adjust the exposure to make sure they’d show up in the photo. Then a step back to include the tree and the window in the frame, and there it was. Maybe ten seconds from seeing the cat to taking the shot. One hand.

It’s not a perfect camera; I’d love for it to be weather-sealed and dust-proofed, but I’m not sure it’s possible to do that without making it bigger. It’s more important (to me, at any rate) to have a camera I can tote in my pocket than one I can shoot in the rain. There have been a couple of instances where some fill flash would have been handy; the GR3 series doesn’t have a native flash. But, again, that’s small beans.

The fact is, this camera has already allowed me to get some shots I couldn’t have done with any of my other cameras. And it’s allowed me to get some shots quicker and more easily than with my other cameras. I could have made the shot above with any of my cameras, but it would have taken longer and I’d have had to use both hands. It’s not a great photo (I shot it largely as a reminder to go back when this bar was open), but I was able to get the depth of field I wanted with a minimum of fuss. That absence of fuss is like heroin; it’s fucking addictive.

So yeah, it looks like me and the GR3X are becoming good buddies. I look forward to spending time with it.

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