Let me tell you about my little photography buddy – this Minolta 100-200mm f4.5 lens. It’s not the fanciest piece of equipment out there, but man, does it have character!
The Surprise Performer
I bought this lens used for $30 and thought I’d only use it occasionally, but it turned out to be my go-to lens for landscapes. The 200mm range is like putting binoculars on a camera. It turned out to be my go-to lens for landscapes. 200mm is like gluing a pair of binoculars to your camera. At the lake last month, it captured details the eye could never see! The maximum aperture of f4.5 isn’t super bright, but it keeps the lens tight and works well in daylight.
By someone who just spent 45 minutes unfolding this thing in public
Introduction: When Your Camera Is Also a Fashion Statement
Let’s be honest: most cameras are about as stylish as a pair of Crocs. The Voigtländer Bessa II? It’s the James Bond of folding cameras—sleek, suave, and guaranteed to make bystanders whisper, “What is that thing?”
This isn’t just a camera. It’s a mechanical origami masterpiece, a 6×9 film beast folded into something smaller than your Instagram ego. Want to shoot medium format without looking like you’re carrying a toaster oven? Meet the Bessa II: the camera that says, “I’m here to take photos… and steal your soul with my vintage charm.”
Design: “Is That a Camera or a Luxury Handbag?”
Specs:
Weight: 900g (or “lightweight” for something made of solid brass and existential dread).
Materials: Leather stitched by elves, metal forged by dwarves.
Party Trick: A collapsible leather handle that transforms from “sleek strip” to “I’m-ready-for-my-closeup-Mr.-DeMille” grip.
The Bessa II is what happens when Germans and Austrians collaborate on a steampunk project. Folded, it’s slimmer than a Leica M3 with a Summicron. Unfolded, it’s a bellows-powered time machine that screams, “I shoot film and own a monocle.”
Pro Tip: If your camera doesn’t double as a conversation starter, you’re doing life wrong.
The Unfolding Ritual: A Mechanical Ballet
Press the hidden button on the base. Click. The lens door pops open like a shy mollusk. Gently push the front standard forward. Snap. The bellows expand like a mechanical accordion. Suddenly, you’re holding a 6×9 monstrosity that makes your iPhone look like a Post-it note.
No other camera unfolds with this much drama. It’s like Indiana Jones swapping his whip for a tripod.
Voigtländer Bessa II
The Heliar Lens: Magic in a Brass Tube
Specs:
Focal Length: 105mm f/3.5 (the “Heliar” version, because obviously).
Bokeh: Creamier than a Viennese pastry. At f/4, backgrounds melt like butter in a sauna.
The Heliar lens isn’t just optics—it’s alchemy. Shoot portraits, and your subjects will ask, “Why do I look like a Renaissance painting?” (Answer: Because Voigtländer sold their souls to the devil for this glass.)
Alternatives:
Skopar version: For budget-conscious wizards.
Apo-Lanthar: Radioactive and ridiculously expensive. Perfect for Bond villains.
The Viewfinder: A Lesson in Humility
The Bessa II’s rangefinder is… quaint. Think “a yellow postage stamp viewed through a keyhole.” It’s dim, tiny, and about as user-friendly as a Rubik’s Cube. Glasses wearers? Good luck.
But here’s the hack: pre-focus before unfolding. Sneakily frame your subject, snap the bellows open, and fire. It’s like photography mixed with espionage.
Street Cred: When the Camera Becomes the Star
Take the Bessa II outdoors, and prepare for attention. Strangers will stop. Old men will reminisce about their “glory days.” Pigeons will pose.
Last week, a Beijing grandpa parked his bike to lecture me on his 1970s darkroom exploits. I got zero photos but gained a life coach.
Street Photography Rule #1: If your camera isn’t attracting more stares than your subjects, upgrade to something louder.
The “6×9 Problem”: Eight Shots, Infinite Patience
Fact: A 120 roll gives you 8 frames. That’s right—eight. In a world where iPhone users shoot 200 selfies before breakfast, the Bessa II is a zen master.
Each click costs $3 and 10 minutes of existential contemplation. Miss the shot? Too bad. The universe whispers, “Git gud, scrub.”
Pro Move: Unfold the Bessa II slowly. The theatrics buy you time to think, “Do I really want to photograph this?”
Bessa II vs. Fuji GF670: A Sibling Rivalry
The Fuji GF670 (aka “Voigtländer Bessa III”) is the Bessa II’s tech-savvy cousin. It’s lighter, has a brighter viewfinder, and won’t embarrass you at a startup meetup. But it’s also… sterile.
GF670 Pros:
Electronic shutter.
Sharp enough to cut reality.
GF670 Cons:
Lacks soul.
Makes you look like a dentist.
The Bessa II? It’s all analog swagger.
Final Verdict: For People Who Enjoy Difficulty
The Voigtländer Bessa II isn’t a camera. It’s a mechanical flex, a middle finger to convenience. It’s folding-unfolding ballet. It’s eight shots of deliberate genius. It’s the reason your Instagram followers think you’re a time traveler.
Is it practical? No. Is it perfect? Absolutely not. Is it the coolest folding camera ever made? Abso-freaking-lutely.
Rating: 5/5 stars (and 5/5 awkward public interactions).
Now go forth and unfold responsibly. Or just carry it as a purse. We don’t care. 📸✨
They say every Leica owner keeps a Rolleiflex at home, gathering dust like an old love letter. I’m no twin-lens fanatic, but I get it—there’s something about these square-eyed boxes that lingers. My Rolleiflex 3.5 MX-EVS isn’t the fanciest of its kind. It’s the last of the non-interchangeable focus screen models, a budget relic with no meter, picked up cheap from a forgotten shelf.
Design & Build: A Mechanical Poem
The MX-EVS sits heavy in your hands, a brick of German steel and glass from the early ’50s. It’s all manual, all mechanical—no bells, no whistles—just the way I like it, echoing the Leica M3’s stubborn simplicity. Early models wore white plastic like a shy debutante, but mine’s cloaked in black paint, chipped at the edges, whispering tales of a life before me. The Tessar lens, a 75mm f/3.5, stares up from its twin perch, unassuming yet precise. Rolleiflex moved to Zeiss and Schneider glass later, but this one? It’s raw, honest, built to last—like a typewriter that still clacks in a digital age.
Features: The Art of Less
This isn’t a camera that spoon-feeds you. No built-in meter means you’re on your own, guessing exposure like a drifter reading the sky. The film counter’s automatic, though—a small marvel that clicks with every frame of 120 film, a nod to German ingenuity. The waist-level viewfinder flips open like a secret hatch, revealing a world flipped left-to-right. It’s disorienting at first, a mirror to somewhere else, but that’s the charm—you’re not just shooting; you’re dreaming in reverse.
Performance: Street Shadows and Square Frames
I took the MX-EVS to the streets, chasing echoes of Robert Doisneau and Vivian Maier—masters who saw poetry in the mundane through a Rolleiflex. There’s a story from the ’50s: Henri Cartier-Bresson praised the Leica’s agility in one paper, and the next day, Doisneau countered with the Rolleiflex’s knack for candid grace. I see why. Peering down into that glowing square, reality bends—left becomes right, and time slows. The Tessar lens paints shallow depth and creamy bokeh, turning strangers into soft-edged legends.
But 120 film threw me off. Coming from 135, my “sunny 16” guesses overexposed half my rolls—bright blurs instead of crisp tales. It’s four times the size of 35mm, a beast to scan but a gift in detail. Portraits shine here—square compositions frame faces like old photographs in a family album. Still, I’ve sidelined it lately; my impatience doesn’t match its rhythm.
Pros & Cons: A Love with Limits
Pros:
Gorgeous square shots with dreamy bokeh—perfect for portraits.
Built like a tank, a survivor from 1951.
That flipped viewfinder—it’s a portal to another world.
Cons:
No meter means exposure’s a gamble (and I’m a lousy card player).
120 film’s a learning curve—pricey and unforgiving.
Slow to shoot; it’s a thinker, not a sprinter.
Conclusion: A Letter to the Past
The Rolleiflex 3.5 MX-EVS isn’t for everyone. It’s not sleek like a Leica or loud like a Nikon. It’s a quiet companion, a twin-lens ghost that asks you to pause, to feel the weight of each click. I’ve got a Chinese Orient 120—a Tessar knockoff—that mimics it well enough, and the world’s full of Rolleiflex copies. But this one’s mine, a worn treasure I’ll keep, even if it mostly guards my shelf now.
Wenders might say every photo is a letter to someone gone. With this camera, I’m writing to the streets—Doisneau’s Paris, Maier’s Chicago—hoping the light answers back. Pick up a Doisneau book, let it sink in, and maybe you’ll see why I can’t let this Rolleiflex go.
Tech Specs:
Lens: 75mm f/3.5 Tessar (4 elements, 3 groups)
Shutter: Compur-Rapid, 1s to 1/500s
Film: 120 (12 shots per roll)
Weight: ~900g
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(A review crafted like a Sunday morning stroll—leisurely paced yet full of quiet revelations)
The Forgotten Pathfinder
In an age where cameras evolve faster than TikTok trends, the Contax G1 emerges like a weathered paperback on a digital library shelf—unassuming, undervalued, yet brimming with stories waiting to be told. This titanium-clad relic (1994–2001) weighs less than a barista’s latte art pitcher (460g) and costs less than a smartphone lens protector (250–250–300 in 2025 USD). While others chase megapixels, the G1 asks: “What if the best camera isn’t the newest, but the one that never demands an upgrade?”
contax g1
Design: Bauhaus Meets Butterfly
Titanium Truth: Not a veneer like Leica’s “luxury” coatings, but full-metal honesty. The brushed finish feels like a poet’s well-worn notebook.
Ergonomic Whisper: Curves softer than a Parisian bistro chair, fitting Asian hands like a calligrapher’s brush. Even winter can’t frost its plastic grips—a small mercy for gloveless shooters.
Size Sorcery: 28% smaller than its sibling G2, yet somehow roomier than a Tokyo capsule hotel.
Optical Democracy
Zeiss’ Quiet Revolution Before “cinematic” became a YouTube filter buzzword, the G1 democratized pro optics. Its trio of lenses (28mm/45mm/90mm) delivered Hollywood-grade rendering at student film budgets. Today, they still outclass 90% of modern mirrorless glass—like finding a vintage Rolex at a flea market.
Auto-Focus Quirks Yes, it hesitates in dim light. But so do we when faced with life’s unscripted moments. The G1’s occasional refusal to shoot? Not a flaw—a Zen master’s lesson in mindfulness.
Generational Face-Off
Feature
Contax G1 (1994)
Leica M6 (1984–2002)
Price (2025 USD)
250–250–300
3,500–3,500–4,500
Weight
460g (light as regret)
585g (heavy as legacy)
Shutter
1/2000s (sunlit freedom)
1/1000s (eternal twilight)
Film Rescue
Auto-rewind saves mistakes
Manual crank saves pride
Soul
Tokyo salaryman’s secret escape
German engineer’s lifelong companion
The Joyful Contradictions
Autofoxus in a Manual World: Faster than 2012’s Fuji X-Pro1, yet slow enough to make you see
LCD “Watercolor” Displays: Leaking pixels become abstract art—a built-in reminder that imperfection breeds character
Green vs White Label: Choose between supporting rare 21mm lenses (green) or embracing minimalist purity (white). Either way, you win.
contax g1
Who Should Buy This?
✓ Film Rebels: Tired of hipsters’ Pentax K1000 clones ✓ Digital Nomads: Seeking a tactile antidote to screen fatigue ✓ Leica Skeptics: Who suspect the Emperor’s rangefinder has no clothes ✓ Practical Romantics: Believing love letters should be handwritten, not AI-generated
The Tai Chi Revelation
Here lies the G1’s secret—a yin-yang balance Western engineers still struggle to replicate:
Titanium toughness vs plastic pragmatism
Autofocus convenience vs manual mindfulness
1990s tech vs timeless aesthetics
Like practicing tai chi in a subway station, it finds calm within chaos.
Final Verdict: The Anti-GAS Antidote
For the price of three streaming subscriptions (250–250–300), you escape:
The upgrade treadmill’s hollow promises
Pixel-peeping paranoia
The weight of “pro gear” expectations
What you gain:
A mechanical haiku writer
28/45/90mm lenses sharper than nostalgia
Proof that joy needs no Wi-Fi connection
Epilogue: The Camera That Laughs Last
We photograph to cheat time—yet chase gear that becomes obsolete before our film even develops. The G1, with its titanium bones and analog heart, mocks this paradox. In its viewfinder, life isn’t measured in FPS or dynamic range, but in the courage to press the shutter when it truly matters.
Pro Tips:
Film Hack: Load expired stock—its latitude forgives the G1’s metering quirks
G2 Temptation: Resist. The price gap buys 50 rolls of Portra
Ultimate Flex: Pair with Contax T2—pocket the difference vs buying a Leica CM
Rating: ⌛️⌛️⌛️⌛️◻️ (4/5 for tech fetishists) 🌅🌅🌅🌅🌅 (5/5 for sunset chasers)
“The real ‘Killer App’ isn’t in your phone—it’s the camera that outlives your need to prove anything.”
The Leica SOFORT arrives like a postcard from a stranger—unexpected, cryptic, bearing the smudged fingerprints of time. It is not a camera. It is a provocation, wrapped in red leather and German pragmatism. “SOFORT” means “immediately,” but nothing about this machine feels hurried. To hold it is to hold a paradox: a Leica that laughs at permanence, a Fuji wearing a Savile Row suit.
The Anatomy of Ephemera
Body
Material: Plastic, but the kind that whispers “I could have been Bakelite.” Red, white, or black—colors borrowed from a Tarkovsky film.
Weight: 307g. Light enough to forget, heavy enough to remind you: Every photo is a farewell.
Design: Squares and circles in a lover’s quarrel. This is not Fuji’s kawaii flirtation; it’s Bauhaus austerity with a cigarette burn.
Lens
Focal Adjustment: A ring at the base, two zones: 0.6m-3m (intimacy), 3m-∞ (escape). Manual focus? No. Mindful focus. To turn the ring is to negotiate with distance, like a truck driver shifting gears on the Autobahn at dusk.
Sharpness: Startling. The lens—Leica-designed, Fuji-born—slices light with Teutonic precision. Polaroid’s soft nostalgia? Nein.
The Viewfinder: A Window to a Parallel World
The SOFORT’s viewfinder is a cathedral. Bright, uncluttered, a rectangle of pure possibility. Fuji’s Instax Mini 90 offers a peephole; Leica offers a portal. To peer through it is to remember: Photography isn’t about capturing reality. It’s about framing your loneliness and calling it art.
Technical Note:
Parallax Correction: None. Your mistakes are your own.
Film: The Alchemy of Impermanence
Film Type
Leica’s Soul
Fuji’s Body
Saturation
High, like blood on snow
Pastel, like faded denim
Contrast
Low, forgiving shadows
Harsh, a teenager’s first heartbreak
Price
$1.20 per shot (a prayer)
$0.80 per shot (a grocery receipt)
Leica’s Secret: Their film—rebranded Fuji—develops warmer. Is it chemistry? Or the placebo effect of a red dot?
The Ritual
Load the film. Feel the cartridge click, a sound like a bullet chambering.
Choose your distance. 0.6m for lovers, ∞ for runaways.
Press the shutter. The motor groans, ejecting a blank rectangle—a Schrödinger’s photo. Wait 90 seconds. Pray.
A Warning: The SOFORT doesn’t do “spontaneous.” It does delayed urgency. Every shot is a Russian roulette of light and regret.
The Ghost of M
Leica claims this is pedagogy—a gateway drug to M cameras. They’re not wrong. The SOFORT’s manual zone focus is a haiku version of the M’s rangefinder. Use it, and you’ll start craving the click-hiss of a film advance lever.
But here’s the truth: The SOFORT isn’t training wheels. It’s a memento mori for the digital age. Each photo decays. Each fade is a whisper: “You too will vanish.”
Who Buys This?
Not You, if you photograph birthdays.
You, if you’ve ever stolen a glance at a stranger on a train and wondered what god they curse.
Epilogue: The Eternal Instant
Wim Wenders once wrote: “Every film is a letter to someone who no longer exists.”
The SOFORT understands. Its photos are letters addressed to ghosts—written in silver halide, sealed with light.
Technical Specs (for the restless):
Lens: 60mm f/12.7 (Leica-designed, Fuji-built)
Focus Zones: 0.6m-3m / 3m-∞
Exposure Control: Auto, with a grudging nod to manual override
A camera is not a tool. It is a wound—a deliberate incision into time. The Leica I Model C (1930) knows this. It arrives not as an answer, but as a question carved in nickel and obsidian. Hold it, and you hold a blade forged in the smithy of Oskar Barnack’s rebellion: “Why must cameras be grand? Why not let them bleed into the shadows?”
This is not a machine for the obedient. It is for those who wear their loneliness like a tailored coat.
The Anatomy of Silence
Body
Material: Black lacquer, hand-mixed and now extinct—a pigment so deep it swallows light like a midnight ocean.
Weight: 380g. Not heavy, but dense with the gravity of firsts—the first Leica to detach its eye (lens), the first to let light carve its own path.
Shutter: Cloth curtain, still alive after a century. Adjust it, and it purrs like a wolf on a frayed leash.
Lens
Mount: Threaded, like a secret handshake. Early sets (I-III) were monogamous—body and lens serial numbers married, their brass vows etched into metal. Later, Leica let them divorce. Look for the “0” mark—a scar from lovers reunited.
Options: Nickel-plated Elmar 50mm f/3.5 (a dagger), Hektor 135mm f/4.5 (a spear). Chrome came later, but nickel whispers: “I am not here to shine. I am here to outlast you.”
By Douglas Adams’ long-lost cousin who majored in camera geekery
Introduction: The Camera That Defies Logic (And Gravity)
Imagine if a toaster, a spy gadget, and a Stradivarius violin had a baby. That’s the Rollei 35. It’s smaller than your smartphone, heavier than your regrets about buying film in 2024, and somehow still the most charming mechanical contraption this side of the Milky Way.
TL;DR for ADHD Humans:
Size: Fits in a jeans pocket (if you ignore the fact that it weighs like a brick of nostalgia).
Vibe: “I’m not a Leica, but I’ll steal your soul anyway.”
(A review woven like leaves rustling in a spring breeze—delicate yet precise)
The Quiet Rebel in a Screaming World
While smartphone cameras shout about computational miracles, the Contax TVS III enters the room like a librarian silencing a nightclub—polite, unassuming, yet radiating authority. This titanium-clad time capsule (1999–2002) weighs less than a barista’s latte art obsession (390g) and costs less than a designer phone case (450–450–550 in 2025 USD). In an era of planned obsolescence, it asks: “What if a camera could outlive its own relevance?”
Design: Porsche’s Forgotten Sketchbook
Titanium Seduction: Not Leica’s brass-and-leather nostalgia, but a stealth fighter’s elegance. The matte finish feels like a poet’s favorite drafting pencil—cool to the touch, warm in the hand.
Lens Ballet: The motorized bridge cover unfolds smoother than a Swiss watch’s second hand, revealing a zoom lens sharper than a diplomat’s retort.
Ergonomic Whisper: Fits a palm like a river stone worn smooth by centuries—no sharp edges, only intention.
Optical Alchemy
Zeiss’ Final Bow The 28–56mm Vario-Sonnar lens doesn’t just capture light—it curates it. At f/3.5–6.5, it renders colors like autumn leaves preserved in resin: vibrant yet restrained. Skin tones glow like parchment under library lamps, skies hold their blue without turning cartoonish.
Stealth Mode The shutter clicks quieter than a chess master’s calculated move, leaving only the purr of film advance as evidence. Street photographers will feel like ghosts—present yet invisible.
In an era where pixels multiply like dandelion seeds, the Contax G2 drifts into view like a maple leaf preserved in a vintage book—fragile, poetic, and stubbornly beautiful. Priced between 600–600–1,200 (2024 USD), this titanium-clad relic is the antique pocket watch of film cameras: intricate, undervalued, and ticking with analog grace. Think of it as the quiet companion you’d find in a forgotten library, whispering stories of a time when light was measured in silver halide, not megapixels.
Body: Brushed metal and matte finishes—cold as a Bavarian winter morning, yet balanced like a Zen rock garden. Fits in a coat pocket like a folded love letter.
Lens: Carl Zeiss glass, sharper than a samurai’s blade and warmer than a hearth—28mm f/2.8 to 90mm f/2.8, each a stanza in an optical poem.
The Weight of Intent
Dense enough to feel purposeful, light enough to forget you’re carrying it—a paradox wrapped in Japanese-German engineering.
Optical Alchemy: Time Travel in a Frame
Aspect
Contax G2
Fujifilm X-Pro3
Focus Speed
A falcon diving for prey
A commuter missing their train
Bokeh
Van Gogh’s Starry Night
A spreadsheet gradient
Soul
🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️🖋️
💻
Autofocus: Snaps to clarity like a novelist finding the perfect word—startlingly fast for a ’90s relic.
Manual Focus: A hidden dial for purists, turning focus into a meditative ritual.
The “Three Truths”
Film’s Ephemeral Dance: Burns through rolls like pages in a diary—each frame a fleeting confession.
Flaws as Features: LCD counters bleed ink like aging calligraphy; plastic grips shed skin like a snake—wabi-sabi in motion.
Chinese Proverb Footnote:“榫卯相合” (“Mortise and tenon joinery”) A nod to how this camera interlocks analog craftsmanship with digital curiosity, like ancient woodwork defying time.
Film vs Digital: A Garden in Two Seasons
Film Romance: On Kodak Portra 400, it’s Hemingway in Paris—grainy, raw, and drenched in golden-hour longing.
Digital Age: Fuji’s X-Pro3 feels like a ChatGPT sonnet—polished but sterile, missing the coffee stains and dog-eared corners.
Who Needs This Camera?
✓ Analog Archivists: Who believe imperfection is the soul of art ✓ Minimalist Poets: Seeking “less tech, more texture” ✓ Contrarians: Who’d choose a typewriter over a touchscreen
Avoid If: You crave autofocus speed, hate quirks, or think “vintage” means “obsolete.”
Final Verdict: The Unlikely Time Capsule
The G2 isn’t just a camera—it’s a kintsugi masterpiece, mending analog’s cracks with titanium and grit. For the price of a weekend in Kyoto, you gain:
A relic from photography’s last romantic rebellion
“A camera that whispers: ‘The past is not dead—it’s just waiting to be rediscovered.’”
Pro Tips:
Battery Hack: Use SR44 cells—avoid the dreaded mid-roll blackout.
Film Pairing: Ilford HP5+ @1600—grain dances with Zeiss’ clinical precision.
Zen Mantra: “The best camera is the one that makes you forget time.”
Epilogue: The Blue-and-White Whisper Contax’s G2 scoffs at digital’s ephemeral glow, whispering: “True artistry lies in the seams where light hesitates.” Like a 竹简 (bamboo scroll), its beauty thrives in the tension between fragility and endurance—a tactile chronicle of moments etched not in code, but in silver. Now slip it into your bag and wander, not to conquer light, but to let it unravel like ink on rice paper. 📸
