My gear.
Born in 1933 as Leica’s first 28mm offering, the Hektor f/6.3 predates the Summicron, Elmarit, and even World War II. This 85g brass relic—discontinued by 1960—whispers tales of analog austerity. With no modern equivalent, it’s photography’s answer to a typewriter: slow, deliberate, and stubbornly poetic. At 300–300–500 (well-loved), it’s the cheapest ticket to Leica’s pre-war optical legacy.
Born in 1959 as Leica’s answer to postwar optimism, the Summilux 50mm f/1.4 v1 (E43) straddles eras like Berlin’s fractured Wall. Its 7-element design—an evolution of the Summarit f/1.5’s dreamy haze—offers photographers a foot in two worlds: the romantic swirl of 1950s optics and the crisp demands of modern film stocks. At 1,200–1,200–1,800 (well-loved), it whispers, “Character over clinical perfection.”
In 1961, as Leica’s M3 reigned supreme, Canon unsheathed its final katana—the Model 7 rangefinder. This L39-mounted warrior blended German precision with Japanese ergonomics, offering built-in metering when Leica still relied on handheld gadgets. Today, it stands as a eulogy to analog ambition, a 300–300–500 time capsule whispering tales of the Shōwa era’s photographic dreams.
Voigtländer survives not by challenging Leica’s throne, but by carpeting its moat. While Leica crafts haute horlogerie for wrist-snob elites, Cosina’s Bessa series delivers democratic precision—a Xiaomi to Leica’s iPhone. The Bessa R2A (2002-2007) embodies this philosophy: a $500 gateway drug to rangefinder obsession, offering 90% M-series functionality at 20% cost. Newcomers whisper, “Start with Bessa, graduate to Leica”—but wiser souls learn to linger in this middle kingdom.
In the tea hills of Fuji’s optical kingdom, the WCL-X100 whispers an ancient truth: “What is cropped may yet expand.” This 0.8x converter—a titanium-clad sorcerer—transmutes your X100’s 35mm gaze into 28mm wonder. Like a Zen monk folding origami from a single sheet, it bends light without breaking its vows to Fuji’s EBC gods.
1. Seamless Symbiosis
2. Ancestral Craft
The 49mm filter thread accepts your X100’s UV crown without protest. Hoods click into place with Shinto shrine precision—no adapters, no apologies.
In 2010, Fujifilm resurrected its analog soul with the X100—a digital rangefinder draped in faux-leather and brushed metal. When Thai floods stalled production, prices doubled overnight, birthing a cult. Thirteen years later, its descendants (X100S/T/F/V) remain faithful to the original haiku:
1. Whisper Shutter
The leaf shutter clicks at 1/4000s with the decibel level of a moth’s wingbeat. Street photographers rejoice; subjects rarely flinch.
2. Stealth Misfire
So silent you’ll check the LCD post-shot—did it fire? A quirk that becomes ritual.
3. Focus Gambit
Born from a Hasselblad-Fujifilm collaboration, the XPan (1998-2006) redefined 35mm photography by merging Scandinavian design with Japanese engineering. This titanium-clad marvel shoots both standard 24x36mm and sweeping 24x65mm panoramas—a dual-format chameleon that outlived its era.
Key Specs:
1. The 45mm f/4 Workhorse
2. The Forgotten 90mm f/4
3. The 30mm f/5.6 White Whale
Too niche (16mm equivalent in panorama), too pricey ($4,500+). Leave it to architecture fetishists.
In the pantheon of Leica optics, the Summarit 40mm f/2.4 occupies a heretical throne—a lens born in the Minilux/CM compacts, now reborn as an M-mount rogue. While purists decry “camera murder,” this 400Frankenstein(bodybutchery+400Frankenstein(bodybutchery+200 adaption fee) delivers 90% of a Summicron’s soul at 30% the cost. Your moral dilemma? Let’s call it creative recycling.
1. Heritage DNA
2. Size Matters
She lived in my coat pocket like a polished stone warmed by river currents. At dawn her titanium eyelids blinked to catch steam rising from breakfast baozi stalls; by midnight she sipped neon reflections in hutong puddles. The film advance whirred like a cicada's song—thirty-six chances to steal time's loose change, her 28mm gaze always hungry yet never greedy. I forgot she was a machine until raindrops jeweled her viewfinder, and suddenly we were conspirators hiding silver whispers in a lightproof womb.
The darkroom smelled of chemistry and longing. As images bled through emulsion—a construction worker's suspended wrench, bicycles braided with shadows, laughter trapped in a terrier's leap—her metal body grew warmer in memory. Each frame pulsed like qi through copper veins, the aperture ring's click still echoing where my thumbprint lingered. She had turned concrete dust into gold leaf, smog into silk, ordinary afternoons into a language of light even my bones could understand.
When the final print dried, I found her curves had left braille marks on my palm. Thirty-six windows now breathed on the clothesline: a city exhaling through a titanium flute, street corners folded into her film's origami. She needs no lens cap—this alchemist who drinks chaos and pours back lyricism, this pocket-sized companion who proved that devotion could be measured in millimeters, carried like a lover's first note against the breast, developing long after the shutter sighs.
