Introduction: The X-Pro1 – A Love Letter to Analog Souls
Let’s get real: the Fuji X-Pro1 is the flannel shirt of cameras. It’s retro, it’s cozy, and it makes you look like you know what aperture means without actually having to explain it. But now Fuji’s waving the X-Pro3 in our faces like a shiny new toy. Should you upgrade? Spoiler: Probably not.
Sensor Showdown: “16MP vs. 26MP? Who Cares?”
X-Pro1: 16MP APS-C, no low-pass filter (because Fuji said, “Let’s make photos crispy”). X-Pro3: 26MP APS-C, also no low-pass filter (because Fuji said, “Let’s make photos slightly crispier”).
Here’s the truth: unless you’re printing billboards of your cat’s whiskers, 16MP is plenty. The X-Pro1’s sensor is like a vintage vinyl record—flawed, charming, and way cooler than Spotify.
Pro Tip: If you’re upgrading for pixels, just zoom in on your existing photos and pretend.
High ISO? More Like “Why ISO?”
The X-Pro3 boasts better high-ISO performance. But let’s be honest: if you’re shooting in the dark with an X-Pro1 and the XF 35mm f/1.4, you’re already winning. This lens is so fast, it could outrun a toddler on sugar.
X-Pro1 at ISO 6400: Grainy, moody, artistic. X-Pro3 at ISO 6400: Less grainy, slightly less moody, still not a night-vision goggles.
Introduction: When “Quirky” Is a Feature, Not a Bug
Let’s get one thing straight: the Contax TVS II is the eccentric uncle of the compact camera world. It’s sleek, it’s stylish, and it’s got more quirks than a Wes Anderson movie. Released in the ‘90s as part of the TVS (Titanium Vario Sonnar) series, this little gem is a testament to the golden age of compact cameras—when engineering met artistry, and every button click felt like a tiny rebellion against the digital future.
Is it perfect? No. Is it ridiculously fun to use? Absolutely.
Design: “Titanium Chic, But Make It Functional”
Specs:
Build: Titanium body (because plastic is for peasants).
Size: Compact enough to fit in a jacket pocket, but heavy enough to remind you it’s there.
Aesthetic: A mix of retro charm and futuristic minimalism.
Power On/Off:
The TVS II’s power switch is the lens ring itself. Twist it to turn the camera on, and twist it back to turn it off. It’s like a combination lock, but for photography.
Pro Tip: Be gentle with the lens ring. The TVS series is notorious for fragile ribbon cables, and you don’t want to be the person who breaks it.
Lens Cover:
The automatic lens cover is a thing of beauty. Twist the lens ring, and the cover slides open like a curtain at a Broadway show. It’s so satisfying, you’ll find yourself turning the camera on and off just to watch it.
Optical Performance: “Zeiss Magic in a Tiny Package”
Specs:
Focal Length: 28-56mm (because sometimes you can’t decide).
Aperture: f/3.5-6.5 (or “how to make your photos look… modest”).
Construction: Vario-Sonnar design, because Zeiss loves showing off.
Sharpness:
28mm: Sharp enough to count the pores on your subject’s nose (if you’re into that).
While Contax T3 prices soar to Leica-tier absurdity (now 1,500+),itsoverlookedsibling—theTVS—languishesat1,500+),itsoverlookedsibling—theTVS—languishesat200, begging for attention. This 1994 titanium wonder isn’t a “poor man’s T3”; it’s a stealth bomber of practicality. Yes, its 28-56mm f/3.5-6.5 zoom sounds pedestrian—until you realize:
These photos capture landscapes Lyan shot during her trip to Japan ten years ago, only to be rediscovered now on my hard drive. I’ve carefully arranged them on my blog, like tending to a borrowed poetry collection. Lyan’s lens carries a stillness that recalls Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood—beneath those calm frames, quiet emotions linger. I tracked down Lyan and, with her permission, share these photos here.
contax tvs
Through the Contax TVS, the coastline twists like a haiku. Distant birds sweep by, their wings cutting through the dusk, leaving soft marks on the film. I’d wager they were startled by a cheeky cat, scattering with the sea breeze clinging to them.
Lyan had a gift for leaving just the right amount of space in her shots. She’d freeze the waves at the frame’s edge, letting the birds’ paths trail off into the imagination. It brings to mind Junichiro Tanizaki’s Kyoto gardens—those purposeful empty spaces, designed to hold a wealth of quiet thoughts.
The photo that stops me cold is the one where sea and sky melt into a single gray-blue expanse. The horizon blurs, much like the edges of memory. The Contax casts a cool tone, yet there’s warmth hiding in the shadows. I can almost see Lyan on the shore, her skirt lifted by the wind, intently adjusting the aperture, poised for that perfect moment.
It’s late now, and I close my laptop. Moonlight spills across my desk, echoing the coasts in those photos. By the way, the Contax TVS is a fantastic travel companion.
Introduction: When Your Camera Fits in Your Pocket (And Your Soul)
Let’s be real: the Ricoh GR1s is the James Dean of film cameras. It’s compact, it’s cool, and it doesn’t give a damn about your Instagram filters. Designed in the ‘90s, worshipped in the 2020s, this little black box is the reason your Fuji X100V feels like a try-hard.
I took it for a spin to channel my inner Daido Moriyama. Spoiler: I didn’t become a street photography legend. But I did scare a pigeon.
Design: “A Brick, But Make It Fashion”
Specs:
Size: Smaller than a TV remote (and twice as fun).
Weight: 185g (or “light enough to forget it’s in your jeans… until you sit on it”).
Aesthetic: A minimalist black slab that screams, “I read Sartre and drink black coffee.”
The GR1s looks like a calculator designed by a Japanese architect. But that chunky front grip? Pure genius. It’s like shaking hands with a robot that gets you.
Pro Tip: If your camera doesn’t make you feel like a spy, you’re holding it wrong.
Controls: “Simplicity, Thy Name Is Ricoh”
The GR1s’ controls are smoother than a jazz saxophonist:
Top Plate: A single “MODE” button toggles between auto-everything and Snap Mode (more on that later).
Left Side: A gorgeous exposure comp dial (+/- 2 stops) and flash selector. It’s like having a tiny DJ mixer for light.
Right Side: Nothing. Because sometimes less is more.
No menus. No touchscreens. Just pure, unadulterated clicks.
4. Snap Mode: “The Ninja Setting”
Engage Snap Mode, and the GR1s becomes a street-shooting samurai. It locks focus between 1-3 meters (translation: “everything in this general vicinity will be sharp-ish”). No autofocus lag. No whirring motors. Just click and chaos.
Why It Rules:
Perfect for capturing strangers mid-sneeze.
Makes you feel like a photojournalist fleeing paparazzi.
Why It’s Alone: Other “snap” cameras exist (looking at you, Samsung), but they’re about as refined as a kazoo solo.
The Lens: 28mm f/3.5 (Or “How to Be Wide Without Trying”)
Specs:
Focal Length: 28mm (because seeing the world through a mailbox slot is art).
Aperture: f/3.5 (not fast, but faster than your ex’s excuses).
This lens is sharper than a stand-up comedian’s punchlines. It’s also tiny—like a contact lens with ambitions. Moriyama’s high-contrast, gritty style? That’s all him. The GR1s just serves the canvas.
Fun Fact: Moriyama switched to digital GRs, but rumor has it his Wi-Fi password is still “ILOVEFILM.”
Stealth Level: “Ninja Approved”
Silent Shutter: The GR1s is quieter than a librarian’s sigh.
Blue LCD Backlight: Glows like a cyborg’s heartbeat in low light.
Wrist Strap: Lets you swing it like a pocket watch while pretending to check the time.
The Moriyama Paradox: “Destroyer or Savior?”
Moriyama’s high-contrast, chaotic style made the GR1s iconic. But it also cursed it. Newbies buy it expecting “instant art,” only to realize they have to do the work.
Moriyama’s Wisdom:
“Great photography is about waking people up to the drama in the mundane.”
“Also, maybe stop copying my contrast settings, Karen.”
Downsides: “It’s Not Perfect (But Neither Are You)”
Battery Dependency: No juice? No photos. Bring spares or embrace existential dread.
Plastic Parts: The film door creaks like a haunted house floor.
Price: Used GR1s prices now rival a kidney. Thanks, hipsters.
Final Verdict: “A Camera for the Brave, Not the Basic”
The Ricoh GR1s isn’t a camera. It’s a philosophy. A reminder that greatness fits in your pocket. A middle finger to megapixels and menu-diving.
Buy it if:
You think “vintage” isn’t just a filter.
You’re ready to see, not just shoot.
Skip it if:
You need autofocus faster than your attention span.
You think photography requires a backpack full of gear.
I nabbed Magnum Streetwise off a shelf in Beijing’s Sanlitun Page One, back when it was hot off the press, like a fresh baozi nobody else had sniffed yet. Street photography’s my jam—I’d stalk a shadow or a stray cat for hours just to catch it blinking—so this book slid into my life like a perfect frame. Two years later, the Chinese version popped up, and I grabbed that too, because who says you can’t double-dip on genius? It’s not just a book; it’s the ceiling of street shooting, a parade of moments that hit you like a pigeon landing on your lens.
The pages are a circus—Cartier-Bresson sneaking around corners, Erwitt winking at dogs, Gilden flashing faces like he’s daring them to blink. It’s chaos and poetry, all mashed together with a shutter’s click. I flip through it and grin, because this is what the street’s about: not posing, not planning, just snatching life as it trips over itself. My copy’s worn now, edges curling like it’s been dragged through alleys with me. Good. That’s where it belongs.
What did it teach me? First, patience is a predator—wait long enough, and the shot pounces. Second, gear’s just a sidekick; it’s the eye that calls the shots. Third, humor’s the secret sauce—find the absurd, and the frame sings. I’m still chasing that ceiling, but this book’s my map.
Magnum Streetwise
Magnum’s crew wielded some classics: Cartier-Bresson with a Leica M3, stalking silence; Erwitt too, Leica in pocket, sniffing out laughs; Gilden, a Leica M6 with a flash like a punch; Parr, maybe a Mamiya 7, coloring the mundane loud; Koudelka, Leica or a Pentax 67, brewing drama in black. Old school, mostly, but sharp as ever.
Introduction: When “Vintage” Looks Suspiciously Modern
Let’s face it: most film cameras are either hipster bait (Leica M6) or clunky relics (Nikon F3). The Canon EOS 50? It’s the undercover cop of analog gear. Sleek, plastic, and weirdly modern, this 90s autofocus beast looks like it time-traveled from a 2010 Best Buy shelf. I bought one for less than a fancy dinner, and now I’m questioning all my life choices.
Design: “Plastic? More Like Fantastic”
Specs:
Weight: 645g (or “light enough to forget you’re holding a camera”).
Materials: Metal top plate (for flexing), plastic body (for surviving drops).
Aesthetic: A hybrid of a spaceship and a toaster.
Canon EOS 50
The EOS 50 is proof that Canon knew plastic was the future. The champagne-colored top plate screams “I’m classy!” while the plastic body whispers “I cost $300, and I’m okay with that.”
Pro Tip: If your camera doesn’t look like it belongs in a Star Trek reboot, you’re doing analog wrong.
Controls: “A 6D in Disguise”
The EOS 50’s layout is eerily familiar:
Top LCD: Displays settings like it’s judging your life choices.
Rear Dial: Spins smoother than a DJ at a rave.
AF Point Selector: Lets you pick focus points like a digital camera. Because obviously.
Using this thing feels like driving a Honda Civic—boringly intuitive. No menus. No touchscreens. Just buttons and dials, like the good Lord intended.
By someone who just spent more on a film camera than a new iPhone
Introduction: When Nikon Decided to Make a Camera for Watch Nerds
Let’s cut to the chase: the Nikon 35Ti is the James Bond of 90s film cameras. Sleek titanium body? Check. A lens sharper than Bond’s wit? Check. A top-plate gauge cluster that looks like it belongs on a Rolex? Double check.
Released in 1993, this titanium-clad gem was Nikon’s flex to the world: “Oh, you thought pocket cameras had to be plastic? Hold my aperture ring.”
