i35mm

The Canon EOS 50: A Plastic Fantastic Time Machine (That Secretly Thinks It’s a 6D)

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.

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.

The Nikon 35Ti: A Camera So Retro, It Might Actually Be a Pocket Watch (With a Lens Attached)

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.”

A Dog’s Take on Street Photography

Hey there, I’m Little White, a clever pup who loves lounging on the couch and watching the world go by. Recently, my owner took me out for a sneaky stroll to the streets, and wow—what a treasure trove of photo opps! Tonight, I squinted out the window, streetlights twinkling, as the night turned those cyclists and motorbike riders into my very own “moving stars.” Check out that pic—folks zooming by on bikes and scooters, racing through the intersection like they’re late for the next big adventure… or maybe just trying to beat the traffic light! I couldn’t help but wonder—humans, with all that speed, would you need me to lick your bruises if you wipe out?

The real laugh, though, is that dinosaur balloon tied to the fence at the crossroad! It’s slouched over like it’s saying, “Hey, pup, I’m lazier than you—wind blows, and I just sway. Pretty cool, huh?” I stared at it, nearly cracking up—clearly the inflatable “roadblock star” is putting on a deep, thoughtful act. The cars whiz by like a shiny river, red and green lights flashing, while people hustle through life—some grinning, some frowning. I come and go here, watching them live, laugh, and worry, and it’s like I’ve picked up a bit of life’s meaning myself. Maybe tomorrow I’ll nudge my owner to get me a camera to snap these street “actors”—though, of course, the real star should be me!

The Fracture of Dusk

Winter is nearly gone now, though the cold lingers, a faint sharpness in the air, and the city seems to carry its own kind of chill, distant and reserved. I’ve been careful, I suppose, in keeping myself apart, a little different from others, though I hardly notice how it happens—how my eyes catch the small, strange things that slip through the cracks of the everyday. This evening, the sun hung low, its light broken by a thick seam of clouds, and it felt almost unreal, like something from a film—perhaps that black hole in Interstellar, silent and immense. I reached for my camera, quickly, as if I could trap it, that fleeting moment when the world seemed to pause and whisper something I couldn’t quite grasp.

The Leicaflex R6: The Camera That Proves Germans Can Do Subtle (Mostly)

Introduction: When “Mechanical” Isn’t a Euphemism for “Antique”

Let’s get this straight: the Leica R6 isn’t a camera. It’s a mechanical haiku. A 35mm film SLR so stubbornly analog, it makes your grandpa’s pocket watch look like a smartwatch. No batteries. No mercy. Just gears, springs, and enough Teutonic overengineering to make a BMW engineer weep.

If the Leicaflex SL2 is a Panzer, the R6 is a VW Golf GTI—small, precise, and sneakily brilliant. It’s what happens when Leica says, “Fine, we’ll make a Japanese-style SLR… but we’ll do it properly.”

The Leicaflex SL2: A Camera So Metal, It Probably Thinks It’s a Tank (And You’ll Love It Anyway)

By a slightly sweaty photographer who just bench-pressed this thing

Introduction: When German Engineering Meets a Midlife Crisis

Let’s face it: most cameras are like sensible sedans. Reliable, practical, boring. The Leicaflex SL2, however, is the automotive equivalent of a 1970s muscle car—if that muscle car were also a Panzer. This isn’t just a camera; it’s a statement, wrapped in enough machined brass and steel to make a Swiss watchmaker blush.

Want to shoot film but hate the dainty fragility of those Japanese plastic wonders? Meet the SL2: the camera that laughs at gravity, scoffs at ergonomics, and probably doubles as a doorstop in a hurricane.

Picasso Through the Lens: A Lucky Find with Leica and Nikon Masters

I spotted it in a bookstore, this hefty slab called Ichundichundich. Picasso im Fotoporträt, lounging on the shelf like it owned the place. Cracked it open, and there they were—Picasso’s familiar mugs, the ones I’d seen in grainy mags years back. David Douglas Duncan’s shots jumped out first—Picasso in shorts, paintbrush waving, smirking like he’d just outsmarted the sun. Then came Cartier-Bresson’s brooding shadows, Man Ray’s odd tilts, Capa’s raw edges. A lineup of masters, all crammed into one book.

I’ve got a soft spot for Leica and Nikon, the kind of soul who’d rather fiddle with a shutter than a screen, so this was gold. These legends didn’t just snap Picasso—they pinned him down with gear I’d trade an arm for. Duncan, probably with a Leica, catching the old man mid-cackle; Cartier-Bresson stalking light like it owed him. In China, this book’s scarcer than a quiet corner in Beijing, so I forked over the cash and hauled it home. It’s a keeper.

It’s more than photos. It’s what happens when Picasso—wild enough to paint the wind—meets shooters who live by f-stops and split seconds. Sparks fly, and you get this: a striped-shirt joker mugging for the lens, or a hunched figure squeezing a canvas dry. Flip through it, and you think, hell, this is why cameras exist—not for selfies, but for moments that cling like burrs. Makes me itch to grab my Leica and hunt something half as alive.

This book rolls out a red carpet of shooters: David Douglas Duncan, likely with his trusty Leica, snagging Picasso’s candid chaos; Henri Cartier-Bresson, Nikon or Leica in hand, framing the master in timeless black-and-white; Lee Miller, maybe with a Rolleiflex, catching sharp slices of life; Robert Capa, armed with a Contax, chasing raw energy; and Man Ray, tweaking a large-format rig for his surreal spins. Gear and genius, all in one stack.

Konica Recorder: The Camera That Whispers to Time

The Joy of Imperfection

In an age where cameras sprint after specs like greyhounds chasing robot rabbits—panting for more megapixels, more frames per second—the Konica Recorder lounges in the corner, unimpressed. It’s a dog-eared paperback, slightly yellowed, sitting smugly amid a library of glossy 4K e-readers who whisper, “Upgrade me.”

This 1984 relic, half plastic, half metal—a haiku interrupted by a hiccup—weighs less than a barista’s latte spoon (390g). It costs about as much as a week’s worth of avocado toast (180–180–220 in 2025 USD), which is to say: not much, unless you’re the toast.

It doesn’t strut around promising perfection, doesn’t care for your Instagram likes. Instead, it offers a shrug and a truth: “To record life, let the light sneak in through the cracks—neatness is overrated, darling.”

Design: The Art of Casual Elegance

Unapologetic Plastic: Not Leica’s cold brass, but the warm texture of a kindergarten’s well-loved building blocks. The slide-open lens cover clicks like a librarian’s favorite stamp—functional, nostalgic, irreplaceable.
Battery Zen: Two AAs hum where others demand boutique cells. A fifth of its body is power storage—fitting for a camera that outlasts trends like mountains outlast rain.
Hexanon Soul: The lens hides Konica’s secret—optical clarity sharper than a Parisian’s wit, yet gentler than dawn light through lace curtains.

The Zeiss Jena 35mm f2.4: Shadows That Play – A Vintage Lens Adventure

I shot a utility pole once, stabbing up into a blue sky so loud it practically buzzed. My Zeiss Jena 35mm f2.4 did the work—a scrappy little lens, older than my best boots, with a vignette that sneaks into the corners like a cat curling up for a nap. It’s not perfect. It’s better than that.

This thing’s a DDR relic, a Flektogon design with a heart sharp at f2.4 and edges that soften like a half-remembered song. At 35mm, it’s your go-to for wandering—wide enough to catch the world, tight enough to keep it personal. Slap it on a mirrorless body (you can snag one for under $200), and it loves a bright day, painting colors bold and true. That blue sky? The vignette showed up uninvited, darkening the frame’s rim, nudging my eye to the pole’s rough spine. I tried wiping it out in Lightroom—sky all flat and bright, pole like a textbook sketch. Clean, sure, but dull as dishwater. The shadow had been doing the heavy lifting, giving the shot a little swagger, a little depth. I let it stay, but dialed the shadow back—not all the way, just enough.

Then there’s this other shot: a winter tree, naked as a promise, with a bird’s nest perched like a secret. Same lens, same f2.4. The vignette crept in again, but here it felt like a bully—squashing the air, crowding the nest till it looked trapped. I ditched it in post, and bam—the sky stretched wide, pale and chilly, letting the branches breathe. The nest popped, fragile against the sprawl. No shadow needed.

Here’s the trick: this lens doesn’t shove vignette down your throat. It’s loudest under a blue blaze—light hits the glass hard, and the edges duck out. On a gray day, or stopped down to f5.6, it’s more a murmur than a shout. You decide when it plays. Wide open at f2.4, it’s got that creamy falloff; crank it tighter, and it behaves.

The Zeiss Jena 35mm f2.4 isn’t for the pixel-polish crowd—grab a Sigma Art or Zeiss Milvus if that’s your game. It’s for tinkerers, the ones who’d rather dance with a quirk than iron it flat. Pole got the shadow. Nest got the sky. Both got the shot.