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.
Born in 1930 under the genius of Max Berek—Leica’s founding optical shaman—the Elmar 35mm f/3.5 is a 30g brass haiku that predates WWII, color film, and the concept of “GAS.” This uncoated Tessar-design relic (1930-1960) proves great photography demands neither megapixels nor f/1.4 bravado. At 400–400–800 (well-loved), it’s a gateway drug to analog purity.
Leica Elmar 35mm f/3.5 (3.5cm/3.5)Leica Elmar 35mm f/3.5 (3.5cm/3.5)Leica Elmar 35mm f/3.5 (3.5cm/3.5)Leica Elmar 35mm f/3.5 (3.5cm/3.5)Leica Elmar 35mm f/3.5 (3.5cm/3.5)
“This is Elmar.”
“This is cookie.”
“This is a Cookie Elmar.”
“You may think I’m small, but I have a big world inside me.”
Born in 1972, the Summilux-M 35mm f/1.4 II Pre-ASPH is a lens that defies modern optics’ obsession with perfection. This 245g aluminum relic—discontinued in 1993—doesn’t just capture light; it interprets it through a veil of chromatic whispers and mechanical poetry. At 2,500–2,500–4,000 (used), it’s not a tool, but a collaborator in crafting visual sonnets.
Let’s get one thing straight: the Contax G system is the cool uncle of the camera world. It’s sleek, it’s stylish, and it’s got that “I was ahead of my time” vibe. The Biogon 28mm f/2.8? It’s the star of the show—a lens so good, it makes you wonder why Contax ever went out of business.
Sure, the G system is a relic of the film era, but with adapters and a bit of luck, this little gem can shine in the digital age. Is it perfect? No. Is it ridiculously good for the price? Absolutely.
Build Quality: “Porsche-Designed, Not Leica-Copied”
Specs:
Weight: 180g (or “featherlight” in lens-speak).
Materials: Metal, glass, and a dash of German engineering.
Aesthetic: Sleek, minimalist, and just a little bit smug.
The Biogon 28mm f/2.8 is what happens when Contax says, “Let’s make a Leica killer… but with autofocus.” It’s compact, well-balanced, and built to last longer than your average hipster’s beard.
Pro Tip: If your lens doesn’t make you feel like a secret agent, you’re holding it wrong.
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
Rolleiflex 3.5 mx-evs with kodak black & white filmsRolleiflex 3.5 mx-evs with kodak black & white filmsRolleiflex 3.5 mx-evs with kodak black & white filmsRolleiflex 3.5 mx-evs with kodak black & white filmsRolleiflex 3.5 mx-evs with kodak black & white filmsRolleiflex 3.5 mx-evs with kodak black & white filmsRolleiflex 3.5 mx-evs with kodak black & white filmsrolleiflex 3.5 mx－evs black & white filmsrolleiflex 3.5 mx－evs black & white filmsrolleiflex 3.5 mx－evs black & white filmsrolleiflex 3.5 mx－evs black & white filmsrolleiflex 3.5 mx－evs black & white filmsrolleiflex 3.5 mx－evs black & white filmsrolleiflex 3.5 mx－evs black & white filmsrolleiflex 3.5 mx－evs black & white films
In the 1990s, when brick-sized zoom compacts ruled the streets, the Leica Mini 3 slipped into the scene like a stealthy haiku—small, poetic, and disarmingly brilliant. Priced between 400–400–800 (2024 USD) today, this 180g plastic-and-glass gem is the Mini Cooper of film cameras: unpretentious, joyful, and engineered for spontaneity. Forget clunky SLRs—this is photography’s answer to a perfectly folded origami crane.
Fuji Neopan ACROS 100 is like the James Bond of black-and-white films—smooth, refined, and always reliable. Its fine grain is its standout feature, making it a favorite among photographers who crave detail and clarity. While I personally use ISO 100 films more for shooting wide open than chasing grain perfection, I can’t deny that ACROS 100 delivers a level of smoothness that’s hard to beat in its price range.
That said, let’s be real: if you’re a grain-obsessed perfectionist, you’re probably already shooting 120 film. Let’s face it, 135 can’t compete with the sheer resolution of medium format. But for those of us shooting 35mm or even half-frame cameras, ACROS 100’s fine grain holds up beautifully under enlargement. It’s like the film equivalent of a high-definition TV—crisp, clear, and easy on the eyes.
The Voigtlander 15mm lens has an angle of view of approximately 110° on a full frame camera, but the Leica M8 is an APS-H format (sensor size approximately 27.0 x 18.0mm), in which case the angle of view of the 15mm lens will be slightly less than the full frame 110°.
The Leica M8 sensor has a diagonal length of approx. 32.5 mm, which corresponds to an angle of view of approx. 83°.
Formula for calculating the angle of view.
The formula for calculating the angle of view is: θ = 2 arctan(d / (2f)) In this formula: θ represents the angle of view. d stands for the diagonal length of the sensor. f is the focal length of the lens.
In 1961, Leica unleashed the world’s first 35mm f/1.4 lens—the Steel Rim. Not merely a tool, but a manifesto in brass and glass. This 300g unicorn (1961-1966) redefined “luxury” in optics, its nickel-plated steel lens hood locking into milled grooves with Swiss watch precision. Today, surviving specimens trade for 8,000–8,000–15,000, not for their optics, but as mechanical haikus from an era when lenses were forged, not assembled.
