Written by I was coming to the end of a ‘beach for daybreak’ outing at Runswick Bay and I started to carefully pick my way back along the beach below a cliff face. These cliffs, where the North York Moors literally fall into the sea, are fragile, very fragile. After a good storm fossil hunters come here especially to see what new treasures have been unearthed. As for me, well, I was just trying to avoid being hit by one of the frequent cascades of shale slivers tinkling down the cliff face.
I’d stopped to take a documentary shot of boldly coloured rock where iron ore is being leached out by ground water. It was the almost luminescent colours that caught my eye. I’ll often take pictures of unusual things like this; I’ve lost count of the number of times ‘she who must be obeyed’ will be working on some document or other and call out ‘have you got any photographs that show …… (insert obscure subject as required)? One day this picture may well come to my rescue.
Afterwards I began carefully picking my way over a mass of large boulders when, lying underneath them, I saw an amazing lump of rock. It was unlike anything that I’d seen before. An intrusion of pale rock was fixed between two layers of bright pink sandstone. It looked to me just like a toothy grin frozen in stone.
I have no idea where it had come from but I knew that there was one photograph that I had to take. Sorry.
This occasional blog is a tasty serving of nature and wildlife photography, with a side dish of my experiences out in the field and lightly seasoned with any random thoughts that occur to me along the way.
Myth of the Perfect Camera
2012 Leave a Comment
We photographers are a strange bunch. We spend our days squinting through one eye with our faces squashed up against an electronics filled box. Possibly because of this enforced intimacy our cameras ultimately become our friends. Sometimes even more than that; they become an integral part of our identity, but hopefully not quite to the same extent as dogs and their owners, who are said to begin to look alike after time (here is one blogger’s sardonic take on what the camera that you own says about you).
I wasn’t the only one. Snow geese in Bosque are popular with photographers and despite the early hour a small but steadily growing crowd had formed. Not far away from me a couple of guys (and it always seems to be guys) were verbally sparring by deriding each others’ camera. It was mildly amusing for a few seconds, tiring after a few minutes and extremely tedious after twenty. Their conversation could be distilled to; “Canon”, “Nikon”, “Canon”, “Nikon”, “Canon”, “Nikon”, repeat ad nauseam (with a healthy emphasis on the nauseam bit).
How does the old adage go? “The more things change, the more they stay the same”. The last time I was out working close to other photographers the same Canon – Nikon conversation took place. I’ve seen people take such ‘discussions’ to extremes, where their throbbing neck veins resemble a conga eel and their face turns the colour of beetroot. The photographer-camera bond can grow so strong that defending it against the slightest criticism can quickly become a matter of pride, honour and principle. That’s right, the same three things that have probably started more fights than anything else.
But does it really matter?
If you use a camera that is different to mine, why should that concern me? Likewise, if I use a camera that is different to yours, why should that concern you, particularly if we are both realising our photographic aims to our own personal satisfaction.
But what if you truly believe that your fresh-from-the-factory DSLR is the greatest camera that will ever be produced and is perfect in every way? Well then, may I respectfully suggest that you read less of the brochure and wait for reviews of the model that will supersede it, in which will be highlighted all of your perfect camera’s shortcoming as the new kid on the block is showered with endless praise. At least until that too is superseded in due course.