This photo was taken by me in Bristol on my Holga 120 GN.
I used Kentmere Pan 400.
It has all the elements of a classic Holga frame. The weird out-of-focus areas and the inexplicably sharp centre of the photograph where the old cargo ship is moored, contrasting with the ultra-modern building behind it.
The picture looks less like a photograph of Bristol and more like somewhere you’ve half remembered.
It’s really satisfying.
When you're out in the rain, you have no option but to look for scenes that show how the weather is affecting people.
In this photo, a group of people huddle under their umbrellas while the street is slick with rainwater.
If you look you'll see this everywhere.
Rain, when you're out in it, can add something to a photograph.
The wet sheen on the pavement, people sheltering under a brolly, all of it helps tell a tale.
This photograph was taken as a snapshot on a vintage 1980s camera, the Ricoh FF3-AF.
Perhaps there is something to be said for embracing the weather, whatever nature happens to throw at you.
A friend of mine, Dave Whenham, read my blog post extolling the virtues of a P&S camera, and especially the one I used to have in the 1990s.
I was waxing lyrical about the camera and how much I missed it.
Dave had a Ricoh FF3-AF from the same era and said that he was happy to give the camera to me as a gift.
It took a bit of jiggery pokery, but needless to say I drove 250 miles round trip to have a cup of coffee and a natter with Dave, as well as collect the camera.
Some might say the economics of such a trip don't stack up.
But time spent with a friend is never wasted.
Last weekend I had the opportunity to try the camera out. Dave had loaded a roll of FP4 Plus into it before handing it over, so I had a new camera and a new roll of film to try.
Saturday was a bright morning, and I was hopeful of a good day out.
By the time the train arrived in Bristol, it was lashing it down.
What is it with these train trips and poor weather?
Anyway, I was out. This time wearing my winter wax jacket and waterproof shoes, so onwards to shoot the film.
I chose Bristol because I know it really well, and that meant I could target different areas, all within easy walking distance.
The Ricoh is a Point & Shoot and, as such, it doesn't have all the dials and controls of an SLR.
But that's OK.
Sometimes you just want to shoot the camera and make pictures.
I relied on the fact that by the 1980s and 1990s, film cameras, especially point-and-shoot cameras, had become remarkably reliable when it came to metering and focusing.
Shooting the first frame, I was surprised to see a red light appear in the viewfinder.
Upon closer inspection, the red light turned out to be an icon showing a mountain.
That'll be infinity then.
The viewfinder is large enough for this type of camera and really usable.
The shutter button allows a half press to lock focus and exposure, but over 36 frames I didn't manage to half press it once.
I simply ended up with an exposure.
A bit of a hair trigger then.
I'd dialled in 200 on the ISO setting. Unusually for a camera of this era, the Ricoh doesn't rely on DX encoding on the film cartridge.
That's good news, as it means I don't have to worry about the camera choosing the film speed for me or having to calculate exposure compensation around it.
The lens cover is easy to slide open when you want to take a photograph, and there are no false-open positions where it looks open but the camera won't actually take a picture, like the LC-A.
The camera also has a tripod mount and a self-timer, so tripod-mounted excursions in, say, a church could be accommodated, although I didn't try that on this occasion.
Auto wind is another feature of this camera.
I know this because there is no wind-on lever or knob, and because the high-pitched scream that ensues when a frame has been exposed is a little alarming when you first hear it.
The mechanism also takes an inordinate amount of time, considering the thing is winding on a single 35mm frame.
Never mind.
No films were harmed in this experiment.
When you reach the final frame, a light appears on top of the camera to tell you so. The camera, however, appears to operate normally until you notice the light.
Some cameras can get 37 or 38 frames out of a 36-exposure film, so I wondered if that might be the case here.
It wasn't.
Rewinding the exposed film back into the cartridge is achieved using a slider on the bottom of the camera.
The motor screams in protest and takes considerably longer than it should to rewind the film.
Once the camera has completed the rewind, another high-pitched noise is emitted over the already screaming motor to tell you.
Nice.
Simply stopping the rewind motor wasn't a design choice then?
There is a flash onboard, but I didn't use it.
So there we are.
A new-to-me Ricoh FF3-AF, courtesy of a good friend and 250 miles of driving for a cup of coffee, a natter and a camera.
I'd say that's a pretty good deal.
One of the things about photography that I have been commenting on in recent posts is the fact that there is always another day. We can always return and try again.
But there is an extension to that. More to the discussion than just there is always another day.
There is always another camera.
There is always another film.What all this is doing is giving us permission to experiment in an environment where we don't need to view photography as getting the picture right the first time in the camera.
In fact, I don't think that is a desirable endpoint at all for any photographer.
To pick up on an earlier post, it gives us permission to fail and I think that is liberating.
It seems obvious to me that commercial photographers haven't got time to be messing about and, mostly, they have been given a short time to get the "photo" for the client.
Harry Borden, a portrait photographer who has shot the rich and famous, says that he's typically given an hour for the shoot, of which the subject often messes about, burning valuable time.
So for him, getting it right first time in camera might be important.
OK, so maybe not right first time in camera because an hour is a decent chunk of time, but if the subject burns 30 minutes by being a little uncooperative, the pressure must really be on to nail the brief.
Harry Borden also speaks about the moment that he knows he's got the frame, nailed the brief, and then he starts trying other things. He experiments.
But the constraints of a commercial photographer are miles away from the freedom with which the hobbyist operates.
As a hobbyist there is no client waiting for the photo, no stressed art director screaming for the cover picture for a Sunday supplement.
You have all the time in the world.
You can come back another day, you can try another camera, you can pick a different film, you can choose the golden hour in the morning instead of midday, you can choose Rodinal over HC-110.
There isn't a scenario that I can think of where that isn't true.
Well, perhaps there is.
If you go on an expensive holiday, say to Peru, and you are able to shoot at Machu Picchu, you probably aren't going to go back a year later simply because you weren't completely happy with the photographs.
Preparation becomes more important when the opportunity is difficult or expensive to repeat.
But then again, that's not really unique to the hobbyist photographer. Harry Borden talks about the preparation he does for his client-led shoots. He knows what he is there to do before the subject walks through the door.
Research, in its most basic form, can mean looking at Instagram and Pinterest which might show you the typical photographs taken of where you are going. It might also provide travel information to tell you about the best time of day. Visiting a library might show you a book that provides a completely different perspective for that destination. You can think about what you want to photograph before you get there.
When I went to Chichen Itza in Mexico, I had an hour to wander around and take photographs.
I found that plenty of time.
The pictures weren't all portfolio standard and they weren't the best work that I've ever done, but enough of the two rolls I shot there were good enough that I didn't feel the need to return to Mexico.
And perhaps that's another important part of this.
The point isn't that we should keep going back until we get the perfect photograph.
The point is that we can.
Perhaps this is where I question the whole idea of needing a camera that gets it right first time.
Obviously, such a camera is desirable. Who wouldn't want a camera that nails the exposure, gets the focus exactly where it needs to be and produces a technically perfect file every time?
But I'm not sure I want the camera making all of those decisions for me.
Maybe that is why I enjoy film photography, when all is said and done.
Perhaps the imperfections are part of the point.
If I use a camera that doesn't always get things right, I have to make more decisions myself. I have to think about the light. I have to think about the exposure. I have to decide where to stand. I have to decide when to press the shutter.
And sometimes I'll get it wrong.
That's OK.
There is always another day.
Another camera.
Another film.
Another view.
Another time of day.
Another developer.
The photograph doesn't have to be right first time, but it will be mine.
