I’m not sure when this became a tradition, but here we are again: another birthday and the same little black camera in my pocket.

There are far more capable cameras sitting at home. Apparently I don’t want them.

The XA3 just works here.

For me, the city has become something of a photographic playground. It’s busy, untidy and unpredictable, and the XA3 seems happiest when I treat it the same way.

Over the weekend I shot eight rolls of black-and-white film: Tri-X, FP4, Kentmere 400, Delta 3200 and even a roll of Tri-X Pan that expired in 1985.

My approach was loosely wabi-sabi. I wasn’t particularly interested in correcting every imperfection. Blur could stay blurred. Grain could stay grainy. People could overlap or wander into the frame.

Sometimes the imperfections are what make the photograph.

I started around Notting Hill and Portobello Road. It was the first roll of the weekend and, looking through it afterwards, I could see myself gradually finding my rhythm.

That’s one of the things I like about the XA3. After a while I stop thinking about the camera. Sometimes I use the viewfinder, sometimes I shoot from the hip and accept that a considerable number of photographs will contain elbows.

I found myself photographing ordinary things too. Signs, windows, market stalls and objects that caught my eye.

These bags were simply about repetition, light and shadow. Tourist souvenirs packaged up and ready to take home.

As the weekend went on, I became progressively looser.

The 35mm lens gives enough room for the surrounding chaos to become part of the photograph rather than trying to isolate everything into neat little compositions.

I like that unpredictability.

People appear and disappear before you’ve really had time to think. Sometimes you anticipate them; sometimes you get lucky.

And sometimes the scene requires almost no help whatsoever.

A Marilyn Monroe performer beside an advertisement featuring Marilyn while everyone else carries on with whatever they’re doing.

There’s not much more I need to say about that.

This FP4 frame came from what I think was a music-video shoot.

The woman blurred across the foreground was filming the dancers. Ironically, while she was recording their movement, she became the movement in my photograph.

An accident, but one I’m very happy with.

Forty-One-Year-Old Tri-X

Among the film in my bag was a roll of Kodak Tri-X Pan that expired in 1985.

Forty-one years old. Almost exactly the same age as me.

Unlike me, however, it had apparently benefited from several decades in a refrigerator.

I rated it at ISO 200 and put it through the XA3.

The negatives were foggier and softer than fresh Tri-X, but they worked.

This strange little self-portrait is grainy, murky and imperfect, which somehow seems appropriate. I’m standing there holding a camera from roughly the same era, recorded on film manufactured when I was barely a year old.

Neither of us has aged perfectly.

The same roll produced I Miss You In London.

I noticed the words amongst the different languages and reflections and photographed them.

There’s no elaborate story behind it.

I saw it. I liked it. I took the photograph.

That’s enough.

Later that evening, this alley in Soho caught my attention.

The illuminated graffiti against the darkness was enough. It’s exactly the sort of ordinary scene I find myself increasingly interested in photographing – something you could walk past without giving it another thought.

The XA3 is perfect for that. See something, take the camera from your pocket, shoot and carry on.

Thirty Minutes, Thirty-Six Frames

By the end of the weekend I still had one roll of Delta 3200 left and about thirty minutes before I needed to head for my train.

Taking it home seemed a waste.

So I decided to shoot the whole thing.

Thirty-six exposures in thirty minutes.

No hanging around deciding whether something deserved a frame. Walk, look, shoot, keep moving.

It was speed photography, and I loved it.

Ironically, one of my favourite photographs from the entire weekend came from those thirty minutes – and it wasn’t completely spontaneous.

I spotted the graffiti wall first and liked the composition. I’d been walking ahead of the woman on the left, so I stopped and waited for her to enter the frame.

She looked up at exactly the right moment.

The second woman appearing from around the corner was complete chance.

That’s probably the balance I’m looking for: enough thought to recognise a photograph, but enough freedom to let something unexpected happen inside it.

The thirty-minute roll also removed something I’ve realised can hold me back with film: the cost of every frame sitting somewhere in the back of my mind.

For half an hour I didn’t care.

I just photographed.

After developing the film and scanning everything on my Epson, there were obviously plenty of failures.

Good.

The weekend wasn’t about producing thirty-six perfect photographs per roll. The blur, grain, crooked frames, chance encounters and occasional complete miss are part of the process.

That’s the wabi-sabi element I keep coming back to. Not making photographs deliberately bad, but accepting that imperfection can have its own character.

And perhaps that’s why the XA3 keeps coming with me.

It’s small, simple and just imperfect enough that I don’t feel the need to be perfect either.

Next birthday, I suspect it’ll be in my pocket again.

And knowing me, there’ll be far too much film beside it.

The post I Miss You In London: A Birthday Weekend with the Olympus XA3 appeared first on Zuikography.

For years I’d wondered whether I could successfully use an Olympus OM underwater. I already owned an EWA Marine housing and had previously used it with my Nikon F80, but I kept coming back to the idea of trying it with an Olympus.

A few days in Newquay gave me the perfect excuse to finally stop thinking about it and give it a go.

To keep the experiment honest, I purchased two Kodak waterproof disposable cameras. They weren’t there as backups. They were there because I wanted to know whether the extra effort of using an SLR inside a waterproof housing actually resulted in better photographs – or whether a £20 disposable could do the job just as well.

This isn’t a review of the EWA Marine housing.

It isn’t a guide to underwater photography either.

It’s simply an honest account of what happened when I finally stopped wondering and took an Olympus into the Atlantic.

Although this experiment uses an Olympus OM-10, many of the lessons apply equally to other 35mm SLRs used in flexible underwater housings.

Preparing the Camera

One of the aims of this experiment was to use equipment I already owned.

It would have been easy to buy a Nikonos and declare it the perfect solution, but that wasn’t really the question I wanted to answer. The Nikonos has a deserved reputation as one of the greatest underwater cameras ever made, but it’s also another camera system to buy, maintain and trust. Waterproof cameras rely on seals and O-rings being in good condition and, unless you know their history, there’s always a small question mark hanging over them.

I already owned an EWA Marine housing and several Olympus OM bodies. Before investing in another camera, I wanted to know whether the equipment already sitting in my camera cupboard could do the job. If it worked, I’d save myself buying another camera. If it didn’t, then at least I’d know why.

The OM-10 quickly became the obvious choice.

I owned several of them, so if the worst happened it wasn’t irreplaceable. It also accepted the Olympus Motor Winder 2 and offered aperture-priority auto exposure, two things I thought would make life considerably easier in the water.

The lens was a Zuiko 28mm f/2.8.

A wide-angle lens made sense underwater. I could get physically closer to my subjects and, by pre-focusing the lens before sealing the camera inside the housing, rely on depth of field rather than trying to focus through layers of flexible plastic.

The Motor Winder 2 turned out to be an essential part of the setup.

Using the advance lever inside an EWA Marine housing isn’t awkward.

It’s virtually impossible.

The motor winder solved that problem completely. One press of the shutter and the camera advanced itself ready for the next frame. As an added bonus, I’ve always loved the sound it makes. There’s something incredibly satisfying about hearing it wind on after every photograph.

For the surf session I loaded Kodak Gold 200. Bright sunshine and plenty of contrast made it an easy choice.

For the snorkelling session, I loaded Portra 400. I wanted a little more flexibility underwater and hoped the finer grain and colour would suit the calmer conditions if everything else went to plan.

Before sealing the housing, I also packed a couple of silica gel packets in the hope they would deal with any moisture trapped inside.

As it turned out, they had other plans.

Alongside the Olympus I packed two Kodak waterproof disposable cameras.

Originally, they were simply there for comparison. If the OM-10 justified all the extra effort of using a waterproof housing, great. If the disposables held their own, that would be equally interesting.

One final twist came before the experiment had even started.

My original plan had been to use my black OM-10, but it developed a fault on the first evening in Newquay before it ever reached the water. Fortunately, I’d packed a silver OM-10 as a spare.

It wasn’t supposed to be the camera for this article.

It quietly became the camera that made it possible.

Surfing

The surf session was the part of the trip I’d been looking forward to most. After all, this was the reason I’d brought the housing in the first place.

I’d already used my Nikon F80 in the EWA Marine housing on a previous visit to Newquay and came away with photographs I was genuinely pleased with. This time, I wanted to find out whether an Olympus OM could produce similar results.

Unfortunately, the experiment went wrong almost immediately.

As soon as I entered the water, the inside of the housing fogged with condensation. I’d packed silica gel hoping it would prevent exactly that, but it made little difference. Apart from the first couple of frames, the remaining thirty-five photographs disappeared behind a layer of mist.

There wasn’t much I could do about it.

Once the housing is sealed and you’re standing in the Atlantic, opening it simply isn’t an option. I carried on shooting, hoping something might be salvageable, but by the time I came back to shore I already knew how the roll would look.

It was disappointing.

That’s exactly why I wanted to do the experiment.

If I’d left the camera at home, I’d still be wondering whether it would work.

Now I knew.

Fortunately, I also had a waterproof disposable camera.

Originally it was there as a benchmark. Instead, it quietly became the star of the surf session.

It’s wonderfully uncomplicated. No housing. No settings. No worrying about expensive equipment. You simply point it in roughly the right direction, press the shutter and get back to enjoying the water.

That simplicity made a huge difference.

Instead of thinking about the camera, I could think about where the surfers were, where the light was coming from and where I needed to be before the next wave arrived.

The action photographs were satisfying, but they weren’t the ones I kept coming back to.

What interested me more were the moments between the waves.

Most people imagine surfing as constant action, yet the reality is very different. You spend far longer sitting beyond the break, watching the horizon and chatting while waiting for the next set than you do actually surfing.

Those quieter moments felt like the real story.

That was certainly true of this portrait.

While we waited for the next set, I paddled over, explained that I was experimenting with underwater film photography and asked if he’d mind me making a portrait. He smiled, was more than happy to help and sat there while I made the frame.

It’s probably my favourite photograph from the surf session.

Not because it’s technically the strongest image, but because it captures something the action shots don’t. For a few minutes, I wasn’t photographing surfers from the beach.

I was simply another person sitting in the water with a camera.

The disposable even produced the occasional surprise.

One frame picked up a light leak. Normally it would have gone straight in the reject pile. This time it stayed.

It somehow suits the photograph.

Perfection was never really the point of this trip.

It was about seeing what happened.

By the end of the morning I’d learnt something I wasn’t expecting.

The OM-10 had never really had a chance.

The waterproof disposable had quietly produced my favourite surfing photographs of the trip.

I hadn’t packed it expecting that.

Snorkelling

After the surf session, I wasn’t expecting much from the Olympus.

Thankfully, the snorkelling trip couldn’t have been more different.

Instead of fighting breaking waves, I was able to drift slowly over the reef, taking my time and looking for photographs rather than reacting to them. It immediately felt like a much better environment for the OM-10 and, for the first time during the trip, I could use the camera in the way I’d imagined when I first packed it.

Using two cameras underwater also turned out to be much easier than Iâ€d expected.

The EWA Marine housing hung around my neck, with one hand permanently inside the sleeve ready to press the shutter whenever something caught my eye. The second waterproof disposable camera was clipped to the housing strap with a cheap karabiner, so it was always within easy reach. It wasn’t the most elegant setup, but it worked surprisingly well and meant I could swap between the two cameras in seconds without worrying about dropping one into the sea.

One of my favourite photographs from the morning is of one of the snorkelling instructors waiting on the surface while the rest of the group caught up.

It isn’t the most dramatic image from the trip, but I like it because it captures the atmosphere of the morning perfectly. Calm water, clear visibility and absolutely no rush.

The pace of snorkelling is completely different to surfing.

Instead of constantly watching the waves, you’re free to stop, look around and notice the underwater world beneath you. Small fish appeared between the rocks, patches of seaweed moved with the current and every few metres seemed to reveal something else worth photographing.

It felt less like chasing photographs and more like discovering them.

Then came the jellyfish.

This was the photograph I’d been hoping to come home with.

Not because it’s technically perfect, but because it’s exactly the sort of image that had inspired the whole experiment in the first place. A photograph I simply couldn’t have made standing on the beach.

If I’d come home with nothing else from the Olympus, this frame alone would have made carrying it worthwhile.

For the snorkelling trip, I also brought along the second waterproof disposable.

Just like the first, it reminded me why these cameras have remained so popular for holidays and days at the beach.

The wider photographs of the reef, seaweed and underwater landscape all came from the disposable. It was quick, uncomplicated and encouraged me to photograph anything that caught my eye without wondering whether it was worth taking.

That freedom encouraged experimentation.

Patterns in the kelp, sunlight filtering through the water and the textures of the rocks all became photographs simply because making them felt effortless.

Ironically, the simplest camera I carried often encouraged the most experimental way of photographing.

The same was true of the underwater selfie.

Trying to turn the OM-10 around inside the housing would have been awkward and, if I’m honest, a little nerve-racking.

The disposable, on the other hand, made it easy.

It’s hardly the best photograph from the trip, but it remains one of my favourites because it captures something the others don’t.

The simple enjoyment of being in the water.

By the end of the snorkelling trip, I’d stopped thinking about which camera was supposed to win.

The Olympus had produced the photograph I’d hoped for.

The disposable had encouraged me to make photographs I probably wouldn’t have taken otherwise.

That wasn’t the result I’d expected when I arrived in Newquay.

Waiting for the Results

Leaving Newquay didn’t mean the experiment was over.

Before heading home, I dropped all four rolls of film off for development at a local lab. That answered the first question almost immediately. There were photographs on the negatives.

After the surf session, that alone felt like good news.

Of course, negatives only tell you so much.

You can hold them up to the light and convince yourself you’ve got something, but it’s not until they’re scanned that you really know what you’ve made. That part of the experiment had to wait until I got home.

Back in front of the scanner, the story slowly began to reveal itself frame by frame.

The surf roll looked exactly as I’d feared. The first couple of frames survived before condensation gradually swallowed almost everything that followed.

The snorkelling rolls, however, told a completely different story.

The instructor was there.

The jellyfish was there too.

The disposable had quietly recorded the reef, seaweed and underwater landscapes that I’d enjoyed photographing so much.

It was only then, seeing all four rolls together, that the experiment finally made sense.

The Olympus hadn’t failed.

The disposable hadn’t unexpectedly won.

Each camera had simply found the conditions that suited it best.

With the scans complete, I finally had the answer I’d travelled to Cornwall to find.

Conclusion

So, was the experiment worth it?

Absolutely.

The OM-10 gave me my favourite photograph of the trip. The image of the jellyfish alone justified carrying the extra equipment into the sea, and the snorkelling session proved that, in the right conditions, an old Olympus inside an EWA Marine housing is perfectly capable of producing photographs I’d be delighted to come home with.

The surf session, however, taught me something just as valuable.

Condensation isn’t a minor inconvenience; it’s the biggest challenge I encountered during the entire experiment. If I take the OM underwater again – and I will – solving that problem will be my first priority.

The biggest surprise, though, came from the waterproof disposable cameras.

I packed them simply as something to compare against the Olympus. Instead, they became some of the most enjoyable cameras I’ve used in years. They encouraged me to experiment, to stop worrying about equipment and simply react to whatever was happening around me. Some of my favourite surfing photographs, the reef, the underwater landscapes and even the underwater selfie all came from cameras that cost less than a filter for the Olympus.

That wasn’t the result I expected.

Looking back, the experiment answered every question I’d set out to answer.

I know what the OM-10 is capable of underwater.

I know where the EWA Marine housing falls short.

And I know I’ll never underestimate a waterproof disposable camera again.

Will I take the Olympus underwater again?

Without hesitation.

And next time, there’ll be another waterproof disposable clipped alongside it.

The post Using a 35mm SLR Underwater: Testing an Olympus OM-10 with the EWA Marine Housing appeared first on Zuikography.

Inside, a narrow corridor lined with large prints draws you forward. Faces line the walls, large prints, forming a quiet procession of decades past. You walk its length, pull back a curtain, and the space opens suddenly into something far larger than the exterior suggests.

A studio unfolds. Additional rooms branch off. The front of the space feels organised and deliberate. Deeper in, the darkroom carries the layered energy of ongoing work – prints, tools and materials arranged in a way that feels active rather than chaotic. The wet area is separate from the enlarger space, practical and clean.

Peter greets me with a calm, measured voice. Within minutes he is moving quickly from photograph to photograph, animated as he talks – one frame, then another, another familiar subject from another era. The energy sits in the images. He remains steady.

On a table near the centre of the room sits a case. Inside are the cameras – OM-1, OM-2, OM-3, OM-4 – lined up without ceremony. The brassing is heavy. Edges worn through to metal. Paint rubbed thin from decades of use. These are not collector pieces. They are working cameras.

From Art College to the Music Press

Anderson did not set out to become a chronicler of the music world. He studied screen printing and photography at art colleges in Glasgow and later London. The camera was already part of his education. As a student carrying an early Olympus OM, he was often asked to photograph events and people. It was practical rather than strategic – a skill he had and used.

Originally, he wanted to move into fashion photography. But while studying in London he began photographing bands and approached magazines directly with his work. Some images were published. Soon after, assignments began arriving at short notice.

Over the following years he travelled widely, photographing major figures in the music industry for publications including NME. Access was rarely immediate. He would sometimes wait hours, occasionally days, for a small window of time. When it came, he worked quickly and decisively.

Why Olympus

Anderson used Olympus OM cameras because they were light, practical and discreet. He could carry a body in one pocket of a denim jacket and a lens in the other. No bulk. No theatre. That mattered when working around musicians, backstage and on the move.

His main camera – and the one responsible for much of his work – was the OM-1 paired with the 55mm f/1.2. His favourite lens. He speaks about it with clarity rather than nostalgia.

When I ask whether I can try it, he mentions it has not been used in years and he is unsure how well the focus will hold. I mount it to my own OM-1 and make a single frame of him, then return it. Even unused for a period, it feels purposeful in the hand.

Over the years his kit included the OM-1, OM-2, OM-3 and OM-4. The OM-4 never fully earned his trust. Electronics failed. Batteries drained unexpectedly. In professional environments, reliability matters more than innovation, and he returned consistently to the OM-1 and OM-2.

He also pulls out an Olympus XA – a compact he used on shoots, including sessions with Madonna. Small did not mean secondary. It meant freedom.

He experimented with medium format systems, including Hasselblad, but always came back to Olympus.

Simplicity, reliability and speed won.

The Madonna Session

In 1983 he photographed Madonna on the rooftop of her record label. The session now forms the basis of his recent book, Provoke – devoted entirely to that shoot, bookended by photographs of New York’s street music scene in the 1980s. Boom boxes on shoulders. Music spilling into public space.

He exposed around fifty frames.

All different. No repetition. No machine-gun shooting.

The session was made on the OM-1 – the first camera he bought and never truly left.

He describes Madonna as easy to work with. He prefers to let people be themselves rather than over-direct. Observe rather than manufacture.

Working Method

Peter preferred to be close. He didn’t like standing back with long zoom lenses. If he could move in, he would. His lenses reflect that approach: 28mm and 35mm for space and context, the 55mm f/1.2 as his mainstay, with an 85mm or 100mm when compression was needed. A 24-48mm zoom appeared in his kit at one point, but he preferred primes.

Available light was the starting point. At gigs, where light was often poor, he pushed HP5 and T-Max. That meant extended development times – sometimes close to thirty minutes depending on how far the film had been pushed.

If artificial light was required, he preferred harder sources rather than soft glamour setups. Flash was used rarely.

In the early years, he developed film wherever circumstances allowed – hotel bathrooms on tour, his own bathtub when starting out. The process adapted to the job.

When he first began working professionally, contact sheets were not always practical. Instead, he would hold the negative to the light and choose the strongest frame directly.

Decisions were made quickly and with confidence.

Influences

When talking about photographers who shaped him, the references are clear.

Richard Avedon.
Irving Penn.
Bill Brandt – whom he met while studying at college.
William Klein.
Diane Arbus.

The connection is not imitation. It is directness. Presence. A willingness to stand in front of the subject rather than hide behind production.

Brandt in particular left an impression. Not stylistically, but in attitude – serious about the work, uncompromising about the frame.

There is a thread there. Black and white. Closeness. Psychological weight. A refusal to over-glamourise.

It makes sense.

The Prints

Standing in front of the prints lining the studio walls, the scale is immediate. Some stretch to around five by four feet. They hold.

There has long been debate about whether 35mm film carries enough resolution to print large. In this room, that question feels irrelevant. The negatives hold the detail. What matters is the photograph.

The first large prints were made using a 35mm Focomat enlarger, set up on a scaffold tower and exposed onto the floor. Development was done by hand – buckets and sponges, with makeshift trays built from shuttering plywood. Exposure times could stretch to forty minutes.

Peter prefers black and white. Much of his colour work has been lost over time, while the black and white archive remained intact. The tonal depth and grit suit the way he sees.

He is not afraid to crop if it strengthens the image. The frame serves the photograph.

He shows me an image of Mick Jagger framed among other photographers photographing him – observation layered inside performance.

The Hiatus and Return

There was a period where photography stopped.
The archive sat quietly. Negatives boxed. Prints stored.

During Covid he returned to it and began working back through decades of material with the help of an assistant – selecting frames, preparing exhibitions, building books.

Now the focus is on refining what already exists and printing it at scale. Time works in photography, but there isn’t enough of it.

The Industry Now

When asked whether photography is harder today, he doesn’t romanticise the past. Creatively, it is the same. Making a strong photograph has never been easy. Commercially, it is harder. There are simply more images now. More noise.
The advice is straightforward.

Think differently.
Make your own projects. Understand the business side.

He doesn’t offer a formula. Just the reality.

One Frame

Before leaving, I ask Peter if he wouldn’t mind me taking his portrait. While photographing him, I ask how he would describe his life in three words.
Gone too fast.
The answer comes without hesitation.

Earlier, I had mounted his 55mm onto my camera and made a frame of him. Now I hand him my OM-1. He shifts slightly, raises it, and makes one exposure. No burst. No hesitation. Just one frame.

Experience does not look dramatic. It looks restrained. The cameras remain on the table – brassed, worn, used.

Small cameras. Small negatives. Large prints.

To learn more about Peter Anderson’s work, including current exhibitions and publications, visit his website and follow his updates on Instagram. His archive continues to expand, and new prints and projects are regularly being prepared for exhibition.

The post Inside the Archive – A Studio Visit with Peter Anderson appeared first on Zuikography.

That was the plan, at least.

The forecast was dreadful. Sheets of rain. The sort that makes sensible people stand under doorways pretending they meant to check their phone. I’d told myself that if it was bucketing down I’d retreat indoors – Tate, National Gallery, somewhere civilised.

Instead, I got off the train, looked at the sky, and decided to lean into it.

This was largely the fault of a Banksy book and far too many late-night documentaries about Banksy, King Robbo and London’s long-running wall wars. I’d filled my head with rebellion, aerosol and territorial disputes. The galleries could wait.

The streets felt more honest.

The Setup

I loaded the OM-1 with HP5 and pushed it to 800.
28mm f2.8 mounted.

That alone was unusual.

I’ve always been a 50mm shooter. Sensible. Centred. Slightly cautious. The 28mm usually stays at home, quietly judging me from the shelf.

I almost loaded Portra 400 before leaving. Colour felt logical. Graffiti equals colour, right?

But something made me change my mind at the door. Rain and black and white felt more honest. Less decorative. More texture. The sort of day that benefits from grain.

Camden: Runners and Umbrellas

The rain was relentless.

Camden Canal was first. Water rippling, brick slick with rain, underpasses dark and echoing. And runners. Endless runners.

Camden, I’ve decided, is the running capital of London. Every two minutes another Lycra-wrapped optimist splashed past. In the rain. Smiling. Possibly deranged.

One of them raised his arms as he passed. Maybe he thought I was photographing the canal. Maybe he thought I was documenting his athletic triumph. Either way, he gave me the frame.

Thank you very much.

The rain helped. Umbrellas became shapes. Reflections stretched into long, broken lines. HP5 at 800 loved it. Grain sat nicely in the shadows without feeling forced.

Camden’s graffiti felt layered but relaxed. Less shouting. More conversation.

I preferred it immediately.

Shoreditch: Art with an Agenda

Completely drenched, I retreated to the tube. There’s something humbling about dripping onto a Victoria Line seat while trying to look composed.

Shoreditch and Brick Lane were next.

The graffiti changed.

Here it felt sharper. More political. More pointed. Art with an agenda.

I’m not going to comment on the messages themselves. That’s not why I was there. But you can feel the difference. Camden feels like experimentation. Shoreditch feels like statement.

You don’t glance at these walls. They confront you.

Brick Lane: Chaos as a Design Choice

Brick Lane is something else entirely.

Graffiti on everything. Bins. Bus stops. Shutters. Bikes. Signs. If there is a surface, it will be painted, pasted or tagged. Probably twice.

It’s visual noise. Layer upon layer. Chaos as a design choice.

Sometimes a scene needs space to breathe. Brick Lane does not believe in breathing.

Maybe my head was overthinking it. Maybe that’s the point. It overwhelms. It refuses to simplify.

And then, hidden inside the noise, you find something unexpectedly tender.

That’s the trick. You have to earn it.

The 28mm Realisation

By the end of the day I’d shot around 65 frames across the locations. Wet, slightly cold, ankles filing formal complaints, and mildly over-caffeinated.

And something shifted.

I started the day a 50mm shooter.

I finished it quietly in love with the 28mm.

It fills the frame differently. It forces you closer. It demands context. It feels modern without trying. Ironically, it’s roughly the same focal length as an iPhone camera – which might explain why I’ve always overlooked it. Too familiar. Too everyday.

But on film, in the rain, it renders beautifully. It stretches space without distorting it. It makes walls feel immersive rather than flat.

Everywhere I go now, the 28mm comes with me.

The Result

I nearly hid in a gallery that day.

Instead I embraced the rain.

The weather added character. The grain added texture. The black and white stripped things back to form and message. Camden felt human. Shoreditch felt sharp. Brick Lane felt chaotic.

And somewhere between underpasses and political paste-ups, I stopped being a 50mm photographer.

Not bad for a day that was supposed to be indoors.

The post Rain, Rebellion and the 28mm: Camden to Brick Lane on an OM-1 appeared first on Zuikography.

I was in Liverpool for a conference and took the Olympus SP with me. It was a completely new city to me. It was a camera I had never used, and the intention was simply to learn the SP’s ability in a new place.

First Impressions of the Olympus SP

When I first handled the SP, it felt very much like an OM-1 but with a fixed lens. It immediately came across as a quality camera, one with a strong reputation that clearly precedes it.

Using the rangefinder required a slight shift in how I approached focusing, and the first impression of the two ghosting images in the viewfinder took me by surprise. Before long, though, it became something I really enjoyed using and quickly turned into a firm favourite.

Learning the Rangefinder

The SP’s EV metering system was something I knew I needed to understand better, but with limited time available it wasn’t something I wanted to wrestle with straight away.

As with most unfamiliar cameras, I chose to work using the Sunny 16 rule until I felt more comfortable with how the camera behaved. Time was very much a factor with this one, and Sunny 16 gave me a reliable starting point.

Liverpool: Old and New

Liverpool, with its history and mix of old and new, gave me everything I needed to stretch the Olympus SP’s legs. The history of the city is unmistakable.

The River Mersey, iconic and historic buildings, old structures sitting alongside new ones, pubs, clubs, and the city’s people all offered constant opportunities. There was no shortage of subject matter, and the city more than delivered.

First Roll: Kodak Tri-X 400

For this trip, I chose Kodak Tri-X 400. This was my first time shooting Tri-X. I wanted something reliable while working with an unfamiliar camera. My usual black and white films are AGFA APX 400 or Ilford XP2, both of which I consider safe choices.

Tri-X gave a slightly period look, which suited Liverpool well. I wasn’t completely blown away by it, but I wasn’t disappointed either. I felt it lacked a bit of softness compared to what I’m used to.

However, I must be mindful that this is my first attempt with both camera and film, so allowances will need to be made. I’ll be returning to it.

A Favourite Frame

Choosing a favourite image wasn’t easy, but the photograph that stands out most to me is the one featuring the modern black, ship-like building with the historic clock tower along the Mersey behind it. It captures the way old and new sit together in the city without clashing. The presence of the seagull adds a small maritime reminder of Liverpool’s past and completes the image for me.

Shooting with Confidence

Once I became more comfortable with how the rangefinder worked, I found I could pull the SP out and shoot at a moment’s notice. Sunny 16 certainly helped, and on the odd occasion I referred to my Sekonic Twinmate L-208 light meter for confirmation.

The weather being overcast made things interesting at times, but Sunny 16 and the meter were generally very close.

On future outings, I’ll likely rely more on the Sekonic until I fully understand the SP’s EV system.

What the SP Does Well

A few things became clear while using the SP: its ease of use, portability, and the results it produces. I’ve genuinely fallen head over heels with it.

My initial impression of it feeling like an OM-1 with a fixed lens still feels accurate. As for Tri-X, I remain undecided. I’m happy with the results, but I feel there may be a better fit for me. My next roll will be AGFA APX 400 at the same ISO, which should give me a clearer comparison. By then, I may also have the EV system properly onboard.

What’s Left to See

If I return to Liverpool, which I intend to do, I’ll be looking to explore more of the city’s musical history – particularly The Beatles and Merseybeat.

Strawberry Field and Penny Lane are both on the list, along with many other icons and undiscovered buildings.

Time simply didn’t allow for everything on this visit, but I’ll be back armed and dangerous with the SP and another roll of film.

A Camera That Clicks

For any journey, I’d say the Olympus SP makes an excellent companion. It’s like an Olympus Trip 35 on steroids, with the excellence of an OM-1 thrown in for good measure and pleasure.

Can I compare it to other rangefinders I’ve used? Not really. They are what they are, and this is this.

But this one just works for me – and that’s all I really need.

You can follow Laurie’s work on Instagram @laurieinfocus

This is a guest OM Story. If you’re interested in contributing your own OM Story to Zuikography, feel free to get in touch.

The post Liverpool on Film with the Olympus SP appeared first on Zuikography.

I bought it because I spotted a 50mm f/1.4 clinging to a badly written eBay listing and recognised the familiar danger: something valuable hiding in plain sight. Forty-two pounds and fifty pence later, a box arrived containing fungus, dead light seals, a Quartz Data Back nobody likes to admit owning, and a camera that had clearly been left alone for a very long time.

After cleaning it properly and replacing what time had reduced to sticky foam, there was only one honest thing left to do.

Load a roll.
Leave everything as it was.
And take it out into the world.

So I did – HP5 in the body, fungus-ridden 50mm still attached – and took it with me on a day trip to the Isle of Wight to test.

A Camera With No Performance Anxiety

Cheap cameras remove the imaginary audience.

There’s no sense you’re making work.
No pressure to justify the frame.
No voice asking whether this would survive later scrutiny.

If something caught my eye, I photographed it. If it didn’t, I didn’t. Platforms, ferries, buildings, shoreline, light slipping across water – nothing dramatic, nothing designed to impress. Just the ordinary visual rhythm of being somewhere for the day.

That absence of pressure matters more than most people realise.

Expensive cameras encourage performance.
Clean cameras encourage caution.
This OM-10 encouraged neither.

The Weight, the Sound, the Feel

This OM-10 feels different to my other OM-10s.

Part of that is literal. The Quartz Data Back – usually removed on principle – adds just enough weight to change the balance. It grounds the camera slightly, gives it a sense of density that many OM-10s lack.

And then there’s the shutter.

Some OM-10s sound thin, almost apologetic. This one doesn’t. The shutter has a composed, confident note to it – not loud, not muted, just assured. It sounds like a camera that expects to be used rather than handled carefully.

Even the data back behaved itself. I didn’t use it to vandalise negatives with dates – absolutely not – but as a clock. A small, practical detail while waiting for ferries and trains. An accessory built for the wrong idea ended up being quietly useful.

Black Paint, Brass Showing Through

Then there’s the brassing.

Black Olympus bodies wear beautifully when they’re allowed to age honestly. The edges soften. The corners glow faintly gold where the paint has given up. Not abuse – use.

This OM-10 isn’t pristine, and that’s exactly why I like it. The brassing tells you it’s been handled, carried, trusted. It removes any temptation to treat the camera as an object rather than a tool.

Brassing lowers the stakes.
Lower stakes improve photography.

You stop protecting. You start looking.

The Lens Everyone Would Dismiss

The 50mm f/1.4 is objectively compromised.

The fungus is internal, well established, and not interested in leaving. Wide open, the lens shows it – lower contrast, a softness that reminds you why people panic when they shine a torch through old glass.

So I didn’t shoot it wide open.

Most frames landed between f/2.8 and f/8, and something quietly reassuring happened. The lens behaved. Sharp where it needed to be. Enough contrast to hold form. No collapse, no drama, no visual apology.

Is there anything spectacular here?
No.

And that’s the point.

This roll wasn’t about brilliance. It was about whether a lens most people would bin could still make honest photographs when used sensibly.

It could.

HP5 didn’t mind.
Neither did I.

When the Camera Gets Out of the Way

As the roll went on, the OM-10 disappeared.

That’s always the tell.

When you stop listening to the shutter, stop watching the meter, stop waiting for something to fail, the camera has done its job. It steps aside and leaves you alone with what’s in front of you.

By the end of the day, this no longer felt like a test roll. It felt like photography – attentive, unforced, and slightly forgetful of itself.
That feeling has repeated itself every time I’ve loaded it since.

The Surprise I Didn’t Plan For

Of all the Olympus OM bodies I own – including the OM-1 and OM-2 – this is the one that feels right.

Not because it’s better. Not because it’s cleaner. Not because it wins on paper.

I didn’t notice it immediately. It happened gradually, over repeated outings, when I realised this was the camera I kept reaching for without thinking. The one that ended up in the bag by default. The one I didn’t negotiate with before leaving the house.

It doesn’t demand care or reward discipline. It simply accepts whatever attention I give it and returns something usable every time.

At this point – after different days, different light, and more than one roll – itâ€s still the OM I trust most.

That may change. Cameras reshuffle themselves over time.

But some first impressions don’t fade. They settle.

What the Negatives Confirmed

The negatives were unremarkable in the best possible way.

No light leaks.
No exposure surprises.
No erratic behaviour.

Just negatives that confirmed what repeated use had already suggested: the camera works, and it works calmly.

The images shown here are straight scans from the negatives, presented as they are. They don’t need explaining or defending. They show a forty-year-old camera doing exactly what Olympus built it to do, long after anyone expected it to.

What £42.50 Actually Bought

It didn’t buy perfection.
It didn’t buy a lens worth saving.
It didn’t buy anything impressive.

What it bought was a camera with no ego.

A camera I don’t negotiate with.
A camera I don’t justify.
A camera that lets me look without commentary.

The cheapest cameras often carry the least pressure.

And sometimes the ones you buy for the wrong reason quietly become the ones you trust most.

Part One: Where This Camera Came From

This OM Story is Part Two of a longer journey.

If you want the full context – the original eBay listing, the fungus reveal, the dead seals, the questionable accessories, and the reality of what £42.50 actually buys you online – that story lives elsewhere on Zuikography.

This piece only exists because of that one.

Read Part One: What £42.50 Buys You on eBay – An Honest OM10 Autopsy

The post The £42.50 OM-10 That Changed the Rules appeared first on Zuikography.

It sits quietly off the mainland on the Isle of Wight, and it has a way of slowing you down whether you intend it to or not. The animals here are rescued. They aren’t arranged, prompted, or encouraged to perform. They’re simply living out their lives with care, space, and time and it doesn’t take long before that affects how you behave with a camera.

I’ve grown fond of the place for exactly that reason.

This visit was in early December. Cold, wet, and windy. I had thermals on, a woolly hat, waterproofs, hand warmers in my pockets, and tea in a flask, enough to keep me there, though not enough to make it feel like a particularly sensible decision.

I brought an Olympus OM-40, a Zuiko 200mm, and a few rolls of black-and-white film. All in, the kit cost about £45, a faintly ridiculous figure to mention while standing a few metres from a tiger. Still, it’s worth saying, because it becomes clear very quickly how little this kind of photography depends on equipment.

What matters far more is attention. And restraint. And knowing when not to take a photograph.

An Unlikely Favourite

I also brought an OM-2 with me.

It stayed in the bag.

The OM-40 was only meant to be used for a test roll. I liked it more than I expected, and just kept going with it.

It isn’t an OM-1, and it doesn’t have the authority people often associate with the OM-2. It sits slightly to one side of Olympus history, overlooked, unfashionable, and rarely anyone’s first choice. And yet, it gets on with things in a way that feels quietly dependable.

I shot manually all day. Partly out of habit, partly because the OM-40 encourages it. The viewfinder display gives you just enough information to be useful without becoming distracting. The camera never tried to be clever. It simply worked, then waited.

That suited the place.

Film, Light, and Small Decisions

The Zuiko 200mm stayed wide open throughout the day. There was no real reason to stop it down. Depth of field was thin, backgrounds fell away cleanly, and shutter speeds stayed workable without fuss.

For most of the visit I shot Tri-X at box speed. It’s predictable in the best sense: tolerant, flexible, and well suited to stillness. Later in the afternoon, as the light dropped, I switched to HP5 rated at 1600. Not for effect, and not to chase grain, but simply to keep the shutter speed sensible when movement did happen.

The grain arrived anyway, as it always does, and felt right for the place.

Tigers: Learning to Stay Still

Tigers don’t reward urgency.

Most of the photographs I made were static, and that was deliberate. Manual focus is easier when nothing dramatic is happening, and tigers are very good at staying still for long periods. You stop reacting and start anticipating.

You settle. You notice breathing, small movements, the slow shift of weight. Time stretches. You stop thinking in moments and start thinking in duration, how long they’ve been resting, how long you’re prepared to wait, and whether the two might ever overlap.

When movement did happen, I didn’t chase it. I refocused, chose the frame, and waited for the animal to enter it. That felt calmer, more respectful, and far more reliable. The camera stayed ready. The tiger decided when the photograph existed.

Film suits that way of working. You commit to a position and trust your timing.

The Long-Lens Question

There’s a familiar scene at places like this. Long lenses, heavy tripods, and cameras firing in long bursts. Thousands of frames taken in the hope that one will rise above the rest.

Often the aim is the same: blur the bars, remove the enclosure, erase the context. The longest lens available is used not just to get closer, but to suggest a closeness that isn’t really there.

I understand the impulse. It just isn’t what I’m interested in.

The enclosure is part of the story. These animals are here because they were rescued, some from circuses, others intercepted before being sold into lives best left unexamined. The structures that keep them safe belong in the photograph as much as the animals themselves.

The fencing remains in the frame. It’s part of the reality of the place.

Anything else starts to feel like decoration.

Movement, When It Comes

When a tiger does move, it does so without warning and without the slightest concern for your settings.

This is where the OM-40 continued to impress me. No hesitation. No confusion. I refocused, waited, and allowed the animal to move through the frame. At 200mm, wide open, the margin for error is narrow, which makes the frames that work feel earned rather than lucky.

You don’t need many. A few are enough.

And Lions Too

Wildheart isn’t only about tigers.

Lions feel different. Less watchful, more settled. Where tigers often seem inward and contained, lions appear comfortable simply being where they are.

I photographed them in the same way. Manual focus. Slow movement. Waiting rather than prompting. As the light faded, HP5 carried on doing what it does best, accepting the conditions without complaint while shutter speeds stayed workable.

The photographs don’t shout. They don’t need to.

Final Thoughts

The OM-40 wasn’t supposed to be the camera I enjoyed most that day. But it was.

The OM-2 stayed in the bag. The OM-40 stayed in my hands. That feels like praise enough, particularly for a camera that rarely gets invited to this sort of work.

Tri-X and HP5 behaved exactly as you hope they will, tolerant of imperfect light, responsive to change, and quietly rewarding of patience. Shooting wide open, manually focused, and largely static felt right for the place and the subjects.

More than that, it felt respectful.

There is something quietly powerful about being in the presence of animals who have endured what they have and continue to live with dignity. Zoppa’s limp is always there, never hidden, a reminder of a past that can’t be undone, only acknowledged. She doesn’t perform now. She doesn’t have to.

Being there isn’t about extracting images. It’s about paying attention, keeping your distance, and allowing the animals to exist on their own terms.

For a place like Wildheart Animal Sanctuary, that feels like the only way to do it properly.

And sometimes, that is enough.

The post OM-40 and Zuiko 200mm: A £45 Big-Cat Kit appeared first on Zuikography.

That’s worth saying upfront, because surf trips don’t leave much room for photographic intention. Most days are shaped by tide, wind, swell, and the quiet negotiation between enthusiasm and what your shoulders will tolerate. You’re either in the water waiting for something to happen, or standing afterwards, damp and salt-stiff, rehydrating and waiting for your arms to feel like part of your body again.

Photography, if it happens at all, happens around that.

This was my first visit to Fuerteventura – widely considered the surf capital of Europe, a title it wears with a great deal of wind and very little fuss. It’s also an island that seems to encourage walking, particularly on days when the sea or your body makes it clear that another session would be a poor decision.

From a distance, the island looks empty. When you’re actually there, you realise that this is intentional. Pale sand, low volcanic hills that appear to have stopped halfway through, and roads that drift off into brightness without much interest in where they’re going. Things exist on their own terms. You’re just passing through.

I liked that.

When I wasn’t surfing, I walked. Not with a plan. Just far enough to see what was there, and then a bit further.

On two days off from the water I joined a group tour around the island, which is always a slightly odd experience when you’re travelling on your own. Group tours are, by design, awkward. You are briefly assigned a small collection of strangers and expected to bond at speed, usually while standing around in the sun pretending not to look at one another.

As a solo traveller, you are immediately identified. The tour guide clocks you within minutes and makes a point of checking in, asking questions, and occasionally singling you out for friendly attention to ensure you feel included. This is well-meaning, but also guarantees that you will be spoken to more than you had planned.

It was fine. Mostly.

The tour itself was slow and meandering, which suited the island. We stopped, looked, moved on, stopped again. I took photographs when something caught my eye and ignored most of what didn’t.

One man on the tour was carrying a large DSLR with a super-zoom lens that appeared to extend indefinitely. He swung it from side to side with great seriousness, occasionally stepping backwards to make room for it. I found myself thinking that he should probably have bought a second ticket for the camera alone, if only out of courtesy.

By contrast, my Olympus OM-1 and three small lenses barely registered. A 28mm 2.8, a 50mm 3.5, and a 135mm 3.5. Light, compact, and easy to forget about – which turned out to be exactly what the trip needed. Nothing dug into my shoulder. Nothing announced itself. I could walk, stop, shoot, and move on without rearranging my life.

The 28mm came out when the island insisted on being bigger than me – dunes, roads, wide spaces that didn’t want trimming. The 50mm handled most things without comment. The 135mm was there for moments when standing back felt more honest than stepping closer.

They did their jobs quietly and stayed out of the way.

That suited me.

There are no surf photographs here. When you’re surfing, you’re busy surfing. The camera stays out of it.

One of the days off included a short boat trip to Lobos Island, which felt different immediately. Smaller. Quieter. Removed. I walked away from the main path, found my own patch of sand and sea, and stayed there for a while. I swam, lay in the sun, walked the island slowly, and didn’t feel the need to record much of it at all.

It felt like proper escapism – the kind that doesn’t ask for documentation.

Film fits places like this. Once the shutter goes, the moment is finished. There’s nothing to check, nothing to adjust, nothing to immediately judge. You either noticed something, or you didn’t, and you only find out later. That removes a particular kind of pressure – the pressure to keep proving that you’re paying attention.

In Fuerteventura, that makes sense. Light turns the sea to silver without asking permission. People appear briefly against wide horizons and then disappear again. Boats sit where they sit. Roads lead confidently into very little. Nothing waits for you to decide whether it’s worth photographing.

The OM-1 never complicated any of this. It didn’t suggest alternatives or offer reassurance. It simply let me look, decide, and move on.

What held my attention wasn’t activity, but scale – and the slightly hopeful way people try to exist within it. A cyclist crossing a wide road. A lone figure on a ridge. Signs pointing confidently to places that don’t seem to be in a hurry. Buildings that look as though they wouldn’t object if the island quietly took them back.

Tri-X suits that mood. It doesn’t tidy things up or pretend everything is balanced. It lets highlights run, shadows sit where they like, and grain remind you that this was something physical you carried home.

Some frames are rough. Some moments probably worked better in memory.

That’s fine.

I still took colour photographs on the trip. There are phone pictures too – quick snaps, bits of shorthand, the sort of images people make to mark a moment or show they were there. They did exactly what they were meant to do.

These photographs aren’t that.

They weren’t made as proof, and they weren’t made for approval. They weren’t taken with anyone else in mind. They exist because something held my attention long enough for me to stop, look, and press the shutter.

Film doesn’t reward perfection.
It rewards attention – and then asks you to trust it.

I didn’t miss the rest.

The post Fuerteventura, Film and the Curious Joy of Not Knowing appeared first on Zuikography.

So I went back – with the OM-2n, two Zuikos, and no particular plan. Just film, the heat, and a handful of hours to see what the city would give me.

Warrior: iron lines, memory, and a camera of its own

HMS Warrior was first. It always is. She sits just beyond the terminal – all black iron and crossed rigging, like a battleship designed by a gothic architect. Familiar, but not.

Before anything else, I set the OM-2n down on a cannon and took its portrait. Just a quick frame – a small, silent nod to the tool doing all the looking that day.

Then I got to work.

The wooden wheels drew me in. Side by side, polished, deliberate. I worked them with the 28mm, letting the shadows and symmetry speak.

At the bow, the figurehead held its line against the sky. I’ve passed it a hundred times. Never really seen it. Funny how glass reveals what routine ignores.

The harbour tour: air, heat, and quiet moments

I’ve been out in the harbour before. But that day was scorching, and the idea of sitting still on a moving boat sounded like the most luxurious thing in the world. So I boarded the harbour tour – part for the view, part for the breeze.

A couple sat just ahead. She raised her phone for a photo while he sat still beside her, utterly unfazed. I took the frame through the ferry rail. A photo of a photo in the making – quiet, unposed, and already fading by the time I lowered the camera.

Later we passed the HMS Queen Elizabeth. It loomed like a misplaced continent. I took one shot. That was enough.

Switching films: Delta for the shadows

Back on land, I swapped the Tri-X for Delta 3200, rated at 1600. I knew I’d need the extra room once I stepped inside Victory. Below deck, light doesn’t just fade – it folds in on itself.

Victory feels different. It doesn’t perform. It remembers.

This was Nelson’s ship. The lead at Trafalgar. The deck he died on. You don’t visit her. You move through her – slower, quieter. She asks that of you.

I started at the stern. Everyone does. The name arched in bold lettering, theatrical and absolute. I waited for the moment to clear, then took the frame.

Inside, the light dropped hard. I slowed the shutter and moved with intention. The 50mm stayed on – better for framing the weight of it all. Ropes coiled like punctuation. Cannons tucked beneath beams. Wooden planks carrying the weight of a thousand untold things.

I shot without rushing. Some places don’t let you take more than they want to give.

The Mary Rose – another day

I followed the signs toward the Mary Rose, but didn’t go in. Ships that spend five centuries underwater deserve more than a quick look. I’ll come back. That one needs its own morning.

The painter by the railings

Outside the dockyard, just before the noise picked back up, I saw him – a painter, standing by the railings, brush in hand, working oils into canvas. The heat hadn’t slowed him. The canvas was nearly there.

He wasn’t local. Down from the South for the day. We talked about paint, light, and patience. Then he noticed the OM-2n.

Is that film? he asked.

I nodded. We talked shop – different tools, same mindset. Wait for the moment. Work with what the day gives you.

I asked if he’d mind me taking a few frames. He didn’t. I took two. Delta still loaded. ND now on. The same roll that had seen the decks of Victory now catching sunlight off a stranger’s brush.

Looking back

I didn’t shoot everything. Didn’t need to. The frames that stayed with me weren’t the biggest or the brightest. They were quiet. Ropes in shadow. A couple mid-frame. A painter caught mid-thought. A ship that still holds its breath.

After all the times I’ve crossed that harbour, it still found a way to show me something new.

Shot on Olympus OM-2n with Zuiko 28mm f/2.8 and 50mm f/3.5, Kodak Tri-X & Ilford Delta 3200 (rated at 1600)

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Yes, £18. Pulled from a forgotten shelf in Barnstaple like a relic with potential. It looked more like an old Dictaphone than a camera, but there was something about it – that chunky sliding cover, that square flash port, the word Zuiko peeking out on the lens. Pair it with a roll of Kodak Tri-X 400, and you’ve got a time machine for capturing the unscripted, the overlooked, and the unapologetically real.

The Art of Disappearing

What struck me most about the XA3 is how easily it vanishes – not physically, thankfully, but socially. It slips into a pocket and into the moment. No one notices you raising it to your eye. You’re not a photographer anymore – you’re just someone passing through.

That’s crucial when you’re shooting in a city like London. People clock you in a second if you’re holding a chunky SLR or waving a Leica about like a status symbol. The XA3? It just hums along in your hand, letting you get close without becoming part of the scene. It’s discreet, it’s quiet, and it never once made me feel like I was doing photography. I was just there – walking, sweating, watching.

On a day when the tarmac was melting and tempers weren’t far behind, the XA3’s zone focus system was a blessing. No second-guessing. No fiddling. I left it in the middle range and trusted it to get on with the job. The auto-exposure took care of the light. I took care of the wandering.

And what light it was – the kind of harsh, angular summer sun that makes Tri-X sing. Shadows like ink spills. Pavement texture that bites. Skies blown out just enough to feel cinematic. The grain? Present and proud – not soft, not clinical, just that timeless TX400 grit that makes a street photo feel alive.

People, Patterns, and Poetry

The XA3 isn’t the original XA. It lacks the rangefinder, yes – but in return, you get speed, simplicity, and less to obsess over. You’re not measuring, yo’re reacting. And London gave me plenty to react to.

At Ted’s Veg, arms flew in and out of frame in a kind of capitalist ballet – produce being picked, prices being barked, a tourist photographing a tomato. Around Tower Bridge, a dozen hands lifted phones at once to capture the same moment from the same angle, each person convinced they’d caught something unique. One frame shows a man asleep on the pavement while life rushes past him – suits stepping around, eyes locked forward, not a second glance given. And in that split second, I felt lucky to be holding a camera that didn’t hesitate.

These weren’t planned shots. They weren’t technically perfect. But they were real. That’s what I want more of now – images that feel like moments, not achievements.

No Pressure, No Pretense

When I developed the roll at home, I wasn’t expecting much. I hadn’t shot the XA3 before. But out of 36 frames, seven stood out – images that made me pause. They had weight, a rhythm, a bit of grime and soul in the grain. Not perfect. But honest.

That’s what this camera gives you: honesty over precision, truth over polish. And I’ll take that trade any day.

It reminded me why I love film – the delay, the doubt, the process. You can’t fix your way to better photos. You either caught it or you didn’t. And if you didn’t? You move on. No buffer previews, no second takes. Just the strange joy of trusting your gut and seeing what comes back.

Olympus XA 3 Final Thoughts

If you’re doing a 365 project, or just trying to shake the rust off after months of digital paralysis, the Olympus XA3 might be the quiet little kick you need. It’s not fancy. It’s not cool. But it gets out of the way and lets you see.

It’s simple. It’s clever. It forgives your mistakes but never hides them.

It won’t flatter your ego, but it will tell the truth. And in a city like London, that’s more than enough.

So here’s to small cameras, sharp film and the beauty of showing up with nothing to prove.

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