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 – it’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)

The post Ships, Shadows & Zuikos: An OM-2n Film Day in Portsmouth Dockyard appeared first on Zuikography.

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, you’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.

The post Olympus XA3 Street Photography – A Day in London with Tri-X 400 appeared first on Zuikography.

It wasn’t about nostalgia. It was about honesty. A desire to slow things down. To shoot football in a way that isn’t done anymore: unpolished, imperfect, and maybe a bit braver for it.

A Different Kind of Project

I’ve always been drawn to timeless photographs. The kind that feel like they’ve existed longer than you have. So when I started thinking about the FA Cup, it made sense to reach for film. These were clubs that rarely see a crowd, let alone a photographer. It deserved something different – something respectful of its grit.

I’d had this project in the back of my mind for a while, but I always left it too late. The FA Cup kicks off absurdly early – most people don’t even know it’s begun until October. I wanted to do it right. This time, I started with the preliminary round.

The Gear That Made It Happen

I kept it light. The OM-2N with the 50mm f/1.4 MC version did most of the work. A lovely lens – sharp, with character, and quick when I needed it to be. The OM-10 got both the 135mm f/3.5 and 200mm f/4 treatment, powered by a winder for when the pace of the match picked up.

The OM-1 with 28mm attached and XA3 lived in my bag – just in case. I didn’t use them much, but it was nice to have wide options when the scene called for more space.

Kodak Tri-X shot at 400. Delta 3200 pulled slightly to 1600. I started with colour (Ultramax, to be exact), but the images sat flat. Too polite. Black and white gets under the skin. Colour felt like documentation. Black and white felt like memory.

The Challenges of Film on the Touchline

Manual focus. If you know, you know. A ball doesn’t pause to let you nail your shot. You miss goals. You’re always chasing the ball, the play, the ref’s whistle. I had a 3-stop ND in the bag to keep my shutter fast and my aperture tight in the sun, but even then, exposure was a dance.

When the ball went to the other end of the pitch, my 200mm just wasn’t enough. I’d reposition, only to find a ball boy standing in front of me. At one point, I ran out of film as a team scored. I’ve never reloaded so quickly in my life.

Then there’s the access. Clubs were kind, many offered me free entry. I always paid. But most wouldn’t give me pitch-side or locker room access – understandable, but frustrating. I wanted stories. Profiles. The human moments. The things that make football more than sport.

What I Noticed

Grassroots football is raw. Not in a rough-around-the-edges way, but in the sense that there’s no buffer between you and the players. You hear every word. Every shout. Every complaint to the ref. You hear the crowd’s taunts – and some of them are harsh.

In a big stadium, all that’s washed out in the noise. Here, it’s personal. It adds drama. Every missed tackle, every late goal, it feels heavier.

Reflections and Regrets

Looking back now, there are things I wish I’d done differently. I should have experimented more. Plonked the camera on a tripod, used a 10-stop ND and let the shutter drag through movement. Captured time instead of freezing it.

I wish I slowed down.

I wish I got closer.

But maybe those are lessons for next time. The project isn’t complete. I missed a round due to illness, and it gutted me. I knew then and there I’d failed on the original goal. But it still matters. The experience still shaped me as a photographer.

Final Thoughts

Film won’t win awards for convenience. It won’t land you a back-page spread or a viral Instagram post. But it’ll give you something real. And that’s what I wanted.

I may try again next year. Maybe I’ll finish it. Maybe I won’t. But I’ll keep trying to see football differently. And I’ll keep using film to do it.

Because when it works—it really works.

The post The FA Cup on Film: A Photographer’s Honest, Imperfect Journey appeared first on Zuikography.

I spent five days there. Surfed when the sea allowed it, walked when it didn’t, and took five rolls of film along for the ride. The Olympus OM-1 came with me, partly out of habit, partly because it’s small enough to be forgotten – which, on a trip like this, is exactly what you want from a camera.

There was no agenda. No shot list. I didn’t arrive intending to make a story. But I brought the camera anyway, because experience has taught me that the one time you don’t is the one time the light behaves itself and something quietly worth remembering happens right in front of you.

That walk never really changes. Board under arm, wetsuit half peeled, attention already drifting toward the sea. It’s a small ritual, repeated daily when you’re near water, and it’s often more revealing than the surfing itself.

Walking, Watching, Waiting

I walk a lot when I travel. Always have. It’s how places give themselves up properly. You notice where people slow down, where they gather for no obvious reason, and where nothing much happens at all – which is usually where the photographs are.

Newquay rewards this kind of wandering. You drift easily from cliffs to town to harbour, and the mood shifts each time without making a fuss about it. One moment it’s open sky and wind, the next it’s damp stone, ropes, and the low-level industry of people getting on with things.

I spent an unreasonable amount of time here doing very little. A single bird perched above the harbour, watching the fishermen unload at the end of the day. Not dramatic. No swooping or theatrics. Just steady observation. It adjusted its footing occasionally, glanced down as crates were lifted and voices rose and fell, and otherwise stayed exactly where it was.

It felt right to stay too. Film encourages that kind of patience. You don’t fire away. You wait. You let the scene stop trying to impress you – and when it does, you press the shutter.

A Brief Detour: Padstow

At some point, curiosity intervened. I hopped on a bus and spent an hour in Padstow.

Padstow is undeniably pretty. The harbour curves obligingly, the buildings behave themselves, and the light generally turns up on time. It’s also very busy. Full of tourists – myself included – all pausing to admire the same view from slightly different angles.

This felt like the right photograph to make there. A man photographing the harbour with his phone, doing exactly what you do in Padstow: stopping, framing, recording proof that you were there.

It’s a pleasant place. Efficiently charming. But it’s also, ultimately, just a harbour. After an hour, I felt the familiar pull back towards Newquay – towards wind, space, and saltwater. There are only so many postcards you can look at before you start thinking about waves.

Beaches, Properly Seen

Back in Newquay, the beaches opened up again.

This is where the wide lens earned its place, giving scenes room to breathe and letting people become part of the landscape rather than the point of it. Figures drifted through the frame — surfers, walkers, people standing still for reasons known only to themselves. The horizon did most of the work. I stayed out of its way.

As the light dropped, silhouettes began to appear.

Long shadows stretched across wet sand, movement slowed, and the day quietly folded itself away. These were the moments I enjoyed photographing most. Nothing loud. Nothing urgent. Just the sense that the place was settling.

The Camera, Briefly

The OM-1 was exactly right for this trip. Mechanical, dependable, and entirely uninterested in theatrics. It stayed out of the way, did what it was told, and never once tried to be clever.

Tri-X and HP5 handled the coastal light without complaint. Some bite, some softness, depending on the moment. I didn’t stress over it. The scenes made the decisions, and I went along with them.

Final Thoughts

There are no photographs of me in the water. No frozen turns, no heroic splashes. That wasn’t the point of this trip – and in truth, when you’re surfing, you’re busy surfing.

This was about walking, watching, waiting and letting places reveal themselves at their own pace. The OM-1 encourages that way of working. It doesn’t rush you. It doesn’t flatter you. It simply records what you were paying attention to.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

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