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.

It is about how you want to shoot.

On paper, they sit close together. In practice, they feel quite different. Both are excellent cameras. Both can produce exactly the same kind of image. Both belong to the same superb Olympus OM system.

What separates them is not image quality. It is pace, handling, and the experience of using them.

The OM-1 is the more mechanical, deliberate camera. The OM-2n is the more flexible and practical one.

That is what actually matters.

Quick answer

Choose the Olympus OM-1 if you want:

• a fully mechanical camera
• full manual control
• a slower, more considered shooting experience

Choose the Olympus OM-2n if you want:

• aperture priority auto exposure
• faster shooting in changing light
• a camera that feels easier for everyday use

Neither is objectively better.

They just suit different kinds of photographers.

Olympus OM-1 vs OM-2n (Quick Comparison)

The Olympus OM-1: simple, mechanical, deliberate

The OM-1 is fully mechanical apart from its light meter. That means the camera can still fire without a battery, and every exposure decision is yours.

You choose the shutter speed. You choose the aperture. You watch the meter. You make the call.

In use, that gives the OM-1 a very particular character. It feels direct, uncluttered, and focused. There is very little between you and the photograph.

That simplicity is part of its appeal. The OM-1 encourages you to slow down slightly, pay attention, and shoot with more intent. For some people that makes photography more enjoyable, not less.

It feels like a camera built around involvement.

The Olympus OM-2n: faster, easier, more fluid

The OM-2n changes the experience by adding aperture priority auto exposure.

Instead of setting both aperture and shutter speed yourself, you set the aperture and the camera selects the shutter speed for you.

That single change makes a bigger difference than the spec sheet suggests.

In real use, the OM-2n feels quicker and more fluid. It is easier to work with when the light is changing, easier to use when you are moving around, and easier to trust when you want to concentrate on framing rather than constant exposure adjustments.

This is what makes the OM-2n such a strong everyday camera. It keeps the compact OM handling, but removes some of the friction.

You still feel involved. Just not slowed down by every shot.

Olympus OM-1 vs OM-2n in real use

This is where the gap between them becomes clear.

The OM-1 suits a slower rhythm. It feels more intentional and more hands-on. It is a better fit for photographers who enjoy the process as much as the result.

The OM-2n feels more responsive. It is easier on the move, easier in mixed or changing conditions, and generally easier to live with as an all-purpose film camera.

That does not make the OM-2n less serious. It just makes it more accommodating.

If the OM-1 asks you to stop and think, the OM-2n lets you keep flowing.

Metering differences

The OM-1 uses a match-needle meter. You adjust your settings and line up the needle yourself. It is simple, visual, and satisfying to use.

The OM-2n approaches things differently. In aperture priority mode, you choose the aperture and the camera handles the shutter speed automatically.

That removes a step from the shooting process, and in practical terms that is often the biggest difference between them.

With the OM-1, exposure feels more manual and more deliberate.

With the OM-2n, exposure feels faster and more seamless.

Reliability and practical ownership

The OM-1 has the advantage of mechanical independence. Apart from the meter, it does not rely on batteries to operate. That appeals to people who value simplicity, serviceability, and the reassurance of a mechanical camera.

The OM-2n is more electronically dependent. It is a more advanced camera, but also one that relies more heavily on its electronics and batteries to function properly.

For many people, that will not matter much in day-to-day use. But it is still part of the character of each camera.

The OM-1 feels simpler and more self-contained.

The OM-2n feels smarter and more convenient.

Which one should you choose?

Choose the Olympus OM-1 if you:

• enjoy manual exposure
• like mechanical cameras
• want a slower, more deliberate shooting process

Choose the Olympus OM-2n if you:

• want aperture priority
• shoot in changing light
• prefer speed, flexibility, and ease of use

If you are buying your first OM body and only plan to own one, the OM-2n usually makes more sense. It is simply more adaptable for everyday shooting.

But if what you love about film photography is the process itself, the OM-1 has a purity that is difficult to beat.

What I actually think

The OM-1 feels purer.

The OM-2n feels more practical.

That is the simplest honest summary I can give.

The OM-1 is the one you pick if you want the pleasure of doing it all yourself. The OM-2n is the one you pick if you want the camera to disappear a little more and help you work faster.

Neither choice is wrong.

It just depends on whether you want photography to feel more deliberate or more fluid.

Final thoughts

The Olympus OM-1 and OM-2n belong to the same system, use the same lenses, and are capable of the same image quality.

So this is not really a question of output.

It is a question of method.

Choose the OM-1 if you want a more mechanical, involved experience.

Choose the OM-2n if you want a more flexible and forgiving camera for real-world use.

That is what actually matters.

If the OM-1 is the direction you’re leaning, it’s worth understanding it properly. I’ve broken it down in detail here:

The Complete Olympus OM-1 Guide (Everything You Need to Know and More)

The post Olympus OM-1 vs OM-2n: What Actually Matters in Real Use appeared first on Zuikography.

Olympus OM cameras are famously tough. Mechanical, compact, beautifully engineered, and still shooting happily forty-plus years after they left the factory. That toughness is deceptive.

Because while most of an OM body will tolerate decades of use, dust, knocks, and the occasional questionable life choice, there are a few parts that look innocent, obvious, even cleanable… and absolutely are not.

If you’re new to OM cameras, or you’ve just started tinkering, this article exists to save you from at least one unnecessary oh sh*t moment.

Ask me how I know.

The Mirror (Why You Should Never Clean It)

Do not clean it. Ever.

Yes, it’s a mirror.

No, it is not like a normal mirror.

OM mirrors are front-surface coated, meaning the reflective layer sits on top of the glass, not behind it. There’s no protective layer. No margin for error.

What this means in practice:

• Lens wipes will streak it
• Microfibre cloths will thin the coating
• Repeated cleaning will permanently damage it

If you see:

• black dots
• dull patches
• faint streaks

They are almost always coating deterioration, not dirt.

Important reality check:

• The mirror has no effect on your photos
• It flips up before exposure
• It only affects what you see while composing

If dust won’t move with a blower, leave it alone.

If it bothers you visually one day, that’s a mirror replacement, not a cleaning job.

Focusing Screens (What Not to Do)

If it’s not dust, it’s not coming off.

OM focusing screens are precision optical components. They are:

• extremely soft
• easily scratched
• very easy to ruin accidentally

What not to do:

• no cloths
• no wipes
• no fluids
• no cotton buds
• no just a gentle polish

What to do:

• a hand blower only
• light, indirect air
• nothing else

Marks that don’t move are usually:

• factory defects
• age-related deterioration
• coating wear

And again:

If you don’t see it during normal composition, it does not matter.

Meter Cells and Prisms (Do Not Touch)

They are not windows.

The OMs metering system relies on light passing through very specific optical paths. Touching, wiping, or cleaning, anything near the prism or meter cell window is a fast way to create:

• haze
• smearing
• inaccurate readings

If a meter is inaccurate:

• it’s electrical
• or age-related
• or calibration-related

It is almost never dirty.

Shutter Curtains (Hands Off)

Just… don’t.

If you can see the shutter curtains:

• don’t touch them
• don’t brush them
• don’t blow air directly at them

They are thin, tensioned, and unforgiving. Finger oils alone can cause problems over time.

If they look uneven, slow, or damaged:

• that’s a service issue
• not a cleaning issue

Internal Foam (Unless You’re Replacing It Properly)

Poking degraded foam is worse than leaving it.

Old OM foam can:

• crumble
• smear
• migrate into places it shouldn’t be

Half-removing foam without replacing it properly often causes more mess than leaving it intact until you’re ready to do the job properly.

If you’re not replacing seals:

• leave them alone
• don’t scrape, just a bit
• don’t vacuum them out

What Is Safe to Clean on an Olympus OM Camera

OM cameras aren’t made of glass nerves. Plenty is safe:

• exterior leatherette
• top and bottom plates
• lens mounts (carefully)
• rewind knobs
• wind levers
• lens barrels and glass (properly)

The trick is knowing the red-line parts. Once you do, OM cameras are wonderfully robust.

The Real Lesson

Most OM damage doesn’t come from abuse.

It comes from care.

From wanting things clean.

From wanting things right.

From assuming something that looks simple must be simple.

Every long-term OM user has one moment where they learn this the hard way. Consider this article the shortcut.

If you take one thing away, make it this:

If it doesn’t affect the photograph, think very hard before touching it.

Your OM will thank you by quietly working for another few decades.

The post What You Shouldn’t Touch on an Olympus OM Camera appeared first on Zuikography.

In Daido Moriyama’s Near Equal, photography is stripped back to instinct.

There’s something slightly uncomfortable about watching him work. Not because it’s chaotic – but because it ignores almost everything you’re told photography should be.

Images are blurred.
Contrast is pushed hard.
Frames feel loose, sometimes even accidental.

And yet it holds together.

Moriyama isn’t trying to make perfect photographs. He’s reacting to the world as it moves – quickly, instinctively, without hesitation. What you get is something raw, but honest. Not polished, not refined, but real.

Letting Go of Control

Most photographers tighten up when they pick up a camera.

Moriyama does the opposite.

He walks, observes, shoots, and keeps moving. There’s no overthinking, no waiting around for something to line up neatly. The moment appears, and it’s taken – however it comes.

Grain becomes part of the image.
Blur becomes movement.
Harsh contrast gives everything weight.

It would be easy to call it careless, but it isn’t. There’s intention in the way he works – it just isn’t forced. It’s built on experience, repetition, and a willingness to accept whatever the frame gives back.

More Than the Camera

Moriyama isn’t an Olympus OM shooter.

He’s most closely associated with compact cameras like the Ricoh GR – small, fast, and built for reacting rather than composing. That choice tells you everything about how he sees photography.

But it’s worth remembering – the Ricoh GR didn’t arrive until the mid-90s. Moriyama was already producing work long before that. Cameras like the Olympus Pen W and other compact rangefinders played a role in that earlier period.

And that’s where it becomes relevant here.

Because something like the Olympus XA sits right in that same space. Small, unobtrusive, always ready. A camera you carry without thinking – which is exactly the point.

It’s not about the system.
It’s not about the lens.
It’s about being there, ready, and open to the moment.

Whether it’s a Ricoh, a Pen, or an XA loaded with Tri-X – the philosophy doesn’t change.

Why This Matters

Moriyama is one of my favourite photographers for a reason.

Not because the images are technically perfect – far from it. But because they feel alive. There’s energy in them. A sense that they were taken in the moment, not constructed afterwards.

He gives you permission to:

• stop chasing perfection
• embrace grain instead of correcting it
• accept blur instead of fighting it
• take the shot and move on

There’s a freedom in that approach that’s easy to lose, especially when you start overthinking your work.

Take It With You

There’s a tendency, especially with film, to slow everything down and treat each frame like it needs to be right.

Moriyama cuts straight through that.

Go out. Walk. Shoot. Miss a few.
Let the frame fall apart a little.

Some of the most interesting images come when you stop trying to make something good and simply respond to what’s in front of you.

Watch Near Equal, then go out and shoot without overthinking it.

That’s where things start to become yours.

Want to learn more about Daido Moriyama and see more of his great photos then visit his official website.

The post Daido Moriyama: Near Equal – Embracing Imperfection in Street Photography 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.

If you are new to film, you have probably had this moment already.

You get your scans back.
You look at the photos.
You zoom in, even though you should not.
And suddenly everything looks soft.

Before you blame the lens, the lab, the camera, or the universe, here are the five real reasons film photos look soft for beginners, and how to fix each one quickly.

Missed Focus (The Number One Cause)

Manual focus takes practice.
Film focusing screens are small.
The split prism is fast, but unforgiving.

When focus is even slightly off, you get:

• soft faces
• soft eyes
• soft details
• just-missed critical points

This is by far the most common reason beginners think their lenses are soft.

How to fix it

• Use the split prism or microprism ring deliberately
• Focus on contrast edges, not smooth surfaces
• Make sure your eye is centred in the viewfinder
• Use f/2.8 to f/4 when learning, not f/1.8
• Hold the camera steady and breathe out gently before pressing the shutter

Portrait tip
Always focus on the eye closest to the camera.
If that eye is sharp, the whole photo feels sharp.

Shutter Speed Too Slow (Motion Blur)

Film beginners often shoot at shutter speeds that are simply too slow for handheld use, especially indoors.

This produces:

• softness that looks like missed focus
• slight wobble
• ghosting around edges

Minimum shutter speeds for OM beginners

• 1/125 with a 50mm
• 1/250 with a 135mm
• 1/60 only if you are very steady
• 1/30 or slower means tripod territory

Film hides motion blur well at small viewing sizes, but at scan or print size, it becomes obvious.

How to fix it

• Open the aperture to raise shutter speed
• Use ISO 400 or higher film indoors
• Do not rely on Auto mode to guarantee safe handheld speeds

Shooting Wide Open (Not the Lens’s Fault)

Every lens, even excellent ones, is softer wide open.

Your 50mm f/1.8 is noticeably less sharp at:

• f/1.8
• f/2

This is not a flaw.
It is physics.

How to fix it

Use:

• f/2.8 for portraits
• f/4 to f/5.6 for everyday sharpness
• f/8 for landscapes

Stopping down one or two clicks makes a dramatic difference.

Film Grain Mistaken for Softness

Film grain is texture, not blur.
Beginners often mistake grain for softness.

Grain becomes more visible when:

• scans are high resolution
• film is underexposed
• high ISO film is used
• light levels are low
• flatbed scanners are used

How to fix it

• Expose generously, film loves light
• Use ISO 100 to 200 for sharpest results
• Choose a good lab or quality scanning method
• Avoid underexposing shadows

A well-exposed roll of Portra or Gold will look far sharper than an underexposed roll of HP5.

The Lab Scan Is Soft (Yes, Really)

This is the most overlooked cause.

Mini-lab scanners often:

• prioritise speed over sharpness
• apply smoothing
• misfocus on the film plane
• over-handle grain
• output low-resolution files

Your negative may be sharper than the scan suggests.

How to fix it

• Use a lab known for quality scans
• Request no grain reduction if available
• Order higher resolution scans
• Try scanning yourself with a dedicated scanner or DSLR setup

Good scans can completely transform how your photos look.

Other Causes That Still Matter

• Fingerprints on the lens reduce contrast
• Haze or fungus softens older lenses
• Cheap UV filters reduce sharpness
• Expired film often has lower contrast and softer edges

Beginners Sharpness Checklist

Before blaming your lens, ask:

1. Was focus precise?
2. Was shutter speed fast enough?
3. Was the aperture stopped down?
4. Was exposure generous enough for clean grain?
5. Was the scan high quality?

Fix these five things and your OM photos will sharpen dramatically.

Final Thoughts

Soft photos are rarely equipment problems.
They are exposure choices, focusing habits, shutter speeds, scanning quality, and technique.

Once you understand these factors, results jump from beginner soft to confidently sharp very quickly.

Sharpness is not magic.
It is a set of small, predictable decisions.

And the Olympus OM system gives you direct control over every one of them.

The post Why Your Photos Look Soft: 5 Film Beginner Causes and How to Fix Them appeared first on Zuikography.

This isn’t about being precious or obsessive. It’s about control. Good storage buys you time and consistency, whether you shoot fresh stock every week or hoard film like it might be discontinued tomorrow.

What Actually Damages Film

Before talking about fridges and freezers, it helps to understand what you’re protecting film from.

Heat
Heat accelerates chemical reactions inside the emulsion. The warmer it is, the faster film ages. This shows up as base fog, muted colours, and lower contrast.

Humidity
Moisture is the quiet killer. High humidity can damage packaging, encourage mould, and in extreme cases affect the emulsion itself.

Radiation and background exposure
Cosmic radiation and background radiation slowly fog film over time. You can’t eliminate it completely, but colder temperatures slow its effects.

Time
Even in perfect conditions, film ages. Cold storage doesn’t stop time, it just stretches it out.

Storing Film at Room Temperature

Room temperature storage is fine if:

• The film will be used soon
• The room is cool, dry, and stable
• You are rotating stock regularly

A cupboard away from sunlight and heat sources is perfectly acceptable for short-term storage. Many photographers shoot film this way with no issues at all.

The problems start when:

• Rooms fluctuate in temperature
• Film sits unused for months or years
• Summer heat creeps in

That’s where cold storage earns its keep.

Why Fridge Storage Works

A refrigerator slows chemical ageing dramatically while remaining practical for film you plan to shoot regularly.

Benefits of fridge storage

• Slows fog build-up
• Preserves colour accuracy
• Extends usable life beyond the expiry date
• Reduces contrast loss over time

For most photographers, the fridge is the sweet spot.

Best practice

• Keep film in its original plastic canister or foil wrapper
• Place rolls inside a sealed zip-lock bag
• Add a small silica gel packet to control moisture
• Label the bag clearly so nobody mistakes Portra for parmesan

Stored like this, film can comfortably last years beyond expiry with minimal degradation.

When the Freezer Makes Sense

Freezer storage is for long-term holding. Think of it as putting film into hibernation.

When to freeze film

• Bulk purchases
• Rare or discontinued stocks
• Slide film you want to preserve perfectly
• Film you won’t shoot for a year or more

At freezer temperatures, chemical reactions slow to a crawl. Colour shifts and fog progression are dramatically reduced.

• How to freeze film safely
• Double-bag film in airtight zip-lock bags
• Remove as much air as possible
• Include silica gel
• Clearly label contents and dates

Modern film handles freezing extremely well. The emulsion isn’t harmed by cold; moisture is the only real enemy.

Warming Film Before Use (This Matters)

The biggest mistake people make is loading cold film straight into a camera.

When you take film out of the fridge or freezer:

• Leave it sealed
• Allow it to return to room temperature naturally
• Fridge film: around 1-2 hours
• Freezer film: 6-8 hours or overnight

Opening cold film too early invites condensation, and condensation is where problems start. Patience here saves ruined rolls.

What About Expired Film?

Cold storage is why some expired film looks surprisingly good and some looks completely unhinged.

If expired film has been:

• Refrigerated or frozen since new: often very usable
• Stored in a hot loft or garage: expect heavy fog and colour shifts

Black and white film tolerates age better than colour. Colour negative handles age better than slide film. But all film benefits from cold storage.

If you’re buying expired film, always ask how it was stored. That single question matters more than the expiry date itself.

Airport X-Rays and Cold Storage

Cold storage does not protect film from airport scanners.

If you care about a roll:

• Carry it in hand luggage
• Request hand inspection where possible
• Especially important for ISO 800 and above, and for pushed film

Once fog is added by scanners, no amount of freezing will undo it.

A Simple Storage System That Works

You don’t need a lab-grade setup. This is enough for most photographers:

• Short-term shooting stock: fridge
• Long-term or bulk stock: freezer
• Everything sealed, labelled, and dry

It’s boring. It’s sensible. And it keeps your film behaving the way you expect it to.

Final Thought

Storing film properly isn’t about chasing perfection. It’s about removing variables you don’t need. When you load a roll, you want to be thinking about light, timing, and composition, not whether the film has quietly sabotaged you before you even pressed the shutter.

Cold storage gives you that peace of mind.
And in film photography, that’s worth more than a few inches of fridge space.

For readers still deciding which films are worth keeping and shooting:
Beginner Film Stocks Guide – What to Shoot and Why

The post How to Store Film Properly: Fridges, Freezers, and Why It Actually Matters appeared first on Zuikography.