It’s Still Just a Tool
Sometimes, you just need to pick it up and get to work.
Note: You can listen to me read this Iteration to you by tapping the Play button at the top of the post.
The other day, I was going through my archive of work ahead of a website redesign, and I found a blog post that I wrote in 2014 that’s sort of an homage to my all-time favorite camera and how after finally acquiring one, I couldn’t bring myself to actually use it. Ten years later, I think the post is still relevant to how some photographers and artists have a tendency to fetishize the tools they use. I know that was me once. For what it’s worth, I think photography is unique in that, because it’s art and science, the potential proficiency of the craft often gets conflated with having the “right” gear. The irony is that it really is the purposeful practice of using our gear, whatever it is, that allows us to get better — to see better. I bought my first SLR in 1982 and I have enjoyed taking pictures ever since. Over the past 40+ years, I’ve used a bunch of different cameras and I’ve enjoyed almost all of them for different reasons. But the one thing that they have in common is the ability to look at the world through a viewfinder — and for me, that’s where the marrow is. As convenient as it is to have an iPhone camera in my pocket that captures fantastic pictures, I love the restriction of a viewfinder and I always have. It lessens the visual noise of the world (to a greater or lesser degree depending on what lens I’m using, of course) and it allows me to practice seeing. In fact, it demands it, doesn’t it? After all, you’re only given a tiny swatch of the world, surrounded by black. What you put in that swatch is up to you, whether you’re observing a scene or creating one from scratch. Photography allows us to impose a point of view on the world around us, or to build one from our imaginations that shows a world we want to see.
The site where this was originally posted has been gone for years, but I thought it might be worth sharing here in the hope that it may find some resonance with you. I hope you enjoy it.
It’s a Tool, Not a Trophy
The first SLR I ever owned was a Pentax Super Program, which I bought (with the help of my grandfather) at the iconic Frank’s Camera in Highland Park, California during my sophomore year of high school. It was a terrific camera — definitely a step up from the Pentax K1000 I was using in my photography class — even if it wasn’t the all-black Super-A version they had in Europe. But it still wasn’t the camera I really wanted. The camera I coveted most was a Nikon F2AS Photomic with the DP-12 finder — in black, of course. That was the Holy Grail of cameras for me — a near-legendary workhorse used by some of the top photojournalists in the world, which at the time was a list that I thought I wanted to be on, but that’s another story. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my Pentax and used it for years, stocked mostly with Tri-X that my then-best friend Mark and I would buy in 100′ rolls — but it still wasn’t an F2.
Years later, when I rediscovered my love for photography and picked up a camera again, I often thought about the F2, despite the fact that most everyone I knew had gone digital. Roger — my mom’s boss at the time — heard that I was shooting again and told my mom that he had some gear that he hadn’t used since college and if I was interested in it to come by his house and pick it up. She had no idea what he had, but I appreciated the offer and was only too happy to take him up on it. When I got there, what he showed me instantly brought me back to high school and the days spent shooting for the love of it, followed by long nights in my darkroom, hoping I actually managed to get something good. What I saw before me in its worn leather case was a mint condition Nikon F2AS Photomic with the DP-12 finder — in black, of course. It was absolutely flawless and mounted to the body was an equally pristine 50mm 1.2 lens. I picked it up with what I can only describe as a reverence that few objects have ever received in my hands. Despite the fact that this was the first time I had ever held one, the cold metal body felt like a pair of favorite jeans. Perfect. After a few moments, I returned it to the case and told Roger thank you but I couldn’t possibly accept it. He assured me that I could, and that if I didn’t take it, it would just go back into the closet where it had been for more than 30 years. Reluctantly (though secretly giddy), I accepted it, thanked him profusely and left with my prize, now imbued with the talent and tenacity of all those who used one before me.
Several weeks passed and I still hadn’t shot anything with the F2. I had taken it out of the case and exposed it to the world nearly every day — learning its weight and its angles — but I couldn’t bring myself to run a roll of film through it. What I had come to realize was that over those long years since high school, this tool — which ostensibly was not so different from a hammer or a cordless drill — had become a talisman of sorts. It was no longer just a camera, but rather an Object — not for using, but merely for admiring. What was I afraid of? It was as if somehow by not using it, the Object was able to retain the near-mythical status I had granted it so many years ago. If I were to use it, any flaws in the outcome (read: terrible photographs) would be mine and mine alone, anchored firmly in my own lack of vision and not in any way the fault of the Object. I had made the tool into something precious, ignoring the irony that it was the use of the tool which had elevated its stature in the first place. The F2 got the reputation of being a tough-as-nails workhorse of a camera because photographers routinely beat the shit out of it — rain, sleet, snow, sandstorms, conflict zones — you name it, this camera survived it. Yet here’s me, smack in the middle of Southern California suburbia intimidated to the point of creative paralysis, rather than just loading it up with film and heading out into the world to see what I could see through it. Not to uphold some imaginary legacy of vision, but just to see what I could see.
I’ve included a few photographs that you may or may not recognize — they’re the cameras used by Garry Winogrand, Elliott Erwitt and Jim Marshall. Is there any doubt in looking at these cameras — these tools — that each of them was used and used well? Absolutely not. Every ding, dent, scratch, and scrape is a story waiting to be told. Chrome worn through to brass shows not only the metal of the tool, but the mettle of the handler. What it took me years to realize is while my F2 felt like a favorite pair of jeans, they were a new pair of jeans, which everyone knows only get better the more you wear them — that’s what really makes them yours. Photography is a craft and while the tools are important to do the job, what’s more important is using them to the point where they disappear and only light, subject, and composition remain.
I have no way of knowing where I am on my photographic journey; there are no maps for these territories. What I do know is that I’m not so precious about the tools I use as I once was. I haven’t used my F2 in years and while my Fuji X-Pro doesn’t get nearly the time in the wild it deserves, I have noticed some brass peeking out of the black on the thumb grip, which tells me I finally just might be on the right track.
While the original post was about a camera and photography, the truth is — I think it can apply to a variety of endeavors, creative or otherwise. At its core, the post is about the obstacles that we give so much power to that they ultimately stand in the way of us achieving a particular goal, such as making art.
I still have obstacles to overcome and I probably always will, but recognizing them and removing them has gotten a little easier — mostly. There’s a doozy that’s taken me almost nine years to get to, but I’ll save that story for next time.
QUESTIONS
What’s your relationship to the tools you use? Do you have any that you couldn’t be without and still do what you do? Hit reply, leave a comment, or email me at talkback@jefferysaddoris.com. I’d love to hear from you.
As always, if you enjoyed this Iteration, I would be grateful if you would share it with a friend or two. And if you’re not yet subscribed, maybe you could do that as well.
Thanks for reading.
If you’re a photographer (or know someone who is), check out my book Photography by the Letter. It’s got more than 250 terms defined and explained through dozens of original diagrams and photos. There are also tips, exercises, Q&As, and interviews with 10 terrific photographers. It’s available in print or as a downloadable PDF.
I once facetiously asked a coworker if the cameras we sold were tools or collaborators. Then realised that I'm on the latter side of the argument. Never one for gear acquisition, I quickly settled on my Canon A1, Instax Mini 90, and Mamiya 645 for all my photographic needs.
Each has its own quirks and benefits, they can be temperamental and require compromise. To me, that makes them collaborators. Recently, the light meter on the A1 stopped functioning, and I need to decide between repair and replacement.
There have been times in the past when it sat idle, and yes, I got nervous if we were still a proper fit. But I know, good or bad, that we will work together again.
Love this. I always listen to your podcasts and while reading this, in my head, I heard your voice reading it aloud.
You always write about deep things. Thanks.