In praise of the point-and-shoot

Untitled, San Francisco, January 2009. Leica D-Lux4.

Like a true compulsive gearhead, I have invested a lot of money in my Leica M8 system. "Enough to renovate a kitchen" is how a Norwegian friend brutally put it. But in my stable of pricey gear, the real work horses are my point-and-shoot cameras, those knock-'em-around, stuff-'em-in-your-jeans standbys that I carry along with me everyday like a cell phone or house keys.

I use a Leica D-Lux4, a beautifully designed compact that is equipped with a bright and fast Summicron f/2.0 lens. Unlike most point-and-shoot cameras, the D-Lux4 can be dressed up with all kinds of accessories. I outfitted mine with a 52mm adapter that a camera shop in Washington State custom makes for the D-Lux4. With the adapter I can add photo filters and lens attachments, such as a 2x teleconverter, a 20mm wide angle, and an 18mm fisheye lens, that make the camera more versatile and fun to use.


On the 5:36 pm train, BART, March 2009. Fuji Finepix F200EXR.

My other point-and-shoot is the Fuji Finepix F200EXR, a remarkable instrument that practically sees in the dark. The picture above, shot at 1600 ISO at 1/12th of a second, would have been a fuzzy, shaky mess with a different small camera, even the D-Lux4. The F200EXR promises high resolution, low noise, and high dynamic ranges, and it actually delivers on all of them.

People tend to apologize for using a point-and-shoot camera. "It's just a point-and-shoot," they would say, as if introducing a poor distant relative. The implication, of course, is that the point-and-shoot is not a DSLR, which is the hotshot, well-blinged, multi-mega-pixeled cousin. But digital technology has advanced so much in recent years that there's nothing "just" about the point-and-shoot anymore. In fact, one would have a hard time nowadays distinguishing images taken by a small camera and a DSLR.

I love my big pricey M8, but I'm equally proud of my point-and-shoot cameras, and I will never apologize for using them. Without them I would certainly be taking less pictures. And for me taking pictures is the most important thing of all.

. . . then something happens.

Anne Hathaway, San Francisco, November 2007.



I have a secret fantasy: I’m a Magnum correspondent. I'm not in front of the Gap, I'm in the trenches of Cordoba in '36, buried in mud, dodging enemy fire with Capa. I'm not shooting a flower stand on a windy spring day, I'm with Koudelka covering the Spring Invasion of Prague. This thing before me is not just a boring red wall, it's the barbed Wall of Berlin, and when it comes crashing down I will beat Nachtwey to the punch.

Then something happens: a man walks by with a Pixy Stix in his mouth. Suddenly I'm back in front of the Gap, poised to catch the exact moment the Pixy Stix points to the air, and I nail the shot with dogged determination like it was the Falling Soldier himself. It has been a good day for waiting.

The French photographer Robert Doisneau knows a thing or two about waiting and the theatricality of everyday life. In his book, Paris, he said:

Seeing sometimes means constructing a little theater with the materials at hand, and then awaiting the arrival of the actors.

Which actors?

I don't know, but I wait.

I just keep hoping and believing real hard – and damned if they don't finish by showing up.

Even in the lowly theater of the Gap or a flower stand, actors could show up and something could happen. A man could enter with a Pixy Stix in his mouth. A sudden gush of wind could create a little human crisis. An old Chinese man with hands on his back could enliven a boring red wall.

Not exactly Capa, but human moments just the same. And they will do very nicely until the first war assignment comes along.


VIDEO: Robert Capa, Photographs of the Spanish Civil War



Robert Capa, Falling Soldier, Cerro Muriano (Cordoba Front), 1936.
James Nachtwey, Berlin Wall Comes Down, 1989.
Josef Koudelka, From Invasion, Prague, 1968.
Robert Doisneau, Diagonal Steps, Paris, 1953.