A Camera Complex
“Wow!” exclaimed Mum. Straightening up after depositing the afternoon’s third mug of fragrant Lap Sang a safe distance from my crumb caked Razer Black Widow. “That one looks so much better”.
“In what way?” I enquired, already planning my next three responses and inwardly cursing a keyboard that, barely hours after acquiring it, I’d discovered had a chic-let style crumb resistant sibling, the Razer Deathstalker.
“Oh come on!”, she continued. It’s clearer, more vivid, much brighter. The edges of the leaves stand out against the wall. I prefer the colour too, seems more accurate and the whole thing is in focus. Look at the brush on the windows sill, you can even see the bristles.”
“All true.” came my reply. “But there’s more to photos than sharpness, some of the reasons you’ve given might by why certain people are put off, I was of course referring to “professionals”.” Look at the plant carefully, to me it lacks dimension.” I flipped back to image A. “Were as that,” I went on “has real depth. It’s extremely clear in the foreground, the blurriness is supposed to help highlight the photo’s defining elements.”
“It’s too yellow, ” she said dismissively. “Let me see the first one again.” I sighed and clicked.
“Yes, unquestionably clearer,” she insisted, leaning forwards to point at the screen. “I can see shadows and veins in those leaves, in the other they looked completely flat.
“No!” I persisted, flipping once again. “But look at the clump near the roots on this one, they’re the most detailed in either”. I switched back and fourth a handful of times, from A to B to A to B. Then from windowed to full screen and back once again.
“It all depends on what you want to achieve.” I said, in as educated a tone as I could muster. “It’s easy to be impressed by brightness and definition, but when you analyse every aspect of a photograph you start to understand the importance of framing and composition and what separates average album fodder from the works of art that can make or break brands, preserve a spellbinding moment in nature or end up as treasured tributes to local landmarks on the walls of a Pizza Express.”
“I attended art school you know?” Mum interrupted. “And I got a gold star for your project on Victorian architecture.” I exhaled through gritted teeth, attempting to quash not only two perfectly salient points, but also the memory of my proudest academic achievement. An assignment devised by Mr. Benson especially for the end of the Summer term in in 1993 to occupy teenagers whose leisure time was extremely limited and ruin seven weeks of X-Wing, Alone in the Dark, Day of the Tentacle, Fate of Atlantis and Doom for the rest of us, at least, those without a clever parent to ease the pain.
The ordeal was to mark the end of an era when I attributed value of any sort to fanciful coloured certificates baring pretentious calligraphic declarations invariably followed by a date and the spidery signature of a supposedly supreme authority.
My architectural Swan Song was a 60 page embodiment of abnormal inspiration lent the ultimate credence by Mum’s motivation and creativity. Two months after I returned for the autumn, it had been mysteriously mislaid, left in the boot of a taxi Mr. Benson claimed had driven him home after his own pride and joy, a brown V8 Ford Capri had blown a gasket. Mr. Benson’s favourite catchphrase was,
“Empty vessels make the most noise”.
I never received the papery accolade I had been promised….Samantha Templeton received hers.
“All I’m saying is,” I commenced following a period of reflective silence. “If you’re given twelve decent shots of the Eiffel tower snapped on a dozen different cameras it takes much longer than 12 seconds to pick one for the postcard. A huge amount can hinge on personal preference and some characteristics that find appealing are only apparent to the subconscious, until they’re pointed out.”
“Even so,” she wasn’t buying it. “The first one was my favourite, I’m sorry I know you love your new iPhone but to my eyes, albeit not quite the force they were, there’s only one winner.”
“The first one WAS THE IPHONE.”
And that fascinating exchange was why I decided that three groups of photos were essential to accurately demonstrate the potential of our two digital visionaries.
As capable as smart phone cameras had become by late 2015, their primary purpose remained to grant instant gratification during caffeine fuelled pictorial patter, a fleeting journey through a mountain pass, or impromptu strolls along silvery shores to steal one magic frame of spectral splendour, when in all such scenarios, the prospect of navigating through mazes of menus to achieve that proverbial money shot is as effective as pointing a remote control at the moon and pressing pause.
Handset harboured cameras shall at least for the rest of my years, offer far less manual control due to their average adopter’s aversion to a legion of niche jargon and hours of convoluted post production. Thus, many of the techniques that might later be used to enhance an image are either applied automatically at the point of capture or provided in simplified form via an array of pre-configured filters and effects.
It doesn’t matter how many fickle techno journalists, whose passion for photography peaks in sweet unison with Apple’s September keynotes claim to persuade keen hobbyists and accredited experts to abandon the synergy of equipment it cost them three mortgages, two Ducatis and one divorce to obtain, there will always be complex clicks of the trade beyond the scope of any iPhone and all contrasting opinions are likely to be predicated on the customary short-list of promotional pics, all recorded in suspiciously i-DEAL conditions.
I put this argument to mum, and in an attempt to defend my courageous Canon’s honour, made a proclamation of my own, namely that whilst it was impossible to reproduce the 7D’s delightful depth of field on the 6s, I could easily train the former to mimic the latter’s seductive and commercially viable lustre .