When I think back on it, there were a number of cameras I bought because I basically couldn't help myself.
In 1989, I was nine years into the acute phase of my photography obsession, and four years out from my graduation from photography school (and I had just suffered a setback in my personal life, which usually worsens, temporarily, my gear obsession and my focus on material things, as if my mind is grasping for a distraction). Canon introduced the EOS RT.
The RT was an EOS 630 with a pellicle mirror. A pellicle mirror is a fixed beam splitter in the place of the moving reflex mirror—Sony called its pellicle-mirror cameras "SLT," for "single lens translucent." It's a feature that has never been popular with photographers, but in 1989 I thought it was cool and cutting-edge. Couple that with the fact that Canon introduced an especially small and light 35mm ƒ/2 lens—then and now my favorite focal length and lens speed—at around the same time, and I couldn't resist. That RT seemed like the happenin' thing, stylish and capable. It was a significant investment for me at the time, but I bought one.
...Which was kinda nuts, in that I was semi-unemployed at the time and already had a perfectly good autofocus Nikon and Nikon's version of the exact same lens. What can I say? That EOS RT was too beautiful and too cool not to possess. I wanted it. Like really, really wanted it.
Well, that was a harbinger of my future, turns out. I did like the RT, and did some good work with it, and I even kept it for a couple of years. I believe it's the only Canon I've ever owned, apart from a few historical specimens. I never disliked it. I honestly can't recall how or why I moved on from it.
Since then I've bought at least half a dozen cameras because...well, apparently because I had to. The significance of the EOS RT in my life seems to have been the start of a new pattern.
A camera to me seems to contain infinite promise. Photographs grab hold of the unknowable phantasm of life; they fish magic talismans of permanence out of the always-vanishing river of experience. They are tokens of memory, and they defy time. They honor the things we've loved as those things pass by into emptiness. Sights vanish forever with the passing instants—but not quite entirely, if you have the right camera and you snatched a particle to keep for yourself. The Buddhists say the world is an illusion, that you cannot lean on the world, you cannot hang on to now. The camera whispers seductively in your ear that you kind of can.
And while it's true that every camera disappoints, it's also true that every camera and every lens yields its gifts, its rewards. I've almost never owned a single camera that didn't give me back something precious.
Cash in hand but empty-handed
Anyway, what I'm getting around to is that one of our commenters said the other day that he really wants to buy something but there's just nothing he needs and nothing that entices him. He titled the comment "Out of GAS?"
That seemed remarkable. But only two parts of it. First of all, I can understand all those of you who don't have the urge to buy and spend—it's not something I'm personally familiar with, but I'm assuming a fair percentage of TOP's readership consists of grown men and women who possess that mysterious quality called maturity, and that you people can do all those weird things like "defer gratification" and "regulate desires" that mature people reportedly do, at least according to what I've read. (Okay, I'm being tongue in cheek here—a little—I'm 62, and not entirely lacking in maturity).
And I can certainly understand not needing anything. Hell, I haven't needed a camera for decades.
It's the combination of feeling the urge—the want—the desire—to buy something and not finding anything that's appealing enough to buy that's remarkable about Moose's comment. You know, you just want a toy and the money is burning a hole in your pocket and you're locked and loaded for self-indulgence and...nothing calls your name. Nada.
In one way I can understand it, because I find myself truly, honestly, deep-down sick of overcomplexity. It really is a turn-off for me. It's not that I can't handle it, it's that I don't want it. A new camera these days feels partly like a four-hour math exam I haven't studied for.
I don't even want my cameras to shoot video! How counterculture is that?
I dunno. I've indulged camera GAS in my life more than most people—I even made part of a career out of it for a while there—but I can always find something else to want. And yet that idea of there's nothing out there that entices me seems strangely plausible.
This post has no conclusion. Topic for discussion? I have no idea what to think. It may be that this is the camera-geek's equivalent of the proverbial irresistible force and immovable object, and my brain is getting set to explode! Your turn.
Mike
(Thanks to Moose)
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(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:
Yiorgos: "I'm out of GAS too, although I wish I weren't. A new camera re-energizes my photography, which does need a boost. I recently attended PhotoPlus in New York City, looking for the one camera that would excite me and spark a new idea. I thought that it might be the Fuji X-Pro 3, or some camera from the larger manufacturers that I had overlooked. But I walked away—for the second year in a row—disappointed. Everything seemed either too big, or too expensive, or uninspired. It's subjective, of course, how one perceives these things. What GAS I do have has me thinking that I ought to buy the Pentax KP with one of those small Pentax Limited lenses, before such a gem of a camera disappears from the marketplace. For years, too, I have been thinking about getting the Mamiya RB67. Then I think that I should just repair the Leica M4 that's sitting in my closet and be happy.
"I do consider that the problem may not be about GAS at all, but about time, money, and cultivating creativity. I'm short of these things too."
Mani Sitaraman: "I went through a similar mania or obsession that lasted about six or seven years, starting in 1994. The fever broke when the camera world went digital, with the Nikon D100. I simply haven't wanted, wanted, a digital camera the way I wanted some of those old film cameras, back in those days.
"It made no logical sense. What do a Rollei medium format SLR, a Minox C and a Plaubel Makina 67 have in common that I would find a reason to rationalize buying all three? The only camera that I desperately wanted and then bought, and that I then used constantly for years, because it fit my hand like a glove, was a Leica M6 0.85. The only reason I stopped, was that lab processing became too expensive, scarce, and of uneven quality."
MikeK: "I recall reading somewhere that the brain likes the novelty of a new purchase—and gives you a little dopamine hit when you buy something. I find that there's always new camera stuff I could buy, but I'll mostly keep using the same body and decent zoom lens. I started looking at L-brackets recently—even though I don't use the tripod that much....
"I do find when I go into a record shop these days (if I can find one) that there's not much I want to buy—maybe I'm just getting old or maybe all the bands I like are gone (or have given up and got proper jobs)."
Guy Perkins: "I'm older than you Mike, and about to buy a camera because...I just need to buy a camera. Oh dear."
Jim McDermott (partial comment): "Mike, I, too, bought the EOS RT (it didn't stay with me long, but I used it on a Greek [Lesbos] holiday in 1991, where it did good service. I'm sure I felt the same way about it as all my many GAS purchases—initial fascination, followed by deflation (or at least, a puzzled, what-was-that-all-about moment) and then an abiding inability to learn from the experience."
Mark L. Power: "Re 'A camera to me seems to contain infinite promise. Photographs grab hold of the unknowable phantasm of life....' Beautifully said, Mike, and it echoes my feelings exactly about cameras. Those two paragraphs go into my quote file.
"There's a curious kind of trust between photographer and a camera. My own superstition is if I don't get at least one 'keeper' from my first time out with the camera (usually before I even know how to work it) than I'll never trust that camera again and soon it sits on a shelf gathering dust until I can find someone to buy it."
Kodachromeguy: "Nothing that entices you? How about going back to basics? Buy a film camera. After all, you have the know-how and practical experience. That would give us plenty of articles as you describe your journey."
PaulW: "I too have run out of GAS. I've built up a fully fleshed-out camera system that I'm completely content with. I have no need, or desire, to purchase anymore camera gear. But, I've now developed a nasty case of SAS (software acquisition syndrome). I find myself constantly trying, and frequently buying, different photo related software packages. Several of these packages have required more horsepower than my current system has, so I've also developed a case of computer HAS (hardware acquisition syndrome). I think camera GAS pales in comparison to computer HAS. The choices are endless and overwhelming. Does this merry-go-round ever stop?"
Steve C: "I've had good success at getting off the GAS treadmill in both cycling and photography by finding my way into buying really expensive, dead-end stuff that really only suits me and that I love to use, regardless of 'performance.'
"Part of this is convincing myself / realising that the build of 'performance' in either domain is subjective and the result of practice, training, and development of one's potential, and that there are always people more obsessed with that pursuit that I will be.
"A made-just-for-me bicycle is an expensive thing, and almost valueless to anyone but me. And because it suits just me so well, I just haven't ever wanted anything else since. In the long run I think it's worked out for the best both monetarily and experientially.
"When people who are getting into cycling ask me for advice on bikes, there's nothing I can tell them. I ride a lot, but I'm just not following the equipment race.
"Camera-wise, I did the OCOLOY exercise with a borrowed M6 and after a few months of really hard wrestling, fell permanently in love with the M system. I longed for the flexibility and quick feedback of digital though, and managed to scrape my way into a digital version and haven't cared for the digital specification race since.
"Now that I can eyeball exposure pretty well, the final happy dead-end for me is an M-A. It's everything I enjoy with almost nothing to go wrong, nothing to run out of charge and nothing to go out of date (it's all since obsolete anyway). But I'm in no rush to get there. So long as Leica keep making them (and there seems to be a standing six-month backorder) they won't be any better or any more obsolete in a year or five from now.
"When friends ask me about cameras I have nothing to tell them other than that Fuji seem to care about cameras that make sense. Outside of that I can talk about pictures, but have no idea about cameras.
"It's a pretty happy place to be.
"That said, going back to Mary Ellen Mark's statement that it's not when you release the shutter but why that matters, if you do it for the revelry of marveling at the amazingness of technology (and for many people, chemical technology's ability to fix an image on paper was a similar a-ha moment), I think that's fine too.
"The only thing that leaves a sour taste in my mouth is when people with profound GAS feel the need to be right about their own preference of the moment and point out the idiocy and inferiority of all dissenters' views. I've learned that part of what makes any field interesting is the personal histories and reasons behind the differing opinions. Why should we want everyone to agree with us?"
Mike replies: I'll just mention, gently and compassionately, that over the years I've had many, many friends and readers explain to me in great detail that the Leica they just bought is their last camera purchase and that they'll never need to buy another. I never rub it in when they buy another new camera a few years later. It does seem, however, from my vantage point, that calling a Leica purchase "the final happy dead-end for me" (or any of a hundred similar phrases meaning the same thing) is perhaps just part of the justification process for the purchase. But we'll see how you do.
Don't beat yourself up if it turns out you were over-optimistic about that, though, because you won't be alone.
