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Latest portfolio: Xinjiang Province, China, June 2011

18 May 2012 » Recommended articles

If you have been reading photography related Web sites for a few years, you are likely to have been noticing a subtle yet obvious and ongoing shift in the photography webscape. Yesterday I was sorting through various links that I have accumulated over the past couple of years, and two things stood out to me.

On the one hand, I was dismayed at how many Web pages or even complete Web sites I thought of as fascinating when I added the links have now disappeared; notably, I was once I again reminded that my friend Edwin Leong has permanently shut CameraHobby.com down. This in turn made me think of several currently popular—and truly engaging—photography blogs and Web sites I read often that are run by individual photographers. Our interests change and we are inescapably mortal, so you can count on the photography webscape to keep on changing. This is not a bad thing per se, perhaps, but I am always awfully saddened when I see something genuinely valuable stop being, just like that, seemingly out of the blue.

On the other hand, however, I was relieved to see that the other articles and photographic collections that I enjoyed in the past were still around. I reread a few essays that struck cord with me when I came across them first, and they made me pause and go into the staring–into–space mode while savouring them again. In particular, if you question why I still use manual Hasselblad cameras and shoot film, have a look at "The Revenge of the Intuitive"; if you want to know which ten photographers' work you should absolutely avoid looking at, read "10 Oeuvres Aspiring Photographers Should Ignore"; and if you wonder how photography can simultaneously be effortless and laborious, peruse "Photography is Easy, Photography is Difficult" (scroll down the page; after that, read the article at the top, too).

I thought I would share these pearls with you before they silently disappear into the faceless "page not found" cemetery of the Web. Enjoy!

5 May 2012 » Quick comment on megapixels

As you most likely know, the camera that is being most talked about at the moment is the new megapixel champion in 35mm format, the Nikon D800(E). At 36MP, it provides enough resolution to produce very high quality prints; indeed, as some preliminary reports seem to indicate, it might even challenge some of the medium format cameras. Nonetheless, one has to question how many photographers realistically need such resolution. Take, for example, the following image that was recently published in Readme Magazine at full page size (approximately A4):

I took the photograph with the Nikon D70s, a 6MP camera that has been history for a few years now. Further, the image was cropped, so that the publication was done from a file that in effect has only just over 3 megapixels. And yet, the photograph in the magazine looks perfectly fine. This once again reminds me that one would need to often produce really large prints to claim that he "needs" 36 megapixels.

Nevertheless, the resolution coin has a flip side that gravitates in the opposite direction. With high resolution displays gradually taking hold and spreading (e.g., retina displays of the iPhone 4S and the iPad 3), it is realistic to expect that in a not too distant future low resolution screens with the typical resolution of 72 ppi will disappear, and that 240-320 ppi screens will become dominant even on large displays. The images I post on this Web site are usually 500 by 500 pixels, which translates into 0.25 megapixels and an apparent size of 7 by 7 inches on a 72 ppi display. If I want to keep the same apparent image size on a high resolution display, I will have to increase image size to 2100 by 2100 pixels (4.4 megapixels). Furthermore, for critical viewing and post processing one ideally would want to view images at the full screen size: for example, you will roughly need 14 megapixels and 22 megapixels if you use a 24–inch display with resolution of 240 ppi or 300 ppi respectively. This is equivalent to saying that we all will start routinely producing 24–inch prints at the same resolution. While this does not mean that everyone will need 36 megapixel cameras, we need to keep this trend in mind.

As a side note, this in turn once again raises the issue of image copyright use on the Internet. While a 0.25 megapixel image is pretty much useless for anything other than the Internet, as shown above even a 3 megapixel photograph can be used for publication. If we start posting high resolution images on the Internet the possibility of copyright abuse will significantly increase.

What I really wanted to illustrate with this post is that... nothing has changed, really. One could always construct an indisputable argument for the need of very high resolution, and the recent technological advances only add a new flavour to the same old pudding. At the same time, strong images always could—and always will—speak out on their own regardless of whether they come from a camera with high megapixel count.

18 April 2012 » Olympus EP–3 camera review

My brief review of the Olympus EP–3 camera has now been posted.

For those of you who are not going to read the review but still interested if I am going to keep the camera for the long–term use, the answer is no. Instead, I am going to return to the combination that has worked for me so well—my Hasselblad V series system (film!) with the Canon S95 point–and–shoot. Does this mean that I am completely giving up on compact cameras with large sensors? Sort of, but not exactly. I am still interested to see what and how the Sony NEX–7 and the Fujifilm X–Pro1 can do, but I am not going to buy the cameras with the sole purpose of satisfying my curiosity. If I happen to borrow them for evaluation, then I will be happy to share my impressions; otherwise, I will simply keep shooting film.

28 March 2012 » Recent fascinations (quotation, clouds and music)

“We should never deny the power of intuition or hesitate to follow its revelations. I have found that when I have to labor over a composition I seldom achieve anything worthwhile. I accept, of course, the minute refinements of distance and position, and the essential adjustments of image management.

It seems as if the mind is constantly churning facts, moments, relationships, and concepts, and reverberating to the input of information and the flowering of emotion. It is essential that the artist trust the mechanisms of both intellect and creative vision. The conscious introspective critical attitude has no place in the luminous moments of creative expression, but should be reserved for later, when the work is complete.”

Ansel Adams, "The Making of 40 Photogaphs"

Toledo clouds
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

"Four in six" from "The Incredible Jazz Guitar of Wes Montgomery" by Wes Montgomery
"Dance Cadaverous" (Alternate take) from "Speak No Evil" by Wayne Shorter

23 March 2012 » More sketches of Madrid (and comments on reinvention of street photography)

Here are several more sketches of Madrid from last weekend's exloration:

Sketches of Madrid #5
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

Sketches of Madrid #6
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

Sketches of Madrid #7
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

Sketches of Madrid #8
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

Speaking of street photography, you might be aware that recently there has been an attempt to reinvent it. It is a very bold and interesting development; while I applaud the effort at innovation, something troubles me about this particular approach, even though I do not yet entirely understand what it is exactly. Here are a few thoughts that come to mind first.

To begin with, Paul Graham's new work seems to suggest that the good old decisive moment has become an old–fashioned, worn, frozen "shard". Or perhaps, it indicates that the decisive moment has been too difficult to capture with one single image for too long, and thus we can try doing it with a couple of pictures instead: although each individual image mostly fails to capture it directly, the diptych creates a continuum where the decisive moment—or rather, an inkling of the decisive moment—is sort of lurking. Either way, there seems to be a touch of frustration, impatience or even scorn towards the decisive moment, and I am not convinced that this is a good basis for reinventing street photography.

As far as I am concerned, the decisive moment is perfectly alive and as elusive as it has ever been; if anything, with propagation of digital photography it has become an even more important cornerstone of photography—something that is able to keep things sane as the number of images taken every day increases exponentially. All one needs to do to understand the importance of the decisive moment is imagine what will be left if it is taken away from photography—you are likely to be shocked by the prospect. Letting the decisive moment irrevocably slip into some continuum where it can no longer be clearly seen or easily found might be the first step of letting it go for good. Given the significance of the decisive moment, I am not sure we want to go down this path.

What also troubles me is the direction in which street photography is being taken. Presuming that there is an inherent aesthetic value in the new approach, which I am not entirely certain of, this direction reminds me of the one jazz music went in in the fifties and the sixties, when it was becoming increasingly complex and less comprehensible for the general public. Now, I love some of the very complex jazz compositions, but do we really want street photography to become a niche art form and a thing unto itself? Do we want our reaction to photographic work to change from an earnest "wow, what a moment!" to the hesitant, distant, or even high–sounding "well, that is a fairly conceptual interpretation of the imagined idea"? Do we want street photography to be reinvented into a remote corner designated for a select few who supposedly have higher aesthetic perception that most folk will never have?

Yet another aspect that worries me is the possible implications for other types of photography. Although the notion of the decisive moment first came from street photography, it is perfectly applicable to and equally important in most other types of photography. Are we going to see a reinvention of landscape photography and be flooded with conceptual diptych prints where one image depicts a mediocre scene in dreary light now, and the other image captures more or less the same scene a few days later in slightly less (or maybe, more) dreary light? Thanks, but no thanks.

All this being said, it is seldom that new approaches in art are accepted immediately—there is always a counter–reaction of some sorts, and perhaps my concerns are nothing but exactly that—a retrograde counter–reaction. Given this possibility, I am willing to give this attempt at reinventing street photography the benefit of the doubt, and time will put everything in its right place as it inevitably does. But until then I remain troubled.

17 March 2012 » Broadcasting from between worlds

In an unfathomably lucky twist of fate my life is now divided between Shanghai, China and Madrid, Spain, mostly tilting towards the latter at the moment. I have always had the tendency to follow a peripatetic lifestyle (I reckon many landscape photographers do), and now this inclination has reached a new high.

Sketches of Madrid #1
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

I have always loved being between worlds, because it offers the invaluable experience of examining one world through the value prism of the other, as well as affords freshness of perception. (I know I wrote before that I am not in favour of being neither here nor there, but between worlds is a very concrete place). This is not my first time being in between worlds, but it most certainly is one of the most mind stretching and thought provoking.

Throughout our lives we come to places, and we leave places (here, "places" are meant in a conceptual, abstract way: literal places, relationships, employment, cameras, cars and, ultimately, life itself). Each place has its beginning, its meaning and its end. Each place influences, sometimes subtly and sometimes massively, where we want to go next and our perception of the places we will visit in the future. The experience of being in each place adds to and increasingly cements the foundation of what we perceive of as "ourselves".

Sketches of Madrid #2
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

The process of visiting places tends to have the same general pattern. First, we go through basic familiarisation. We observe, tread lightly and get increasingly bold in what and how we try to achieve. Second, we establish habits and rituals—while the former increase efficiency, the latter afford small daily pleasures. Next, the rut becomes long and deep enough to be driven on autopilot without paying much attention to what the dashboard says. Finally, when the end emerges on the horizon and if the visit was overall pleasant, nostalgia starts to set in. The third stage is the one I always try not to make too long, and the last one always serves as an indication of the worthiness of a visit. Having been in Madrid for close to two months now, I am still trying to balance my act somewhere between the first and the second phase.

Sketches of Madrid #3
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

At first my mind went into some kind of a suspension mode—although I have been fascinated with what has been unfolding before my eyes right from the start, at the beginning I did not seem to be able to think, write or photograph. Perhaps most of the energy was simply spent coping with the myriad of new things that were (and still are) thrown at me on a daily basis; or maybe, the energy was spent eagerly absorbing what this new, incredible world has to offer. Or perhaps it was both and, either way, it was not helped by the fact that most of my important stuff is not with me at the moment (namely, my cameras, main computer and hi–fi). Reflection and creativity more often than not need the support of established routines, too.

Now, however, my mind is starting to gradually resurface and respond to what it has been absorbing—and there is quite a bit to respond to! There is so much colour, both subtle and bold, and every sunrise and sunset is an event in itself; there is so much visual poetry, and I see great images in my mind's eye around each and every corner (successfully capturing them is a different matter, of course); and generally, there is so much art to look at and get inspired by that I swear the air is filled with it. Maybe it is just a temporary first timer euphoria, or a reaction to some place where I might have unintentionally overstayed (again, "place" is not necessarily meant literally). So far, though, it has been very motivating.

Sketches of Madrid #4
Olympus EP–3 camera and Panasonic 20mm f/1.7 lens

Last weekend I finally started photographing and I thought I would share some of the first images with you. As noted in the captions I have been shooting with the Olympus EP–3 camera, and if you wonder whether I have finally bonded with it, well, all I can say for the time being is that it is the only tool that I have at hand and I just use it (I also have my aging iPhone 3Gs, but I digress). My comments on the camera will be posted later.

11 February 2012 » Photographic art: purposeful creation or pure happenstance?

Recently I have been thinking about whether photographic art is "created" or if it "happens". The precursor of this train of thought is that sometimes I envision something photographically and realise it with such precision that the likeness of the envisioned and the result is uncanny; at other times—and such times, admittedly, tend to prevail—I go by intuition or play it by ear and get great results that I cannot say I entirely imagined beforehand, or, on occasion, expected at all. Does this imply that in the first instance art is created, while in case of the latter it just happens?

Extending the same notion to other arts, if you think of a painter standing in front of a canvas with nothing to rely upon but his previous training, current state of mind and imagination, you would be inclined to think that art is created from the inner vision of the artist. This is an epitome of pure artistic creation. At the same time, if you think of such photographers as Galen Rowell, who literally chased light (I am referring to his famous photograph "Rainbow over the Potala Palace" and the story behind it), or Henri Cartier–Bresson, who chased decisive moments, you are likely to conclude that art (photographic, at least) largely just happens. Indeed, one could argue that the work of these photographers is a typical example of art as pure happenstance.

Despite the seemingly boundless gap between art as purposeful creation and art as pure happenstance, all art is art, and we need to consider what the common ground between the two is. If you ponder long enough you will realise that in both instances art stems from inner response to a certain stimulus, something that deeply touches us. Sometimes, however, we can have an inner response to what we anticipate to happen, even though we cannot be sure that it will occur. In such instances we invariably leap into action, because what we anticipate to occur has already happened in our mind, and the only remaining question is whether we can capture it with the tool of our choice (i.e., the camera), and, if so, how close the captured image will be to what we visualised in our mind. When Galen saw the rainbow in the vicinity of the Potala Palace he ran a considerable distance to capture the moment that had already happened in his mind, i.e., the rainbow appearing as if emanating from the palace. Was it possible that the rainbow would disappear before he got to the right shooting position? Quite. Yet, he leapt in an attempt to capture on film what was already imprinted in his mind. And, despite the chances, he succeeded.

If you further think of the internal workings of painters or poets, they do not just fish out what they have in store and put it on canvas or paper. They also experience inner responses to certain stimuli, and each response is just a subtle inkling, not something that has a concrete form ready to be transformed into a work of art. They anticipate the inkling to take shape and hope to capture it with the tools of their choice, i.e., paint and words. But the right strokes and rhymes seldom come when you need them, and even though you might think you saw that inkling with absolute clarity, it might easily vanish into thin air.

Despite the outward dissimilarity, on a more fundamental level the creative process in photography and painting or poetry is not all that different. Presuming that the internal response is equally important to both photographers and painters or poets, and that the drive of translating what has already occurred in one's mind into tangible work is equally compulsive, the difference lies only in whether the attempt of realisation is embodied in a physically observable act: while the photographer starts to literally chase light or a decisive moment, the poet begins to mentally hunt rhymes. Both can fail or succeed, and I would venture to say that light and rhymes are equally elusive. In the end of the day, all artists are essentially in the same conceptual boat of creativity, it is just their individual boats happen to have different appearances.

How, then, do we address the instances of when what we come up with was not anticipated even the slightest bit? In my view, in such extreme cases the process of capturing what has happened in our mind is drastically corrected by additional internal responses that occur in the midst of the process, which happens in close collaboration with our aesthetic perception. If the process goes into a territory that we perceive as having no aesthetic value, we simply let go of it; if, however, it continues in a direction that we deem aesthetically fascinating, even though totally unexpected and unpredictable, we play along and see where it leads. Although the creative process might seem to have taken on a life of its own, the artist in us is still very closely controlling and participating in it.

Having established that all art is essentially created in the same manner regardless of the appearances of the outward processes, we still have the question of whether it is intentional creation or pure happenstance. Well, it is neither. Instead, it is a complex, unfolding dance that consists of the initial inner response, subsequent search for its realisation, further inner response(s) to what changes while the initial search for realisation is taking place, subsequently adjusted search for realisation of the previous cumulative inner responses, ad infinitum. On a personal level, the beauty of art and creativity lies in this unpredictable predictability: you can rest assured that the result will be consistent with your inner artistic stance, but you can have no idea where you will be lead and how that stance will be embodied.

(Phew, now I can stop the dance, crack open a beer and digest what I have just written .)

6 February 2012 » Skiing with a Hasselblad—part 2

I have now returned from Italy, and here is the executive summary: it is possible to ski with a Hasselblad system—or, indeed, any system of comparable size and weight—and a tripod! Let me not get ahead of myself, though.

Arabba, dawn
Hasselblad 503CW camera, CFE 2.8/80 lens and Fujifilm Provia 100F slide film

On the first day I booked two hours of skiing lessons and, to my surprise, got the basics of skiing quite quickly. Even before the lessons were over I started skiing on "blue" slopes, which are said to be "easy" to ski ("red" slopes are for experts and "black" slopes are for those who have a complete mastery of skiing and severely lack adrenaline). Having never skied before and only after an hour of lessons, blue slopes were most certainly exciting, but they were a far cry from "easy". I learned quickly that the key was not to get too thrilled and keep the speed within one's personal comfort zone, as well as to be able to stop at any time. Skiing is a ball of fun as long as you are in control.

Abondoned hut #1
Hasselblad 503CW camera, CFi 5.6/250 lens and Fujifilm Provia 100F slide film

In the afternoon I was sanguine enough to go back to the hotel to get the camera backpack and try skiing with it. Again to my surprise, it worked out perfectly well—I almost felt no difference skiing with or without the backpack. I was ecstatic: I could ski and photograph at the same time!

On the second day I felt confident—or, perhaps, restless to explore the scenery beyond the town of Arabba—to leave the route where we practiced and go on a full day of skiing. Although we skied on routes that were comprised of blue slopes only, some slopes were still quite challenging or even unnerving. Nonetheless, skiing quickly came to feel very natural, and I could not believe one could have so much fun doing it.

A view from Marmolada
Hasselblad 503CW camera, CFi 4/150 lens and Fujifilm Provia 100F slide film

Although I photographed a few times while stopping in the middle of a slope, most of the photography was done from the tops of hills or mountains. Quite strangely, apart from my friends who are also keen photographers and used a couple of Nikon D700 cameras, I did not encounter one single person carrying a DSLR, let alone a film camera; moreover, I reckon I was the only person in the entire area skiing with a tripod! As always, whenever I felt there was an artistic potential in what unfolded before my eyes I used the Hasselblad system, which was perfectly complemented by the Canon S95. As mentioned in the previous post, I brought my Olympus EP–3 on the trip, too, but it remained in the suitcase without seeing the light of day even once. Nonetheless, I am still willing to give the EP–3 the benefit of the doubt: I am actually writing this update in Spain, and I have only brought the EP–3 to see if I can bond with it. Time will tell.

Abondoned hut #2
Hasselblad 503CW camera, CFE 2.8/80 lens and Fujifilm Provia 100F slide film

The key to skiing with a camera backpack is that it should be fastened to your back as tightly as possible. Skiing with a tripod attached to the backpack is perfectly feasible, too, but requires being more careful as it might cause injury when you fall over (which inevitably happens). One of the times when I collapsed on a fairly steep slope I hit my arm against the tripod, which left a big bruise. I did not mind that, though, because, to me, it was a small price to pay to photograph in locations that are accessible by means of skiing only. Life sometimes leaves much bigger and longer lasting bruises.

Dolomiti sunset
Hasselblad 503CW camera, CFi 4/150 lens and Fujifilm Provia 100F slide film

As I expected, the scenery was breathtaking. It was accompanied by a high blue sky, with the exception of one day when it snowed in the morning and then the weather was changing rapidly throughout the day, which brought dramatic clouds and light. Although my original intention was to explore new photographic possibilities and horizons without too many expectations, on many occasions photography was as exciting as it gets. Add to that great company, delicious food and superb outdoor exercise, and what you get is an experience that is hard to beat. Once again goes to say that he who does not risk never gets to drink champagne!

19 January 2012 » Skiing with a Hasselblad—part 1

Chinese New Year holiday is just around the corner and, instead of traveling to some remote destination in China as I have been doing for years, later this week I will be going skiing in Dolomiti, Italy. You will probably ask why the sudden change, especially given the fact that I am as good at skiing as at, say, ballet (the list of things I am not good at is too embarrassingly long, so we might as well skip this part). Generally, late January is not the best time for photography in China; more crucially, whatever photographic opportunities there might be at this time of the year, the fun is always ruthlessly tarnished by hideously strained transportation and accommodation options during the period when no one in the Middle Kingdom thinks of work and half of the country is on the move. Instead of experiencing the torture again, I decided to take a break and spend the time elsewhere. When one of my best mates mentioned skiing in Italy, it seemed far from the worst possible option.

Location of Arabba, Dolomiti, Italy

The plans have actually been in the making for over two months. My initial intention was to spend some time with close friends in an environment that does not distract you with the usual daily noise of our established routines. As I looked closely at where we were going, though, I realised that the place is very engaging visually, and the photographer in me quickly became in charge of the preparations. In my mind, the trip for the most part became a photographic expedition, and skiing became a means to the photographic ends.

Photographically, the main question was which camera to use on the trip, because I knew I would not be able to bring my complete Hasselblad V series system as I always do on dedicated photographic expeditions. A mirrorless camera such as the Fujifilm X100 that I was using two months ago, or the Olympus EP–3 that I have now, seemed like a perfect choice for a trip of this nature: on the one hand, it is small and light and thus would not impede sporting activities; on the other hand, image quality is good enough to produce high quality photographs. Indeed, mirrorless cameras are intended for such situations, and I bought both the X100 and the EP–3 with such trips in mind.

As I continued visualising how I would use the EP–3 on the trip, a nagging feeling that something was amiss about this approach started eating me up. After pondering the issue for a while I realised that I am just not a middle ground photographer. In my opinion—and I realise that this is a very idiosyncratic view—anything truly worthwhile photographing deserves to be photographed with the best camera that you have, which is the Hasselblad in my case; for anything else a compact camera such as the Canon S95 is plentiful. Middle ground cameras do not seem to work for me, and I am still figuring out if, or how, the EP–3 has a place in my photographic work.

Now, this notion is not about what cameras can be used or are sufficient for what purposes—if used with care, even the Canon S95 can produce images of very high quality; for one thing, a couple of images I took with the S95 have been published. Rather, this is about intent: if I intend to primarily photograph, I am going to do my best with the best camera that I have; otherwise, I will just carry the S95 and be a happy camper. I am not in favour of being neither here nor there, and it is not my habit to have middle ground intentions.

One can argue that you never know what photographic opportunities you might encounter, and that, if possible, one should have various cameras to be able to capture any and all compelling shots he comes across. I, however, do not believe in preparation for anything that might possibly happen by having overabundant technical means. Being prepared to encounter photographic opportunities is a state of mind, not a matter of what kind of camera, or how many cameras, you carry with you. Just as I can do without zoom lenses, I can do without a dozen cameras that fill every existing category of cameras. It really comes down to my ability and preparedness to see, not just look.

Once this realisation hit home, and when my friends told me that I should ideally bring a small to mid–sized backpack anyway, I decided to use the Hasselblad with the S95 again, albeit the former will be in the shape of a rather basic kit: one camera, one film back and "only" three lenses: 80mm, 150mm and 250mm. To make skiing with the kit feasible, I had to buy yet another camera bag—you know, the type where the lower part serves as a camera bag and the upper part serves as a regular backpack. Very strangely, camera backpacks of this kind offered by the major brands that I checked are designed to carry DSLRs only; they are not internally configurable to accommodate a Hasselblad V series system. I ended up buying a cheapo Benro camera backpack, which was the only suitable option—I hope it will not fall apart on me!

The next question was that of camera support. I normally use a Gitzo GT3530LSV tripod with a Kirk BH–1 ball head, but it clearly would be way too much for skiing. At first I thought I would use Fujifilm Provia 400X slide film and shoot handheld, which is how I have been photographing the old Shanghai series, but the notion of intent reminded me that I also happen to have a Gitzo G1197 tripod with a KangRinpoche NB3–A ball head, which is much smaller and can be attached to the side of the Benro backpack without causing too much inconvenience. Below is a snapshot of the Hasselblad mounted on the big Gitzo, and the S95 mounted on its smaller sibling—you can see why I do not want to dance ballet—sorry, ski—with the big tripod.

Size, indeed, matters

Mounting the Hasselblad on the small Gitzo tripod is quite a bit of a stretch, but I tried it a few times in the past and the combination is actually perfectly usable provided you tiptoe and whisper around it.

Far from ideal, but workable

As a side note, you might have noticed that the big tripod does not have a central column, and that I changed the central column of its small brother to a short one (unfortunately, it cannot be completely removed). Over the years I have learned that using a central column is amateurish and, well, just plain detrimental. It adds instability, weight, and inconvenience of tripod handling; it also does not allow putting your camera close to the ground. And this high price is paid for the very questionable benefit of raising your camera a bit higher (which, if necessary, should be done by extending tripod legs). Ever since I bought the GT3530LSV I do not remember missing central columns even once; in fact, I only recollect thinking how wise it was to get rid of them.

Aside from the comment on central columns, the above reflections and assertions are mostly theoretical, of course. I have no idea how it all will work in the field, and it is possible that I will have to eat my words later. Given that this is a real possibility, I am taking a few rolls of Provia 400X in case skiing with a tripod turns out to be dangerous or impossible; I am also bringing the EP–3 in case the whole idea of skiing with the Hasselblad turns out to be cockamamie. I will let you know how it all goes after I return—stay tuned!

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