The good craftsman appreciates a well-designed and well-built tool; it serves well, operates with precision, and endures. It may even be beautiful in its own way.
Yet, in these pages, and from the advice of sages in many avenues of artistic endeavor, one may find oft repeated the wisdom of those who have done the hard work to master technique and have created enduring art with the simplest of tools. In this spirit, I offer anecdotes from my own experience, in case they may possibly save, or rescue, an unknown enthusiast from the anxiety, wasted time, and expense of PSF syndrome—photographic super-gadget fixation.
Decades ago, after viewing an exhibit at Nikon House in Manhattan, I went over to ask a question of the gentleman at a desk, or kiosk, near the impressive display cases of Nikon cameras and lenses and accessories. There was a short line. When the man in front of me got his turn, he asked the following (my close paraphrase of details):
“Hello. I have the 28 f.2.8, the 35 f.2.8, the 50 f/1.4, the 85 3.5, the 135 2.8, the 200 f/4, and the 50-300 5.6. Which lens should I buy next?”
The other relevant experience that I have never forgotten, occurred at Olden Camera, then a nationally known photo store in the Flat Iron Building on Broadway. It was a typical busy Saturday there, and the lines at the counters were long enough that I had the opportunity to overhear the man in front of me educating his wife on the finer points of difference between rangefinder cameras and SLRs. He had it all down; he had read all the articles and spoke calmly and with authority about the difference in seeing and composing with the two. She was skeptical. When the man’s turn came, he asked to see both the latest Leica M and several lenses, and a Hasselblad 500C and several lenses. The salesman brought them, and the man tried them out one at a time. He was having trouble making up his mind between these two, "Rolls Royce" systems. At last the respectful salesman asked, “What kind of photography will you be doing?” Before he could answer, his wife immediately responded, with more than a little pique, “Just around the back yard.”
We photographers, of course, are hardly alone in falling prey to the allure of magical potions. Audio buffs have been known to sink into depression when the state-of-the-art system they had saved years to purchase was surpassed in the next month's magazine tests by 0.003 percent lower distortion in frequencies a dog couldn’t hear.
I’ll leave off with one last experience, from another art.
A German friend was a natural cook, the kind who could have excelled as a professional chef. He cooked unforgettable meals with a plain pot, a cast iron pan, and wooden implements (and helped cure me of my “ultra-professional saucepan” fantasies). One day in the mid-1980s when he was visiting, he and I sallied forth in search of a plain 12-quart pot and some wooden spoons needed for an additional kitchen we’d be using. No problem, said I; the anchor stores at the malls all have huge kitchen departments now. They have everything.
In three separate department stores at two malls, we searched in vain, finally finding a plain stock pot of adequate size, and a solitary set of wooden spoons—at Sears. On the way back to the car through the mall, we had to pass again through the first kitchen department we had visited there, where grand displays of extensive, color-coordinated (and grandly-priced) cooking sets of all manner filled the entrance. As we passed, my friend paused and turned around to scan the scene. After a silent moment, he looked at me.
“You know what all this is for? It’s for yuppies to take home and cook their frozen vegetables!”
The ultimate photographic tool? Your imaginative, creative mind.
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