Leicas.
I had tangled with these mechanical jewells before, danced with their quaintness and revelled in their mystique. There was a time—a blur of film and fury—when a Leicaflex SL hung around my neck like a warrior’s totem, an R6 rested in my hand like a loaded weapon, and a Minilux lurked in my pocket, a clandestine accomplice. But those tales of analog indulgence, those wild nights of grain and shadow, are for another time. The fates conspired, though, and it wasn’t until two years ago that I finally grasped the legendary Leica M in my trembling hands.
Leica M’s were always shrouded in myth, a tantalising legend just out of reach. I’d binged on countless YouTube videos, devoured article after article, each one stoking the fires of my obsession. But the prices—those obscene, jaw-dropping prices—were a fortress of sanity, an impenetrable barrier to my dreams. The Leicas I owned were acquired on the cheap, battered veterans with stories etched into their frames. I could afford a Leica M, sure, but dropping that kind of cash felt like an act of decadent madness, a bougie surrender to bourgeois excess. It would have been a declaration of war on my senses, a free-fall into the abyss of fiscal irresponsibility. I knew myself too well: once I crossed that line, there’d be no turning back. The floodgates would open, and my financial sanity would be swept away in a tidal wave of Leica lust.
But, inevitably, I succumbed to the madness. My first Leica M was the M-P Typ 240, an acquisition made in a delirious haze in June 2022. To make room for this new obsession, I parted ways with my trusty Fujifilm X-Pro 3. Aside from the allure of a full-frame sensor, the 240 was a downgrade in every other way. If I’m being brutally honest, buying the Typ 240 was a half-hearted surrender, a compromise born of fiscal restraint. I lusted after the M10R, but the price tag was a towering monument to my hesitations. The M9 tempted me, its vintage charm undermined by the spectre of sensor corrosion. The Typ 240 sidestepped these issues, but it never fully convinced me. It was a tentative step into the abyss, a tepid plunge into Leica’s mythical waters.
Armed with a Zeiss 35mm F2.8, I ventured forth to test the mettle of this eight-year-old relic. My expectations were low, braced for disappointment. But to my astonishment, the results were a revelation. Now, I know the “Leica Look” is a contentious, subjective myth to many. Call me a hypebeast, a sucker for legend, but I swear by Leica’s colour science. It’s a religion, a belief in the holy trinity of accurate colour rendering, balanced hues, and smooth transitions. Perhaps it’s my advancing years, but this was a refreshing departure from Fujifilm’s increasingly gimmicky film emulations. The Leica’s output felt genuine, a pure distillation of visual truth that resonated deeply with my photographic soul.
So why, after only two months, did I part with the M-P Typ 240? Well, as expected, once my brain accepted the idea of indulging in Leica M’s, there was no stopping the descent into madness. The purchase of the M240 was merely a warning shot fired at my bank balance, a prelude to the financial apocalypse. Then, like a beacon in the fog, a pristine used M10R appeared on my radar. I deliberated for a few days, wrestling with the rampant urge of GAS (Gear Acquisition Syndrome). The decision was inevitable. I found a buyer for the M240, sold it for exactly what I paid, and by that same afternoon, the M10R was in my grasp. Not just the M10R, but also a 28mm Rit, a 35mm Cron, and a 50mm Lux. Oh, and a Leica MP, but that’s a tale for another night of fiscal debauchery. My poor, beleaguered bank account didn’t stand a chance.
Now, saying the difference in image quality between the 240 and the M10R is like night and day might be a bit of hyperbole. But my word, the M10R churns out some mind-blowing images. The high ISO performance, the sheer volume of detail you can claw back from the shadows in Lightroom—it was a revelation. I was smitten, utterly taken by the M10R. It became my everyday companion, a trusted ally. I carried it to work, snapping furiously on my commute, every step a new frame in the chaotic film of my life. I aimed to develop a muscle memory, a symbiotic relationship with the rangefinder. I aspired to master zone focusing, to see the world in distances measured by the 60cm x 60cm floor tiles of my office. This obsessive practice, this new way of seeing, was transformative. The gear had altered my perception, my very way of capturing reality. I was reborn, a zealot in the cult of Leica.
I was now a certified Leica whore, unabashed and insatiable. So, naturally, it wasn’t long before I craved some autofocus Leica flirtation. I remember the Typ 601’s release, and my reaction then was a resounding NO. At the time, it seemed ludicrously overpriced, a pitiful competitor to the mighty Sony A7 series, which could wipe the floor with it in terms of specs. But I was naïve then, blind to the true essence of Leica. It’s not about the specs; it’s about the sublime simplicity, the tactile ecstasy, the almost spiritual connection you forge with the camera. And, of course, that seductive Leica colour science. I mocked myself for dedicating so much effort to mastering manual focus. But there are moments—sweet, lazy moments—when you just want to press a button and let the camera work its magic. And so, the Typ 601 began to whisper its bewitching draw to my already corrupted soul.
So, in 2023, I caved and bought a used Typ 601, along with a harem of Sigma Contemporary lenses to put it through its paces. Now, I don’t want to be too harsh—it was an eight-year-old camera, after all—but the autofocus, ISO performance, and dynamic range were abysmal, way below par. It likely wasn’t even top-notch at its launch nearly a decade ago. But that EVF! High resolution, crystal clear, concise—probably the best I’ve ever peered through. Using Leica M and R lenses on the Typ 601 was an absolute delight, a tactile pleasure. The focus aids and the ability to punch in and magnify were lifesavers for my ageing, less-than-perfect eyesight. It was a bittersweet symphony, a mix of technical disappointments and optical triumphs.
In fact, this experiment with the Typ 601 was the catalyst that pushed me to buy the Visoflex for my M10R. I’ll confess, I had serious reservations about using an EVF on the sacred M system. The optical rangefinder was a shrine to simplicity, a purist’s dream of manual focus precision. Adding an EVF felt like defiling a temple, compromising the aesthetics of that iconic M body. These thoughts gnawed at my mind, creating a cacophony of doubt. But time and tide wait for no one. I was now in my mid-forties, squinting through bifocals just to navigate daily life. Relying solely on the focus patch was becoming an exercise in futility, a fool’s errand. The Visoflex was a necessary concession to the relentless march of time.
I didn’t keep the Typ 601 for long. A brief affair with the SL2-s and a flirtation with the Leica CL followed, but my heart was set on the SL2. So, I procured a used one, paired it with a 24-70 zoom, and set off for a trip to New Zealand, a land ripe for photographic conquest. The 47.3MP sensor spewed detail and dynamic range like a firehose, delivering more than I ever dared hope for. The menu system was streamlined into something even more user-friendly than before, a Herculean feat in itself. And the EVF—oh, the EVF!— this now boasted 5.76 million dots with a 120fps refresh rate, a sheer joy to behold.
Around this time, I also acquired my first SL lens, the 35mm APO. I’d heard endless praise about this lineup, from its impeccable build quality to the advanced optical design with apochromatic correction—most of which was technical gibberish to me. But damn, that lens produced one hell of a fine image on the SL2. It was a revelation, a testament to Leica’s relentless pursuit of photographic perfection.
The M10R soon stepped aside for the M10 Monochrom, a shift driven by my enduring fascination with Leica’s Monochrom range. The concept still strikes me as idiotic—you can always convert a colour DNG to B&W but never the reverse. Yet, the extra ISO leverage it offered meant I could shoot at 1/500 and F8 in most street photography conditions, a game-changer. In my growing arsenal, I also added an M9. My fascination with the CCD sensor from that generation was unyielding. I bought one in less-than-ideal cosmetic shape, but with a sensor replaced by Leica to dodge the notorious corrosion issue.
The CCD sensor sparks endless debate, its purportedly analog output a topic of fervent discussion. Personally, I find the images distinct from every subsequent generation of M cameras. Yet, I remain on the fence about whether that look truly mimics film. And the unsettling fact that the M9 becomes nearly unusable past ISO 1600? Disturbing, to say the least. But this quirky beast, with all its flaws and idiosyncrasies, holds a strange, almost irresistible beckoning to me.
It’s now May 2024. Where is this wild Leica journey heading? Where does it end? For me, Leica is synonymous with photography. FOR ME. For those who think a Leica magically turns you into a better photographer, laugh all you want. I hear your cynicism, but NO—Leica doesn’t make me better; it inspires me to be better. Inspiration is a deeply personal beast, unique to each soul. Disagree if you must, but don’t waste your breath trying to convince me otherwise.
I’ve dabbled with other systems—Sony A7 MK4 and A7R MK5. Both are superb machines, objectively flawless. But the subjective experience, the visceral connection, that’s where Sony falls flat for me. Their menu systems are a labyrinthine nightmare, a tedious chore that drains the joy from the process. Leica, with all its quirks and limitations, speaks to me in a language of inspiration, passion and simplicity. It’s not about specs; it’s about the connection between photographer and camera.
I took a spin with the Nikon ZF, a tantalising beast when used with native Voigtlander Z mount manual lenses. The ZF’s manual focus UI was a dream, a delightful dance of precision and nostalgia. It’s a beautifully retro-styled camera, pulling at the heartstrings like a long-lost love. But, alas, it stumbles where it counts—the ability to set ISO in any functional, coherent manner. A fatal flaw for me in an otherwise charming companion.
Then there was the Zeiss ZX1, a siren song I desperately wanted to heed. I hold Zeiss in the same reverence as Leica, a pedestal of optical excellence. But Zeiss, my dear, what madness possessed you to use Android OS in this camera? The battery turned into a fiery demon after ten minutes of use, heating up so intensely that holding the camera became a physical and mental ordeal. It felt like the damned thing might explode in my hands, a ticking time bomb of digital folly.
The ZX1 experiment, despite its fiery downfall, convinced me that I had a void on my shelf for a fixed lens camera. Enter the Q2, a new addition to my collection. I had previously scoffed at the Q line, deeming it too limiting, a creative straightjacket. But those very limitations pushed me to new heights of ingenuity, forcing me to contort and manoeuvre into the perfect position for each shot. I found myself shooting from hip level, chest level, chin level, and even nose level, all in a bid to capture those elusive close-up moments without spooking my subjects. It was invigorating, a rush of creative adrenaline that breathed new life into my photographic adventures.
As we near the tail end of this tedious rant, behold my current collection:
Leica M11 Monochrom
Leica Q3
Leica SL2
I’ve settled on these three, realising the absurdity of owning ten different Leicas in just two years. It was time to refocus on what truly mattered: taking pictures. The grand plan was to trade up to the latest models, effectively giving my GAS no excuse to yearn for the latest and greatest. That’s the theory, at least. I’ll upgrade to the SL3 once the used ones start flooding the market, and expand my collection of APO SL lenses, which I consider some of the finest glass I’ve ever experienced.
The M9 is not forgotten; it will be revisited, possibly in its M9P guise, because its images possess a unique charm that sets them apart from modern M cameras. Perhaps it will become my fair-weather companion, a nostalgic nod to the analog soul in a digital age.
Leica is not for everyone. Hell, I didn’t think it was for me once upon a time. But once you try one, you’ll know if you’re a Leica person or not. It’s an unspoken bond, a feeling of connection that’s impossible to articulate. It probably sounds pathetic at best, and downright creepy to some. The lack of features might seem like a raw deal, especially when you’re shelling out Leica prices. But it’s within these enforced limitations that I find creative solutions. These constraints push me to adopt new practices, experiment with settings, and achieve my photographic visions.
Let me reiterate: Leica is not for everyone. But for me, Leica embodies everything good in photography. It’s my muse, my inspiration, and the very essence of my photographic journey.
Jasper
streets in motion 