Learning photography: A tale of a photographer & his gear

What was first intended to counter-balance a mild rant elsewhere on the site has grown into a lengthy, full-blown reminiscence, probably tedious for other folks but I don't apologize. Reminiscences like this are an old person's privilege. They're largely meant for an audience of one, though anyone can drop by. Mr. Mark Twain said that when fourteen, his father was so ignorant Mark could hardly endure being around him, but when Mark turned twenty-one he was pleasantly surprised just how much his father had learned in seven years. That’s the way with reminiscences, too. When you’re young, you wonder why old folks go on so about even the smallest details from the past. When you’re old, you understand it’s because the past is most of your life and old folks want to hold on to as much life as they can.

So here’s my reminiscence, meandering along, recalling something of how I learned about photography through the equipment I used, with some likely not very profound thoughts tossed in about photography generally. It’s emerging in slow stages because there are many byways that suddenly appear and need to be explored. Not so they can be recounted here necessarily; they just need exploring. Anyway, with luck there may be something to what follows. Probably not, but that’s okay, too.

In the mild rant referred to, I complained about how often people, on seeing a good photograph, deprecate the photographer’s role as creative artist in making it. Must have been a really good camera, people say, or (unmentioned in the rant) must have been Photoshopped. Because, you know, cameras just spontaneously make photographs and Photoshop can make any vacay snapshot a wall hanger.

It’s the photographer’s creativity that makes a good photograph. But this doesn’t mean there hasn’t always been an important technological element in photography. If when visualizing a photograph the photographer employs their eyes, mind, and heart (as Cartier-Bresson said), then distilling what has been seen, thought, and felt into visible form requires technological tools and skill in using them. Such craft-like blending of photographic creative expression with technology is nothing new, nor is the familiar fundamental sequence by which this happens. Its broad outlines, largely unchanged from photography’s earliest days, connect visualization and composition with exposure, development, and fixing for some form of display. Beginning with the photographer’s creative decision, every step that follows is aimed at realizing in the final print what the photographer visualized perhaps even before looking into the viewfinder, certainly before pressing the shutter button. The creative why always governs the technological how.

Sometimes the effects of technological change in photography are overestimated, I think. Of course there’s been change, even momentous change, since the foundations for the digital revolution were laid down in the 1950s. Digital has become so dominant that film hangs on only with aficionados and fanatics. Who doubts that we have amazing equipment that produces amazing photographs? But the photographer’s path to creative expression, that fundamental sequence of tasks, remains largely unchanged. The techniques and tools used to handle those tasks have been refined, made more accessible, and for most photographers relocated now to a studio computer. Yet photographers continue to do what they have always done, pursuing their creative visions by making photos.

I emphasize the continuity in basic photographic tasks and techniques because few vocations or avocations seem to get as wrapped up in equipment (or gear or kit or whatever you want to call it) as photography does. Maybe audiophiles, videographers, and ham radio operators. And heavy metal rock bands. Yeah, them, too. Maybe we all need to get a life.

Technology is basically about tools, that’s all. Lose sight of that, as we too regularly do, and we start confusing using tools with doing creative photography. Or even good photography. A photographer once showed me a group portrait, crowing about its technical image quality while ignoring the telephone pole growing out of someone’s head. (Maybe it’s me, but that just ain’t natural.) I’ve watched a photographer’s assistant lug a battery-powered softbox out along a breakwater out to some lakeside rocks, then hold it directly over several people’s heads while the photographer shot directly into the setting sun behind them. (Yeah, bet that worked.) Think of all the overly contrasty and heavily saturated images you’ve seen, attempting to be painterly or dramatic, but winding up only being garish. You get the point.

Scientists once referred to human beings as the tool-making animal. Maybe we should also learn when not to use tools, at least in photography. Yes, we must understand our kit technically, how it works and why. But it's more important that we  turn our technical understanding to creative uses. As we use our kit, we learn its creative strengths and weaknesses, how it suits our preferred shooting style. All kit, especially lenses and camera bodies, has assumptions built into it about how photographers work. Some of these assumptions are highly technical, others mostly cosmetic. We need in any case to ask how these assumptions shape and enable our work creatively, not just do technological tricks because we can.

Thinking about this (I really do need to get a life), it occurred to me that one way of understanding what and how I'd learned about photography over the years was to trace what I learned from my gear, mostly cameras but other kit as well. Sometimes the lessons were small, other times huge. But all influenced the way I approach doing photography creatively.

Two notes before launching the wayback machine. First, all lenses are listed with their native focal lengths (plus 35mm equivalents in parentheses for Olympus lenses). What this means is discussed here, especially in the second paragraph; you can safely skip this if you want. Second, rather than describe the different types of cameras mentioned below, each is labeled as follows; links here are to explanatory Wikipedia articles if you're at all interested. Again, no one is gonna call you out if you skip this.

SLR = single lens reflex camera

FF dSLR = full-frame format dSLR camera

4/3 dSLR = 4/3 format dSLR camera

Micro 4/3 = 4/3 format mirrorless camera

And now, finally, welcome to the wayback machine . . . and I do mean way  back.

Untitled photo

Argus C3. (SLR)

The camera when I was eleven -- About has the  backstory -- wasn't more than a toy, making my first real camera a used Argus C3, known as “The Brick” for obvious reasons. It was among the most popular cameras ever produced. I still have my mine and if it got tuned up a little, it would probably still record decent images. But that's not why I keep it.

It’s 1962. I’m looking at a display case of new cameras I can’t afford. The photography store owner knows this, but I still tell him I want nothing less than a "serious camera." I’m going to be a serious photographer and that takes a serious camera, right? The owner has heard this before, but somehow decides not to blow me off as just another jive punk wannabe. He walks over to a table of used cameras, saying in gruff Philly speak,  "C'mere, kid. Ya wanna be a serious photographer? First ya learn the basics, then ya get a serious camera." He hands me the C3. "Here ya go, kid, sixteen bucks. The telephoto I'll throw in for nuthin’."

Lousy telephoto, good camera, priceless advice. Rangefinder focusing taught patience and precision. No exposure meter, so master the exposure triangle or die (f-stop, shutter speed, and ISO, what was formerly known as ASA or DIN). You mumbled the sunny 16 rule in your sleep: In direct sunlight, f/16 and shutter speed is the reciprocal of ISO. Good old Kodak Tri-X 400 meant  f/16 at 1/400 second. Journalists usually just adjusted f/stop in changing conditions, but you could be seriously creative by understanding the exposure triangle well enough to control depth of field or bokeh. The tediousness of changing lenses on the C3 meant you used its 50mm lens almost all the time. If you wanted to get closer or change perspective, you used your legs in a "dance" with your subject looking for the best composition. In other words, you learned what it is to really work a shot.

Bottom line: The C3 forced me to learn the basics, just as that crusty photography store owner had known it would when he sold it to me. Yeah, he'd known exactly what he was doing, God love him. He'd unloaded an older camera on a young loudmouth, sure, but he was also challenging me. Did I really want to be a serious photographer? Well, okay then: Have at it. And whether he meant to or not, he probably couldn't have sold me a better learning tool. I'm still thankful all these years later, and that's why my Argus C3 sits in my studio as a reminder. 

The Argus C3 did yeoman duty when I went to Germany as an exchange student from 1963 to 1964 (there are still C3 images in my portfolio from those years). Still, by the time I hit college, it was pretty clear that moving my photography forward  meant acquiring some new kit. Not until 1971, however, again in Germany but this time serving Uncle Sam, did motive (always present) and the means (generally sadly lacking) come together.

Untitled photo

Minolta SR-T 101. (SLR)

Through college and into the Army, there was neither time nor money for me to be an active photographer or even to stay current on advances in equipment. Finally arriving at my duty station in upper Bavaria in summer 1971, nine years after buying my heroic C3, I knew it was well past time to take the next step. When I did, the capabilities of a serious mid-level camera like the 101 came as a revelation. The photographer no longer had  to eyeball exposures or tediously focus with a rangefinder. Now the photographer, free to concentrate on creativity, could truly soar. Or that's how it seemed to me at the time.  

The 101 had reasonably advanced through-the-lens (TTL) systems, something entirely new to me after the C3. The 101’s full aperture TTL metering system was particularly attractive. Rather than being stopped down when making an exposure reading, the viewfinder remained fully illuminated. A needle visible on the viewfinder’s right side indicated the amount of light coming through the lens. A second needle with a small ring at its top responded to exposure triangle adjustments.

The film’s ISO served as the base for calculating exposure; setting it moved the ring needle a corresponding distance closer to or away from the first needle. Next the shutter speed or f/stop was set, depending which had priority given the photographer’s intentions. Again the ring needle moved closer to or away from the first needle. Then the third setting, shutter speed or f/stop, was adjusted to bring the two needles into alignment. So long as the first needle was somewhere in the ring on the second needle, you had a good exposure. Again my camera was teaching me how to manage the interactive nature of the exposure triangle.

A second feature of the 101’s metering system was its “contrast light compensation” (CLC). Early TTL light meters did not allow selection among different metering modes (e.g., spot, averaging, matrix, center-weighted averaging). Most therefore used center-weighted metering on the assumption that the most important elements in a photo will most likely be at or near the center of the frame. The 101 also used a center-weighted meter, but added one light sensitive cell at the front of the viewfinder and another at the rear. These cells were linked and through some wizardry I can neither understand nor explain provided a more nuanced reading of the frame, somewhat like a primitive matrix meter might do. But CLC accommodated landscape (horizontal) framing much better than portrait (vertical), the latter requiring a few tricks to overcome the system's limitations.

The 101’s focus system was of course manual. Having framed your shot, adjusting the lens’s focus ring moved a gridded circle projected on the viewfinder in to or out of focus. A thin Fresnel prism overlay the grid, brightening it to make the grid easier to see and thus facilitate focusing. Quite different from and an improvement over the C3’s rangefinder focusing system, but requiring the same patience and precision. The lesson here -- that good focus is challenging and can't be rushed, no matter the camera model -- should have sunk in more than it did, and should have directly carried over to my later autofocus cameras. It didn't, to my cost, because I allowed myself to become dependent on technology at the expense of technique.

One the most important lessons the 101 taught me was that a photographer must think of their kit as a system, filling it in with gear designed for their particular shooting interests and styles. It’s common to think immediately of the camera body as the hub of a photography system, and in many ways it is. New camera body technology may even be reason enough to make a complete system change, which is not inexpensive. But in fact lenses are what make or break you (financially and as a photographer).

(As a quick aside, all lenses for my 101 were prime lenses, that is, they had fixed focal lengths. Zoom lenses were becoming available, but in comparison with prime lenses the zooms tended to be slower and have poorer image quality. This may give some context to what follows.)

Nothing compensates for poor quality lenses. While it’s often possible to work around a camera body’s shortcomings, poor quality lens create problems — softness in the corners, poor color reproduction, vignetting, weird distortion patterns — that will appear in every image you make. Correcting these problems, if it’s even possible, requires considerable effort. This will drive you crazy, and if you’re like me, you’ve already got enough crazy to deal with.

Make lenses your priority when building a photo system. Consider not just your first lens or lenses, but also possibilities for upgrading down the way. What’s available for your camera line? Trust me that if you buy a kit lens and are serious about photography, you’re going to want to upgrade. In fact, try to avoid kit lenses, buying camera body and lens separately if possible. Put roughly 60 percent of your money into a good lens and 40 percent into the camera body. 

I learned this guideline when buying the 101 (and ignored it one time later, to my cost). Fortunately, the 101 had a decent Rokkor 50mm f/1.7 kit lens, but generally “kit lens” is not a compliment. Most kit lenses are not very durable, are seldom moisture and dust sealed, and have at most adequate image quality. The kit lens’s chief advantages are low production costs, allowing them to be packaged inexpensively with camera bodies, simplifying the consumer’s decision-making by offering the immediate gratification of being able to open the box and start shooting right away. A cynic might suspect that this also ropes consumers into a specific camera brand and creates an additional revenue stream for manufacturers when consumers upgrade to better lenses.

Anyway, I quickly upgraded to the MC Rokkor-PG 58mm f/1.2, a simply brilliant lens that had been a principal reason I bought into the Minolta line. The 58mm was a so-called normal lens, which have focal lengths ranging roughly from 45mm to 58mm. These focal distances roughly mimic the human eye’s angle of vision. Photographs made with normal lenses are thus familiar in terms of scale and proportion, depending of course on subsequent cropping. Such lenses have been a photographic mainstay for decades, perhaps especially in street, event, and journalistic shooting.

However brilliant the f/1.2 was, it was still only one lens. Photographers are often loathe to have only one of something and become adept at justifying additional or backup kit. It seemed natural to me that I should have at least two additional lenses, and as a budding landscape photographer it also seemed natural the first of these two lenses should (naturally) be a standard wide angle, with a focal length between 24mm and 35mm. I settled on a Rokkor 35mm f/2.8 that turned out to be a very solid performer.

  • Balcony House 1
  • Mesa Arch & Washer Woman Arch at Sunrise
  • Pioneer Barn in Jackson Hole

Buying that lens seemed natural because I mistakenly thought the primary use of wide angle lenses was to capture the full breadth of the landscape, the full sweep of the land. They do this because of their wide angles of vision, ranging from about 64 to 84 degrees, which is considerably wider than the human eye's angle of vision. When we look at a landscape, we see  therefore see objects as larger than they will be recorded by a camera using a wide angle lens. with it differently from the camera. The wider we shoot, the smaller objects become relative to how our eyes see them (see here for illustration). Logical as this is, we're often surprised by it, which leads to lots disappointing wide angle shots, especially when reduced to print or screen size. Compositionally, I think it's more effective to let a “slice” of landscape stand in for or to suggest the "flavor" of the whole. I just wish I would remember this more often in the field. 

So what are wide angle lenses best used for? Well, I've learned that wide angle lenses, especially the ultra wide angles, are more “special purpose” than I realized. In fact, they may almost be niche lenses that perform two tasks especially well. The first is when you have to work in close quarters but want to get a lot in the frame, like the shot from Balcony House at Mesa Verde National Park (top left). The second task is when you want something in the close foreground to frame something in the distance, like the image of Washer Woman Arch seen through Mesa Arch at Canyonlands National Park (middle left).  (Full disclosure: These examples were made with gear other than the 101, for reasons I describe at the start of the section about my going digital.)

Moving on . . . . Normal lens, wide angle lens . . . geez, what came next, I wonder? Actually, I did wonder if I really needed a telephoto lens in my kit, especially if landscape was going to be my thing. (Okay, please stop laughing at me: I was young and foolish, remember?) The answer is, of course, an emphatic “yes,” which had me adding a nifty Rokkor 135mm f/2.8 mid-telephoto to my kid. Happily so, because not only do telephotos capture distant objects and details, but they have inherently greater depth of field and can compress the apparent distance between objects, somewhat as happens in this photo of a pioneer barn and background mountains in Grand Teton National Park (bottom left). Frankly, I should use my telephoto far more than I do, but I’m bad about switching lenses while in the field, a technology-induced shooting fault that needs correction.

Having worked out my basic kit -- which included a good tripod and remote shutter release cable, both essential for any serious photographer, even now with internal stabilization systems standard in digital cameras -- my duty station officer-in-charge, a very understanding man, permitted me to set up a small darkroom in the basement of our office building in exchange for providing photography services. The darkroom was a magical place, and for this and many other considerations I will always be grateful to my OIC. It did mean the 101 spent many days on the ground and in the air along the then West/East German border in northern Bavaria. An unintended but happy result of this was that my comrades and I became very well acquainted not only with the border's military features, but also with most of the small village pubs in the region. Liaison work at it's finest. Nonetheless, I’m sure some of the resulting actual border and military images made significant contributions to winning the Cold War . . . . you can believe that if you want, but it's not required.

The SR-T 101 remained with me for many years, through graduate school and beyond. It held up under rugged conditions on uncounted North Woods canoeing and camping excursions, rock climbing sessions from Wisconsin to West Virginia, and mountaineering in Colorado, Idaho, and Wyoming. Some of the images most precious to me personally were made with it. It sits in my studio today, next to the Argus C3.

  • Untitled photo
  • Untitled photo
  • Untitled photo
  • Untitled photo

Olympus E-500, E-3, E-5 & OM-D E-M5. (4/3 dSLRS except M-5 micro 4/3)

I entered the digital age and returned to active photography all on the same day. As the man says, It was good. First, however, I had to get there.

Christmas Day 1990. I'm away visiting my family. Also away is my upstairs neighbor, who is an idiot. To save money, he turns his heating way down before leaving. In north-central Minnesota. In December. Water pipes freeze, then burst. My apartment is inundated and uninhabitable for months. Most of my photographic equipment and almost all of my slides, negatives, and prints, plus years of academic research records, are destroyed. The sudden loss of so much that is irreplaceable demoralizes me well into the future.

Between 1990 and 2000 I dropped photography altogether except for using the water-damaged 58mm and 101 on some family excursions. Later there was a mid-level film SLR bought for my wife’s business trip to Ireland. Not much, but still a camera. I used it to document historical sites after a chance discovery stirred my interest in family history. The lab scanned negatives and slides to digital files that I processed in Photoshop Elements, and I bought a basic scanner for some surviving photos and slides. Scanning was a means to leverage film’s still superior resolution with the growing power of the digital darkroom. I could see that photography’s future was clearly full bore digital. Which meant mine was, too, if I wanted back in the game. And I was getting antsy.

After moving around more than a little, my wife and I landed in a central Illinois town. Where there happened to be a decent independent photography store with an energetic, knowledgeable staff. I dropped in on a "just looking" basis several times, then finally made a serious visit in 2006.The young store manager patiently answered my questions, which  seemed painfully basic to me. I’d had the sense to ask my wife along and she eventually approved the purchase of an Olympus E-500 dSLR with two kit zoom lenses. I suspect she's since regretted that decision a time or two.

This was a new world. Other than compositional techniques, almost nothing transferred directly from film to digital, at least not for me. This wasn’t relearning something; it was learning something entirely new. 

But there was still the advice given me so long ago by that crusty camera store owner, the one who sold me the C3. That advice paid off once again. “Learn the basics,” he’d said. The basics apply regardless of what camera system you’re using. I studied the E-500 manual, learned what a jpeg was and then a RAW file, figured out the dials and buttons, discovered autofocus, overcame my aversion to zoom lenses, and made my first test snapshots of the cat on the back porch. The basics came back, quickly, but it took time to explore how digital technology extends the camera's capabilities. The comeback journey was starting.

Three basic differences between film and digital photography quickly became apparent. First, digital equipment is much more technologically complex than film equipment. Second, the nature of digital processing makes the computer and even printer part of a photographer's system in a way the darkroom never was. Third,  understanding your equipment is considerably more important in digital than in film photography. If you want to get to M on a dSLR, and so make full use of its capabilities, you must understand that it is essentially a light recording and processing computer with a lens attached. And also how that computer works.

Once you understand these three points, learning to shoot digitally is a straightforward iterative process.Understand as much as you can about using your camera, about digital shooting generally, and about basic composition. Shoot as much as possible as often as possible, analyze the results (being sure not to confuse improvement with quality), adjust, then repeat the cycle in as many different contexts as possible. Learn, shoot, analyze, adjust, repeat. That's all there is to it. Well, that and the occasional swearing session.

Olympus (which left camera manufacturing in summer 2020) helped develop the small 4/3 sensor, allowing for smaller, lighter cameras and lenses. The E-500 was a serious "prosumer" dSLR with several features well above its modest price point. The E-3 and E-5 were flagship dSLRs intended for high end enthusiast and professional shooters. The E-M5 was a mirrorless camera with an electronic rather than optical viewfinder. Its specs and performance were equal to or better than standard dSLRs. Oly innovations have since become standard in dSLRs: a supersonic sensor cleaning system, blazing fast autofocus, and (with the E-3, E-5, and E-M5) in-body image stabilization reducing camera shake when shooting hand-held at low shutter speeds, and articulating rear LCD screens. Oly gear also had superior "weather sealing," meaning it could withstand harsher conditions than many other brands.

What made the Oly system for me was -- you'll never guess -- the lenses. The E-500 had two kit lenses, one of which was the worst lens I've ever shot with. I quickly dumped it for a Zuiko 14mm–54mm (28mm--108mm) f/2.8–3.5 which then became a Zuiko 12mm-60mm (24mm--120mm) f/2.8-4. It had a weird correctible distortion pattern, but was otherwise outstanding. The Zuiko 50mm-200mm (100mm-400mm)  f/2.8-3.5 was also outstanding, as were the Zuiko 50mm (100mm) f/2 Macro and Panasonic-Leica 25mm (50mm)  f/1.4 Summilux. On the E-M5 the f/1.4 was brilliant. A lot of great shots with those lens, some of my very best.

So why did I stop using Oly after seven years? Basically because of what I'd learned from the Minolta SR-T 101, that photographers buy into and build a system.  I wasn't sure what kind of Oly system I'd be able to maintain. Oly had wonderful lenses, but their camera bodies lagged  behind. The flagships had fairly low megapixel sensors when released, 10mp for the E-3 in 2007 and 12mp for the E-5 in 2010. The E-5 definitely improved on the E-3, and megapixel counts do not define image quality, but the E-5 still couldn't do those lenses justice.

Nor did Oly seem very keen to develop its dSLR line further, preferring to emphasize mirrorless micro-4/3 cameras. These jumped ahead in terms of features and sensor development, as with the E-M5 in 2012. I started shooting with the E-M5 in January,  2013, primarily with my Panasonic-Leica 25mm (50mm) f/1.4 and occasionally my Oly lenses on an adapter. The E-M5 with the f/1.4 made some interesting images, like this stairwell shot, and produced spectacular color, as in this from Forsyth Park in Savannah, Georgia. But it was too small for me to work with comfortably. And questions arose whether the micro-4/3 sensor's small size might limit its further development. As I age still more, I will almost certainly take up the smaller mirrorless dSLR format, but it wasn't for me then and is not now. Thus, after shooting with the E-M5 for only five months, in May I set it aside to make about as big a system jump as possible at the time and still be shooting a dSLR.

  • Untitled photo
  • Untitled photo

Nikon D800 & D810. (FF dSLRs)

Somebody once said, "Go big or go home." I went big, jumping to the Nikon D-800 in May, 2013, a year after its release. The D800 had a 36.3 megapixel sensor, then the market's largest in a dSLR. It won a number of awards and set a new benchmark for dSLR image quality. The successor D810 arrived two years later, offering improved auto-focusing and a new sensor with still better image quality. The D810 and D800 are feature packed full frame workhorses, and I love them.

I've considered moving to the newer D850, which has a staggering 45.7 megapixel sensor as well as several focus innovations, or perhaps to the Z7 II, Nikon's flagship mirrorless dSLR. But I'm not sure how much more camera I really need right now, as opposed to using the money for travel to new shooting locations and experiences. Maybe I'll win the lottery and do both. Maybe I'll see a unicorn, too.

Anyway, there's one benchmark that has become steadily more important to me: dynamic range (DR). DR is the difference between the darkest and brightest details a sensor (or film) can capture. It's usually expressed in stops, which can be calculated in various ways. Most familiar is the f-stop, the ratio between lens focal length and the width or a lens opening. This ratio is used to indicate how much light is being admitted into the camera. On the scale of full f-stops, each stop is a factor of two brighter or darker than the stop following or preceding it. Thus a full stop increase from f/5.6 to f/8 reduces the light admitted by 50 percent, while the full stop decrease from f/5.6 to f/4 doubles the light admitted. It helps your mental stability to keep remembering that the stop is a ratio.

DR has been a problem for dSLRs. The D810 didn't solve the problem, but it does achieve a very high DR of eleven stops (some sources have said even higher). That means at its base ISO, the D10 can capture a scene where the brightest element is about 1100 times brighter than the darkest element. That's a lot, and very important when working in the outdoors.

Starting with my Oly cameras, I began to use zoom rather than prime lenses. Part of this was by force of necessity. Buying lots of prime lenses is expensive; carrying them in the field is a pain. Fortunately, zoom lenses have steadily improved and their flexibility is now usually worth the slight decrease in image quality between them and primes. Nikon especially has an excellent stable of lenses, some of them ranking among the very best available. Nikon's "gold ring" lenses are stabilized, allowing more confident hand-held shooting, and well-sealed against moisture and dust. I've really been happy with their quality: Nikkor 16mm-35mm f/4, Nikkor 24mm-70mm f/2.8, Nikkor 70mm-200mm f/2.8, 80mm-400mm f/4.5-f/5.6, and Nikkor 105mm f/2.8 micro. 

The quality of images I'm getting from these lenses on the D810 and D800 often astonishes me. I've made some of my very best images with them, often in challenging lighting conditions: the cathedral in Bayeux, France, at night; interior light in the Reims, France, cathedral; a high contrast night scene in Bayeux; and a challenging morning shot of Mesa Arch in Canyonlands National Park. They take me from the sweep of a Badlands sunset or a Yellowstone sunrise, to the solemnity of the cemetery above Omaha Beach at Colleville-sur-Mer in Normandy, and on to quiet beauty of a mountain blue birdThat makes this old fart photographer happy.

  • Bayeux Cathedral at Night
  • Untitled photo
  • Untitled photo
  • Mesa Arch at Sunrise
  • Untitled photo
  • Morning on Soda Butte Creek Below Ice Box Canyon, Yellowstone Na
  • Untitled photo
  • Untitled photo

(3/6/21 rev.)