I’m not terribly interested in revisiting the “your camera doesn't matter; you can be a good photographer with anything in your hand” debate. I can see Ken Rockwell’s point; I can understand gadgeteers wanting to always have the newest/shiniest; I can get how new advances of technology make new areas of photography possible or at least accessible (such as Nikon’s amazing low-light sensors or Canon’s LiveView that literally saved my photoshoot once — a whole different story); I can relate to those thinking they are sucking the soul out of photography. To each their own. The beauty of this argument for me is that everyone’s essentially right.
(Compare it to the computer world where Mac owners are right and everyone else is not. Just kidding.)
To the point, though. One of the more interesting effects I noticed after switching to an SLR was that people, seeing you with a professional camera (and to laymen, even a lowly Rebel with a thrifty fifty looks professional), automatically tend to assume you're a great photographer and you can pull an Ansel Adams out of five stray photons. While parallel parking. On a hill. In heavy rain.
During the first months, I was annoyed by the seemingly incessant “did you get that?” No, sorry, I didn’t! I still can’t tell the aperture from the shutter speed, I want to have some time to compose it better, we just went indoors and there’s some setting I know I am supposed to change, and I think I am looking through this small piece of glass, and pointing with the big one… but you know, no bets even on this one. It happens more seldom these days, as some of those things are becoming second, third or fourth nature, but it still happens. And the reason for this is obvious: SLRs offer more, but they demand more too.
Here’s what I found really fascinating, though. It is a double-edged sword. I am going here on the record to say: having a better camera made me a better photographer. Both when I upgraded from a point-in-shoot to the XTi, and then later from the XTi to the 50D. All the technological advances aside, I suddenly had in my hands a mean machine with a serious looking glass (and a hood — I swear to God, the hood was probably the most important part of this). Something that represented decades of tradition. Something with so much untapped power, promises and potential. Something that some people earn bread with. Something that I knew, on day one, was going to puzzle, surprise, delight, and annoy me. Forever.
My point-and-shoot I could put in my pocket, whip out at any time and forget about three seconds after. It was quick, and painless, and noncommittal. My DSLR feels like anything but. I feel like I owe it to treat it more seriously — to try harder, to learn more, to shoot better, to look at the world more often through the lens (even if I don't have my camera with me) than I thought possible, and to not treat any photo like a throwaway. Even if, paradoxically, I throw away so many more of them.
One of the first photos I took with my SLR was that of a kid at SFO. It took me a metric forever (I forced myself to use a manual mode for the first couple months) to compose and meter it right. The second I did, I remember being amazed at the sharpness, the colour, the blurred background. I was so impressed with whatever quality that first shot exhibited that a lot of my fears (that SLRs are too much work, that I won’t enjoy or plain simply won’t get it), disappeared right there and then.
However, what’s equally true, but didn't appear to me until later, is that I wouldn't have even tried to take such a photo with my point-and-shoot.
Getting an SLR changed the way I look at photography. With my old idiotenkamera, I would have become angry if my shot didn’t come out technically right, but this frustration would never go anywhere. Right now, if I mess something up (and boy, do I ever), it is at times almost exciting, because I know that, with due time, I will have the opportunity to master that too. One of the most important parts of my first year as a photographer was the delight of the realization how much there is to learn — I could be doing this until I grow old, and there's always going to be something new to try.
I enjoy juxtaposing my friend’s photo of Route 66 in Arizona with the above photo I took, at the same place, at the same moment. I do that not to make myself feel better or to justify my photography expenses over the course of the last year. :·) I do it not even because our photos would look exactly alike just two-three years ago. I do it because I know today that if I don’t put my camera down, 10–25–50 years from now I will be able to come back there and shoot the best photo of that corner that anyone has taken. Ever.
I had a camera one way or the other ever since the year 2000, but I feel I learned much more in the past year than the eight years prior.
As for the hood? I mean look at this. Just the way it looks, the way it’s shaped as if it literally wanted to suck in photons — every time I put it on…
“Yes, sir.” I bring my camera up a little bit, put my left hand on the zoom ring, extend the lens all the way, smile just a little bit, and finish, completely unfazed by the fact that this is all happening in my head, “You’re absolutely right. I’m a photographer.”
— January 2009.