Fstoppers Original Articles

Two centuries of photography prove some pictures are timeless, but today photographers are forced to pick a lane. Or are we?

Two photographs can be equally strong in composition, light, and technique, yet only one continues to unfold after the first impression. The difference often lies in what the elements of the frame are actually doing.

In 2005, if you asked a working photographer to name a Sony stills camera, you would get a shrug and maybe a Cyber-shot pointed at you. Sony had no professional lens line, no professional autofocus heritage, and no seat at a table Canon and Nikon had set for themselves decades earlier. A little over ten years later, Sony was selling the most talked-about full-frame mirrorless cameras on the market, and both of its rivals were scrambling to answer.

Who doesn't love a good theme park ride photo? Faces contorted in delicious mixes of fear, anticipation, and fun make for interesting photos. And while it's easier than ever to buy the photos, sometimes all you get is crushing disappointment in the form of thumbnail-sized photos that look like they were taken with a potato.

In April 1972, at Polaroid's annual meeting, Edwin H. Land reached into his jacket, pulled out a camera folded flat enough to hide in a suit pocket, and in about ten seconds fired off five color photographs. There was no timer to watch, no negative to peel away, no wet chemistry to wipe off your fingers. That was the SX-70, and more than fifty years later, it still looks like it wandered in from a future that never quite arrived.

Panning is an integral part of sports and action photography, but mastering the technique can add interest and intrigue to many genres. I am going to break down the five things I consider when trying to create a good panning image.

Somewhere on or below Everest's northern side, perhaps buried in snow, rock, or moving ice, there may be a camera the size of a bar of soap. If it is ever found, and if the film inside survived, it could answer a question that has hung over mountaineering for 100 years: did George Mallory and Andrew "Sandy" Irvine stand on the summit of Everest in 1924, three decades before Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay?

For about five minutes on May 29, 1919, the Moon blotted out the Sun over an island in the Gulf of Guinea and a hard-baked plain in northern Brazil, and two teams of astronomers pointed their cameras at a patch of sky no one could normally see. They were not photographing the eclipse for its beauty. They were trying to measure whether a handful of stars had moved.

For the past couple of years, I've found myself reaching for film cameras more often. Not because they're better than digital—they’re not. For the analog look then? No, I believe you can get a film look with digital, if you know your way around an editing app. It’s really because they remind me why I fell in love with photography in the first place.

When a hurricane spins up over the Atlantic, the most frequent, most continuous pictures of it come from a camera parked 22,236 miles above the equator. That camera is the Advanced Baseline Imager, the primary instrument on NOAA's GOES-R series of weather satellites, and it works nothing like the one in your bag. It never racks focus, it has no shutter in the conventional sense, and what it delivers is not really a photograph. It is a stack of measurements that gets rebuilt into an image on the ground.

The best culling software is the one that gets you to your picks faster without deciding for you. Narrative sorts a shoot by scene, ranks every frame for focus and expression, and shows you why it ranked things the way it did, so the final call stays yours. That last part is what separates it from tools that hand you a finished selection and ask you to trust it.

It’s that time again to sit back and dream about a one-size-fits-all camera that doesn’t actually exist, but really should.

At 5:29:45 in the morning on July 16, 1945, in a stretch of New Mexico desert the Spanish called the Jornada del Muerto, the sky turned brighter than the noon sun. Aimed at that flash, tucked into steel-and-lead bunkers and buried instrument boxes ringing a 100-foot tower, sat roughly fifty cameras. Most of the cameras were unmanned and triggered automatically, although Brixner personally occupied a tracking-camera position at North 10,000. Every one had been focused, loaded, and left in the dark hours earlier, wired to fire on a countdown, because no human eye could be trusted to catch what was about to happen and no photographer could survive standing close enough to try. The world has entered the nuclear age.

In 2022, a camera on the floor of the Izu-Ogasawara Trench off Japan, 8,336 meters down, filmed a small translucent snailfish drifting through its beam. No fish had ever been filmed so far down. No sunlight has ever reached that trench, and the light that does exist down there, the faint blue flicker of bioluminescence, is nothing like the broad-spectrum white the camera carries. When the lights came on, they almost certainly gave that fish a kind of light it had never seen. A great deal of deep-sea photography works this way: the scene has no sunlight of its own, so the camera has to bring it.

Buying memory cards used to be a simple decision: match the slot, pick a speed class, done. That's no longer the case, and not just because of price. Every memory purchase has become a longer-term investment rather than a one-off consumable buy, and getting that decision right matters more than ever. But what does this mean if you're thinking of upgrading your camera, for example, shooting on a Nikon DSLR with an aging XQD slot now, but with a mirrorless upgrade already on your mind? If, like me, you're in that position, the card you buy now needs to outlast the camera it's going into.

In October 2017, a silver plate about the size of a paperback sold at Sotheby's in New York for $360,500. It is the earliest surviving photograph of anyone who has ever been President of the United States, and the man staring out of it had been out of the office for fourteen years by the time the lens cap came off. The question of who was photographed first is messier than a single plate suggests, and every leading candidate carries an asterisk.

Imagine trying to photograph a moon the size of a fist while flying past it at 45,000 miles per hour, using a camera you cannot see through, cannot focus by hand, and cannot even talk to in real time. Every instruction you send takes hours to arrive. By the time you learn whether a shot worked, the target is long gone, and there is no second pass. That was the daily reality for the people who ran the cameras on Voyager 1 and Voyager 2.

Eleven men sit shoulder to shoulder on a steel beam, more than 800 feet above Manhattan, eating sandwiches and lighting cigarettes as if the drop beneath their boots were nothing more than a curb. There is no safety line, no net, no visible fear. It is one of the most reproduced images of the twentieth century, and almost everything the average person assumes about it is wrong.

AI can imitate far more of your photography than you probably expect. The part it can't reproduce turns out to be the fastest way to discover what actually makes your work your own.

Sharing photography online often follows a predictable pattern. A photographer posts an image to a group or forum, and then the comments start to roll in. Mixed in with the generic "great shot!" remarks, there are always a few that offer constructive criticism. Even in highly respectful photography communities, well-regarded professionals will jump in to offer their notes completely unprompted. We have built an ecosystem where the default response to art is an immediate attempt to improve it. 

On June 19, 1878, a thoroughbred named Sallie Gardner ran down a track in Palo Alto and broke twelve threads stretched across her path with her chest. Each thread fired a camera. When the plates came out of the darkroom, they answered a question that painters, sculptors, and horsemen had argued about for centuries.

On July 6, 1989, physicists at the University of Minnesota aimed a low-light video camera at a distant thunderstorm to test the equipment and accidentally caught the first image of what is now called a red sprite, a burst of lightning firing upward toward space. That first frame was black and white and only proved the flashes were real; their crimson color would not be captured on camera until the mid-1990s. For most of the previous century, pilots who reported those flashes were told they had imagined them. Some of the atmosphere's most photogenic events are exactly that rare, that brief, and until recently that easy to dismiss.

When Curiosity looked across Gale Crater and captured a portrait of "Miraflores," it wasn't simply documenting another rock on Mars. It was photographing a landscape shaped by erosion—a roughly 20-foot sand-capped butte that survived while the surrounding rock slowly disappeared.

You stood at the canyon rim at sunset, took in the glowing sky and the shadowed rock below in a single glance, and pressed the shutter certain you had it. The file came back with a white sky or a black cliff, never both. Your eyes were not lying and your camera was not broken; the two simply do not measure light the same way, and the gap between them is large enough to explain almost every disappointing landscape you have ever shot.