In this week’s New Yorker, Anthony Lane examines Leica, and explores, in one sentence, an idea I’ve been batting around for a few years, that Garry Winogrand may have been the world’s first digital photographer.
Garry Winogrand might have felt relieved to secure those thousands of images on a hard drive, rather than on frangible film, although it could be that the taking of a photograph meant more to him than the printed result.
And later, Lane takes an M8 for a test drive:
If you can conquer the slight queasiness that comes from walking about with seven thousand dollarsâ€™ worth of machinery hanging around your neck, an afternoon with the M8 is a dangerously pleasant groove to get into. I can understand that, were you a sports photographer, perched far away from the action, or a paparazzo, fighting to squeeze off twenty consecutive frames of Britney Spears falling down outside a night club, this would not be your tool of choice, but for more patient mortals it feels very usable indeed. This is not just a question of ergonomics, or of the diamond-like sharpness of the lens. Rather, it has to do with the old, bewildering Leica trick: the illusion, fostered by a mere machine, that the world out there is asking to be looked atâ€”to be caught and consumed while it is fresh, like a trout.