Why I like my Lomo (by a digital photographer)

A few weeks ago I developed a big bag of film from my Lomo Fisheye 2. For anyone who doesn't know (probably all of you, let's face it), my Fisheye was given to me at Photokina 2009 by a overly generous press officer working on their stand. I'd spotted the incredible Lomo stand and was desperate to speak to someone about their cameras, so in between the endless cycle of meetings and press events I spotted a window of opportunity and dragged my slightly bemused co-worker to the riotous Lomo stand.

(note - this shot was taken before the event started. It was a lot busier at the time, honest!)

Squeezing through the crowds, I made my way to the press desk, determined to "make first contact" with someone on the Lomo team. I'd run out of business cards about six meetings ago and the only worker who wasn't involved in an animated discussion with a trendy hipster only spoke halting English. Somehow my fervent: "Honestly, I work for a *cough* digital *cough* photography magazine, which I know isn't quite relevant to your company, but I really love your stand and I'd love to know more about Lomography," translated into her grinning, nodding and handing me my very own Lomo camera. It was a bit like that scene in Before Sunrise where the stone-broke lead character persuades a bartender to give him a bottle of wine on the house so that the serendipitous couple can continue having the best night of their life. Anyway.

For the rest of the trip I skipped around Cologne beaming from ear to ear, happily clutching what a lot of my digital colleagues have since dismissed as a "toy camera". Back home I gloated for about two weeks straight, proudly displaying my prize on my desk. And then I started using it.

Taking pictures with film has been completely enlightening. I only really got into photography when I got my job with the magazines, so I'm almost wholly a child of the digital age - taking a picture where you can't see if it's worked until you develop it has blown my tiny mind. It's so freeing. And I know how cliched that sounds, but it is.

Initially I snapped. I had no idea about exposure times or focal length and was unable to set the aperture - all I could do was point the camera, shoot and keep my fingers crossed. I developed the occasional film here and there, and maybe five out of the twenty-four pictures could be classed as keepers. The number of completely dark ones where I'd left the lenscap on was slightly frightening - there was nothing to beep at me and say "take the lenscap off!". It started to make me less lazy, and my photographic muscles revelled in suddenly being asked to work. Bit like when you haven't been for a run for weeks, and it hurts like hell but simultaneously feels so good.

As an experiment I decided to make the Lomo my primary camera and take it everywhere that I'd usually take a digital camera. A quick holiday to Paris, pre Christmas? My only camera was my Fisheye. A shoot for Photo Pro at the De la Warr Pavilion? I'm there, snapping away, to the absolute delight of the photographer who laughed with real happiness and demanded to take pictures of it. An Olympus event with David Bailey at Holborn Studios? I whip out the Lomo and everyone (including the Olympus reps) crowds round cooing about "the old days" while Bailey stops his own conversation and eyes it suspiciously from afar. One of the nicest things about the Fisheye is that it makes everyone smile. DSLRs just don't do that.

The downsides: practically speaking, it's freaking expensive to run. I developed 7 films the other day (the big bag that I mentioned at the start of this ramble) and it set me back £40, which really shocked me. I guess this is my karmic payback for spending the last two years blagging memory cards which I'd then carelessly run over or send through the wash.

When I was only developing one or two films, every photo I pulled out of the pack made me squeak with excitement - but having developed this big whammy of images, I began to notice the camera's limitations. The in-camera flash doesn't extend past the lens enough, so when I use it at night or in dark situations there's a large shadow cast. See:

Annoying, isn't it? This shadow is in everything I took after dark, meaning about an eighth of the shot is blacked out. And there's nothing I can do about it, besides getting an off-camera flash. The camera does have a hotshoe mount so perhaps there's a flash available for it - will have to investigate further...

Here I was all set to continue rambling, writing more about how the limitations of my Lomo has made me think I'd be better off buying my own DSLR - but having dived into the big stack of shots to fish out this badly-lit shot of my Christmas tree, I started smiling at the images I'd forgotten. Shots of my "plus one", riding escalators in Paris - pictures of my friends at New Years Eve, and again at my recent MA graduation. Yes, some are badly lit, and there's still loads of shots of the inside of my lenscap, but these images have an immediacy that my digital shots just don't possess and that's what I love about it. They might not be technically correct but they bring back the memory of the event, which is what I was trying to capture anyway. And the idea that there are "rules of photography" have always irked me somewhat. At an amateur level, all that matters is that you like the images that you take. If you're selling shots, then your client needs to like them too. That's it, surely.

Of course, in a more practical sense, the cost of developing all these films is hugely prohibitive. If I can get that Lomo effect with a digital camera, I'd be as happy as the proverbial Larry. I wonder if it's possible...