GAS is Good

Coming to terms with all the stuff in my camera drawers

“You always regret your economies more than your extravagances.”

Thus spake my father Robertson to my cousin Bill. I never heard my father actually say it. Bill shared it with me solemnly, like a revealed truth imparted by the master.

Bill was delighted that this wisdom absolved his guilt about gadgets. Bill loved gadgets. He had camping gear and calculators (this was way back) and stereo equipment and quite a variety of cameras. Now that he was enlightened, he didn’t apologize. He just said, I like this stuff, so I’m going to buy it.

My father mainly collected art and books. He did have cameras, though. He preferred the smallest ones, which included a succession of Minoxes. Spy cameras, literally. Beautifully made and small as cigarette lighters. Their fine leather cases came with braided steel chains. Tiny beads marked the distances for close-ups, which you set manually on the focus dial. Dad also had a Rollei 35, another compact beauty.

So I guess it’s in my genes.

Gear Acquisition Syndrome (GAS) isn’t specific to photographers. I always thought it was, but googling it, turns out that it mostly applies to musicians. One guitar, two guitars, apparently you get hooked. I know my trainer is into bicycles. He says, if you have N bicycles, what’s the ideal number you should have? N+1, of course. How about fishermen and rods? Cars, if you have space and $$. Watches.

It makes sense that musicians would be vulnerable to GAS, because if there is any category of attractive objects that are more varied, imaginative, and beautiful than cameras, it’s musical instruments.

But musical instruments have existed for thousands of years. We are only in century three for cameras. Look at what has been invented in that time around the simple concept of lens, shutter, black box, and some sort of sensor. The workmanship, the care, the thought.

It’s interesting that what I consider the bible of photographic wisdom — Susan Sontag’s On Photography — does not mention GAS at all. She sees cameras from a thousand different metaphorical angles — as instruments of aggression, seduction, obligation, documentation, commemoration, and so on. But not as objects of lust in themselves. Which is interesting, since photography has always been such a wonderful combination of technology and art. It’s hard not to be impressed by our tools. Even the most technology-indifferent photographers tend to settle on the camera that’s perfect for what they do. Their single tool means something deep to them.

Photography is a materialist undertaking in the best sense. The West, which gets a bad rap for being so “materialistic,” is actually not materialistic enough, most of the time. Like the Zen swordsman and his blade, some arts are all about turning physical materials into something approaching a Platonic ideal (if I can mix philosophic hemispheres). I’m not saying that a Leica M3 is equal to a Samurai sword, but it’s close. Damn close. The fun we have owning cameras can be deeply satisfying in a meditative, almost mystical, way. It creates a direct connection between the brain and the physical world. Just plain healthy. Gets us out of ourselves.

There is, probably, a line that separates acquisition from collection. My friend Ron and I had an opportunity this summer to buy some excellent used gear from a friend. We both indulged in yet another classic film camera that neither of us “needed.” He, a Leica IIIa. Me, a Nikon FM2. We decided that we had crossed that line from simple GAS to being camera collectors. After all, we had so many. C’mon. Admit it.

On further thought, though, no. We both use those cameras. They aren’t behind glass. To be sure, we don’t use them much, because we have our other sirens singing at us from our drawers and shelves. But we use them. They don’t just fill gaps in our line-ups.

I live in a small apartment. I don’t have endless space. I have 14 cameras — seven digital, seven film — plus assorted lenses. This is close to the limit, especially if my wife has anything to say about it. But it is a delight. And I will continue to insist that I am not a collector.