Have you ordered your Nikon D600 DSLR yet?

It seems the hottest topic of discussion in photography right now, is todays' arrival of the Nikon D600 digital SLR.
 The Nikon D600 is the smallest, least expensive full frame DSLR on the market, aimed directly at enthusiast photographers. It is built around a 24MP, 36x24mm, CMOS sensor and crams many of the features of the more expensive D800 into a distinctly D7000-esque body. It features a 100% coverage viewfinder and 39-point autofocus system, nine of which are cross-type points. It can capture 1080p HD video at 30, 25 or 24 frames per second and can stream uncompressed footage out over its HDMI port.
 The D600 is the least expensive of all currently manufactured full-frame cameras, undercutting Nikon’s own D800 (and Sony’s brand new A99) by as much as 20-30%, depending on the market. It is also the lightest full-frame digital camera ever made.
 In a preview published on Photographyblog.com the reviewers had this to say:
 During the short time we have spent with the camera, we found little to criticise. The afore-mentioned top sync speed of 1/200 second is a wee bit too slow, as is the camera’s maximum shutter speed of 1/4000 second, especially in light of the D7000’s corresponding figures of 1/250 and 1/8000 second. Also, there’s no talk (or indeed evidence) of the camera featuring on-sensor PDAF a la Sony A99 and RX1 – Live View auto focus uses contrast detection only; though we were pleasantly surprised at the speed improvement over the D7000. The Nikon D600’s mirror is surprisingly quiet for a full-frame SLR camera and in normal use – with fast shutter speeds of course – it produces only minimal viewfinder blackout.
 In summary, if you’ve expected the Nikon D600 to be something like a digital F65 – i.e. an extremely lightweight and affordable entry-level (or just-above-entry-level) full-framer, you might feel a little disappointed, as the camera is not quite as light and definitely not as cheap as many would have liked it to be. On the plus side, it’s a highly capable tool with many professional features – and it’s still lighter and cheaper than any other full-frame digital SLR camera that’s currently in production. All in all, a well put-together and highly competitive product which we will be keen to test in depth once review units become available.

Film makers

 Priced at around $2100, I can see the new D600 filling filling the role of either primary or back-up camera for professionals. It will also probably be popular with film-makers, as its video specifications are indeed impressive.
 From all accounts, the new entrant is not as sturdily built as Nikon's flagship pro cameras but, as someone who has previously lugged cameras through war-zones, I think the whole toughness thing is greatly over-emphasised. For over 15 years I used a Nikon F301, an entry-level camera that could by no stretch of the imagination be considered "a nail-beater", when I worked as a war correspondent. My reasoning was, if it was lost, stolen or broken, I'd merely shrug my shoulders and buy another. I took thousands of photographs with that camera, used it in deserts, dust-storms, rain and blistering heat and it never once let me down. I still have it and should probably take it out and use it again.

Trade-in

 I have no doubt, many enthusiastic amateurs will trade-in their existing crop-framed-sensor cameras and buy a new D600, in the belief they will be upgrading and, on paper, they probably are. But the fact is, I doubt they will see much difference in the quality of their photographs at typical enlargement sizes and it must also be kept in mind that you may also need to upgrade your computing power to be able to work with the 24 mega pixel files.
 Unless you are still sitting with an old D70, D40 or something of that era, I would think carefully before dumping your D7000, D300 or even D90. But, on the other hand, if you are making an entry into the Nikon DSLR digital arena, then a D600 will be a splendid, good-value purchase.
 Will I be getting one? I am tempted. I'd love to have a full-frame digital camera, just so I can use my ancient prime-lenses for the purpose they were designed -- where a 24mm wide angle is really a 24 and a 50 is not a 35!
 But the truth is, I can't justify it so I guess, for the meantime I'll just keep using what I've got.

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The spirit of PJ van der Bergh finally dies.

 I live in Randfontein, a town that during South Africa's apartheid-era was a bastion of conservatism.
 The town owes its existence to gold mining although, nowadays, most of the mines have shut down, leaving abandoned offices and buildings, many of which are occupied by squatters.
 The mines may be closed, but a rough, mining spirit still lives on in some quarters.
 The white miners that lived and worked in this town in the 60s, 70s and to some extent 80s had a reputation for being hard-drinking, quick-fisted, fiercely conservative characters, who punched first and asked questions later.
 Predominantly Afrikaans-speaking, most belonged to the Mine Workers Union, headed by the neo-Nazi-like, Arrie Paulus whose dream was to unite all white South African wage-earners and to do everything possible to keep non-whites isolated and out of the mainstream.
 "You have to know a Black to realise that he wants someone to be his boss. They can't think quickly. You can take a baboon and teach him to play a tune on a piano. But it's impossible for himself to use his own mind to the next step. Here it's exactly the same," he told the New York Times, of 3 June 1979.

PJ van der Bergh

 Apartheid and white supremacy was deeply-rooted in this community as illustrated by an incident that took place deep underground in the workings of Randfontein Estates Gold Mine in December 1962.
 A shaft timberman, PJ van der Bergh, was working in a blocked orepass. He was attaching cord to a fuse when the plank he stood on dislodged, sending him tumbling 60 metres down the orepass where he ended up on a pile of rocks on the level below.
 Van der Bergh's boss boy, a Shangaan man named Gaumine Quibe, without hesitation, climbed down a rope and helped van der Bergh reach the level above. He knew that, at any stage, new rock could be dropped down the orepass from the levels above that would instantly kill both of them. For this Quibe was awarded the Chamber of Mines Golden Hat Award for bravery, as well as a gold watch.
 But, at the ceremony, van der Bergh, who owed the man his life, refused to shake hands with his boss boy, while posing for a photograph. He said 'it was against his principles!'
 There are many of PJ van der Bergh's ilk still in Randfontein and I thought I had come face-to-face with one recently.
 I was in the bank, standing in a line, waiting to be served, when a giant of a man came in and stood behind me. He was the living version of what I imagined PJ van der Bergh must have looked like...a real-life, cartoon character of a racist, conservative Boer.
 He probably stood around 6' 5", sported a moustache, had nicotine-stained fingers, wore white PT shorts, rugby socks and velskoens and had on a faded, slightly tatty, red T-shirt with a white slogan on the front that read:

Fuck the Rhino
save
The White Ou*

 I couldn't believe it, it was as though I'd been sucked back into South Africa 1972 except, back then, he would probably have been arrested for sporting a T-shirt with the "F-word" on it.
 I tried, with some difficulty, not to stare at him and noticed some of the black customers and tellers were decidedly uneasy.
 Then his wife came in. She too fitted the image perfectly. She was fat and her old-fashioned floral dress did little to hide the two rolls of blubber surrounding her midriff. These were poor Afrikaners, no doubt about it. Conservative, nigger-hating Afrikaners.
 But what made the whole incident bizarre and surreal was, hung over her left shoulder was a large, pink, diaper-bag and on her right hip she held a baby. A black baby!
 The youngster must have been about six months old.
 She passed the child to her husband while searching for something in the diaper-bag.
 And, this giant of a man held the little girl gently in his arms then kissed her on the cheek and tickled her with his sausage-like fingers.
 Her squeals of delight and giggles produced another flurry of kisses from him.
 At that point his wife took his position in the queue and he went and to sit on a chair where he cradled the child while she hungrily sucked on a bottle.
 That's the thing about South Africa. Every time you think you have it sussed, it does something to surprise and astound you. It has a way of shattering long-held prejudices and beliefs. Here, truth, really is, often stranger than fiction.
 The fact is, if government and sleazeball politicians would just fuck off and leave us ordinary folks alone, this country probably would truly become the Rainbow Nation and the spirit of PJ van der Bergh would finally die.

I've been asked if this story is true. Yes! Absolutely! 100%! The people are described exactly as they were on that day -- that is what made it so noticeable.

* In South Africa, a white ou is a term that means "white man" or a "white guy."

A Middle-age Malady

 It was obviously some dumb youngster who first said 'age is just a number'.
 Anyone with more than two brain cells knows that is nonsense.
 As you first edge towards, then reluctantly embrace middle-age, things happen. Bad things!...that creep up on you unnoticed, like the mould behind the basin that your wife nags you to sort out -- but I digress.
 Let me give you an example.
 Some parts of my memory are starting to fade. I can't remember how many times (see what I mean?) I find myself standing in a room in my home, wondering why the hell I went there in the first place. I know there is some reason but I can't remember what it is.
 My head starts to throb and often I have to sit down, as I rack my brain, trying to recall but, inevitably, it's a lost cause and I will be forced to retrace my steps in the hope something along the way will jog my memory.
 It could be that I am easily distracted, cursed with uncontrolable thoughts that flit from stimulus to stimulus. For example, I'll be standing empty-headed and bemused in the kitchen and decide I need to go back and start again but then I spot the kettle and decide I should make a cup of tea and a snack first.
 That is immediately followed by the idea that I should find and read the newspaper while I wait for the water to boil which sends me off to the lounge.
 An hour and thousands of jumbled thoughts later, Mrs White Ou, my dear, long-suffering wife of thirty-plus years, will come looking for me and ask: "Why is there no water in the kettle and a mug with only a teabag on the counter?"
 Of course I'll have absolutely no idea.
 She'll shake her head sadly, like a school teacher who knows the very best the slow kid at the back of the class can hope for, is to some day earn a living as a car-guard.
 In my defence I have at times found her alone, wild-eyed and confused, muttering: "What the hell am I doing here?" But perhaps she's questioning her life with me rather than grasping for a memory-trigger.
 If I can remember, I'll ask her.

Compensations

 However, there are some compensations, as I age, my long-term memory seems to improve and I get many opportunities to bore people with it.
 A rare and simple pleasure in middle -- and I am sure old -- age is, absolutely every story you tell, need ever be simple or brief.
 Let's be honest, it is an intoxicating rush to see the growing fear and panic in victims' eyes as they realise there is no escape and you are going to make sure you prove there 'ain't nothing wrong with my memory'.
 It usually goes something like this:
 To keep the conversation going all I need to say is: "I too, once owned a Renault motorcar."
 That's it, seven words that say it all and it's all I would have said 20 years ago.
 But not now, oh no:
 "Yeah a Renault is a nice car. I had one too. It was back in 1975. I bought it with my army danger pay.
 "Jeesh can you believe all we got paid was 97c a day and R5.50 a day danger pay but I saved up and paid cash for the car...a white one with an engine in the back.
 "In those days, we more frugal and careful with our money. Not like people today where everything is bought on credit and no-one wants to save. Easy credit is the reason we're all in the situation we are today.
 "The banks are out to screw us. When I was a youngster, banking, and life in general, was much simpler. They used to hand out piggy banks to kids. I got a black one in 1969. The black ones were more stylish but they also had silver and gold.
 "I remember it was 1969 because my teacher was a Miss Thompson, although maybe I'm wrong...maybe it was 1968 and, come to think of it, it wasn't Miss Thompson, she was a teacher at high-school. She was the hot one that we guys all had a crush on. That reminds me of my first girlfriend...
 "Gee, we had some fun in my first car. It was a Renault. A white one, with the engine in the back..."

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Renewing my Passport

At the beginning of the year I realized my passport had expired and a trip to the local Home Affairs Department was imminent.
 Based on previous experiences of inefficiency and unpleasantness, it was not a prospect I relished.
 Memories of standing in long lines for an hour or more, only to have the window get shut in my face, just as it was my turn to be served, or being told I was in the wrong queue and "should be in that line over there" that hadn't moved for the last two days, are still vivid.
 For days I hesitated, trying to find a way around it. Perhaps I should use a service that does the queuing for me, I thought.
 "Don't be silly," said Mrs White Ou, always the voice of reason. "We're not millionaires and it's not as though you have much else to do any way."
 I couldn't argue on either of those points.
 "In any case, I've heard things are a lot better and while you're there, get renewal forms me and also for Kevin (my youngest son.)"
 And so it was that I found myself, early on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the year, at the offices of the Department of Home Affairs in Randfontein. The doors had just opened but the queues were already significant.
 I joined the line waiting to be served by a man behind the "Enquiries" counter.

Building true unity

 It is claimed that the Soccer World Cup, held in South Africa in 2010 will turn out to be that country's greatest-ever unifying force. While I agree the whole affair put us in party mood and, for a while, we forgot our differences and banded behind the national team, it cannot compete with the unifying experience of visiting a government department.
 Now that really builds true unity. People from all levels of society, who normally would not give each other the time of day, become bound by shared suffering, induced by inept officials and a system designed to screw you around.
 Linked in our common misery, we individuals rapidly become a common mind, swapping stories of previous experiences at the hands of not-so-civil servants.
 It becomes a competition to see who has been screwed-over worst.
 A coloured woman, with a toddler that hung on her skirt and peered at me from between her legs, struck up conversation.
 "How many times have you had to come back?" she asked.
 "It's my first, I just have to get some forms for a passport," I replied.
 "This is my fourth. They've been fucking me and my husband around every time. First it's this and then it's that. Then they want something else. My husband can't come any more, he's got to work. You know how hard jobs are to find these days..."
 By the time my position in the line had advanced two yards I knew pretty all there was to know about her family... how her husband enjoys a drink or six on the weekend, that she'd voted ANC but probably wouldn't do so again in the next elections and a lot more.
 If we'd thought of it, we probably would have exchanged telephone numbers and even ended up going on family outings together. (The last part is not true, I just said that to impress foreign readers.)
 She, in turn, knew about my kids, how difficult it was for them to find work and my solutions for South Africa's problems and world hunger.
 When it was my turn to be served at the "Enquiries" counter, I felt all warm and cuddly -- new South African!

Can't take them out of the building

 "I need three sets of passport application forms, please," I said to the guy manning the counter.

 "You'll need to fill them in here," he said. "We no longer allow people to take them out of the building."

 I was taken aback. Surely he was joking.

"But I need to get photographs done and I'm sure there are other details that must be filled in," I responded.

 But he was not joking.

 "There's a man outside who'll take the pictures and you only need complete a few details, the rest we'll get from the computer system."

 "But what about my wife and son?" I asked.

 He stared at me with a look usually reserved for people who lick their car seats to clean them. It was just so damned obvious and I couldn't see it.

 "They'll have to come in," he sighed.

 "But they work and can't take time off."

 "We've thought of that too," he replied, "that's why we're open on Saturday mornings."

 Behind me the people in the line were growing restless.

 But I was not easily swayed.

 "This is ridiculous," I huffed. "Tell me why I can't take the forms home, fill them in and bring them back."

 "Because people don't bring them back," he replied. "And, because of that, I get given a set number of forms in the morning and a reconciliation is done in the afternoon."

 "That is simply nonsense," I said, in the most indignant tone I could muster. "I'm not like that. I will fill them in and be back."

 I scooped up the forms and marched defiantly out of the building, expecting at any moment to be beaten senseless by the bemused security guards but nothing happened.

 Earlier this week, while watching television, Mrs White Ou suddenly turned to me.

 "Did you ever get those passport forms?" she asked.

 I thought for a moment.

 "I did," I replied. "They're sitting on my desk, I just haven't got round to giving them to you yet."

 "We really should fill them in," she said, and turned her attention back to the television.

If you enjoyed this short piece you may be interested in reading my new novel: "I Can Hear Them Singing Now" available in ebook format at Amazon.

Is flatulence ruining your sex life?

 Throughout history there have been some discoveries and inventions that have truly changed our lives.
 Fire, the wheel, the printing press, the steam engine, the telephone and internet spring to mind.
 But now there is something even more profound and earth shattering.
 It has come about because there is a problem in the marriage bed that no-one wants to talk about. It is a problem that is sometimes silent but almost always, deadly. But fear not, the solution has arrived.
 No longer need you tremble in your jammies, worried you may cause a stink. This is a truly mind-boggling invention that uses cutting-edge military technology to promise to restore marriages and at the same time fire up stagnant, rotten, sex-lives.
 And, judging by the fact that millions of people have viewed the advert on You Tube, there can be no doubt, there is a need for the Better Marriage Blanket.
 Yes ladies and gentlemen, for less than $60, excluding postage, you will no longer have to answer "yes" to the age-old question: "Is flatulence ruining your love-life?"
 I don't know about you, but it's a topic that comes up regularly at our dinner parties and, no doubt, you too have likely spent many hours discussing the problem with family, friends and work colleagues.
 But now, with the arrival of the Better Marriage Blanket, the acrid, foetid smell of your bed-partner's farts will no longer leave you gasping for air, like a landed mackerel, while you desperately flap the sheets and struggle to open the window.
 According to the manufacturer, "flatulence molecules pass through a cotton layer and get absorbed by the carbon layer, leaving you to experience fresh air and added under-blanket warmth!" Actually I added the bit about the warmth -- it's a selling feature they probably didn't think of.
 Available in different sizes, the Better Marriage Blanket is said to contain the same type of fabric used by the military to protect against chemical weapons.
It's also touted as a "great wedding or anniversary gift too."

Farts are funny!

 I wish it had been around when Mrs White Ou and I tied the knot 31 years ago. That way we'd probably still be sleeping in same the room -- and maybe even in the same bed.
 She's a strange girl, my dear wife. She's not amused by the same things I am. For example, I find it difficult to get her to crack even the smallest of a smiles when, lying together, I trap her head under the blankets and fart.
 What can I say, I find farts -- particularly mine -- funny. I laugh so much I can hardly breathe, yet strangely she fails to see the comedy.
 That, and my snoring, has seen me moved to a room down the passage and now I am forced to keep the clouds of gas I emit from my bottom, trapped firmly beneath the blankets until she comes into my room in the morning with a cup of coffee.
 Then, with a flourish, I'll fling back the bed-clothes and hope for the best. Once I got lucky. She dropped the cup in the middle of a choking fit but, in truth, it's just not the same. It's a poor substitute for the genuine "Dutch Oven" or "Covered Wagon."
 That, I think is one of the drawbacks of the Better Marriage Blanket. It will do away with those intimate, fun-filled moments that couples, enjoy in bed and have so much fun remembering. It's also going to make Two-and-a-half-Men a lot less funny.
 I am also afraid, if they ever start making baby diapers from the new wunder-fabric, it's going to mean the end of that endearing Mommy ritual where -- usually in a restaurant -- some mum sticks her nose against her little-one's butt, takes a lung-filled sniff and loudly announces "someone's made a stinky poopie!". But at least the old finger up the diaper's leg-hole is likely to remain.
 Before anyone gets the wrong impression, let me place on record that I am not solely responsible for producing noxious odours in my home.
 My dear wife must also bear some responsibility. Consequently, a nice pair of sweat pants in activated-carbon fabric in her size would indeed be welcome.
When it comes to rear emissions I tend to be noisy -- and, if I may be so bold as to say, quite musical.
 Mrs White Ou, on the other, hand is covert and sneaky. The first indication that something is horribly amiss comes from the dogs.
 When they are suddenly startled from their slumbers on the TV-room carpet and slink away, you know what's coming.
 You see, my dear wife, kind and sweet as she may be, is by no means above blaming the dogs for her odouriferous indiscretions. With noses (thankfully) hundreds of times more sensitive than mine, they know an undeserved scolding is only seconds away, so they get the hell outta Dodge.
 "Blah, blah, blah," Mrs White Ou has just said, while reading over my shoulder.
 "No one will believe you because everyone knows women don't fart."
 "Yes, Dear," I replied meekly.
I didn't have the guts to show her the comment from someone called PyroRob69 who recently wrote about the Better Marriage Blanket on a chat forum. I think he summed it up quite nicely when he said:
 "Women don't fart because they can't keep their mouths shut long enough to build up any back pressure."

P.S. Yes, the Better Marriage Blanket is a real product!

Two slightly different reviews!

 The one thing every author wants is for his work to move readers. In truth we don't care if it makes them angry, happy, sad or disgusted. As long as our words evoke some sort of reaction we are doing our jobs properly.
 Below are excerpts from two reviews of my book, "I can hear them singing now", set in Apartheid South Africa during the height of that country's political unrest. It is a story of how ordinary people were caught up and swept along by events completely beyond their control.
 It is about a civil war that took place on people's doorsteps that they were completely unaware of, or chose to ignore. It is a book about ordinary folk trapped in two worlds and about polarization.
 These two reviews illustrate that. They show some of our wounds have not yet healed.
 One appears on Amazon and the other was sent to me as a personal comment. I am happy I have done my job as a writer.

 "You referring to the book about that fucker that's going to plant the Church street bomb, standing on the pavement while super cop is so heartbroken about the useless one they were hanging, he didn't even see the clear and present danger around him? Typical. I bet you he slept with the ousie* when his wife was out shopping too?"

 "This book is fantastic! It creatively entwines heart wrenching emotion, solid political history, and an unbiased, multi-sided portrayal of racial conflict during a turbulent time. One will intensely feel frustration, rage, and despair while reading this story. The characters are well-developed in such a way that the reader cannot help but feel a personal connection to them, during the transformation of their beliefs and convictions while enduring the horrific event enveloping their lives. This story inspires much emotion and, for me, critical thought about human behavior and relationships. It would not be the book I'd choose for lighthearted, cheerful reading, but definitely thought provoking. It may even have you re-evaluating your own beliefs and/or opinions."

*Ousie - Afrikaans term, often used to mean a black woman.

What I have learned about Indie Publishing in six weeks.

I Can Hear Them Singing Now

How changing prices affected sales of my ebook.

 It's been about six weeks since I took the decision to walk the Indie publishing route and publish my novel, "I Can Hear Them Singing Now" at $4.99, as well as three Erotic shorts at $0.99, written by my alter ego, Amy Hilton. And, while I realise it is far too early to draw any firm conclusions, I do have a few thoughts about the journey so far.
 I signed up with Amazon's KDP programme but only listed two of the four works with their free promotion campaign:
 "I can hear them singing now" and "The Tupperware Party."
 Both were offered as free downloads on one weekend, starting on Saturday and ending on Sunday. The belief behind this is, heaps of people will download the book, read it, enthusiastically tell their friends and write glowing reviews that bring in huge sales. At least that is what I was told and expected.

My experience

 My experience was different.
 On the first day around 200 copies of each book were downloaded -- nowhere near the 15 000 some authors have reported -- but, in truth, I did no marketing at all, other than to a small Twitter following, some of whom retweeted. On the following day, approximately 50 copies of each book were downloaded.
 Monday came and the expected spike in sales was not there, nor on Tuesday or, in truth, on any other day after that. Sales remained exactly as they were before the promotion, averaging a few a copies per day.
 Reviews? Nothing, nada, zip.
 There could be two reasons for that. Some people who downloaded may not yet have read the novel and I have the feeling, the majority of erotica readers prefer to keep that fact secret. I am hoping reviews will yet arrive.
 Next I decided to experiment with the pricing of "I can hear them singing now" and see what effect that had on sales. I figured, if, like John Locke and Amanda Hockings, I priced the book at $0.99, thousands of people would rush to buy it. I have to admit, pricing it at such a low price-point stuck in my craw but I figured the money that was going to pour in would provide adequate comfort. I aggressively marketed the price-change to my growing Twitter and Facebook followers and announced it on every reading forum I could find. And...

$0.99 novels are crap?

 Nothing. The sales trickle dried up. Could it be that serious readers (and "I can hear them singing now" is a serious book) believe $0.99 novels are generally crap? So I upped the price to $2.99 and sales of one to two per day began to dribble in. Then I got a review from award-winning author, Jeannie Walker and interest seemed to pick up a little. So, I tinkered with the price again and pushed it to $4.49 which I figured was a fair price for the blood, sweat and tears I invested in the book.
 Sales continued but slightly less than at the $2.99 price-point but the added royalty at the high price, compensated for the small loss in sales.
 So what have I learned so far? For me (and I stress, this is for me. Your mileage may vary):

• Amazon's free promotion generates "sales" from people who want free books. I think it harms more than serves the cause of Indie Publishers. In addition, it cuts off sales from other sources. I do not think I will participate in it again.
• Twitter is a lot more useful than Facebook when it comes to getting the message out.
• Building readers is a one-reader-at a time process that requires relationship-building and personal interaction.
• There is no quick, over-night path to success -- the Indie Publishing game is a lot like farming. It takes time to nurture and grow the saplings and there is no way you can make them bear fruit before they are ready and you have run the course.
• It's a fun ride and a serious kick to wake up and see you are a couple of dollars better off than when you went to sleep!

An old substation and a Holga.

I came across this old, abandoned substation in Krugersdorp when I was out riding my motorcycle. Fortunately the Holga was in my bag!

A Cullinan wedding.

Recently I went along with hair and make up artist, Claire Calvert, to grab a few shots of the bridal preparations at wedding at which she was booked to make the bridal party look beautiful.
The event took place in Cullinan the site where the Cullinan Diamond was found. At the time it was the world's largest diamond. The stone is now part of the British Royal Family's Crown Jewels.
I was not the primary photographer, in fact I never even got to see the bridegroom and when the bride got into the car and headed for the church we packed up and went home.
Still, it was fun. Here are a few of the images I got that day, naturally all shot on film -- and yes, that is a DELIBERATE double exposure!

Newtown with a toy camera.

Recently I took a stroll around Newtown, Johannesburg, the site of the city's old market. Built in 1913 to serve the growing population of the expanding mining town, today it is home to Museum Afrika and the Market Theatre.
These pictures were shot with a plastic Holga toy camera that I am growing to like more and more. In fact I like it that muc that I am going to start using it in my wedding and portrait work.
And yes, the opening image in the spread is a DELIBERATE double exposure!