12 Million Pixels: Review Panasonic FX100

Posted on February 8, 2008

R.Johnson Veterans Day Shrine - London (Inset enlarged from frame)

I have never been very much for boxy things: Humvees, large suitcases, Wagnerian contraltos. I own two boxy cameras, both antiques: a 1950s Brownie movie camera and a vintage Crown Graphic, a bulky machine with bellows once favored by cigar chomping, flashbulb-popping guys who sat at the edges of boxing rings and Eisenhower-era CSI agents. In fact, the Graphic was given to me as a teenager by a friend of my father, an ex-boxer turned photographer named Ed, deaf from too many blows to the head and always reeking of stogie. My mother hated him, thought he was a bad influence. Ed taught me photography and a couple of punches with which I wasted the neighborhood bully. I hung up my gloves at age twelve but stuck with photography. I have always favored precious little Leicas with squinty viewfinders handmade by the Moss People of the Schwartzwald, cameras with smooth, precision gears, burnished surfaces and shutters that click with the uninvasive self-confidence of European maitre d’s.
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