Leica, optical rendering and film photography: understanding a reputation

Summary

• Why Leica held a special place among reporters
• Leica rendering: sharpness, contrast or visual signature?
• My experience with a Leica M6 and a 28 mm lens
• Can a legendary lens be imperfect?
• Leica versus Nikon and Canon SLRs of the 1980s
• Leica today: photographic tool, cultural object and luxury symbol
• Understanding the myth without blindly accepting it

Why Leica held a special place among reporters

Forty years ago, digital photography did not yet exist in everyday professional use. Reporters worked with 35 mm film cameras, often Nikon or Canon SLRs, but some also used Leica cameras for their discretion, quiet shutter release and compactness. A typical example of the equipment carried by photojournalists can be found in the article 9 photographes vident leur sac.

Photographing in the street, in a silent place, in a theatre, during an intimate moment or in a tense social context does not create the same relationship with the subject depending on the equipment being used. A professional SLR, however excellent, can impose a physical and audible presence. A Leica M, smaller and quieter, allowed another kind of approach. Its reputation therefore did not come only from its lenses, but also from a way of photographing.

The rangefinder viewfinder allows the photographer to see what is happening around the frame. Unlike an SLR, where one looks exactly through the lens, the Leica offers a more open, almost anticipatory view. Some photographers find great fluidity in this: they can compose, wait for a person to enter the frame, then release the shutter at the right moment.

But this quality also has its downside. A rangefinder viewfinder does not show exactly what the lens sees. It imposes a different relationship to framing, edge precision, level and verticals. This is where my own experience with Leica was more nuanced.

Leica rendering: sharpness, contrast or visual signature?

When people talk about “Leica rendering”, they often talk about sharpness. Yet that is an oversimplification. A lens can be highly resolving and still produce a rather cold image. Another may be less perfect in the corners, yet create an image that feels denser, more legible, more alive.

The rendering of a lens depends on many factors: overall contrast, microcontrast, the transition between sharp and out-of-focus areas, vignetting, the handling of highlights, flare resistance, distortion, field curvature and mechanical consistency. Reducing a lens to resolution alone often means missing what gives it its identity.

Leica lenses have long been admired for their compactness, manufacturing precision and rendering. With classic focal lengths, especially 35 mm and 50 mm, the rangefinder system also allowed optical designs that differed from those used on SLRs. The absence of a mirror made it possible to design shorter, more compact lenses, sometimes simpler in construction.

So the Leica difference was not simply about measurable superiority on every level. It was more about a balance between compactness, construction, rendering and the experience of use.

My experience with a Leica M6 and a 28 mm lens

In 1995, I bought a Leica M6 with a 28 mm lens. At the time, my favourite focal length was closer to 24 mm. I came from an SLR culture, with a very direct relationship to the image: what I saw in the viewfinder corresponded to what the lens projected onto the film. The Leica offered me a different logic.

I did not enjoy working with that configuration. With the 28 mm lens, the lens hood blocked part of the viewfinder field, especially in the lower right corner. I also found it difficult to feel precisely whether the camera was level. With an SLR, especially when working with lines, verticals or horizons, the focusing screen gives an immediate sense of the balance of the image. With the Leica M6, that relationship felt less natural to me.

I also had the impression that the frame lines could appear slightly curved or unstable depending on the position of the eye. It was not necessarily an actual distortion of the viewfinder in the strict sense, but rather a sensation linked to the bright-line frame system, the position of the eye and the fact that the observed image was not the one projected directly by the lens.

Looking back, I do not judge Leica on that single experience. It was linked to a camera, a focal length, a lens hood, but also to my own way of composing at the time. A 35 mm lens might have better matched the spirit of the Leica M: a reportage focal length, wide enough to include the environment, but more comfortable in a rangefinder viewfinder.

Can a legendary lens be imperfect?

A lens can be legendary without being perfect. In fact, this is often the case. Many cult lenses did not become famous because they corrected every flaw, but because they produced a recognisable signature.

An older 35 mm f/2 lens can be very sharp in the centre at full aperture, while showing vignetting, weaker corners, a certain softness in the periphery or a particular transition into blur. Stopped down to f/4, the image becomes more even. At f/5.6 or f/8, it can become very balanced across the frame. This behaviour is not exceptional for a lens of that generation. Many SLR lenses from the 1970s or 1980s improved in the same way.

The real question therefore lies elsewhere: why are some older Leica lenses more sought after than other technically comparable lenses? The answer is partly their compactness, mechanical quality and coherence with the camera body, but also their rendering. A lens is not only a measuring instrument. It is also a tool of interpretation.

What photographers sometimes call “rendering” remains difficult to quantify. It may come from a particular contrast, a softness in transitions, a way of separating planes, a density in the blacks or a sensation of depth. These qualities can be real, but they are sometimes amplified by brand culture, user stories and the rarity of the objects.

Leica versus Nikon and Canon SLRs of the 1980s

It would be unfair to discuss Leica without acknowledging the quality of SLR systems from the same period. Nikon and Canon dominated much of photojournalism, sport, magazine photography and professional photography. Their camera bodies were robust, their lens ranges extremely complete, and their long or specialised lenses answered needs that the Leica M system did not cover in the same way.

For motorsport, stage photography, action, telephoto work, zoom lenses and later autofocus, the SLR was the natural choice. In terms of optical quality, the major Japanese manufacturers were already capable of producing remarkable lenses. On well-exposed film, at f/5.6 or f/8, the difference with Leica could become slight, even invisible, depending on the subject, development, print or digitisation.

The reality is therefore less spectacular than the myth: Leica was not necessarily the best system for everything. It was a very coherent system for certain photographers, certain gestures and certain contexts.

Leica today: photographic tool, cultural object and luxury symbol

Leica occupies a particular position today. The brand continues to produce cameras and lenses used by demanding photographers, attached to compactness, simplicity, build quality, rangefinder viewing and the pleasure of using a refined tool.

But Leica has also become a cultural object and a symbol of luxury. High prices, limited editions, rarity, special finishes and historical prestige all contribute to this image. This does not take anything away from the quality of the equipment, but it complicates the way we look at the brand. A Leica is not always purchased solely as a tool. Sometimes it is also bought as a story, a sense of belonging, an aesthetic, a form of distinction.

This phenomenon is not unique to Leica. It exists in watchmaking, cars, hi-fi, fashion and musical instruments. Some objects go beyond their function. They become signs. The danger, in photography, is to confuse that sign with an automatic superiority of the image produced.

A Leica does not make a photographer better. A Leica lens does not turn a weak image into a strong photograph. On the other hand, a tool one enjoys using can influence the gesture, the availability, the concentration and the relationship with the subject. Perhaps this is where part of the Leica truth lies: less in the promise of absolute optical perfection than in the quality of a photographic experience.

Understanding the myth without blindly accepting it

Leica is neither a total illusion nor an absolute truth. The brand built its reputation on real foundations: discreet cameras, high mechanical quality, compact lenses, a coherent system for reportage and a major place in the history of twentieth-century photography.

But the legend has sometimes exceeded measurable reality. Not all Leica lenses are perfect. Some are even sought after today for their controlled imperfections: vignetting, softness in the corners, a more organic rendering, a particular transition between sharpness and blur. These are not necessarily the criteria of a modern lens, but they are sometimes those of an image with character.

What keeps Leica alive may be this rare balance between use, craftsmanship, rendering and imagination. It is not just a camera or a range of lenses. It is a system that still makes photographers think about their way of seeing.

About the Author

Sebastien Desnoulez is a professional photographer specializing in architecture, landscape and travel photography. Trained in photography in the mid-1980s, he covered Formula 1 races and reported from around the globe before devoting himself to a more demanding fine art photography practice blending composition, light and emotion. He also shares his technical expertise through hands-on articles for passionate photographers, built on a solid background in both film and digital photography.