Nikon 1 V1, Part 1

Concept: 1 out of 5
Execution: 3 out of 5
Yeah, but: Unquestionably the best camera of 2009.

The Long Version: The Nikon 1 V1 is a deeply flawed camera, and those flaws start with its name. The "Nikon 1" appellation is very difficult to search for, the "CX" format name has no traction, and the whole thing just sounds dumb. Nikon already makes three distinctly different operational tiers of SLRs, in two different sensor formats, and didn't feel the need for anything more than model names to identify them. The "1" in 'Nikon 1' is superflous and self-aggrandizing, and is probably an underlying reason why Nikon's small-sensor mirrorless format was so ruthlessly mocked by the camera intelligentsia.

Let's be clear: Nikon had it coming. From the marketing exhortation to "set your creative freedom free" to their offended "but we've been working on this for four years" stance, it's clear that they had no warning of the animosity that their 116-square-millimetre sensor and Sigma SD1-esque launch price would provoke. It was as if every camera-blogger and forum dweller had turned into Ken Rockwell, convinced of the indisputable rightness of their opinions based on something they read on the internet. I have to admit that I joined in briefly, decided that it was an evolutionary dead end, and then – like the rest of us Serious Camera People – forgot all about the system. Now, a year later, its price has dropped through the floor.

I have been mocked and derided for buying a V1, but I was shooting 4/3 sensors before they were cool. My photography has occasionally benefited from an antagonistic attitude, so the V1 suits this approach perfectly. But of course, not all of the initial scorn that the V1 faced was unwarranted. Far from it.

The V1 camera itself feels like it was designed by three different people who weren't on speaking terms. There are flashes of real brilliance here, which just makes its failings all the more frustrating.

The green 'power' light on the top of the camera is dark when the LCD is on – it's redundant, and thinking to turn it off is an elegant design touch. It's lit when the EVF is active, which is a great reminder that the camera is ready and drawing power. Yet even when the display button has been used to turn off the LCD there's no way to defeat the eye-sensor and keep the EVF active, so the EVF is always dark for a second when the camera is first brought up for use. Frustrating.

The camera's exposure compensation has a range of three stops in each direction, but there's no automatic exposure bracketing function. The camera is almost frighteningly fast to shoot, but there's no way to turn off the image review, or even to extend its duration should someone actually want to use that feature. This cripples the cameras' vaunted focusing speed and tracking. The Auto White Balance can be tuned to provide subtle colour refinement, but Active D-Lighting can only be turned on or off, with no level control. Only whole stops are available for setting a single iso sensitivity, but the auto-iso mode will use thirds of a stop increments; its ceiling can be set with three different maximum values, although it will never tell you what sensitivity it's actually using. And there aren't even any "Art" effects built in – which is a good thing, but it proves that this camera really did start its development an eon ago.

The appeal of the menu structure, which other reviewers have praised, escapes me. There's no apparent order or logic, settings that are likely to be changed frequently aren't located together, and there's no "my menu" list of recently used items to provide a shortcut. Yet the selection bar changes from yellow to red to warn the user that selecting "yes" after "format" isn't just another trifling choice. I've never seen another camera interface combining such poor execution with such thoughtful attention to detail.

It's absurd that a camera that offers pixel mapping, front and rear IR receivers for the wireless remote, and a built-in intervalometer nonetheless requires a trip into the menu to change the shooting mode. This inconsistency is my main frustration with the camera: if it was universally bad I could just write it off, but so much of it is better than this.

The V1's buttons and controls, few though they are, are still worth mentioning. Exposure compensation is one of the most useful photographic controls, and its button is the right side of the four-way pad – the three-o'clock position. It can be adjusted up or down by pressing the top or bottom of the control ring, or by rotating it like the command dial that it is. Setting a brighter exposure, which is an upwards movement of the on-screen indicator, is accomplished with a clockwise turn: that's rotating the dial "downwards" from the EV Comp button position. Completely counterintuitive.

The exposure compensation on-screen display is another of the V1's many almost-made-it design moments. It cleverly avoids clutter by only putting numbers at zero and at the ends of its range, and displays the currently selected value in white instead of black on the muted grey background. Very clear and easy to understand. But the LCD doesn't preview the effect of the change, and the V1 doesn't have a live histogram, so it's still a matter of guessing the correct setting before being able to see its results.

I'm not even going to discuss the "mode" dial – mine has been neutered by taping it in place. The only thing I really miss is having access to the better controls and options of the dedicated movie mode, and the extra few seconds to unstick the tape is a small price to pay for not accidentally using the Harry Potter or Auto-Cull modes. No, what really bothers me is that none of the three people who designed the V1 could think of a supplemental use for the dedicated "Trash" button when the camera is taking photos.

But I wouldn't take the time and effort to be this annoyed by the Nikon V1's faults if I didn't like the camera. In just a few weeks I've gone from essentially impulse-buying the deeply-discounted camera and standard zoom to owning a three-lens kit, an FT1 adapter for my full-sized lenses, and Richard Franiec's custom V1 grip. Clearly, despite its foibles and flaws, there's something very appealing about the Nikon V1 and the CX format.

After my first few weeks with the V1 I still can't decide if it's a good camera or not. It certainly has its frustrations; some of them go away when I'm using it, and others don't. There are a lot of good things going on with this camera, but I'm needing to learn how to use it in ways that I haven't faced with the many others that I own.

I have some very solid – although inevitably personal and subjective – reasons why this is exactly the right camera for what I do. I take a longer look at those, and possibly even discuss image quality, in part two.

last updated 11 dec 2012

Spyderco CF Caly3: One Year Later

Concept: 3 out of 5
Execution: 4 out of 5
Yeah, but: You had me at "laminated steel".

The Long Version: A year ago I bought a Spyderco Caly3 CF, so it's time for a quick update to the original review. To recap just a little, my reason for buying the Caly is that I really like my old Spyderco Native, but wanted a plain edge; my conclusion was that they're both great knives, and I couldn't really recommend either of the current generation over the other.

Well, the reality is that I carried the Caly almost exclusively for half a year, and only started using the others again when I noticed that the Caly was wearing through the back pockets of all of my jeans. The very similar Native almost never made it out of the house; my second choice was my clip-point 3" Voyager, and occasionally I'd carry one of my 4" Benchmades for variety.

The Calypso is the most sophisticated and functional knife I own. It has an excellent blade and a superb handle; the carbon fibre scales have enough grip and the thin profile carries extremely well. Yes, I wish that the scales at the pivot end wouldn't wear through my jeans quite so quickly, and the broad blade makes it difficult to accomodate my phone in the same pocket, but those are easy to forgive in exchange for such a great shape.

A slightly larger issue is that the open/close action isn't particularly smooth, and sometimes emits a slight squeak. It's not ideal, but it has never been annoying enough to make me investigate possible solutions, let alone enough to discourage me from carrying and using the knife. And after a year those are the only little quibbles that I have.

I've even become accustomed to the deep-carry pocket clip, which none of my other knives have. The last time that I carried my Stryker I realized that I was taking it out of my pocket by wrapping my index finger under the bottom of the clip, a la caly, instead of by grasping the butt of the knife between thumb and knuckle, which was my old method.

The refinement of the Caly's construction is really remarkable. It's easy enough to design a knife that works well when it's open, but look at the way the closed blade merges into the handle. It's perfect. There are some really exceptional knives that miss details like this, and it makes the Caly3 very nice to handle and carry.

The Caly's flat-ground blade is amazing, being able to slice exceptionally well and being easy to insert between the flaps of a sealed cardboard box. Because, let's face it, I'm no Survivorman wannabe: I use knives for breaking tape, cutting cardboard, stripping labels, and otherwise opening things. But I do actually use a knife on a daily basis, and the Caly3 has handled every task I've tried. I do occasionally need to sharpen the awesome ZDP steel that makes up the core of the laminated blade, but it does hold and edge significantly better than the ATS134, 154CM, or AUS8A steel in my other knives.

Size is always a contentious issue – look at the excitement when Apple offers an extra half-inch – and a lot of the appeal of a certain knife will depend on how it's being used. For box-breaking duty I like to keep my index finger along the side of the blade as a depth control, and the Caly's blade and handle design is as large as I can comfortably hold without over-extending my average-sized hand or gripping the knife by the sharp bits. Even the Spyderco hole comes into play here, providing a better grip for my thumb.

It's possible that the Caly3 really could be my perfect knife – or, at the very least, one of my perfect knives. No matter how good the Caly is, I accumulate knives because I enjoy them, not because I have some life-critical task that can't be done with my current selection. So the fact that I've just gone ahead and ordered yet another knife isn't a criticism of the Caly3; in fact, the one that I've picked out to complement it is an overwhelming testament to its excellence.

But that's a review for another day.

last updated 14 sep 2012

D-Rings

Concept: 3 out of 5
Execution: 0 out of 5
Yeah, but: No review subject too small…

The Long Version: This is a review that probably could have been shortened down to under 140 characters, but I need to rant: WTF is with the D-Rings, bag designers?

I bought a cheap portfolio case the other day, and sure enough, the shoulder strap is attached to the body of the case with nylon D-rings. Within minutes of actually using the thing, the D-rings are twisted sideways and pinching the nylon webbing. I've seen this over and over again, from bags that cost enough that this kind of foolishness shouldn't be tolerated. It's not like these things are a recent innovation – why do designers and manufacturers still insist on using them so badly?

There is another question: why do people still buy anything that uses them? Frequently I forget that I'm supposed to be performing quality control on products that have made it all the way to market, and often there simply aren't any options out there. But give me a round ring to attach straps and handles, a sensible buckle, or even a D-ring that's been properly secured, and I'll buy it instead. Surely, this can't be all that difficult a problem to solve.

last updated 26 feb 2012

KB Large Type Keyboard Cover

Concept: 4 out of 5
Execution: 3 out of 5
Yeah, but: Backlit, schmacklit.

The Long Version: When I first considered my 11" MacBook Air, the one thing that stood out as a significant omission was the lack of a backlit keyboard. The standard keyboard simply isn't particularly visible in low-light. Apple happened to agree, and has come out with a new backlit model, but upgrading doesn't make much sense when there's the Large Type Keyboard Cover in the world. It's made by the aptly named KB Covers, which suggests a certain expertise in this kind of thing. I ordered mine directly from them, and it shipped promptly in full retail packaging.

The cover is a thin silicone overlay that fits the 11" non-backlit Air keyboard. The newer backlit Air has a very slightly different layout, so make sure you pick the right one; naturally other models are available. It fits over the existing keys well, but the shallow 'chiclet' keyboard design means that there's not that much for the cover to hold on to. Turning the open laptop up-side-down will make the keyboard cover fall off, so don't do that.

As for function, the thin material adds just a hint of springyness to the keyboard action. It does change the feel as well, being slightly gripper than the plastic keys. It's not objectionable, just different – in a few days it becomes second nature. The biggest difference is actually to the sound from the laptop, since the Air's speakers play from beneath the keyboard. The form-fitting silicone sheet naturally doesn't do it any favours, both muting and muffling the sound, but really the Air isn't exactly an acoustical powerhouse in the first place. Web videos that might have been intelligible will now need headphones, but that's always been the case for music.

The large type cover is awesome; it's hard to look at it for the first time and not laugh. I have to admit that the really big letters did freak me out for a while – I don't touch-type, but can hunt-and-peck with only the occasional glances at the keyboard. I'd catch these big bright letters in the corner of my vision and startle myself with them. Since then I suspect that my typing speed has actually improved; going to the non-siliconed keyboard on my iMac feels odd and I make a lot more mistakes than usual.

In the interest of proper product testing I had some cookies. The ones that I buy from the sandwich shop are usually a little greasy, and I can always tell which keys are my favourite when I eat them while typing. (Yes, even with prompt use of a serviette.) I'm pleased to say that the keyboard cover actually didn't show any grease marks from the experience, so it not only protects but it also conceals.

The letters are bold and take up nearly the entire key, but with a good balance of black to provide a high-contrast field. The command keys in particular benefit from the large type cover, as they add the symbol that's used in the menus for the prevalent keyboard shortcuts. It's a neat trick to make the original marking larger as well as adding additional and useful information. Apple should be a little embarrassed that someone else's washable accessory does it better.

There are a couple of other nice touches on the keyboard cover. One is that there's a clear window for the light on the caps lock key to shine through, so that indicator is retained. Another is that the button markings on the up and down cursor buttons are drawn as properly spaced keys that are the same size as the left and right arrows, even though the keys themselves are oversized and sloped on the keyboard below. The fit remains perfect, but by not blacking out the space in between they become visually distinct and easier to use. Finally, for the touch-typists out there, the KB Cover makes the landmarks on the "F" and "J" keys even more prominent than on the original keyboard.

Nobody ever got fired for choosing Helvetica. It's a classic font that's familiar and easy to interpret, and a Mac-appropriate choice since PCs use an ugly cut-rate knockoff font to keep the price of their Windows operating system down. It also has the advantage of square letters that fit the keys very well. But there are other typefaces that are specifically designed for increased legibility for people with low vision, and others designed for signage or screens and other challenging conditions. Still, I suppose if something is going to be so visually bold then it's more acceptable if it's conservative. If KB had chosen Monaco or Comic Sans then I just wouldn't have been able to buy it, and that would have been a pity.

last updated 17 oct 2011

"American Signs" by Lisa Mahar

Concept: 4 out of 5
Execution: 1 out of 5
Yeah, but: I'm getting old, and possibly grumpy.

The Long Version: I'm a photographer who loves signs, but it took me a very long time to pick up this book when I was last shopping at Swipe. I've been burned before, discovering over and over again that photo books with blindingly obvious and mundane titles contain noting more than blindingly obvious and mundane photos, and road signs are a popular topic for artless and automatic photography. When I did finally grit my teeth and pick it up, Lisa Mahar's book "American Signs: Form and Meaning on Route 66" blew me away.

The blurb on the back cover of a book can be very revealing, so that's a good place to start. I completely agree that "with its insightful writing, clear graphic diagrams, and hundreds of contemporary and historic [sic] images, American Signs is a singular reading experience and a groundbreaking study." It completely devotes itself to the study of motel signs, which reflect a distinct set of challenges as the business try to differentiate themselves from the competition and attract customers that they have never seen before and will likely never see again. Awesome.

The book looks at trends across about fifty years, breaking each era into its own chapter. All follow the same structure, making it easy to see and contrast the changes over time. It becomes a fascinating sociological study, showing changing attitudes through the names of colours and businesses, and tracking travel patterns through the height of the signs and the arrangement of their elements. The shift from vernacular craftsmanship to professional industrial design, the rise of branding, and changes in fabrication techniques are all within its scope. There are a couple of points that I can quibble with, such as naming a particular typeface that isn't depicted in the accompanying image, but the book serves its purpose as a general guide rather than a specific survey.

Possibly the best praise that I can give a book is that its insights have made a lasting difference in how I see and interpret the world. American Signs has certainly done that, and now when I look at the sign for a business I pay attention to the emphasis of "name" and "function". It's how each business subtly communicates how it sees itself and its role within the local community. My appreciation of that is directly because of reading American Signs, and I'm sure that Penny also thanks Lisa Mahar for giving me one more reason to be distracted when we're out together.

Back to the back cover. Signs "are complex pieces of design" and American Signs analyzes "their concept and influences, typestyle and color choice, form and composition, context and placement."

So with such emphasis on "typestyle and color choice" in the content of the book, I have to say that the typesetting and colour choices in American Signs are a huge disappointment. The majority of the book is set in what appears to be six-point type – an uppercase letter "T" is a mighty two millimeters high – as if Lisa Mahar was writing nothing more important than a series of captions. Most of the text is black on white pages, but occasionally it's reversed to an even lower contrast white on a red-orange page that echoes the cover. When the text is larger it's in that same accent colour on white, which turns out to be not much more legible despite its increased stature.

The typesetting for the introduction deserves special mention. Text elsewhere in the book is restricted to a single page, but the introduction spans better than ten pages and four double-truck photographs. That means that there's a double page of text alternating with each double-page photo, and any photo printed that large is clearly meant to be looked at. The elegant thing to do would be to end a paragraph before each photo spread, or at least finish the sentence. That way the reader can complete their thought, admire the art, and then rejoin the narrative with minimal mental disruption. Not only does that never happen, but twice the page break leaves the reader hanging on a hyphenated word. In ragged-right text. Seriously, who does that?

Yes, my last birthday put me on the wrong side of 37, and my eyesight has never been the best. But reading the minuscule little text in anything but brilliant lighting is impossible at any comfortable distance. The vast deserts of white space that could otherwise be put to productive use just makes the designers' adherence to its layout grid all the more senseless. Typography is supposed to invisibly enhance the content of the book, not substantially diminish it. That the format of a book specifically about communication and information design would fall down so badly is a real pity, because American Signs is "a groundbreaking study" that deserves to be read and appreciated properly.

last updated 7 sep 2011

Umbra Saddle Sink Caddy

Concept: 3 out of 5
Execution: 1 out of 5
Yeah, but: No matter where you put it, there it is.

The Long Version: It seems like a really good idea. The Umbra saddle sink caddy is designed to go across the centre of a twin sink, with a compartment on both sides to hold sponges, scouring pads, and similar. It comes in different colours, but I picked a dark one – "smoke" – that would look the least grungy the longest. (White is also available for those who want the opposite effect.) Realistically there's not much chance that a silicone spongebra will add to the decor, no matter how cute it is in the store, so I wish I'd picked the red one just because it looks like it has more fun.

The problems with my sink caddy started very quickly. The saddle doesn't straddle my sink very elegantly, leading to a bulky fit that takes up more room than it should. Next I discovered just how much I use the dividing wall between the sinks, for everything from bracing cooking sheets to balancing the big 4L water-filter jug. And when I actually use the sink for dishes and cooking, the sponge caddy blocks a surprising amount of it. All this I could live with, even though I often end up having to move the caddy to one side or just drop it into the half of the sink that I'm not using. The biggest problem is that the Umbra caddy keeps sponges wet for a remarkably long time.

Each side of the sink caddy has four dainty little drainage holes, which serve to let most of the water out when it gets flooded by the faucet, but aren't enough to let it drain completely or allow proper air flow. So instead of keeping my kitchen organized, the Umbra sink saddle leaves me with chronically damp sponges sitting in a holder that's inevitably in the way. I have to admit that I was hoping for more than that from this simple little thing. Umbra usually does a very good job with product design, but this one just doesn't do it for me.

last updated 24 may 2011

Swipe Books, 401 Richmond street, Toronto

Concept: 3 out of 5
Execution: 4 out of 5
Yeah, but: How can you beat that logomark?

The Long Version: Swipe is one of those special places in the world. As a bookstore in downtown Toronto that focuses on advertising and design, it's a hidden gem that's actually fairly well known. Located in the large arts-centric building at 401 Richmond street west, it's a stone's throw from Spadina avenue just a little south of Queen street west. Go in through the doors on the west side of the building, hang a right, follow left, down the hall, and take another right past the elevator: it's just down the green hallway and you can't miss it.

Inside are some of the hip and trendy non-book objects that can also be found in many of the stores on Queen West or in the Annex, but Swipe's not in danger of being mistaken for the Umbra store and there are no cheeky greeting cards anywhere to be found. Their collection of interesting non-books does include a lot of design objects that I haven't seen elsewhere, so while it's no replacement for the shopAGO store, it's worth browsing even if your bookshelves are full. But their books – ah, those books.

Most giant bookstores think they have a graphic design section because they have a book on a billion and one business cards, but Swipe has shelves set aside just for typography, industrial design, urbanism, packaging, illustration, and design theory. They're particularly strong on architecture, and even have a kid's section. While it doesn't delve into Fine Art, there is a huge range of material here for anyone interested in the creative arts of design, graphics, and communication.

Being small gives Swipe both the ability to specialize and the need to only carry the good stuff; this is the place to go to find specific books that other stores won't have as well as to discover a depth that can't be replaced by an on-line "you may also like" auto-suggestion bot. I can't confirm their website's claim that they have "room enough for every graphic design and advertising book worthy of shelf space" – which is a self-contained circular argument – but their current location is vastly better than their previous space at 477 Richmond. That place was mostly a hallway, while the 401 Richmond shop is a more friendly rectangle.

Swipe's prices are sometimes higher than what I may pay elsewhere, but for me it's an easy concession in exchange for their continued enthusiasm. Ballenford and David Mirvish Books have shown that it's important to encourage the businesses that add to the arts and culture of the city. In return Swipe has a thriving program of discount tags that puts Canadian Tire 'Money'™ to shame.

I'm neither a graphic designer nor directly involved in advertising, but Swipe Books is one of my favourite non-camera stores in the city. As a source of interesting material and items it has very few rivals; these photos show three different things that I've already reviewed this year, and they don't even include the display of Spacing's subway buttons that sits by the counter. Swipe is a tough store to beat, and there aren't many other places I can say that about.

last updated 6 may 2011

99% Invisible

Concept: 4 out of 5
Execution: 4 out of 5
Yeah, but: Now I want to meet a vexillologist.

The Long Version: 99% Invisible is a tiny radio program about culture and design that's also a podcast. New episodes are mostly weekly, and past episodes have covered maps, city flags, sound design, concrete graffiti, cheque cashing stores, the considerations of authority and democracy in public space, and the possibilities of sending someone on a one-way mission to Mars. Pretty amazing stuff. It's rare for me to listen to an episode without scribbling a bunch of notes on ideas and websites to investigate.

Hosted by Roman Mars, the stock episodes run about four and a half minutes, although there are some extended podcast-only shows that break double digits. It's tightly focused and well edited, and strikes a great balance between providing enough depth without bogging down into the esoteric. Roman Mars serves as an eloquent narrator and provides bridges between interview clips from interesting people.

One of the best things about 99% Invisible is its production quality. Sound really matters, and there's none of the nonsense that mars so many amateur programs. Forget about those synthetic musical riffs accompanying long self-indulgent intros, and instead enjoy high production quality with some fascinating backing music. This is professional all the way, and it's worth listening to just for the sound of it all.

For further reading, there's also an article to check out on transom.org, which is a site worthy of exploration for anyone who's interested in capturing or sharing sound.

last updated 29 apr 2011

Tokina 16-28 Lens Cap

Concept: 1 out of 5
Execution: 0 out of 5
Yeah, but: It has to be seen to be believed.

The Long Version: The Tokina AT-X 16-28mm f/2.8 PRO FX clearly isn't a pretentious lens. With a list price around $1100 Canadian, it's Tokina's 'full-frame' version of their wildly popular 11-16/2.8, and is a welcome addition to the wide-angle options for the 24x36 set. I'm glad to see it and I wish it well; I've never really used the lens, but I've heard some nice things about it. This review is simply of its lens cap.

Made of a soft and flexible plastic, the Tokina 16-28's unbranded cap has shallow ridges that provide only a feeble grip on the hood some of the time. Other times the round hood mates with the round cap in a way that gives it no grip at all. None. I've done this trick with the caps on each of the three lenses that I've tested, including both Canon and Nikon mounts. Words can't convey the reality of it, so I've done an eighteen second MOS video.

(youtube link)

Hands down, no question, without a doubt: this is the worst lens cap I've ever seen. You could use the metal cap from the Olympus 7-14 to prop up an artillery shell; the plastic caps from the Panasonic 7-14 and Nikon 14-24 aren't as impressive but they are still incredibly solid. Like the cap for the Tokina 16-28, all of these work to protect the bulging front element by attaching with a pressure-fit around the outside of the built-in petal hood. This design failure isn't the result of Tokina trying a daring new idea: even the press-on plastic tail cap from a Nikon 50/1.8D puts this front cap to shame.

The problems still don't stop when the Tokina cap is attached firmly enough that its own weight won't dislodge it. It can be knocked off by even a slight bump or nudge; I'd be mildly concerned about losing it if it wasn't guaranteed to fall off while the lens is still in the camera bag. The cap also isn't deep enough to completely cover the gaps in the petal-shaped lens hood, so it doesn't even protect against dust. This might also be a good time to point out that the lens can't take filters, and the width of its vision requires a shallow hood. The only real option to protect this lens, after spending a thousand dollars on it, is to spring a little extra for a neoprene Hood Hat. Nice. There are certain things that I would like to take for granted, and the ability of a company with as much experience as Tokina – a division of Hoya, and a stablemate of Pentax – to design a lens cap that works properly shouldn't be too much to ask. Sure, Canon hasn't yet discovered the centre-pinch design, but this stuff shouldn't be pushing the state of the art. It boggles my mind that something this flawed made its way into the box of a shipping product, let alone a lens as expensive as this one. It can't be an accident that Tokina doesn't put their name on it. updated: rumour has it that there is an improved mkII lens cap out there, and it can be ordered through an authorized dealer as a replacement for the one that I've reviewed here. It may even already be installed on some of the more recently made lenses. I would like to thank Tokina for giving people one more example of how important it is to buy from a real local camera store, and hope to have a further update once I've been able to try out the new design.  updated once more: I've now seen the new design in person – both of them, in fact. One is a branded press-on cap that's deeper and made of rigid plastic, while the other is an elaborate design that clips into place and offers excellent protection. Lens caps can indeed be swapped out, but the store has to pay for the new caps up-front and is only reimbursed when the old models are sent back to them, and the cost isn't insignificant. Replacing the lousy design that I've reviewed here may not be all that easy.

last updated 4 aug 2011

Transit Maps of the World, by Mark Ovenden

Concept: 3 out of 5
Execution: 3 out of 5
Yeah, but: Transit pr0n is an unusual sub-genre.

The Long Version: Transit Maps of the World isn't a book with a gripping narrative that you'll want to read from cover to cover in one sitting, but it's an interesting collection of information just the same. As the name implies, it compiles almost 200 different subway systems. I can't confirm that it includes every system in the world, but it sure is an awful lot of them.

The book is divided into sections. The introduction provides an overview on the general evolution of mass-transit rail, and the way those systems have been depicted as maps evolved into diagrams. From there it delves into specific systems, which are split into token groupings based on the age and complexity of the systems. The grand networks, such as Berlin, London, and New York, are all covered extensively. Smaller and newer networks receive proportionate attention: Hong Kong and Mexico city get two pages each; Toronto and Los Angeles get one page each; upstart and little light-rail surface networks are grouped in the back with just a paragraph to describe the system and its accompanying map.

It should go without saying that this is a book about the transit maps that each system has generated, and while that unavoidably includes some information on the history and contemporary operation of the different networks, the focus remains on the design and implementation of its wayfinding. A certain amount of repetition is unavoidable – similarity among the designs indicates their broad success – which makes this a great book to pick up, get involved in, and then put down until next time.

Transit Maps of the World becomes a launching point. It, and a couple of trips to New York City, have completely rewritten my understanding of Toronto's own two-and-two-halfs subway network. It's led me to spend several happy afternoons learning more about different subway systems (check Joseph Brennan's awesome list of abandoned subway stations in NYC) instead of getting actual work done, and I've even started a little personal project to play with some ideas for Toronto's subway map as well.

Part of planning a recent trip to New York City involved finding the best subway station to get to from the place where the bus would drop me off. I was looking at the very geographic MTA map, but when I shifted to Google's view of the city I discovered that the actual distances were different enough to make me choose a better route. Subway maps invariably distort geography, but instead of being a flaw, it may simply reflect the different spatial relationships within the city that mass transit creates.

There's a big difference between a map and a diagram. Depicting a transit network balances the complexities of presenting information in a way that's simplified enough to be comprehensible, but accurate enough to be useful. How that problem has been solved around the world and over the past century is ultimately what Transit Maps of the World is all about.

last updated 12 apr 2011

Twelve South's Macbook Air BookArc

Concept: 2 out of 5
Execution: 2 out of 5
Yeah, but: Make sure you have the right one.

The Long Version: The BookArc from Twelve South has been around for a little while. There is one version that fits many different Apple laptops, including the previous generation of Macbook Air, by using interchangeable inserts within the same frame, and there's also a model to fit the now-obsolete iPad. The current 11" and 13" Air laptops – the October 2010 release – need their own specific model of BookArc that's tailored specifically to the thickness of those machines. While they have much in common, my experience is only with the one for the Air.

The BookArc itself is quite simple: it's a curve of steel with four little rubber feet and a rubber-lined fajayjay that the laptop slots into. The Macbook is held vertically, snugly but gently, with a footprint that's much smaller than what a horizontal laptop would take.

The idea behind this vertical hold is that the laptop can be used in "clamshell" mode, which just means that the lid stays closed while the laptop uses an external monitor and keyboard – it has nothing to do with Scientology. Unfortunately this is a good solution to the wrong problem. It's still clumsy, with the computer needing to start open, and then the laptop needs to be closed and moved around with all of the cables in place. Not tremendously elegant, and the reward for managing it with the Air is to use an underpowered laptop as a desktop computer. That's not much motivation if you ask me, but it's hardly the BookArc's fault. A more powerful computer, such as any non-Air Macbook made in the last two years, might make this more useful.

My bookarc is simply a reserved parking space that lets my pretty little Air take up less room on my chronically over-crowded desk while hooking up with its power supply. The fancy stand could conceivably be replaced by just about anything from a pair of bookends to a plate rail, but the BookArc does it with style. A simple job done well is all that I ask of it, and it delivers. And who knows? If my iMac does fold up its tent, I can always run my Air in clamshell mode for a day or two.

last updated 24 mar 2011

MoMA Ball Bearing Key Chain

Concept:  2 out of 5
Execution:  3 out of 5
Yeah, but:  If it hangs on a wall it’s a painting, and if you can walk around it it’s a sculpture.

The Long Version: Ball bearings are nifty things. The MoMA store - Museum of Modern Art, New York - is also nifty. Its website is where I first found the Mighty Wallet, of which I now own seven, and it also features the Ball Bearing Keychain. When I was in New York MoMA was one of my obligatory stops, but I hesitated before spending the not-insignificant cash to buy one of these iconic keychains. Eventually I rationalized it as a souvenir that I would use every day, but I have to be realistic: it's shiny, mechanical, and pointless. How could I resist?

The keychain itself is quite substantial, with a very heavy split ring to attach the keys to. One of my keys has a squared-off hole in the bow that binds on the ring, making the spare-no-expense build into a little too much of a good thing, but it hasn't been enough of a hassle to get me to change it. And while it may seem strange to say, this is a working ball bearing, so it's free to spin and move as it was intended to. It was a little stiff straight out of the box, but it loosened up after just a few days' use. The shaft diameter for the inner race is 15mm, making it just slightly smaller than a 4.25 ring size. Sticking a finger through it and twirling the keys around and around is surprisingly entertaining; I'll also toy with it and flip the inner race and cage around in those quiet moments when I'm idle but there's nothing interesting on my blackberry.

The polished stainless steel has been surprisingly difficult to scratch; while it does show a few marks, the keyfob in these photos has spent six weeks jostling around with lose change and other pocket items in addition to the keys that it carries. It's also quite heavy, which lets it bully its way to the bottom of a jacket pocket instead of getting tangled up in the gloves and toque that I invariably carry these days. That means that there's much less chance of launching my keys into a snowbank - a very good thing. With lighter summer clothes the weight might not be quite so welcome, so I predict that this keychain will need to be put aside when I'm not wearing a jacket.

The ball bearing keychain is an executive toy that's disguised as a tribute to an important machine with a fascinating design, but without the MoMA connection it would have been much harder to justify its cost. While I'm glad that I bought it after a happy afternoon in the galleries, I wouldn't buy another if something tragic happens to this one. But I'm not in any way dissatisfied: it's almost impossible for me to leave it alone when it's sitting on my desk, even when I have an important review to write. Never underestimate the entertainment value of things that are shiny, mechanical, and pointless.

last updated 18 dec 2010

Opinel #8 Knife

Concept: 3 out of 5
Execution: 4 out of 5
Yeah, but:  It has a certain maturity.

The Long Version:  It's hard to review a knife that predates the invention of the zipper. Its form is simultaneously refined and very basic, with a minimum of parts and an elegance that has endured for over a century. The Opinel knife is very simple, consisting of a blade and wooden handle joined with a pivot and locking collar. I bought the #8 size - 8.5cm blade, about 3.25" - to have something small and cheap enough that I can always have one in my bag for when I forget to bring a better one to work with me. I chose the carbon steel blade for better performance, but there's also a stainless version for lower maintenance.

While the knife wasn't razor-sharp right out of the package, especially toward the tip, it can easily take and hold a fine edge. But what makes the blade so useful is that it's very thin with a gentle convex grind. This isn't some über-strong knife that could split firewood, but instead its slender profile makes it perfect as a light utility knife. Picture a scalpel, x-acto, or box cutter: knives that really need to be sharp are thin. For slicing plastic and cardboard the reduced drag through the material makes for a much easier cut. I mostly use my working knives to split tape and break down cardboard boxes, and the Opinel easily slips in between the side flaps and box top, which a thick blade simply can't do.

Opinel's simple design has a rotating collar that can be used to lock the blade open, and in more recent knives, can also lock the blade closed. They can't be opened with one hand, don't have a pocket clip, and really aren't fancy in any way. They need a certain deliberation to use, and convey almost no "attitude", which can be far more useful than titanium liners and serrated blades. No, I wouldn't want to go into the woods for a week with just this knife to get me through, but for me carrying a different knife would be solving the wrong problem. There are bugs and stuff out in the wilderness - I'll stay in a motel instead.

When I bought the #8, I thought it would be the knife that gets tossed into my work bag and forgotten about, and I was only half-right. It weighs almost nothing and is cheap enough to be a spare, but it's also good enough that it's the one I reach for instead of my heavier knives. Not all the time, of course, and not for every task - but often enough that I'm planning on adding a couple of the smaller #6 size to my collection as well. There's a lot to be said for understated simplicity and the charm of an enduring design.


added: after writing this review, I've gone on to buy the #6 and #10 sizes as well. While I'm not sure that it makes sense to like something enough to want others that are similar but different, that's what happened here - and they're cheap enough that the set of three still cost less than what many 'basic' modern knives would run. Now that I've had a couple of months with them, I've written a new review that can be found by clicking here.

last updated 18 feb 2011

Leif Benner, Goldsmith

Concept: 4 out of 5
Execution: 4 out of 5
Yeah, but: I even like his watch.

The Long Version: When I write a review, I try to combine an expansive breadth of knowledge with incisive specificity. This time I can't do that – while I do know a bit about jewellery and jewellery stores, I don't spend any time researching and shopping around. Whenever I need something nice in gold, I just head down to see Leif Benner. He's a goldsmith and designer located in Toronto's Distillery district, an arts incubator that's something of a tourist attraction in its own right.

As often happens, I needed to see a jewellery designer because I wanted to get married, and found the perfect ring as soon as I walked into Leif's studio. Planning a wedding is a lot of hard work – I should know, I've watched someone do it – but working with Leif has always been easy. When Penny and I were looking for wedding bands, he deftly talked us away from a significantly more expensive design by showing us how it wouldn't be a good compliment to Penny's engagement ring. For my band, he took the time to go through a number of different options that I never expected to have, and I've come away with a ring that's exactly right for me - it's square. What more can I say?

Leif's clearly enthusiastic about his art, and I never hesitate to recommend him to anyone who's looking for something special in gold or precious stones. He's both a talented designer and a pleasure to work with. Either trait is hard to find, but getting them both together is remarkable and worth supporting. After getting an engagement ring and a wedding band set from Leif, I can't see ever going anywhere else.

Canon Powershot SX30 IS

Concept: 2 out of 5
Execution: 1 out of 5
Yeah, but: A lot can change in a year.

The Long Version: I reviewed the SX20 almost exactly a year ago, and there are a few differences this time around. For one thing, I don't own the SX30, and I never will. I also don't own the SX20 any more, having sold it after getting the GH1 which is a superzoom done right. Of course, the SX30IS has the spiffy new 35x 24-840mm-e lens with an image-stabilization system that really does work, which will be the reason why people buy it. Maybe the rest won't matter.

The other big change from the SX20 is the battery. Gone are the four AA batteries, replaced by the same proprietary rechargeable batteries that are used in the G11/G12. The lens is also lighter, making for a camera with very different handling than the previous models. For most people this will be a good thing, good enough that they'll overlook the memory card moving back into the battery compartment. That's the way most compact cameras work, and even a bad design can benefit from the comfort of familiarity.

But man, is this camera ever ugly.

The hand grip is awkward, being simultaneously angular and hard to hold. The SX20 had a substantial grip, partly thanks to the jumbo battery compartment, but the SX30 is too small for my hands without the benefit of it being a diminutive camera. While Canon's SLR's have all been borrowing from the swoopy-slabby stealth-fighter aesthetic recently, this long-zoom plastic case looks like an F22 that's crashed into the ocean, been eaten by a shark, and pooped out the far end. The mode dial is dished out in a way that's unique to the SX30, and there's a red detailing to it that adds to its disco points. And just in case you forget what camera you own, the SX30 has added another branding location on top of the flash, facing backwards, so that there's no escaping this camera at all.

Someone once said that the best the best thing about driving a Pontiac Aztek is that you can't see the cars' exterior. That gives the automotive horror a real advantage over the Canon, because looking through the SX30IS is actually worse than looking at it. It has a mediocre-average 230K 2.8" LCD screen, and the worst electronic viewfinder I've seen in years.

Bad.

Really, really bad.

The rise of mirrorless cameras has created a renaissance for electronic viewfinders. People who swore they'd never use an EVF are coming around, and many cameras have genuinely good ones. This one is nowhere near the Panasonic m4/3 options, and is years behind what Sony has on their upcoming "SLT" A55 camera. In the SX30's own long-zoom class, the arch-rival Panasonic's viewfinder is considerably better than the SX30, and even the Nikon Coolpix P100, which is otherwise an uninspiring little machine, does better. Considering how important the EVF is for controlling and aiming long telephoto lenses, this is a huge problem. Adding additional humiliation, 2003-vintage Sony F828 has a visually larger viewfinder, and it even has 30,000 dots - 15% - more resolution than the 2010 Canon camera. It's appalling. I've never said this about anything before, but from an aesthetic and ergonomic point of view, I'd rather have a Sony Alpha A330. Even people who love Sony don't like that camera - the SX30's viewfinder really is that bad.

As far as the performance goes, there's not much to say. It's a Canon superzoom, so the image quality averages out to a decent but not outstanding result. The big deal is the lens, which is longer than anything else on the market (at the moment). This is something like having a talking dog - it really doesn't matter what it says, its mere existence is remarkable. I can also say that its image stabilization works very well, holding the picture very steady even when at the monstrously long zoom extension. The photo above, of the man with his hand in his pocket as he enters an 'adult entertainment' venue, was taken from the far side of the street and hasn't been cropped at all. The camera handles its primary task as well as anyone could ask, given its intended purpose and market. Those who are able to withstand their first encounter will probably be quite happy with it, or at least grudgingly accept its compromises. But whatever you do, don't even think about buying it without trying it first.

In the immortal words of Opus the Penguin: "Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but Lord, it wasn't good." Time could prove me wrong. Style is personal, and some say that taste can't be taught. But man, that viewfinder stinks.

Concrete Toronto: A Guidebook to Concrete Architecture From the Fifties to the Seventies

Concept: 4 out of 5
Execution: 3 out of 5
Yeah, but: It's a very dense book.


The Long Version: "Concrete Toronto: A Guidebook to Concrete Architecture From the Fifties to the Seventies" is the second book I've bought from Coach House Press, the small but vital Toronto institution located on the charming bpNichol lane. Like HTO: Toronto's Water, this is a collection of essays written by a range of experts, discussing a specific and overlooked section of Toronto's physical environment. And before I put anyone off, Coach House publishes a broad range of subjects, including fiction and poetry, and it's well worth looking through their catalog. It just so happens that I love their dedication to local subjects, and Concrete Toronto is exactly the kind of book that appeals to me.

Concrete is possibly the least-sexy building material out there, and yet it's ubiquitous. It makes our roads and bridges possible, and it's the ground that we walk on in our cities, but it is to aesthetics what powdered mashed potatoes is to cuisine. Toronto's skyline is dominated by poured concrete buildings, but it's mostly associated with the broadly-unloved Brutalist style, which even takes its name from its love of exposed concrete exteriors. A book titled "Concrete Toronto" is clearly facing an tough battle just to get picked up off of the shelf, but it's well worth it. Inside is a huge collection of essays, illustrations, and photos.

Naturally, the prominent Toronto landmarks are well covered. The CN Tower, the Manulife Centre, and the New City Hall are all presented in considerable detail, and the book almost persuades me to like that particular government building. Less prominent buildings are also discussed, including many in the University of Toronto and Annex neighbourhoods that I see daily, and it really has given me a new way to understand the unremarkable - I can see Tartu and Rochdale from the balcony in my `70's concrete condo - and appreciate the ambitious, like OISE, Robarts, and 44 Walmer. But the book isn't just a tourists' guide to specific structures: history, preservation, technology, and city-building are all within the scope of the book. The buildings I've studied in, the suburb that I grew up in, and the highways that I drive on are all in here. And while most of the book is specific to Toronto and the area around it, who wouldn't be interested in an essay on 'The Rise of Parking Garages'? It sounds trivial, but this is the stuff that shapes our cities.

I really only have one criticism of the book: the type can be tiny. While most of the text is simply very very small, sometimes they designers have had to fit an inhuman amount of text onto a page, with a result that makes the fine print in a credit card ad seem luxurious. This isn't one to read while swaying around in bad lighting on the subway, even if you are approaching Eglinton West station on your way to Yorkdale mall, both of which are featured inside. A minor quibble is that the lack of colour photography leaves the book relentlessly grey, but I suppose that's partly the point. After all, one of the typefaces used is 'Slate' - I've always suspected that the people at Coach House have a subtle and sophisticated sense of humour.

Clearly, it's people with an interest in Toronto and its architecture that are going to get the most out of this book. I wouldn't suggest that anyone in Barstow, California should head over to Amazonto buy a copy, unless they were originally from here and were feeling an unusual variety of homesickness. But for those who like concrete architecture, cities in general, and Toronto's history and development, it's definitely worth checking out. The mix of different perspectives, the reasonable length of each essay, and the broad range of subjects within its narrow scope makes Concrete Toronto a surprisingly engaging book. I know I'll be picking it up and re-reading it, in both idle moments and dedicated sessions, for a long time to come.