A Pilgrimage to Wetzlar (Part 2)

Part Two: Cameras, Rainstorms, and Conversations That Last a Lifetime

It was with a heavy heart and half a strudel still swirling somewhere near my liver that I finally turned my back on Wetzlar’s old town. Having spent the morning bathing in golden light, photographing medieval houses and churches, I found myself compulsively checking my watch like someone expecting a delayed apology from fate. The Leica 100-year celebration wasn’t going to wait, and while I’d have happily spent another few hours doing very little with enormous purpose in the Altstadt, I knew that if I didn’t leave now, I’d be parking somewhere outside Frankfurt and parachuting in.

So off I went—reluctantly, resentfully, and with all the enthusiasm of a child being dragged away from a bouncy castle. Thankfully, fate—or more likely, German planning—was on my side. I arrived at the rear of the Leica headquarters complex and, in what must be a statistically impossible coincidence, found a parking space. Not just a space, but one tucked under the shade of a helpful tree, which—given the scorching afternoon heat—felt as close to divine intervention as one could reasonably expect outside of Lourdes.

The sun remained, theatrically, like a smug magician after pulling a rabbit out of a cloud.

The Leica headquarters itself is a bit of a marvel. All sleek lines, modernist curves, and quiet architectural confidence, it stands in stark contrast to the medieval charm of the old town I’d just left. Some say it’s meant to resemble the shape of a film canister, or the curves of the original Leica I. Others insist it looks like the kind of place where Bond villains develop black-and-white film. Either way, it’s handsome, precise, and strangely inviting—much like the cameras themselves.

The first person I encountered was a young man whose job, I gathered, was to ensure only registered attendees entered the hallowed grounds. He was friendly in that quietly efficient German way—welcoming, but with a look that suggested he could take you down in three moves if you tried anything cheeky. And just like that, I was inside. I had with me both my Leica Q3 and the Q2 Monochrom, snug in a compact shoulder bag that was, frankly, more ceremonial than useful. I knew perfectly well that by the time I’d passed the first exhibition wall, the bag would be dangling limply behind me like some neglected appendix. This was a day to shoot—relentlessly, obsessively, joyfully. And shoot I did.

There is something surreal about walking into a place where every second person is someone you’ve admired from afar. Legends drifted through the crowds with the casual confidence of rock stars at their own album launch. I found myself elbow to elbow with photographers whose work had shaped the way the world sees itself. Joel Meyerowitz was there, as effortlessly cool in person as his photographs suggest. Steve McCurry floated past me, somehow glowing, like a man who has permanently stepped out of softbox lighting however much shorter than I had envisioned. Lest I forget Ralph Gibson. Well tanned and eloquent. And then there were the rising stars—people like Alan Schaller and Phil Penman bringing contemporary energy and style to a legacy brand that has always managed to straddle the line between old-school craftsmanship and avant-garde creativity.

There were, of course, the YouTubers. The modern priesthood. You know the ones—the reviewers, vloggers, and Leica apologists who whisper sweet nothings about shutter sounds and ISO noise into microphones late at night. I met several Canadian creators I follow religiously, and truly appreciate what they do and how they present their findings honestly. I was only to discover that they were not only brilliant but disarmingly kind. For instance, my conversation with Gajan Balan was so insightful and enriching that I cannot begin to thank him enough for his time. There is something reassuring about finding that people who talk so eloquently about aperture blades online are also the sort who would offer you the last sausage roll.

The air was buzzing with that unique Leica energy: part gallery opening, part tech convention, part high school reunion for the aesthetically obsessive. There were masterclasses and conversations, gallery tours and panel discussions. In one corner, an auction of antique cameras was taking place—dozens of beautiful, pristine relics from decades past, most of which looked as if they had been stored in time capsules under the Alps. Some were as old as Leica itself. Others seemed to hum softly with the stories they’d once captured: war zones, weddings, quiet portraits by lakesides.

I drifted between rooms, each one a celebration of a different era or approach. War photography. Street photography. Portraiture. Documentary. Every wall hung with work so good it made you want to throw your own camera into the Lahn River and take up something easier, like competitive cheese grating. But instead of feeling discouraged, I felt inspired. Because every single frame and every perfect sliver of someone else’s vision was a reminder of what these cameras could do in the right hands.

And then, just as I slung my camera bag over my shoulder and stepped out onto the warm pavement… the sky fell in. Not just rain. Not even a storm. This was biblical. The kind of downpour that makes you check the horizon for pairs of animals walking toward a large wooden ship. People scattered like extras in a disaster film, and for a brief, sodden moment, it looked as if the entire Leica celebration might be reduced to a soggy huddle under a coffee kiosk canopy. Everyone blinked back into existence, patting themselves dry, readjusting hats, checking cameras. It was, in its own ridiculous way, a perfect metaphor for photography: a moment you didn’t expect, couldn’t plan for, and wouldn’t forget.

And then—just as quickly—it stopped.

I wandered through the Leica museum, a beautifully curated timeline of form and function. Cameras that once changed the way the world saw itself stood quietly behind glass, as dignified as museum busts. The early Leica I. The M3. The legendary M6. Digital models. Military prototypes. Lenses so fast they might as well have come from CERN. Each piece whispered its own story. It was, in short, a Leica safari—and I was surrounded by some of the rarest and most remarkable specimens the photographic world has ever produced.

Throughout the afternoon, I was struck by one overwhelming truth: Leica is not just about cameras. It’s about community. You could feel it in the way people spoke, not just about what they photographed, but why. Some photojournalists risked their lives to tell the truth. Parents were documenting their children’s first steps. Some artists have spent decades refining their vision. Everyone had a story, and everyone wanted to share it.

Conversations sprang up like wildflowers. I found myself chatting with a woman from Japan who had photographed post-tsunami recovery efforts. A man from New York showed me a series of black-and-white portraits of Harlem in the 1970s. Another had documented climate protests in Berlin, all with a quiet humility that made me want to listen, not just nod and wait for my turn. And always, the same refrain: “I use Leica because it gets out of my way.” That, I think, is the secret. The cameras are beautiful, yes. But they are also invisible conduits for intention, not interruptions. You use one because it reminds you that the best part of photography isn’t the settings or the specs—it’s the looking.

As the day wore on, and the afternoon light dipped toward something vaguely cinematic, I found a quiet place by the glass exterior of the building. I sat, reviewing some of my shots. They weren’t masterpieces. They never are. But they were mine—honest, spontaneous, and joyful. And that, I realized, was more than enough. Eventually, it was time to leave. I packed my cameras back into their surplus-to-requirement bag, now heavier with memory and meaning. I took one last walk past the museum, the galleries, the outdoor courtyard still alive with conversations. I smiled at the same security guard who’d greeted me earlier. He smiled back. And then I stepped out into the warm evening air of Wetzlar, head spinning slightly, heart full.

As I reached my car, still shaded (bless that tree), I paused. What had I come here for? Was it the history? The architecture? The chance to shake hands with giants? Yes. All of that. But more than anything, it was to remember why I picked up a camera in the first place. Not for followers or likes (I don’t have an Instagram or Pinterest account) or the quiet panic of the “what lens did you use” question. But for the simple, human act of freezing a moment before it slips away.

Leica, for all its legendary status and Teutonic precision, is really about that. About pausing. Noticing. Remembering. And as I drove away from Wetzlar, I knew one thing for certain.

I’ll be back.

All of the images posted below (both colour and black & white) were taken with the Leica Q3 and Q2 Monochrom.

Live well!

M.

And now for a little colour