Leica M8: the royal pain in the arse of cameras
Selling my Leica M8 isn't just a financial decision; it's an act of self-preservation, a desperate bid to escape a relationship so toxic it makes Fatal Attraction look like a wholesome rom-com. This camera didn’t just challenge me - it gaslit me, insulted me, and left me questioning my very existence. The camera so posh, it refuses to work for commoners.
If the Leica M8 were a person, it would be that impossibly attractive yet utterly insufferable artist you dated in your 20s - the one who chain-smoked indoors, critiqued everything you loved, and disappeared for three days only to return acting like you were the unreasonable one. But oh, the allure. The vintage charm. The promise that this time things would be different. They never were.
The Leica M8: beauty with a side of emotional manipulation
From the moment I laid eyes on the M8, I was smitten. It was sleek. It was classic. It looked like something an effortlessly cool Parisian photojournalist would sling over their shoulder while sipping an espresso and contemplating the meaning of life. And like a pervy businessman wandering the neon streets of Hong Kong, I fell hard for the name and the reputation. “This one is special,” I told myself. “This one is different.”
But here’s the truth - just like those overpriced escorts they fawn over, a Leica is a Leica. A prostitute is a prostitute. Underneath the glossy exterior, they all just take your money, waste your time, and leave you feeling hollow inside. If cameras were people, the M8 wouldn’t just be a high-maintenance escort; it would be the kind that demands Michelin-star dinners before even considering a performance, only to vanish into the night with your wallet, your dignity, and the last remnants of your self-respect.
Oh, you thought you could just turn it on and shoot? That’s adorable. The Leica M8 scoffs at your need for instant gratification. It demands effort, patience, and a borderline unhealthy level of self-loathing. It’s not just a camera - it’s an elite test of endurance, like Navy SEAL training but without the ripped abs to compensate for your suffering.
The manual focus tango: a masochist’s delight
Shooting with the M8 is like trying to dance salsa with a partner who is actively plotting your demise. “Oh, you wanted that shot in focus?” the M8 whispers seductively. “How cute of you to assume that’s your choice.”
Autofocus? Oh no, sweetie. The Leica M8 wouldn’t be caught dead stooping to such pedestrian levels of convenience. Instead, it prefers to stand in the corner, smoking an imaginary cigarette, rolling its eyes while you sweat over the focus ring, praying to the photography gods that this time - this time - you might actually get it right. You won’t.
The battery life of a mayfly with commitment issues
Imagine heading out with your Leica M8, feeling fresh, confident, and ready to conquer the world. Five clicks later, it’s dead. No warning, no remorse, just an immediate blackout - like an aristocrat in a corset who faints at the mere idea of physical labour.
The M8 does not care that you charged it last night. It does not care that you have places to be and moments to capture. It will die at the worst possible moment - just like a cursed Victorian child in a tragic novel.
The color science that gaslights you
I spent months telling myself the M8’s unique colour rendering was “artistic” and “iconic.” Then one day, I looked at my files with sane eyes and realized - no, it’s just wrong. Skin tones? Like radioactive peaches. Blues? More artificial than a contestant on Love Island. Greens? About as present as my will to live after trying to focus this thing for 20 minutes.
“Oh, you don’t get my colour science?” the M8 sneers. “That’s because you have no vision.” And just like that, I was gaslit into believing I was the problem. Again.
German engineering: rigidity at its finest
Let’s talk about the elephant in the room - or rather, the cold, humourless, precision-engineered elephant. The Leica M8 is German, and it behaves exactly like a stern, inflexible German schoolmaster who has never smiled in his life and considers joy a frivolous distraction. This camera follows rules the way a Prussian general follows battle strategy - unyielding, unforgiving, and entirely indifferent to human suffering.
Want a forgiving camera that adapts to your mistakes? Nein. The Leica M8 expects perfection, and if you don’t deliver, that’s your problem. It doesn’t capture moments - it demands obedience.
Why I finally had to let go
I held on. I defended it. I convinced myself that the struggle was part of the charm. But deep down, I knew - I was stuck in a toxic cycle. The M8 wasn’t making me a better photographer. It was making me a sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated wreck who spent more time praying for in-focus shots than actually taking them.
So, I did it. I put it on the market. Ready to be sent off to its next victim, and it feels Nina-Simone-good. No more anxiety. No more mind games. No more mental gymnastics to justify why my camera refused to cooperate. Just peace, glorious peace.
Goodbye, Leica M8. You were stunning, mysterious, and an absolute nightmare. Someone else can deal with your diva antics now.
*This bitching article is not included in the eBay listing. Unlike the camera, the sarcasm comes free of charge. Batteries, focus, and color accuracy not included. Sense of superiority, however, is built-in. No refunds.
