What Do You Get When You Cross a Computer with a Camera?

Here is a riddle for the information age: What do you get when you cross a computer with a camera? Answer: A computer! Thirty years ago, my first camera, a 35mm Pentax Model H, had a small battery in it that powered the light meter. I merely swapped in a new one every couple of years, as I would a wristwatch battery.

Fifteen years ago, my first electronic camera, a 35mm Canon T70, used two AA batteries to power its rather simple exposure computer and its automatic film drive. It had a simple on/off switch so that the batteries wouldn't wear down needlessly.

Five years ago, my filmless Logitech, a first-generation digital camera, had a similar on/off switch, but it also had the smarts of a rudimentary computer inside it. If I forgot to turn it off, it automatically shut down after one minute of inactivity. Neat.

One year ago, my second-generation digital camera, a Panasonic PalmCam, had an even smarter computer chip inside it. It was so smart that its on/off switch had evolved into an "Off/Rec/Play" switch. It had modes: I had to put it into Rec mode to take pictures and Play mode to view them on its small video display.

My newest camera, a Nikon COOLPIX 900, is a third-generation digital camera and the smartest yet. In fact, it has a full-blown computer that displays a Windows-like hourglass while it "boots up." Like some mutant fish with extra heads, its on/off switch has four settings: Off/ARec/MRec/Play. "ARec" means "automatic record" and "MRec" means "manual record." As far as I can tell, there is no difference. There is no "On" setting, and none of my friends can figure out how to turn it on without a lengthy explanation.

The new camera is very power-hungry, and its engineers thoughtfully provided it with a sophisticated computer program that manages the consumption of battery power. A typical scenario goes like this: I turn the evil Off/etc. switch to "MRec," wait about seven long seconds for the camera to boot up, then point it at my subject. I aim the camera and zoom in to properly frame the image. Just as I'm about to press the shutter button, the camera suddenly realizes that simultaneously running the zoom, charging the flash, and energizing the display has caused it to run out of power. In self-defense, it suspends its capability to actually take pictures. But I don't know that because I'm looking through the viewfinder, waving my arms, saying "smile," and pressing the shutter button. The computer detects the button press, but it simply cannot obey. In a misguided effort to help out, the power-management program instantly takes over and makes an executive decision: Shed load. It shuts down the power-greedy LCD video display. I look at the camera quizzically, wondering why it didn't take the picture, shrug my shoulders, and let my arm holding the camera drop to my side. But as soon as the LCD is turned off, more battery power is available for other systems. The power-management program senses this increase and realizes that it now has enough electricity to take pictures. It returns control to the camera program, which is waiting patiently to process the command it received when I pressed the shutter button, and it takes a nicely auto-focused, well-exposed, high-resolution digital picture of my kneecap.

That old mechanical Pentax had manual focusing, manual exposure, and manual shutter speed, yet it was far less frustrating to use than the fully computerized, modern Nikon COOLPIX 900, which has automatic focusing, exposure, and shutter speed. The camera may still take pictures, but it behaves like a computer instead of a camera.

A frog that's slipped into a pot of cold water never recognizes the deadly rising temperature as the stove heats the pot. Instead, the heat anesthetizes the frog's senses. I was unaware, like the frog, of my cameras' slow march from easy to hard to use as they slowly became computerized. We are all experiencing this same, slow, anesthetizing encroachment of computer behavior in our everyday lives.