A precision workhorse. The Canon R3 trades whimsy for control and speed. Where as a camera like the Holga, for instance, leans into the fun of chance, the R3 locks in—responsive, balanced, and built to disappear in your hands so you can focus on the moment. Decisive. Fast. Dependably consistent in its own way.
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Origin Story
Most spirits keep to the place they died. They haunt a stretch of woods, or a house they loved, or maybe just a photograph tucked in a frame on someone’s dresser. Not Big Gus. He’s been on the move for nearly a century, hitching rides in cameras like a man catching trains.
Big Gus was a strongman back in the 1930s. The kind of fellow who’d roll frying pans up like newspapers and lift barrels over his head for the crowd. He loved applause, but more than that, he loved showing off when nobody asked him to. Carrying six bags of groceries in one hand, grinning like a kid the whole way. “Strength ought to be useful,” he used to say.
His life might’ve stretched longer, if not for love. He’d met a woman, up north, far from the bright lights of the city. She lived on a farm tucked against the woods, and he thought the quiet would suit them. But one night, she stepped out to the outhouse and didn’t come back. A bear had wandered down from the trees. Gus heard her scream and charged out barefoot, no costume, no crowd, no spotlight. Just him against the bear. He saved her. She lived to tell the tale. But Gus didn’t make it back.
They’d taken a photograph earlier that evening, one of those stiff little portraits couples liked to keep on mantels. When the shutter clicked, it caught more than an image. It caught Gus himself. He woke inside that boxy little camera, trapped but still watching. He stayed there as his girl grew older, watched her hair turn silver, watched her hands stiffen. When she passed, the camera was packed away, forgotten. And when it was tossed out decades later, Gus slipped free and found another machine to live in.
That became his pattern. Camera after camera. He’s ridden along through Polaroids, disposables, SLRs, a few digital point-and-shoots, and even one poor camcorder he hated (“video ain’t dignified,” he grumbles). Whenever one wore out, he leapt to another, like stepping stones across a river of time.
Which brings him to me. Driving home one night, brand-new Canon R3 on the seat beside me, Gus slipped inside without so much as a hello. I didn’t even know he was there until the first photo came out strange—not blurry, but bigger, somehow, like the frame couldn’t contain the weight of what he wanted to show. That’s Gus all over: solid, grounded, larger than life.
He’s the strongman of the Spirit Craft Studio collective, no doubt about it. If Penelope’s shy and fussy, Gus is the opposite. Steady. Booming. He likes the work—doesn’t matter if I’m shooting portraits for a client or just playing around with Annie in the backyard, he lends a certain gravity to the pictures. Like every frame has muscles in it.
He still loves the smell of gasoline. Loves the sight of someone hefting in groceries. Says it reminds him of the way things used to feel in his own arms. Sometimes I catch him muttering when I’m shooting—“Hold still. Plant your feet. Show the world what you’re made of.” Like he’s coaching both me and the subject at the same time.
And though he’s been running from camera to camera all these years, I get the sense Gus isn’t running away. He’s just keeping himself useful. That’s who he was in life, and that’s who he is now. A man who couldn’t stand the thought of sitting idle, even after death.
So that’s Big Gus, the strongman of Spirit Craft Studio. My Canon R3 hums a little louder with him inside it. He may not have a crowd anymore, but he’s still got an audience—and I reckon that’s enough to keep him going.
Fueled By Coffee
(And Your Kind Support)
I run this cozy little ad-free corner of the internet for the joy of it.
I chase light, not clicks. I make photos. If this place brings a smile to your face please know: your support keeps film in the camera, coffee in the cup, and the adventures rolling.
Click on the coffee cup to toss in a few coins, if you like.
No pressure.
Either way, thank you for being a part of the collective
and helping my vision grow.
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