I recently decided to add a Leica Elmarit-M 90mm f/2.8 to my kit.
I found a copy at New Old Camera in Milan for €650, a steal, frankly. The catch? A "non-original red dot" with a bit of excess glue. A cosmetic imperfection that shaved €500 off the normal price. Perfect for me.

It arrived yesterday. I unboxed it, then 10 hours later I dropped it.

There is a specific kind of silence that fills a room when a piece of precision German engineering hits the floor. It’s heavy. It’s expensive.

It fell right out of my hands. The sound was sickening. I didn't even want to look. When I finally picked it up, the telescopic hood had taken the entire impact. It’s dented. A distinct, metal scar on a lens I had owned for less than an afternoon.

My first reaction was visceral panic. But then my brother reminded me of an interview I watched recently with Ivo Saglietti (incidentally, also on NOC’s channel). He talks about his Leica M6 not as a fetish object, but as an extension of his hand and eye. Battered, brassed, scratched, and infinitely more beautiful for it.

I checked the focus ring. Smooth as butter. I checked the glass. Intact. I checked the aperture. Clicky and precise.

The lens took a bullet for me. Before the drop, it was just an asset with a resale value. Now, it is unequivocally mine. It has a story.

Cameras and lenses are meant to be meat, not idols. They are tools for capturing reality, and reality is messy, imperfect, and sometimes hits the floor.

I can't mount a filter on it anymore I think. The hood sticks a little when I retract it in certain positions. But I suspect I will take better photos with it now than I would have if I were terrified of scratching it.

It’s not "mint" anymore. It’s better. It’s used.