I’ve had them all: murse, camera bag, laptop bag, soft side, hard side… Here’s what makes the best murse.
I’m a camera bag slut, a murse pimp.
Tall, short, hard side, soft side, dark, light, wheels and no wheels, canvas, leather, nylon ballistic, preconfigured compartments and those that I cut with an exacto knife, I’ve had them all.
I have bags that rolled, bags that fit, supposedly, on your shoulder, bags designed not to look like a bag, bags that would work on Wall St., not that I ever did, would or could.
About the only bag I have not had is a vest, the kind that makes you smell like a fishing magazine. I have my dignity.
I’ve picked them up at trade shows, camera stores, Amazon, Best Buy, even a grocery store now and then. It did not matter. I was the predator and they were the prey. My jungle had no bounds.
Some lasted years, some months, and some only a date or two, a wedding here, a portrait there and I knew that we were not right; the chemistry wasn’t there. They were a one job, maybe a two job stand.
Either they didn’t roll right, the strap was too hard, the bag too big, the bag too small or the hip belt made my ass look even bigger and knocked guests over as I waded through the cocktail hour.
Most have moved on: an ebay sale, a photographer friend looking for a date, an assistant looking for a freebie. Others, amazingly, are still with me. Old, tattered and past the point of sellable, we’ve learned to coexist.
I know their faults – the zipper gets stuck here, that lens does not fit there, camera with a lens and flash does not fit anywhere – and they know mine -protein bar wrappers go here, discarded batteries that should have been recycled 7 weddings ago go there, body caps from 3 cameras ago buried beneath the wrappers and batteries.
We’re an old married couple, comfortable in our uncomfortableness.
So, after so many years and so many bags, it’s a bit unnerving, a tad juvinelle, a little embarrassing to be in love. I don’t want to be 19 again.
With all that, I love my murse.
Yes, it’s not technically a camera bag; it’s a carry all, someplace to put all my stuff, a man’s purse, a murse. It’s not, thank God, a hip sac, but it can, thankfully, carry a camera.
There have been others, but they really don’t count. They were pretenders, wannabes, hangers on, pseudo murses, nothing like the murse of today.
First, there were cargo shorts, the kind that end just above the knee but the pockets sag to the ankle, mid shin at the least. You could fit a phone, a 527 page paperback, the most recent issue of Men’s Health, your Day At A Glance calendar for the next 3 years, wallet, note pad, 3 pens – two that leak, one that works – key chain with 67 keys – 61 of which you have no idea what they’re for – and your workout clothes.
Depending on the age of your kids, you could also fit 7 diapers, enough wipes for a long weekend, A Right Start approved squirt bottle filled with purified water, a 325 thread count changing pad quilted by some nice grey hair lady in Vermont, and a collapsable changing table, guaranteed to be free of all toxins ever known. That was the left pocket.
The problem with my cargo shorts, like the problem with a lot of my clothes, is that they made my ass look big, well, even bigger. When empty, those pockets puffed out, like they came with an air hose and a condenser. Then, when stuffed, they become a mound, as if my body from ass to knee were rolling hills.
During my cargo period (2001-2007), during some tough times, when I was trying to find myself, on several occasions, sometimes for a week, others for a month or two, I tried a hip sac. It’s not something I’m proud of, kind of like the brown corduroy leisure suit I wore for my high school senior portrait, but it’s there, part of my murse history. There, I’m outed.
The hip sac didn’t work. It was too small for the collapsable table, even too small for the July 2005 Men’s Health, the one with the article on 97 Ways To Make Your Woman Scream and 27 Ways to Get Ripped Abs in 6 Weeks or Less (124 failed attempts). It was only good for a phone, note pad, 1 good pen, wallet, keys and one small, rolled up like a newspaper, paperback.
The hip sac’s real problem, like the cargo shorts, like I mentioned, is that they made my ass look big. Actually, it was not always my ass. Depending on the hip sac’s location – front, side or back – it made my stomach, hip or ass look huge, well, even huger. It was bulge on bulge.
This is the thing.
The right toolbox is important. Whether it’s a camera bag, a purse or a murse, what holds your tools is important. It’s got to work.
Life is fast and getting faster. To slow things down, you need some tools; your tools need a toolbox. The murse is a toolbox, a place to hold those things that help life slow down, that help you pay attention and appreciate.
Today’s murse might hold the following tools: mirrorless or dslr camera, phone, ipad or small laptop, keys, wallet, floss, and orange tic tacs.
I’m not a murse nazi. You could ditch the ipad and/or and the small laptop, and add a moleskin and a pen, one that works. If you floss at home twice a day, you can skip the floss; however, you must keep the orange tic tacs.
Right now, I’m with a Domke Messenger bag. I’ve said this before, but I think we’re going to be together for a long, long time.
It’s perfect, manly without being military, comfortable without being metrosexual, big enough to hold my Fuji XT3 and the 23 2.0, my ipad, reading glasses, and a paperback, usually a novel, presently “The Storied Life Of A.J. Fikry.”
Perfect for now, that is. Things change, tools change. Cameras get smaller. You don’t need so many keys. Kids grow out of diapers. Life moves on. Then maybe you have grandkids, and you need room for diapers. Things change.
This is my point. You need a murse that matches your life, one that holds your tools of engagement, one that fits your life, but is ready, just like the owner, for change.
What doesn’t change is the need to slow down and pay attention. That takes tools and a really good murse, one that you love, at least for now.
Best,
Mike
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