Silverbased

In a previous installment, I wrote about some vintage film cameras which have stood the test of time, earning the right to be called “classics.” The list included such iconic names as the Hasselblad 500C, the Rolleiflex, and the Leica M3.

Yet we must note another group of long-lived film cameras. Instead of classics, let’s call them… “the holdouts.” I’m speaking of models whose success came mainly because of affordable cost, rather than any special excellence. Yet even as changing technology left them behind, some of these models enjoyed paradoxically long production runs.

And a certain odd fondness for these models can persist—or even perversely increase—today decades later.

The Brick

The ultimate example of this group might be the Argus C3, first introduced in 1939.

In the 1930s, the Leica and Contax generated a great mystique around precision 35mm rangefinders. But their prices were wildly out of reach for the average hobbyist. And then the Argus C-series appeared, offering a modest subset of the same features, in a sturdy and reasonably reliable package—yet at a dramatically lower price.

Creative commons image from Flickr user pointnshoot

A surprising influence on camera choice in those days was that Kodachrome color film was available in 135 format, but not in larger roll-film sizes. Thus, demand for some affordable, adjustable 35mm model was immense. When it was all over, C3 sales ran into the millions.

In turn, popular entry-level 35’s (like those from Argus) assured a mass demand for 135-packaged film, in a way that an elite handful of Leica & Contax purchasers could not.

As a native of Ann Arbor, Michigan (where Argus was founded), I should probably show more home-town loyalty for the ungainly old Brick. But let’s be honest: The C3 was never a great camera. The shutter-speed range was limited (and got smaller, not larger, in later versions); its shutter cocking arm uncoupled from the film advance was prone to error; and its separate rangefinder eyepiece inconvenient.

Rangefinder alignment could be unreliable too; and switching to a different lens than the basic 50mm Cintar triplet was barely practical, requiring unwieldy disassembly.

By the time World War Two ended, the C3 design was already dated, and Argus knew it. They attempted to revamp their lineup with the “Markfinder” 21, featuring a streamlined body which soon evolved into the C-4 and C-44. Despite those models’ dramatically-improved viewfinders, sales never caught up with the cheaper (and still manufactured) C3s, which stayed in production all the way until 1966.

I’ve always suspected a certain psychological basis for the C3’s longevity: Its boxy, geared appearance gave gave a generation of men (probably Popular Mechanics readers) a feeling of pride at mastering what certainly appeared to be highly complex technology. In comparison, perhaps the smaller and less alarming-looking C-4 made photography look too easy.

But by the end of the 1950s, the glaring discrepancies between a C3 and the many cheaper, better-featured Japanese brands only hastened the collapse of the Argus company.

The Everyman’s TLR

Another curious “holdout” is the the long-running Yashica Mat series.

Germany’s Rollei has always defined the standard for twin-lens reflex cameras. But in the late 1950s, an automatic crank-advance Rolleiflex featuring a 4-element Tessar lens commanded a US list price of about $200. (That equates to about $1500 today.) But by that time, crank winding and a Tessar-copy lens were also offered on several premium Japanese TLRs. This included Minolta and Ricoh models listing for about $100, or Kowa’s “Kalloflex” costing $120.

But in 1957, Yashica (whose previous TLRs had all been inexpensive knob-wind models) matched the same feature set with its new Yashica Mat—at an aggressive price point of only $75. Sales took off, and never stopped.

Late Yashica Mat 124G. Creative commons image from Flickr user Ian Tindale

The ‘Mat design lacked some of the finish and solidity of its rivals; and in particular the winding mechanism could fail under rough use. Certainly the detail its 4-element lens could pack into a 6×6 frame was impressive compared to 35mm format. But the Yashinon lens quality could be variable—some samples showed an edge softness which failed to live up to the potential of the Tessar formula. (It originated in the same Tomioka optics shop which gave the world the much-mocked “Tri-Lausar” design.)

By the middle 1960s, it was clear that 35mm film and eye-level viewing would dominate future amateur camera sales. So most Japanese firms who built TLRs dropped them from their lineups—except for Yashica. (Another exception was Mamiya, with their interchangeable-lens, pro-oriented C series.) After some early selenium-cell models, by the 1960s the ‘Mat had acquired a CdS light meter. And then—astonishingly—production marched onwards all the way to 1986, with only minor changes in the basic design.

When a camera model becomes a hit (like the C3 or the Yashica Mat), its maker can spread tooling costs over more units—a simple economy of scale. This can sway a company into extending the life of a still-profitable older model. And so, a once-booming segment of Japanese camera manufacture dwindled to its final remnant in the Yashica Mat, whose optics and metering remained stuck in the 1960s.

It would be hard to argue that the Yashica Mat was Japan’s finest TLR. (I might make that claim for the Minolta Autocord; and I’m sure the Ricoh and Kowa models have their partisans too.) So the enduring renown of the Yashica Mat is a bit of a puzzle—as are the inflated prices that the final 124G version sometimes fetch today. Instead, it is the sheer number sold and their workmanlike service record which earned the model its fame.

The Iconic “Student” SLR

The Pentax K1000 was introduced in 1976. Blissfully ignoring industry shifts towards autofocus and microelectronics, it stayed in production until 1997. In fact, aside from its K bayonet lens mount, the camera was little altered from Pentax’s 1960s Spotmatic series.

Creative commons image from Flickr user John Kratz

Now, in some circles, it would be heresy to say anything negative about the K1000. Its fans praise its all-mechanical reliability, design simplicity, and beginner-friendliness. But the mystery is why this fondness endures today, when other fuller-featured cameras sell for lower prices on the used market.

In the mid-1970s, the appearance of the Olympus OM-1 dramatically shook up the Japanese camera industry—re-writing the rules for what camera consumers expected. Like other manufacturers, Pentax moved to redesign its SLRs, revamping their K-mount offerings with a new, compact M series. Within this lineup, the MX filled the niche of their mechanical- shutter, manual-exposure model.

Pentax MX (with special pancake lens) versus K100. Creative commons image from Flickr user slimmer jimmer

So compared to the K1000, what additional features did Pentax themselves feel ought to be included in such a camera? Well, shield your eyes, K1000 lovers—the list is long…

• Smaller, lighter body (the K1000 began its production run at 620 grams; it lost weight over the decades as Pentax substituted plastic parts for metal ones, but never matched the MX’s svelte 495g.)
• Gallium photodiode metering—more sensitive and faster-responding than the CdS cell used in the K1000. (The MX specs claimed metering down to 1 second at f/1.4 with 100-speed film.)
• Larger, more accurate viewfinder image
• 5-LED meter display including exact -1/+1 stop indicators
• Shutter speed indicator in viewfinder; also a peep-sight showing selected f/stop on lens aperture ring
• Depth-of-field preview
• Self timer
• Option to attach power winders
• User-interchangeable focus screens
• Shutter release lock

…and perhaps even some others I’ve missed?

Less is More—Unless it’s Less

For all these beloved econo-cams, we must praise the positive. When new, each opened doors for aspiring photographers at an attainable price. Their spartan feature-set helped focus the beginner on learning the essentials—exposure and composition—rather than fiddling with gadgets. And all gave surprisingly reliable performance, considering their low price levels.

But past a certain point, a strange feedback loop comes into play. Large sales meant widespread familiarity with particular models—and perhaps some rose-tinted nostalgia from those who got their start learning on one.

Veteran photographers and photo instructors began to insist that their protegés also start with a spartan, all-manual camera, at a time when the available choices in the marketplace had dwindled down to a handful. So their production runs dragged on even further. And perhaps the former students became professionals and teachers themselves, repeating the cycle all over again.

Today, no K1000’s or Yashica Mats are available new. Film shooters mostly buy from the same pool of used cameras showing up on eBay.

Yet the oddity is that name recognition and familiarity with those classic econo-cams keeps their prices firm even now, relative to other models offering more features. (Admittedly, prices for an Argus brick remain low—as they should be—perhaps because the “C-3 generation” is passing from the scene.)

I noted in my last post that Japan’s Cosina company had spent decades manufacturing basic, entry-level SLRs—essentially the peers of the K1000—usually even featuring the same K bayonet mount. Yet they were sold under a bewildering roster of different brand names; so there’s no popular recognition of any one model.

But Cosina continued to evolve its SLR platform, until even these inexpensive models featured 1/2000 sec. top shutter speeds, 1/125 sec. flash sync, sensitive silicon meter cells, and other amenities common to 1980s camera designs—but missing from the K1000.

These “other K1000’s” go all but unrecognized, under such obscure designations as the Ricoh KR-5 Super II, Chinon CM-7, or Yashica FX-3 Super 2000. Gee, you even get a self-timer! But eBay auctions for these unknowns often pass with little interest and few bidders. (In fact, under the Vivitar moniker, you can even buy a brand new one for all of $140.)

A local Flickr pal and two-fisted defender of the K1000

Yet I doubt any of this will sway the die-hard fans of the K1000. Remember, the (original) Volkswagen Beetle remained in production well past the point that its engine and suspension had become engineering anachronisms; in fact the bug became an iconic brand. And just as nostalgia for the old Beetle spawned a 1999 revival, cult reverence for the K1000 caused Pentax to re-brand their (previously unpronounceable) digital SLRs with new models dubbed K10D and K100D.

And there’s more to camera choice than steely rationality (as any regular reader of this blog should find obvious!) So for those who find their no-frills Yashica Mats or K1000’s the right tools to unlock their creative energies—by all means enjoy them.

Sadly, we are all counting down the days now, until Polaroid stops making all their instant films.

I must confess that in the past, I rarely used Polaroid cameras, finding the “$1 per image” aspect a little daunting. But also, most of their plasticky, auto-exposure consumer models seemed rather lacking aesthetically. (I do make an exception for the SX-70 camera—which still seems as futuristic today as it did when it came out in 1972.)

But in the spirit of savoring our Polaroids while we still can, recently I bought some type 669 film packs.

These peel-apart films are an older technology than Polaroid’s “integral” types like 600 or SX-70 Time-Zero. But the peel-apart pack type was adopted for so many professional and technical uses that demand remained high until digital arrived. So there are several packfilm emulsion types still available. Even Fuji has now started making a line of compatible film packs.

I’m skeptical that another manufacturer will start up making Polaroid’s integral films: It’s a much more complex technology (each pack includes a unique flat PolaPulse battery). But it’s nice to feel I’ll have the Fuji backup option, if I end up falling deeply in love with my pack-film projects.

Anyway, as I mentioned, I was never that fond of Polaroid’s own cameras. This started me thinking about “alternative” ways I could expose images onto 669 film. So today I’ll show the first of two Polaroid camera hacks: The PackPola Pinhole.

This one is so ridiculously easy that it barely deserves the name “DIY project.” Here is the executive summary:

STEP 1: Find a Polaroid microscope camera
STEP 2: Tape an 0.4mm pinhole behind its dark slide
STEP 3: Take pinhole photos

But, oh all right—if you insist on making things more complicated, here are some additional details.

While most of the later pack film cameras were plastic-bodied, Polaroid did manufacture a stout cast-metal body which was used for certain products—in complete cameras, or as a dedicated Polaroid back for technical uses. The model shown (which I was told was a microscope camera) has a rigid cast-metal “pyramid” where a civilian Polaroid model would have bellows, with a custom attachment flange on the front.

Aside from the nice brushed-metal finish, this camera has two useful features. First, it has a real live tripod socket on the bottom (vital for long pinhole exposures). More importantly, its microscope fitting comes equipped with a dark-slide—we can reuse this without modification as the shutter for our pinhole camera. (I gather microscope photos must require long exposures too.)

Now you could build a Pola-pinhole by hacking a regular bellows style camera too—and these models are practically being given away today. You’d need to remove the front of the lens/shutter assembly, and attach a pinhole behind the bare lensboard. (See the excellent step-by-step disassembly photos here—also getting a chance to practice your Italian!) But in that case, you would need to improvise a shutter, and the focal length will be about 30mm longer (and hence less wide-angle-y) than with the microscope camera.

The pinhole is pierced in a thin sheet of metal—the sidewall of a beer or pop can is ideal—and taped inside the “pyramid” behind the shutter. This gives a focal length of about 74mm. (The diagonal of a packfilm image is about 120mm, so this yields a wide-angle coverage similar to a 28mm lens on 135 format.)

For that focal length, the optimum pinhole diameter is roughly 0.4mm or 0.015 inch. This equates to a pretty tiny f/stop: the nearest whole stop value is f/181. That’s 7 stops smaller than f/16—useful to know when trying to translate light-meter readings into pinhole exposure times.

Back up your pop-can metal against something firm like a phone book, then just barely pierce the metal with the tip of a sewing needle—don’t poke all the way through! Sand away any rough burr around the edge of the hole using fine 320 or 400 grit emery paper. Twirl the needle tip in the hole to smooth any raggedness—you want the hole to be nice and round.

You can measure the diameter of your pinhole exactly, by placing it on a flatbed scanner and scanning at the highest possible resolution. Knowing the exact DPI of the scan, and reading off the dimensions of a selection just including the hole, you can see if its diameter is in the right ballpark.

I often start with a bunch of metal blanks of 50mm square, a size that will fit inside a cardboard 35mm slide mount. By setting up a slide projector at a known magnification, I can quickly go back and forth between checking sizes and roundness and gently enlarging holes with the needle to reach the desired diameter.

Of course, one great advantage of a Polaroid pinhole is that you can just wing it. Try an exposure at what you think your equivalent f/stop is. If it’s too light or too dark—next time use a revised guesstimate of your f/number when you figure the exposure.

Polaroid 669 is well-known for “interesting” color shifts when developed in cold temperatures; but also when using the kinds of longer exposure times needed for pinhole work. With a multi-second-long exposure under open sky light, you can have quite a strong blue/cyan cast:

You might enjoy this effect—or, you can tape a warming filter in front of the pinhole.

In direct sun, start by trying one of the #81 series filters. But for longer exposures or in cooler light you may need a stronger orange/salmon colored filter, like one of the #85 series. If you can get your hands on a swatch-book for theatrical gels (like Roscolux), that would offer a huge range of colors to try (with pinhole work, you’re not exactly worried about the optical flatness of the sheets).

Personally, I raided my cache of oddball Series VI filters, and found a perfect Harrison brand color-correction filter, designated “C3.” This filter loses a little less than one stop of light; I used exposures of about 3 seconds in full sun, up to 30 seconds in darker shade. The color palette of 669 seems to give a nice pastel softness, thought without much saturation in the reds & yellows.

If you have never used pack film before, you may be flummoxed by the profusion of weird tabs that sprout from the end of the camera (from a slot helpfully labeled “4″). This becomes easier to explain when you understand that pack film is actually negative and positive sheets stored separately, which need to be sandwiched together to start development.

The first black tab pulls a light shield out of the way, and uncovers the top negative sheet. After you make an exposure, pulling a white tab slides the exposed negative around into contact with the positive print paper. However both are still dry at this point, and nothing happens yet.

Pulling out the wide arrowed tab bursts a pod of chemical paste, and the two chrome rollers smoosh a uniform layer of this goo between the positive and negative, starting development. After 60 seconds, the image is fully transferred and you can peel the print away. It stays a little tacky for a few moments, so don’t accidentally get it stuck to another print.

I discovered pretty quickly that my microscope camera pack-holder had a couple of quirks—possibly the reason why it had been retired and discarded in the first place. The first is that its rollers seemed to have gotten tired, and weren’t spreading the developer goo all the way to the far edge of the print. But actually, the white blobs caused by this were one of those serendipitous creative accidents that I ended up liking.

The other issue was that there was a serious light leak somewhere in the camera body. Now, remember that a pinhole (like a lens) forms its image upside-down. So this radiant splash of light at the bottom of the print was coming from somewhere on the top of the camera.

Eventually I realized there was a tiny gap at the seam where the pyramid cone attached to the film back—perhaps the camera had gotten dropped once. A bit of electrical tape fixed that up. But as light leaks go, this may be one of the more beautiful ones I’ve seen!