In the summer of 2009, Kodak announced the end for their legendary Kodachrome slide film. The final batch of Kodachrome 64 carries an expiration date of 11/2010, and major retailers have long since sold out—although a few stray rolls can still be found on eBay, at high prices.

But the crucial point to know is this: There is only one commercial lab left in the world developing Kodachrome, and that is Dwayne’s Photo in Parsons, Kansas. And they will only develop Kodachrome through the end of December 2010. The price to develop and mount a 36-exposure roll (before shipping) is USD $10.

Kodachrome requires a complex and difficult process called “K-14″ —completely different from the E-6 developing used with all other slide films. Other color emulsions include the chemistry to produce color dyes within the film itself; but with K-14, each color layer must have dyes added to it during processing. (This raises the image in slight relief on the emulsion side, which is a useful way to ID unlabeled Kodachromes.) Balancing all the K-14 steps correctly is quite tricky—hence the worldwide consolidation of K-14 processing down to one final lab.

So, this year is your last chance to shoot Kodachrome. Dig around in the back of the freezer; check the bottom of your camera drawer. If you have any rolls remaining, shoot them soon—or give them to someone who will!

One part of the Kodachrome legend is its amazing colorfastness—unmatched by any other film created since. Here’s a Kodachrome “glamour” shot taken by my father in 1942 (scandalously, this is not my mother):

Kodachrome slide after nearly 70 years; scan colors only slightly adjusted

Will our hard disks and flash drives still be accessible in 2076? Kodachrome photos you shoot today will stay colorful and accessible for decades to come—and anyone can discover the images, just by holding them up to the light. If there are people or scenes in your world that you’d like to commemorate for the ages, Kodachrome is your film.

Now, before it is exposed, it’s a different story. Kodachrome that has been stored cold will behave fine, even a few years past its expiration date. But unexposed rolls that have been stored at warmer temperatures, or that have gone many years out of date, can begin to get funky:

Kodachrome 25 expired by 9 years; magenta highlights

Aside from the color shift, this roll also had lost some of its speed and contrast. But the results gave kind of an interesting otherworldly feel, which some might enjoy exploring. (And the color shift was within the range where I could still correct it when scanning.)

If you miss the December 2010 deadline, there’s no way to develop Kodachrome into a color positive after that. However you may be able to salvage some visible image by developing it using black & white negative chemistry. Apparently there are a few complications to doing this, and I’ve got no firsthand experience with it. But I’ll report back if I get around to trying it.

Meanwhile, I leave you with the back cover of the November 1950 Popular Photography magazine. [Click to see a larger version.] This dates from an era when Kodachrome had a sensitivity of ASA 10! It wasn’t until 1961 that Kodachrome II raised this to ASA 25. (The ASA film speed scale wasn’t adopted by the ISO until decades later.)

Don’t be ‘beset by unhappy doubts’—shoot your Kodachrome soon

After many months of low temperatures, the earth our city water pipes pass through gets rather chilly. The other day, I measured the water from my cold tap at below 43°F (6°C). Ouch! This presents a problem when you want to mix photo chemicals; or when you need to rinse developed film and prints.

Whoah, bummer.

Water of such low temperature is not effective at removing the fixer that remains in a gelatin emulsion. And years later, that fixer residue might cause brown stains on the image. Also, the shock of going from developer temperature (68°F) to something so cold could make a tender negative emulsion shrink and crinkle.

A negative is irreplaceable. So I generally exceed most manufacturers’ wash recommendations—erring on the side of caution and going for 15 or 20 minutes. And Lo, how I have often fiddled with balky hot and cold water taps, trying to get the rinse temperature to stay at a constant 70°F or so during that whole time.

There are really several irritations with this method:

• Dissolved gas bubbles from the hot water always cling to the film surface. Does this interfere with washing efficiency? I don’t know, but I worry it might.
• No matter how much I fiddle, the water temperature always drifts from the temperature I set by tweaking the tap handles (yes, I know thermostatic taps exist, but one at the kitchen sink where I develop film seems like overkill).
• I often walk away to do something else while the film is washing—then forget I’ve left the taps running until an hour later, wasting water.
• In fact, I only have a vague sense of how much water the running-taps method uses; and little confidence that my washing is consistent from film to film.

What are we trying to do here?

Now, my hunch is that any liquid fixer clinging to the surface of the film is rinsed away within a few seconds. The purpose of film washing is to get the fixer molecules that have diffused into the gelatin to migrate outwards again.

For this purpose you shouldn’t need to blast the film with extreme water velocities. You only need enough water flow to give a good diffusion gradient, from the fixer embedded in the emulsion to the fresh water outside it. (I suspect that the time the film remains submerged in the rinse water is more important than the water velocity.)

So this month I had a brainwave for a new low-velocity method for rinsing film, one that solves several of my earlier problems.

The New Way

First, fill a 5 gallon bucket with 70°F/21°C water, and allow it to stand until all the dissolved gas bubbles float to the surface. Obviously you need to use a well-scrubbed bucket, without any residues from its prior uses. I might set my stopbath and fixer bottles into this water for a half an hour before starting to develop, to equalize them to the proper processing temperature.

Take a length of tubing 4 feet long (120cm), and with an inside diameter of about 3/16″ (5mm). Attach this to the lip of the bucket in whatever convenient way will suspend one end at the bottom. Here I’ve used a binder clip:

Five-gallon bucket, tubing, & binder clip

Place your film tank in a sink where the rinse water can overflow from its top; support the bucket at a height where its bottom is at least 8 inches above the top of the tank.

When you are ready to begin rinsing, suck on the free end of the tubing until water begins siphoning out of the bucket—keep the tubing’s end below the water level.

Fill the tank once with water, then dump it all out. Then stick the tubing into the center spindle of your film reel; and once you’ve confirmed that water is overflowing from the top of the tank… walk away!

Siphon washing at work

After about 20 minutes the bucket will empty. A soft gurgle will announce the end of your film rinse. An unexpected bonus is that otherwise, this method is totally silent—unlike the distracting whistle of keeping taps running.

The water flow will be highest at the beginning, then slow down as the water level drops—which is appropriate for rinsing away fixer. There’s no clinging bubbles; and no surprise temperature lurches if someone in the house flushes a toilet. And you always know exactly how much rinse water you used.

If you’re feeling especially thorough, you may wish to check how the rinse is going at the halfway point. Dump out all the water and invert the reel, just to insure totally uniform washing.

This inspiration for this new method only came to me after, oh, 40 years of developing my own film—struggling with the minor irritations of the running-taps method. Oh well. That’s another thing I love about photography: You never run out of new things to learn.

[In case you've never developed your own B&W negatives, it's easy—see this earlier article to get started.]

But recent photography magazines and books offer little help at giving these “switchers” an introduction to film basics—one of the reasons I began this blog. So today’s column is a welcome to all those total film beginners out there. Hi!

You’ve probably discovered that getting film developed today can become a headache —whether due to a shortage of local labs, unreliable service, or high prices. That’s particularly true for folks using 120 film (for example, in a Holga or Diana+). So you may have heard the advice, “just develop it yourself!”

But what’s involved in doing that—and is it expensive? This post will talk about the supplies you need for developing film at home. To do your own negatives, all you need is this:

Developing tank, measuring graduate, funnel, thermometer, stirrer. Developer, stopbath, fixer, and Photo-Flo

The good news:

You do not need a darkroom to develop negatives. You only need darkness briefly, to load the film onto the reel of the developing tank. The tank is lightproof, so after loading it you can do the all the other steps in a day-lit kitchen or bathroom. (Darkrooms are for making prints.)

The cost of the chemicals is much cheaper than commercial developing. You don’t need to drive anywhere, and you can control the process to your own tastes. The developing steps are not any harder than following a cooking recipe.

There is a very plentiful supply of used developing gear today, since so many photographers have gone entirely digital. If you start asking around, you might find that an acquaintance or family member has old equipment they’d be happy to give away (don’t trust any old already-mixed solutions, though). Even buying everything new should not cost you more than $50.

And the bad news?

We are talking about developing traditional black & white film here, not color. It is possible for amateurs to develop color at home, but the chemistry is not so beginner-friendly. But black & white has a certain timeless beauty, so you may discover new creative directions if you’ve never tried that before.

Okay, once you have the negatives—what do you do with them? Well today it’s quite common to scan them, then work with the computer file just as you would with any digital-camera shot. For US readers, a great source of inexpensive film scanners is the refurbished “PHOTO” models from Epson’s online store. Schools & universities may have scanners available for their students—or traditional darkrooms too, if you choose to learn that craft.

Photo chemicals are no more toxic than household cleaners; but you’ll want to take care to avoid inhaling any dust if you mix your solutions from powders. And the chemicals can sometimes smell funny.

I’m going to talk about which supplies you’ll need—not give full step-by-step instructions how to develop film. But there are many other descriptions of the steps on the web. (For example here; or with more photos here, or in this 200kB PDF from Ilford.)

As seen above, you’re going to need a few quart/liter bottles, some kind of graduated measuring vessel, and it’s helpful to have a funnel. These don’t need to be “official” photography supplies. But if you improvise using things found around the kitchen, be sure to label them clearly as for photo-chemical use only.

The first piece of dedicated equipment you’ll need is a developing tank. There are several types, each with its own minor advantages and disadvantages. But all will work fine.

The tank shown here is an older style Paterson System 4. These were extremely popular with 1970s/1980s amateurs, inspiring several lookalike imitators. You will still find many of these floating around.

The current Paterson style is similar, but with a redesigned wide-mouth top (if you google for more information, note that the company name has only one “t.”) The reel flanges twist apart to adjust to different film widths—the 35mm spacing is shown above.

Beginners often find the most daunting part of developing film is getting the strip loaded onto the reel (remember this must be done blind, or light would fog the film).

Paterson reels have little ball-bearing widgets which help push the film onto the flanges, using a back-and-forth twisting motion. My experience is that beginners find this style easiest to learn; the minuses of the Paterson-style tank are minor in comparison. (One tip is that the reels must be absolutely dry before loading.)

First-timers often ask for advice in online forums about which developer to buy—then get overwhelmed by all the passionately conflicting suggestions. I think the most important thing say is, don’t worry about it! The difference in image properties between developers is not large; and if you end up scanning your negatives anyway, that stage has a much greater effect on the tonality of the image.

Having said that, Kodak’s D-76 is considered a classic, an excellent all-round developer. It’s a perfectly fine place to start. (Other developers are more “specialists”—e.g. increasing apparent sharpness, but at the cost of greater graininess, etc.)

You mix up 1 liter of D-76 stock solution according to the package directions, but must let it cool before using. I suggest not re-using that same stock solution over and over (allowing it to become exhausted). Instead, use it diluted 1:1 with water—mixing just enough to cover your reel(s) before use, and then discarding after. Note that development times for the 1:1 dilution are longer, and will be listed separately from the “straight” D-76 times.

My personal favorite developer is Kodak’s HC-110, a thick syrup concentrate. HC-110 yields image properties similar to D-76. With HC-110, I also mix up just enough solution for each film right before use. But the syrup is so concentrated that I must use a 12ml syringe to measure it (no needle, though!).

After opening the bottle, the syrup will stay fresh for more than a year. The only downside for the occasional user is that one bottle can develop 50+ rolls; and if it takes you several years to get through that, you might have a problem.

Spec sheets usually specify development times at a temperature of 68°F/20°C . The rate of development increases with temperature, so you will need an accurate thermometer to measure this. The traditional darkroom thermometer has a big glow-in-the-dark dial; but if you have trouble locating one, it’s fine to pick up a cheap digital kitchen thermometer instead.

After the emulsion of your film has been wetted, it’s rather tender; so it’s important not to shock it with any sudden changes in temperature. You also use your thermometer to insure that the successive steps remain within a few degrees of the developer’s temperature. I usually fill the pink plastic tub seen above with tap water at 68°F/20°C, then set the stop and fix bottles in it for an hour or so before starting. Afterwards, that water can be re-used for the first few rinse baths.

“Stop bath” is a weak acid solution. It does not have any effect on the image itself—it’s simply a rinse, which halts the developing action very quickly and uniformly. The traditional stop bath had a distinct vinegar smell (which is essentially what it’s made from); many folks substitute a plain water rinse instead, with (apparently) no ill effects. Stop bath is so cheap that I’ve always used it, however.

It does not matter in the slightest which brand of fixer you use: You can choose entirely based on whichever is available and convenient for you.

I prefer the liquid-concentrate fixers; but my local stores have stopped stocking them, so it’s back to powder for now.

What you do need to understand is that different types of fixers work at different rates; and furthermore different emulsion types fix at different speeds. The general rule is to open the tank lid at 1 minute and observe how long it takes until all the cloudy, milky haze disappears from the film; then continue fixing until twice this time has elapsed.

The final step of developing is rinsing the film and hanging it up to dry. If your tap water temperature is too cold, it won’t be effective at rinsing away the fixer residue (which then could form brown stains). It can take a bit of fiddling with the taps to get them flowing at a constant 68°F/20°C temperature. But don’t blast the film with hot water or the emulsion will go all wrinkly!

If your tap water contains a lot of minerals, drying water droplets can leave white, crusty rings on your negatives. So one optional final step is to end with a rinse of distilled water; or use a wetting agent (such as Kodak’s “Photo Flo”) to help water sheet off the negatives. Shedding water more quickly helps the negatives dry faster, too.

I did not show the weighted metal clips which many people use to hang up their wet film; they aim to minimize curling as the emulsion dries. But that’s something you can easily improvise with clothespins, binder clips, etc.

What is most important is that you find a sheltered location to hang your film, where air currents won’t be wafting dust and lint onto your damp, sticky emulsion. And even though you will certainly be dying to peek at how your first negatives came out, be patient! The tender emulsion needs to dry completely before you start handling it.

Good luck!

Thus I returned home with various oddities, including a 1918 Ansco folding camera; and also C.E.K. Mees’ 1942 text, The Theory of the Photographic Process. The Ansco even contained an old roll of 120 film, with most of the frames already exposed.

HC-110, Dr. Mees, and my mystery roll

Found, exposed film always makes me tingle with anticipation. I fantasize I might be the first person to reveal some achingly beautiful lost image or poignant historical document. But you only get one try at developing it correctly; and when you have no information about the film’s age or history, there’s some nail-biting uncertainty hoping you won’t totally screw it up.

With old films, the main concerns are loss of speed and contrast, and high levels of background fog. So generally you want to push the development a little longer than the original specs, using a developer that won’t make the fogging any worse than it already is.

I am a fan of Kodak’s syrupy developer concentrate, HC-110. And while I’ve never run any comparisons myself, it has the reputation for low fogging even with push processing (as noted at this page of excellent background about HC-110). So that seemed the right developer to try.

The mystery roll was Kodak Verichrome Pan. I knew it was much younger than the camera, since the Pan version of Verichrome had only been introduced in 1956. The stickum band on the tail of the backing paper had a note about “new developing times”—these matched the ones given in my 1965 Kodak Master Darkroom Dataguide.

So roughly speaking, this film was manufactured about 50 years ago. I guesstimated that I ought to give about 30% more development time than Kodak’s original recommendations—about equivalent to a one-stop push.

Doctor Mees Gives a Clue

C.E.K. Mees was once the legendary head of Kodak’s research division. His massive tome includes 1100 pages of formulas, tables, and diagrams about the chemistry of the photographic process. My own knowledge of chemistry is rather shaky, so I am not ashamed to admit that almost all of it went completely over my head. And for all I know, some of the book’s validity may have been overturned by later work.

But I discovered one intriguing table on pg. 455. This listed the ratio of image density to fog density, for various developing agents used at different temperatures. What leapt off the page was that for certain developers, the image-to-fog ratio was twice as good at 15° C as at 25° C.

Eureka! Another way to reduce fogging is simply to develop at a cooler temperature. Of course the developing time must be extended to compensate. I didn’t want to go too cold (I had not pre-chilled my stop and fix to match), so I mixed HC-110 dilution B at 64°F/18°C, then used a development time of 8 minutes.

The results looked quite good, with a nice density range and surprisingly little fog. Not bad for such ancient film!

Fifty-year-old film developed in cold HC-110

And the images? Well, unfortunately I found that at some point in the intervening decades, the back had gotten opened, flashing several frames. The three which survived showed woods and a riverbank in the snow—a landscape which certainly could be Michigan.

But maddeningly, there were no people, no cars, and only one house (of indeterminate age) seen through woods. Only a few ghostly boot-prints in the snow appeared, to whet my curiosity about the long-lost photographer.

The “one way” image above was the only one which offered any clues…. So if anyone thinks this looks familiar, I’d be grateful to hear about it.

I Heart Verichrome Pan

I have a long history with Verichrome Pan: It’s the film I used for my first photograph ever. I’m hardly alone in this, since for decades it was America’s premier snapshot film. I find its soft tonality quite nice, and wish it were still around today.

Verichrome Pan is best known for its extended exposure latitude, which saved the day with non-adjustable box cameras used in varying lighting conditions.

But it was also a film intended for the occasional snapshooter, who might throw the camera in a drawer for six months between holiday photo-ops. So the emulsion also had a long shelf life, and good stability of the latent image.

Thus, when you turn up some ancient mystery roll, if the emulsion is Verichrome Pan your chances of recovering usable images are much improved.

Who Put the Chrome in Verichrome?

A final note on Verichrome Pan: The name often confuses photographers today, accustomed to the convention that a “chrome” film (like Fujichrome or Ektachrome) is a color slide film. Verichrome has always been a traditional silverbased black & white emulsion—so why the name?

The history here is that 1956’s Verichrome Pan was a revision of a 1931 B&W film simply called Verichrome. In 1931, no one would have presumed this was a color film—because they didn’t exist. The Autochrome process only worked with glass plates; and Kodak’s own Kodachrome film would not reach the market until 1935.

The name Verichrome was chosen to suggest “truthful rendition of color” into black and white tones. But even this is a bit puzzling from our perspective today: The original Verichrome had no sensitivity to red light at all!

Ortho vs. Pan

The native spectral response of a silver-halide emulsion is to blue light only. However by adding sensitizing dyes, Kodak was able to give 1931 Verichrome a fairly balanced response across blue, green and yellow colors of light—while still allowing it to be handled under a red safelight. Emulsions of this kind earned the name “orthochromatic,” for a color response more correct than the earliest blue-sensitive kind.

Despite the occasional oddity of red objects appearing as black in photos, Verichrome continued as an ortho emulsion up until 1956; at that point Kodak replaced it with Verichrome Pan. And, you guessed it, this was “panchromatic”—sensitive to all colors of light.

It might have made some sense to replace the Verichrome trademark at that point—but the name’s brand recognition was far too deeply entrenched with consumers for Kodak to tamper with it.

However besides the name, the decades of ortho Verichrome left another lasting heritage: The millions of snapshot cameras whose frame counters are a little peepsight window, covered in red cellophane.