Silverbased

A photographer could lead a long and happy life never using filters at all. But eventually, many of us find we need a bit of color correction when shooting slide film, or want to try a red filter to give more drama to sky and clouds when shooting B&W.

Nowadays when you shop for filters and other lens accessories, it’s universal for their sizes to be listed in millimeters—reflecting the influence of metric-speaking Japanese and German optics manufacturers.

Yet if you flip through 50-year-old photo magazines, or root through the odd-parts bins at a vintage camera sale, you’ll start seeing accessories cryptically labeled Series V, Series VI, Series VII, etc. What are these weird sizes, and are they good for anything?

A Series filter has three parts: An adapter to fit the lens; a standard filter disk; and a retaining ring

“Series” adapters were the most common American system for lens accessories in the middle decades of the 20th century. And they were actually a very cool, totally modular way of doing things. My googling has not turned up much history about Series accessories. So I’ll share the information I’ve been able to put together—but I’d be grateful to hear from anyone who can steer me towards a definitive source.

My suspicion is that (as with many other photographic standards) it was Eastman Kodak who established the Series system. In any event, Kodak became a major supplier of Series filters and accessories.

The idea of the system was this: Colored filters, close-up lenses, etc., were manufactured in a few standard diameters—as “drop-in” disks, without threads. You chose the Series that would cover your largest diameter lens. Then, a multitude of different adapter rings were available, sized to fit all your various cameras and lenses.

Each particular Series had one standard-sized retaining ring, to hold the filter disk into the adapter. Some retaining rings had both male and female threads, allowing you to stack additional filters. Conveniently, the retaining ring could also be replaced with a lens shade having the same standard Series thread.

Mixing and matching modular parts. At right, a Series-threaded lens shade; can also be used without a filter

A few manufacturers put threads on their lens barrels that were “natively” standard Series sizes—thus no adapter was needed, just the retaining ring. Several Argus, Kodak and rangefinder Canon lenses adopted this system (and no doubt other brands I haven’t come across yet).

The dimensions of the system were specified in inches, not millimeters (this may resolve some mysteries you have with weird unidentified lens or filter threads). The different Series sizes were designated with roman numerals, and ranged from quite tiny (e.g. for cine lenses) up to moderately large. But Series V, VI, and VII seem to be the most common (and useful) sizes.

I measure their dimensions as:

Series V — filters 1-3/16″ (~30mm) — retaining thread 1-1/4″ (~32mm)
Series VI — filters 1-5/8″ (~41mm) — retaining thread 1-3/4″ (~44mm)
Series VII — filters 2″ (~51mm) — retaining thread 2-1/8″ (~54mm)

Series adapters to fit different lenses: TLR-style bayonet mount, unthreaded push-on, and threaded styles

Colored filters in Series sizes were available from many manufacturers—both names that will be familiar (like Tiffen) to others that faded away decades ago (like Omag). Some useful black and white filters might be found under unfamiliar, older color designations, such as deep red (formerly designated “A” but now #25), green (formerly G, now #13), and yellow (K2, now #8, or X1, now #11).

Kodak sold “Portra” close-up lenses in the common Series sizes, in strengths of +1, +2, and +3 diopters; but with non-reflex cameras you need a table of corrections to find the distance for proper focus. It’s nicest to get Porta lenses together with their original yellow Kodak containers, which include the table as a handy decal inside the lid.

Among the other Series oddities you sometimes see are Kodak’s “Telek” attachments: These were lenses with negative diopter powers. While it’s a bit non-intuitive, adding one in front of a lens and then racking its focus outwards has the effect of lengthening its effective focal length—yielding a quick & dirty telephoto lens. (The strongest -4 Telek can almost double the focal length). Unfortunately these are really only practical for cameras offering groundglass focusing, e.g. a Press camera.

Now, for most of my photographic youth, I used Japanese SLR systems, whose manufacturers tried to stick with a single filter diameter across most of their lens lines. For Olympus, it was 49mm; for Canon, 55mm. You just bought a couple of filters in the right size, and were done with it.

But, as my fascination with vintage cameras grew, somehow more and more of them began appearing in my home. And I had a problem—it seemed that each one used a different filter size!

But this is exactly the situation where the Series system shines. A friend had inherited a garage-ful of assorted series adapters and accessories; and by sifting through his heap, I was able to find adapters for about nine of my favorite vintage camera lenses—allowing me to use a single set of Series VI filters for everything.

Okay, I admit you could approximate the same thing today with one set of (oversized) threaded filters plus an arsenal of different step-up rings. But another advantage of the Series system is that many “slip-on” adapters were sold—making it possible to use accessories even on lenses that have no filter threads. (Or, ones with damaged threads, or impossible-to-find sizes… ) One Kodak 42mm push-on adapter turns out to be a perfect fit on vintage Diana cameras.

Slip-on Series adapters let you use filters with threadless oddball cameras

Admittedly, one place where this clever scheme falls apart is with polarizing filters. A polarizer needs to be rotated to a particular angle to be most effective, something that wasn’t practical with the Series drop-in disks. (In fact, there were clever threaded polarizing attachments manufactured for the Series system—you looked through a separate auxiliary polarizer while rotating a control handle—but it may be tough finding one today.)

It’s been decades since Series accessories were being widely produced. Yet if you dig around on eBay you will still find sellers offering series adapter rings and drop-in filters. (Note that some listings use Series 6, Series 7, etc., instead of the roman numerals.) Also, some specialist mail-order firms may be able to help.

If you need to track down every little odd Series filter component one at a time, the process might not be worth the effort. But if someday you’re as lucky as I was, and stumble onto some vast forgotten cache of Series accessories, just remember—it’s a neat system that’s still completely useful today.

First, we need to clear up some confusing nomenclature. In the 1990s, Mamiya introduced a highly-regarded, plastic-bodied camera called the Mamiya 6. But today I’m going to show you its distant ancestor from the 1950s—the only similarity being that they are both 6×6 format rangefinders.

Some make the distinction between Mamiya Six (spelled out) for the company’s early 120 folding models, versus Mamiya 6 for the modern plastic ones. But in fact, the later 1950s folders are actually engraved MAMIYA-6 (note the hyphen).

The Mamiya Six series began around 1940. Mine is the final model, introduced in 1958, which was the most sophisticated version. Its identification as the Automat II model is common in collector circles, but it’s not marked as such on the camera. Actually I noticed one eBay auction for this model with its original box, printed “Automatic Model 2.”

Despite its many refinements, by 1958 the market was moving away from this style of camera. Folding designs were beginning to seem archaic and excessively fragile. Even the venerable folding Kodak Retina line would switch over to a rigid body style by 1960. And amateur enthusiasm for 35mm film was rapidly eclipsing 120.

But “Medium Format in Your Pocket“—with a rangefinder for accurate focusing—is a great idea, one that deserves to be revived today (despite the archaic appearance of a camera with, *gasp* bellows).

In the world of 120 folders, this one is not particularly small; yet compared to my Minolta Autocord TLR it’s about 2/3rds of the volume, and saves 15% in weight. And it folds up to a tidy package about 2 inches thick with few projections to snag on a coat pocket.

Unlike some folders, its body style is nicely graspable, particularly by cradling the dropped door in your left hand. Unfortunately it lacks neck-strap lugs. (These would have been provided by the original leather case, which I am missing.)

The camera’s styling is angular and businesslike, rather than plump and cute like some of its folding competitors. The look seems to have been inspired by Zeiss folders of the day, especially the Super Ikonta III (right down to the horizontal stripes embossed in the leather).

However Mamiya bettered Zeiss by having their film winder also cock the shutter (hence the Automat name). The necessary linkage is hidden behind a cover at the front of the dropped bed—an easy way to ID the Automat models.

The cocking linkage does not work if you wind while the camera is folded (unlike a Retina). In that case, you’ll need to manually slide a cocking tab on the top of the shutter. (You can re-cock the shutter for double exposures in this way also.)

This model is meterless. The ASA dial is simply a reminder of which film you have loaded. Frankly, I prefer that to any untrustworthy 1950s selenium-cell meter marring the camera’s looks. The Seikosha shutter has (unevenly spaced) speeds from 1 to 1/500th second, set via a somewhat hard-to-grasp knurled ring.

An unusual feature of all the Six models was that they focused by moving the film plane, rather than the lens. Before seeing this in person, it sounded like a strange idea to me. But I’ve discovered no particular penalty in close-focusing distance, or film flatness. It allows for a more direct rangefinder coupling, and a focus thumbwheel on the camera body.

Automatic advance knob with counter; focus thumbwheel

The thumbwheel focusing does require some mental re-adjustment. I always half-expect that turning it will advance the film (as it would on my Olympus XA compact). However its location is actually quite convenient. There’s a distance and depth-of-field indicator atop the camera, but the coarse gradations of its footage scale make it pretty ineffective.

The moving focal plane means the camera has a separate pressure plate which slides out from the body during loading—if this part is lost, the camera becomes essentially worthless, because focus will be totally erratic.

Compared to the ubiquitous red window, and competitors’ sometimes balky automatic frame-spacing methods, the Automat’s film-advance scheme is refreshingly easy. (If you want quirky, try a Balda Baldax sometime.)

Thread the film, then wind with the back open until the Start arrow lines up with white dots near the takeup spool. Remember to replace the pressure plate, close the back, and wind until the knob stops and “1″ shows in the advance knob’s counter window.

Replace the pressure plate after threading the 120 backing paper. Note the white bandaging tape added to the takeup spool.

Following that, frame spacing and shutter cocking are automatic. After you expose frame 12, the knob can turn continuously again until you’ve wound all the backing paper onto the takeup spool. Easy!

A red window is provided on the film door if you feel the need to check what’s happening inside there (it has a nice spring-loaded cover); but in my experience it’s superfluous.

Today’s film must be a bit thinner than the 1950s stuff: My Automat’s film advance tends to give pretty tight spacing between frames. To avoid this, you may want to wrap a couple of strips of cloth bandaging tape (about 4″ long) around the takeup spool’s inner core.

This camera’s viewfinder is no prize—it’s kind of small and dim (even when new, and certainly now after 50 years). Yet the automatic cocking and film advance, along with the thumbwheel focusing, rank a Mamiya-6 Automat as one of the user-friendliest 120 folders.

The original Six was Mamiya’s earliest product, before they had their own lens-manufacturing capabilities. For many years they used other companies’ optics (including, briefly, one Nikkor lens).

But in the 1950s Mamiya generally used Olympus D.Zuiko lenses. The D is not someone’s initial: It’s an Olympus code for the number of lens elements (D=4, E=5, F=6, etc.). Thus a D.Zuiko is a 4-element Tessar-type design.

By version 2 of the Automat, Mamiya had begun producing their own Tessar copy, simply labelled Mamiya-Sekor.

This is a credible performer, but not quite as snappy as some competitors (for example, the 4-element Rokkor on my Minolta TLR is outstanding).

But simply using the larger 6×6 negative gives a noticeable improvement in detail regardless. And the Mamiya-Sekor lens seems to give agreeable bokeh in most situations.

While my Six has a focus scale labeled in feet, not meters, Mamiya’s name only made rare appearances in US photo magazines of the 1950s. And in the accelerating 35mm wave of the 1960s and 70s, the brand never achieved the same success as their competitors. Instead, Mamiya earned their greatest recognition with their professional medium-format cameras.

In that arena they were hugely innovative: They began with the landmark C-series twin lens reflexes: Pro-duty TLRs with—uniquely—interchangeable lenses. They developed an interesting press camera series in the 1960s; then followed it with the workhorse RB67 cameras; and finally invented the first 6×4.5 system SLR (and continued to develop that with new versions all the way into the autofocus era).

Mamiya also made some of the more interesting entries in the Japanese 16mm subminiature boom. Finally in more recent history they introduced not only the (new-style) Mamiya 6, but also a 6×7 variation called the Mamiya 7—both earning praise as fast-handling cameras yielding outstanding image quality. It’s a company with an interesting history of groundbreaking products.

Mamiya even moved into the professional digital realm with a 22-megapixel back to fit their latest 645 model. But in 2006 Mamiya’s parent company decided there was more money to be made in their other, diversified product lines—including golf clubs and pachinko machines—and spun off the camera division to an unrelated tech company. Now there is a cloud of uncertainty over Mamiya’s future.

If you look closely, you may note that the condition of my Six is a little rough. The leather has some flaws, including a missing piece on the shutter-cocking guard. The bellows look a bit mashed (but remain light-tight). The camera was dropped at some point, slightly bending its wind knob. The body is engraved with the original owner’s name (and his profession, “architect” —googling found one tantalizing mention of modernist apartments he designed in Miami.)

But I enjoy vintage cameras as “users,” rather than imprisoning them in some display case. So I don’t mind a few dings and quirks. They relieve any guilt I might have about taking these old Eisenhower-era marvels out, and bashing around shooting pictures with them.

And a camera as nice as this Mamiya-6 certainly deserves to be used.

Sample Mamiya-6 photo: Detail of former Argus Camera optics shop, Ann Arbor, Michigan. Fuji Neopan 400, red filter.