Silverbased

Projects and ponderings for film photographers

Archive for the ‘Vintage Camera’


Classic or Dinosaur?

Since this blog has been known to trumpet the virtues of fifty- or even ninety-year-old camera designs, perhaps a few words are in order about “progress” in photography.

Of course, camera technology has been going through continuous evolution since the get-go. In particular, George Eastman’s flexible roll film ‘Kodak’ of 1888 ignited rapid development in amateur-oriented cameras, a process which has never stopped since.

The overarching trajectory of these changes has been to reduce the number of technical details the photographer needs to keep track of. Today we’ve stopped noticing interlocks that prevent us from accidentally double-exposing or shooting blank frames (until we use a camera without them!) We take for granted light meters which read through the lens, offering accurate exposures without tedious calculations for filter factors or lens extension. Yet at one time, both innovations were much-trumpeted, newfangled breakthroughs.

Digital cameras are just the next chapter in this process, with today’s top models basically being sophisticated small computers—evaluating white balance; weighting light readings from multiple zones; computing the optimum point of focus with moving subjects, etc.

If you are a manufacturer of cameras, you can hardly be blamed for keeping this cycle of innovations churning. Unless consumers have some incentive to replace their older (and presumably still functioning) models, your company simply goes out of business.

Yet the essence of making an image has scarcely changed since the first handheld cameras became available. And at some point all photographers must ask, where is the line when technology and automation start to encroach on our own creative process?

Few of us would want to go back to coating our own collodion wet plates (although there are a few!) Yet controlling focus and exposure for specific effects could be essential to our own specific vision—not a choice to be left to the camera’s electronics. And learning to master those steps manually brings its own pleasures.

Thus, each photographer chooses where to step off the speeding express-train of technological progress, at whatever level of technology feels most comfortable.

For some it’s a 1980s manual-focus SLR with (optional) auto-exposure. For others who need to work quickly, it’s the latest 12-megapixel auto-everything wonder. For an eccentric few, it’s a completely metal, mechanical, 1950s rangefinder requiring a separate light meter (or even—gasp!—guessing the exposure). But this is one reason Silverbased often celebrates camera designs that are well past their 50th birthdays.

In connection with this, it’s interesting to note a few film-camera brands which have attained classic status—models which have spent decades in production, with only a few minor changes to their original design. How can a camera achieve such “rightness” that it remains viable in the marketplace for 50 years or more?

One classic is surely the Hasselblad medium-format SLR. The first model 1600F went on the market in 1948; but problems with its original focal-plane shutter led to the introduction of the 500C in 1957. This modest redesign allowed the use of several excellent Zeiss lenses, each carrying its own individual Compur leaf shutter.

1952 Advertisement, Hasselblad 1600F

Advertisement for Hasselblad 1600F, featuring a Kodak Ektar lens; U.S. Camera, November 1952. Click to view larger

The quality of this lens lineup, and the high level of finish and durability of the Hasselblad body, earned it many admirers and professional users (including Ansel Adams). In later decades, the 500-series went through minor evolutionary changes; but the fundamental design (and in most cases compatibility of the modular accessories) remained faithful to the original—even its lack of an instant-return mirror. While production of the series appears to have finally ceased, new-old-stock 503CW bodies remain available today.

An even more timeless design is the Rolleiflex twin-lens reflex. Rollei used its experience building multi-lensed stereo cameras to introduce the original Rolleiflex in 1929. In 1937 Rollei introduced its crank-winding “Automat” version, introducing the styling and control placement which not only remains unchanged to the present day, but also launched countless TLR imitators.

1956 Advertisement, Rolleiflex 3.5

Detail of Rolleiflex 3.5 advertisement in U.S. Camera, November 1956

The Rolleiflex’s standard Zeiss and Schneider lenses were first-rate. And professionals appreciated that the camera offered fast handling and manageable size, while retaining a large-enough negative to insure good image quality. (Remember that the typical press camera of the mid-20th century shot a 4×5″ negative.)

The popularity of all TLRs nosedived in the 1960s; but the Rolleiflex still had enough strengths (e.g. the freedom from viewfinder blackout) that it has come back into production today—while unmistakably keeping the same design as the 1937 model.

Naturally, no list like this would be complete without some mention of the Leica series of 35mm rangefinder cameras. We must give Leica credit for making the 24×36mm image format universal today, pioneered in their earliest scale-focusing models of the 1920s. Yet the early screw-mount Leicas are more desired today as collector pieces than as daily shooters. It’s really a 1954 Leica model which became the epoch-making classic: the M3.

1954 Advertisement, Leica M3

Leica M3 advertisement from its first year of production; U.S. Camera, December 1954

Bayoneting a lens onto the M3 automatically selects the correct bright frameline, within a viewfinder of legendary clarity. Much faster-handling than its screw-mount ancestors, the M3 became the iconic camera for photojournalists and street photographers. And thereafter (aside from the much-criticized M5) Leitz only made incremental changes to the basic M3 body style. The main evolution has been growing use of electronics (the current M7 offers auto-exposure)—but all later M bodies retain certain quirky M3 features, such as film loading through the camera’s bottom plate.

And for the traditionalist, Leica even provides the mechanical-shuttered model MP, nearly indistinguishable from its offerings of 50 years ago. Leica also has the distinction that its new digital model, the M8, has the clear intent of maintaining as much continuity as possible with the film M bodies, while adapting to current technology.

Lest you accuse me of some Euro-centric bias, there is room in my list of classics for a mention of the landmark Nikon F—a 1959 introduction which set the standard for all quality 35mm SLRs to follow. However Nikon did not shy from doing “blank sheet” redesigns of their professional F series; and the current (and presumably final) F6 model shares little besides the lens mount with its distant ancestor.

1959 Advertisement, Nikon F

Nikon F advertisement from its first year of production; features such as instant-reopen aperture were radical at the time. Modern Photography, September 1959

However, I would single out the Nikon FM2 for “classic” status, particularly the final “n” version. Despite its 1983 introduction date, the FM2n swam vigorously against an industry tidal wave of more electronics, plastics, and automation. In a sturdy, modestly-sized metal body, the FM2n offered a 100% mechanical shutter, simple center-weighted metering, and manual exposure—it’s a direct descendant of Nikon’s 1970s model FM.

Nikon FM2n

Nikon FM2n, creative commons image from Flickr user Qualudez

Yet those old-technology roots were raised to an exquisite level of refinement in the FM2n: Shutter speeds to 1/4000th of a second; flash sync at 1/250th; and of course accepting the enormous range of fine Nikkor lenses. Two decades of Japanese mechanical SLR development reached its pinnacle in the FM2n, whose production continued (in new titanium and commemorative editions) through the turn of the millennium.

What all of these “classics” have in common is a sensible, well-tested control layout; reliability and excellent build quality; and access to top-quality lenses. For photographers who choose to skip entire generational jumps in camera technology, they simply represent the finest models available; and their value scarcely diminishes with time.

Thus their prices on the used market also tend to remain high, relative to other brands—one reason why even at this late date, your humble correspondent does not personally own any of the models mentioned above.

Some alert readers out there may be grumbling that I’ve forgotten another class of film cameras, ones that also enjoyed surprisingly long production runs. Far from the elite models I’ve mentioned here, these were more humble cameras, owing their success to affordable pricing rather than technical refinement.

No, I haven’t forgotten—but those cameras will need to wait for another article

The Mamiya-6, a Classic 120 Folder

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).

Mamiya-6 Automat II

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.

Mamiya-6, Folded

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.

Mamiya-6, back view

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.

Loading film in Mamiya-6

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.

Mamiya-Sekor lens

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 Photo with Mamiya-6: Argus Camera Factory

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

Mercury Battery Replacements?

In the 1960s and 1970s, there were millions of lovely cameras and handheld light meters manufactured—many of which remain perfectly usable today. Except for one little problem. Their light-measuring circuits were designed to be powered using a mercury battery.

What made mercury button cells so appealing was that their voltage stayed absolutely ruler-flat, until the last of the chemicals were depleted. After that, the battery quickly died. Most camera makers omitted any voltage compensation in their meter circuits, and simply used the battery itself as a voltage reference.

Mercury PX-13 Camera Battery

Mercury PX-13 battery, curse of vintage camera-dom

By far the most common size used in older cameras was the PX-13 or PX-625 type. Its case had a raised shoulder around its minus end, making it look vaguely muffin-like.

Today we recognize mercury to be a highly toxic metal; and worldwide, mercury battery production has been phased out. Any stocks of mercury batteries now remaining are from old production runs—a safe guess being from sometime in the last millennium.

If you go shopping for a PX625 today, you’ll discover lookalike replacements being sold. But they are alkaline cells, not mercury. And the problem is, a mercury cell is a 1.35 volt battery. An alkaline cell starts out at about 1.55 volts instead.

In a calculator, kitchen timer, etc., this voltage discrepancy is unimportant. But a light meter works by measuring the exact current flowing through a photocell: so the wrong voltage can wreak havoc with accurate readings. A few cameras (notably Pentax) used a meter circuit which was insensitive to voltage variations—but for most meters, wrong voltage means wrong exposure.

Worse, an alkaline battery actually drops off in voltage as it’s used, so the error is not even consistent—really you get the worst of both worlds. (The same drooping-voltage problem applies with 3-volt lithium batteries, in applications where those could be used.)

But silver-oxide batteries are widely available, and maintain a flat voltage (of about 1.58 volts) over their whole lifetime. The long life of silver-oxide cells make them the first choice anywhere it’s possible to use them.

Meter-Battery Voltage: Myths & Reality

Sometimes you read confused internet discussions about whether this o.2-volt error is important. And some rather questionable assertions get repeated. One claim is: “modern film has such wide exposure latitude that it doesn’t matter.” Another is, “you can just change the ASA setting to compensate.”

Fortunately, I am lucky to own one last genuine, mercury PX-13 cell, which still has some juice to it. So I decided to make a definitive test for myself.

I took light meter readings using two classic old-school SLRs (an Olympus OM-1 and a Canon FTb), and compared them to a known-accurate Pentax V spotmeter. Using the intended mercury battery, I got the camera and the spotmeter to agree within about 1/2 stop, over the entire range from full sun to dim indoor light.

But with the higher voltage of a silver-oxide battery, the cameras’ meters gave incorrect readings—and with a strange pattern: In bright sunlight, the indicated readings would yield two and a half stops underexposure! Yet in dim indoor light (at about the limit for handheld shooting) the meter readings were nearly correct. Between those two extremes, there was a variable amount of underexposure.

Well, this demolishes both of the internet myths I mentioned. First, 2-1/2 stops of underexposure is a terrible idea with any negative film I know of. (You’d get ugly grain and totally blank shadows.) Second, there is no simplistic way to adjust the ASA to compensate, because the error is not consistent as you go from bright to dim light.

The errors could certainly be different for other brands of cameras, using different circuit designs. There is no substitute for checking your own equipment against a known-good meter. But obviously the problem is a real one.

Frans De Gruijter has written the definitive article on this problem, along with several solutions, downloadable here (500 kB PDF). This article goes into dense technical detail; but at the very least, look at the graph he provides on page 3, showing the voltage curves for several different battery chemistries.

And there you’ll notice an intriguing possibility: Zinc-air batteries.

Zinc Air?

Zinc-air is an interesting battery chemistry, giving excellent energy density at low cost—advantages that have made them the preferred power supply for hearing aids. Happily, zinc-air cells have a voltage quite close to that of mercury cells. And this voltage stays consistent over the battery’s lifetime, just as we’d like.

Zinc-Air 675 Hearing Aid Battery

Pull the blue tab to activate the battery

Zinc-air chemistry is also the basis of the “Wein cell,” often sold in camera stores as the correct-voltage replacement for mercury photo batteries. However the cost of vanilla #675 hearing-aid batteries is much lower—about $6 for a pack of 8.

To use either of these types, you must pull off a sticky tab first, which allows air to enter pinholes in the battery case. The battery does not produce any voltage until oxygen reaches the interior. Unopened cells can be stored for many years and remain fresh.

But one downside is that the inside of a zinc cell must remain moist for the chemical reaction to work. In arid environments, the cell can dry out and stop working after just a month or two, before its electrical capacity has been used up.

Putting the sticker back over the air holes will prolong the battery’s life, if you can remember to do it. But with the low cost of hearing-aid cells you might just consider them expendable, replacing them often.

The 675 size hearing-aid battery is a little bit thinner than a PX13 mercury cell; also it lacks the “muffin” shoulder and so is smaller in diameter. Sometimes you will need to add a little spacer ring to keep it centered in the battery compartment.

For this, I just slice rings off the end of a piece of tubing of the proper diameter:

Spacer Rings to Keep Batteries Centered

Others have suggested getting a rubber O-ring from the hardware store; and Rick Oleson shows a neat solution using a loop of copper wire.

Now, the voltage of the zinc-air battery is not perfect—it can be a shade too high. In fact, both the Wein cell and hearing-aid solutions have some voltage quirks, which I plan to write about in another article. However let’s keep things in perspective:

Over 40 years, any light meter might drift out of calibration—even if supplied with the textbook 1.35 volts. The shutter speeds on a vintage camera could easily be out of adjustment by a half a stop or so. There can be some slop in aperture linkages, so that you aren’t getting precisely the marked f/number. Vintage cameras are not the place to look for 3-digit precision.

But my tests say that a zinc-air hearing aid battery will get you to within half a stop of the exposure reading you’d get using a mercury battery. And any error will be worst in bright sun—the one situation where it’s most reliable to trust those old “Sunny 16″ instincts.

So if all that’s stopping you from taking some nice old camera for a spin is the mercury battery issue, go with the zinc-air cells. It’ll get you out there shooting after one quick, inexpensive trip to the drugstore.

Then you can explore other, techier solutions to the problem later, if you choose to go that route.

Update: More on the quirks of zinc-air battery voltage in this follow-up post.