Sack O' Beans

There are a lot of reasons I gravitate to medium format SLRs and one of the major joys of using them, to me at least, is how naturally they work with waist level finders. I'm not the only fan of the WLF out there of course, but not everyone loves them for the same reason. Some street photographers appreciate them for the unusual chest to waist level perspective, the not so off-putting way it has you looking down rather than directly at your subject, and for some I'm sure just the fact that it's the way Vivian Maier worked is reason enough. As someone who focuses primarily on landscape subjects however merely getting down to waist level is often not good enough. The ideal perspective for me usually has little to do with the standard eye-level view of the world we see day to day, and more often than not I find that means getting low. How low depends on the subject but waist level, knee level, even ground level, I find occasions for them all. The WLF saves me from having to get down in the muck for low level shots as would be needed if I were using a camera with an eye level finder. But just because I can frame and focus down at ground level is only half the battle. Since I rarely shoot hand held supporting the camera down there presents challenges of its own.

My trusty Manfrotto 055 at its lowest.

My trusty Manfrotto 055 tripod with its splayable legs and sawed off centre column is set up as well as it can be for the low perspective. It's just fine for most of what I do, but even at its lowest it only goes down to about knee level. If I chose a different tripod head it could probably go a bit lower still, but not much I don't imagine. I even own an old Manfrotto Super 3D head that would in theory allow me to invert the centre column so it's hanging underneath the tripod then flip the head around to keep the camera upright and go down nearly to ground level. If this sounds a bit awkward I have to say that until you've tried actually shooting this way you don't know the half of it. Even in the normal upright position I've always found this head less than ideal and at any rate it's not really made to handle larger cameras.

I've tried other solutions for getting lower. I have a clamp that attaches to the tripod leg and supports the camera from there but when you add the necessary tripod head to it it's as bulky to carry as the tripod itself and not much more fun to use than trying to invert the centre column. There's other solutions I'm sure, and probably much more workable ones such as more flexible tripod designs, ground boards, and the like but it's going to be hard to justify the price of any of those even if they can match the simplicity, reliability, and portability of something I found lying around the hall linen closet unused and forgotten about for probably over a decade.

My Sack O' Beans (pictured at the top hiding under the RBeast) was never intended by its manufacturers to be a photographic accessory. If memory serves it was made to be thrown into a microwave until suitably toasty then placed against a sore back or some such. The practice never caught on around here and it eventually wound up on a box of things to donate until the notion occurred that there might have a place in my camera bag. I'm sure there are other kinds of equally suitable bean bags sold for other purposes. There are even bean bags made for photographers but for my purposes I'm not sure what if any advantage they would have over my closet find. It's about the right size for the cameras I like to use, neither too light nor too heavy, enough give to accommodate itself to the shape of the camera and whatever surface it's on but firm enough to hold steady once it has. I don't believe it's water tight but it's tough enough to throw in the wash if exposed to any soggy nastiness. For something that would otherwise just have been thrown or given away I could hardly do better.

The Sack O' Beans in use. Results below.

 Now using bean bags as support for a camera is hardly a new idea but most of the ones I see on the market are targeted at wildlife photographers. These usually have a sort of folded over design intended to be thrown over the edge of a window or car door, which is great I suppose if that's how you're likely to be shooting. I don't know that these would be particularly good in situations that didn't involve a window, especially not when the idea is to get right down to ground level. For more general use I don't know if there's a better design than a simple pillow type bean bag. Mine was purchased at a pharmacy originally and I haven't modified it in any way. I don't know what other purposes suitably sized bean bags are sold for these days but I'm sure there are many I'm just not thinking of right now. If you're handy sewing, or know someone who is and would be willing to help, it would be a cinch to make one. I tried this myself years ago by re-stuffing an old decorative pillow with navy beans. Not a bad idea but navy beans are too large in my experience. I'd go with something more pea-sized if I were to try that again. Also decorative pillows aren't very tough when it comes to field use. Just sayin'.

While using a bean bag for support might seem like a step down from the stability of a tripod I have successfully used mine for long exposure photography without issue. Using mine with either the Hasselblad 503cx or RB67, so long as I can get the mirror pre-released without nudging anything and use a cable release for the shutter, there's little chance anything is going to move during a longer exposure. Just pressing the shutter release by hand is a little tricky with most medium format cameras designed around a waist level finder, both of mine included, because the shutter release is at the bottom where it tends to sink into the bean bag if it's not carefully positioned. I tend not to shoot this way and can't really attest to what kind of shutter speeds you might be able to get away with shooting this way.

The image above was shot at 1/2 second using mirror lock and a cable release. (All the "something seems to be afoot here" jokes have been made in advance so let's just move on then shall we.) I imagine I could have made something of the subject if I had to shoot from the tripod but I'd be pretty much shooting down at it, losing the sky, and it just wouldn't be the same. I may not use it every outing but the Sack O' Beans tucks away into a little bottom compartment in my large camera pack where I can pretty much forget about it until needed.

The Sack O' Beans is the most obvious example of a photographic accessory that was never intended to be photographic accessory but there are others, especially in the darkroom. They often offer neat solutions without the price tag associated with specialty photographic items. I'm sure there are plenty of useful examples, maybe some worth devoting a future episode to?

Shooting below the belt.

For most people it seems photography is something that takes place at eye level. It's almost an ideal - the camera as an extension of the eye. So it is that the vast majority of cameras made over the last several decades have been designed to use by being held up to the eye. In this way photographers can expect to photograph the world the way they naturally experience. The thing is, sometimes the whole point of photography is to see the world in new ways, to find in the world of familiar experience aspects of the unfamiliar. While cameras designed to mirror the way we look at the world everyday may be the norm, it doesn't have to be that way, which is probably why I, like so many other photographers, have become a fan of the waist level finder.

These days cameras with a waist level finder, or WLF, are an uncommon enough phenomenon that I should probably take a moment and make sure everyone is clear on what I'm talking about. In the most general terms if a photographer has to look down at the top of the camera to frame up the image this is called waist level viewing. camera is designed such that the photographer frames up the scene by looking down at the camera to view the image this would be a waist level finder. In the years after George Eastman brought photography to the masses waist level viewing was common in the cameras of the day by virtue of mirrored viewfinders such as you will find in nearly any old box camera. These offered a handy reference for roughly what would appear in the image but the straight-through viewing of a view camera or a rangefinder were employed when some aid to focusing was required. The waist level viewfinder photographers from the mid 20th Century on came to know are the natural result of the introduction of reflex cameras, twin lens reflex (TLR) and single lens reflex (SLR). In a reflex camera the image from the lens is redirected by a mirror to a focusing screen at the top of the camera. A TLR uses a separate lens matched to the primary taking lens, while an SLR mirror redirects the image from the taking lens for focusing then flips out of the way during the exposure. A waist level finder is simply an aid to viewing the image on the reflex focus screen directly by providing a shade for the screen that normally collapses out of the way when not in use, and which will often incorporate a flip up magnifier to aid with critical focus.

But while waist level finders are a mainstay of TLRs, they are rare in 35mm SLRs and to my knowledge unheard of in DSLRs (which after all, are just SLRs that happen to have digital sensors). Instead, a special five sided prism, a pentaprism, is employed, redirecting the image to the back of the camera, correcting as it does the mirror reversed image that occurs when a reflex focus screen is viewed directly. Since this viewing arrangement using a pentaprism allows the photographer to bring the camera to their eye, effectively looking right through it from the back, these are often referred to as eye-level finders. Whatever you call them they are a built in feature on the vast majority of 35mm SLR cameras, meaning that despite their reflex design this class of camera adopts a straight through, "extension of the eye" viewing style more natural to other camera designs such as rangefinders.

But while waist level finders are a rarity in the 35mm SLR world, this is not so when it comes to my usual weapon of choice, the medium format SLR. Once the mainstay of professional wedding and portrait photographers these cameras typically feature a more modular design that usually includes an interchangeable viewfinder system, While photographers could opt for a more expensive, and therefore often considered premium eye-level finder, this did not automatically make them everyone's first choice. For a variety of reasons waist level finders are a much more practical option with medium format cameras than is the case with 35mm. To begin with the focus screen is physically larger, matching the negative size, which makes direct viewing much more comfortable. A definite weakness of the WLF is that they are rather awkward when the camera is turned sideways for vertical shooting, but many medium format cameras are either designed for square formats where there is no vertical, or feature rotating film magazines that allowed a switch between vertical and horizontal shooting without the need to rotate the entire camera. Thus while some saw the more economical waist level viewers as an entry level option many photographers stuck with them throughout their careers despite having the option to easily upgrade.

Vivian Maier and her Rolleiflex. The kids today could
learn a thing or two about taking selfies.

There are a few reasons commonly sited for this. In discussions of the work of Vivian Maier for example it's frequently conjectured that her work benefited from the fact that  that the waist level finder of her Rolleiflex camera made it less obvious to her subjects that they were being photographed since she was looking down at her camera, diminishing the sense that they were being observed. That's all well and good for a street photographer but given my bent for landscape subjects it's hardly a reason for me to be a WLF fan. In simplest terms for me it comes down to the way this kind of viewfinder simplifies and encourages the use of lower camera angles, everything from chest level all the way down to the very ground itself.


From our usual eye level vantage point of perhaps 1½ to 2 metres our attention is most easily drawn to things at a similar height, most especially other people which is fair enough, but it does make it easy to overlook what's going on closer to the ground. There's a lot of interesting things to be found near the ground, almost (so the joke goes) as if they were drawn there by some mysterious force; rocks, seashells, sun bleached antelope skulls, creepy old dolls, forgotten and discarded, once loved by a little girl now in her mid thirties. And yes, we could photograph all of these things by standing over them an shooting down as they lay at our feet, but I hardly think I need to explain why this approach is so unlikely to lead to anything that is interesting photographically. It's just a patch of ground with something laying on it.

Get down closer to the level of that whatever it is though and everything changes. There is context, meaning, story. That seashell stands alone against the expanse of sand water and sky from whence it came, the unfortunate antelope amongst the scraggly vegetation struggling up from the cracked dry earth,  a victim of its harsh surroundings. That creepy doll that somehow found its way to the base of a knotted old tree in the sinister gloom of a misted wood where.. my god, did I just see it move?

You could of course photograph all of these things using a camera that has some sort of straight through camera. For the lucky there will always be a spot of dry ground to shoot from, and for the intrepid one can simply endure going belly down into the wet, the muck, the unidentified vegetation that to the best of recollection isn't exactly what poison ivy is supposed to look like and that bit of a mound that, if it's home to fire ants, you'll know soon enough. But even granting such acts of machismo might be your thing that eye level finder is hardly drawing your attention groundward, inviting you to explore the world from a new point of view and encouraging you to explore the visual world from this new perspective. For that, there's the waist level finder.

Of course my weapon of choice is the traditional medium format SLR where this style of viewfinder really shines. There are WLF alternatives for some 35mm SLRs. For vintage aficionados they were sometimes standard in early SLRs of the 1940's and 50's, but if you're after something more recent all but the most current members of Nikon's F series have interchangeable viewfinders and while uncommon there are WLFs for these cameras out there. Alternatively however a right angle finder that fits over the eyepiece of the prism viewfinder is available for a greater variety of 35mm cameras giving many of the same benefits while rotating versions eliminates the limitation of horizontal only shooting. These of course can also be the ticket if you shoot with a DSLR, though you can bet that if I were a digital shooter I'd chose a camera with one of those nifty articulated live view screens.

Admittedly there are times when waist level finders are not the ideal thing. They are good up to about chest level but no higher, and sometimes either to get the needed perspective of just to shoot over a fence this is a severe limitation. Once or twice in a pinch I have turned the camera sideways, standing at a right angle to the subject, just to be able to use it at eye level. For my Mamiya and Hasselblad systems however I have prism finders that can be swapped in for the waist level versions. These might actually get used, if I'm being generous, about 5% of the time and if I leave them in place after using them I inevitably replace them with the usual waist level finder in the next shooting situation because the eye level view just isn't working for me.

The 'Blad with waist level finder attached, optional prism finder to the right is ready when needed.

There are times when 35mm would do just fine but I still bring the medium format gear not because the bigger negative is suddenly important to me, but because I know the eye level finders I have on all my Nikons will almost certainly bring me to a choice between belly crawling on some questionable terrain or not getting the shot I want. And while I'm fully kitted out for 4x5 I'll still nearly always go for the medium format gear bag on the way out no so much to avoid the extra heft (though there's that) or the extra expense (thought there's that) but because, again, there's that straight through viewing. There are things on my photographic horizon (to be discussed in future episodes I'm sure) that have me thinking hard about shooting those big negatives more often. There are right angle viewers available for 4x5 cameras... It seems the wish list never quite ends.

Troika!

We go through life trading youth for experience. It's not a fair trade mind you, but as we've no choice about making it we can only make the best of what we get in exchange. At the cost of a metabolism that allowed me to feast at any opportunity without a care in the world I have at least managed to acquire a greater appreciation for the way in  which things that are better in theory turn out to be otherwise out there in the real world. And while this could be a fitting introduction to any number of topics, today it is about lenses. Specifically it is about the philosophy and practice of building a system of lenses that offers best service within reasonable budget constraints, whatever "reasonable" might mean for any particular budget.

Back when (and it was all about 35mm in those days) I had the notion that at the heart of any lens collection should be a couple of zoom lenses covering every focal length from 28mm (or 24 would be even better) up to 200mm (or 300mm would be even better, with no gaps at any focal length. From there special purpose lenses could be added. Maybe wider wide angles for landscapes or architecture, longer faster lenses for wildlife or sports, and a macro for bugs and the like. Back then I still imagined doing all those things and nearly every imaginable form of studio photography as well. Life has taught me a few things since then, one of which is that specializing in everything is a non sequitur. There were other lessons too, many involving the differences between what sounds like a good idea and what really works. It is here that my notions about the importance of having a continuum of focal lengths got set to the side. Find me on any given day out on a photo walkabout and chances are that, whichever camera system I chose for that outing, I'm carrying three lenses, three single focal length lenses that experience has taught me will almost never leave me wishing I'd packed some other optic. They are my big three, my troika.

Before I get to the nitty gritty of what that means though it's worth taking a step back to see how I went from there to here. There in this case is a time when it would concern me a little if, say I were carrying a 28-70mm zoom and an 80-200mm, that there would be that shot that demanded 75mm's. Not a big deal mind you, but I was careful to plan my lens collection to avoid such gaps. These were the days when the core of my camera menagerie was built around 35mm equipment. At times I owned medium and large format equipment but 35mm remained king for various reasons, one of which was the perceived limitations of the larger kit owing to the fact that I only ever had one or two focal lengths to chose from. Zoom lenses are not that common in the medium format world, and unless there is some optical oddity I'm unaware of, non-existent for large format. It's not that the big cameras didn't get used, just not often enough for me to notice how little difference the lack of an extensive selection of lenses really made.

35mm Troika: 28mm, 50mm and 85mm Nikkors. On any given day I might swap
out the faster 85mm lens for the close focus versatility of my 105mm Micro.

Enlightenment would have to wait for the dawn of what was to become my post digital era when the drastic drop in the price of used professional film equipment made it worthwhile to delay the next DSLR upgrade (still hasn't happened) in order to pick up a Mamiya RB67 to play with. The rest as they say is history so far as my transition back to film is concerned, but the point is that for the first few months when I was pretty much shooting with nothing but the RB I was shooting with just the 127mm lens it had when I bought it. In terms of 35mm equivalent focal length that translates to about 63mm, which seems just a bit to long to be thought of as a normal lens and a bit too short to be considered "telephoto"¹. Suffice it to say that if I had to choose one and only one focal length to use this wouldn't be it. Enamoured as I was by that marvellous beast of a camera I went on shooting anyway and found almost to my amazement that it didn't seem to matter. At times it almost seemed as though the things I wanted to shoot almost magically arranged themselves to be exactly suited to being photographed by that lens. Is there maybe something special about that not quite normal, not quite tele focal length? Apparently not because some time later when I acquired a 65mm lens (32mm equiv.) I found I had the same experience if I used that lens and kept the 127 in the bag most of the time. That need to have a range of focal lengths at my disposal was largely illusory.

Largely. With landscape subjects dominating my work I still found myself craving a wider perspective and the 65mm wasn't quite cutting it. On the other end there were also times when I wished for the reach and more importantly perhaps the compressed perspective of a longer lens. A 50mm (25mm equiv) for the Mamiya quickly became a favourite, I also picked up a 250mm to cover me when something longer is needed. Arguably it's a bit too long but I'm not sure this has ever mattered and considering it was less that $100 with the shipping I can hardly complain. True it's the least often used lens of the bunch, but when I need it, I need it.

It was thus that I completed my first troika, three lenses - wide normal and tele - that keep me covered for nearly everything I consider worthwhile committing to film. Not always, it's true. There are times when something longer, wider or with some other special capability were at hand, but every new piece of kit comes at a premium in terms of space in the gear bag and wear and tear on the vertebrae. Let's also keep in mind that while this combination is what works for me and the way I shoot these days this isn't intended as a general recommendation. Everyone shoots their own way. At the same time what I shoot isn't that unusual in terms of subject matter, and my optical troika could serve equally well were I to branch out into any number of other areas such as portraiture or street photography.

Medium Format Troika: Starting from the left we have a 150mm portrait length tele, 80mm normal mounted
 to the camera and a 50mm wide. This is about perfect for 6x6 square though equivalent focal lengths may vary for
other negative sizes, a little shorter for 6x4.5 for example, and somewhat longer if your camera yields 6x9 negs.

If I could boil the change in the way I approach lens selection down to its essence I think it's best stated thus: while once I imagined that there was some ideal focal length that allowed an image to be framed and composed just so, now it's just a matter of perspective. Literally. In my experience it's enough to note whether making a particular shot look the way I want it to requires the exaggerated perspective of a wide angle, the compression of a longer lens or a neutral normal. Once the need has been matched to the corresponding member of my lens trio the rest is just a matter of framing it all up in the viewfinder. That's oversimplified a little. Strictly speaking perspective is about the relationship between the apparent size of near versus far away objects which is a function of camera to subject distance and the right lens is the one that lets us fit everything in, which is a topic for another day. Out there in the field (or beach or sidewalk...) I don't choose the perspective by selecting a lens, I do it by eye, determining roughly where I need to stand in order to have all the elements in their right proportion and position relative to each other before even taking the camera out of the pack. In doing so I've already chosen the perspective. I'll then attach the lens I think is going to get it all framed up nicely and, truth be told, sometimes I'm wrong about which lens that is. The only really important part is that it's almost always one of the three.

Large Format Troika Starting from the left is the massive 240mm Symmar-S which, at just over 70mm
 in terms of a 35mm equivalent focal length is shortish for the long member of the troika, but less taxing
in terms of bellows draw on the 4x5. Mounted is the very nice 150mm Symmar-S with a 90mm Fujinon
rounding things out on the wide end.

Leaving aside those reasonably rare occasions when I wish I had a lens wider or longer than anything I am carrying, you may be wondering how it is if I pick my spot as I just described, then pull out the camera, how is it that the lens that is just right will always turn out to be one of those three. Or maybe you're not wondering that, I don't know. Thing is it's something I would have worried over in the past. I'd long heard photographers who were as fond of prime lenses as I have since become use the phrase "zoom with your feet". It always struck me as a terrible notion was irredeemably flawed in that it would only work if where you needed to stand to get the subject just so in the frame and where you needed to stand to get the perspective relationships just right happened to be the same spot. The experience of using fixed focal length lenses has taught me that there aren't any such spots any more than there is one and only one valid choice with respect to any of the other myriad decisions a photographer must make. A photograph that might frame up just so with a zoom lens set to 74mm might be slightly different than one framed up equally just so with an 80mm from half a metre further back, but the odds that either one image will contain some elemental brilliance that the other lacks is next to nought.

The take away here isn't that you should ditch your zoom lenses or that that longer telephoto lens you picked up should be relegated to shelf queen status. If you're a zoom lens user you may have been muttering to yourself something along the lines of "but my 28-85 is this whole troika business in one lens!" to which I say fantastic, hope I've given you little a better appreciation of how much can be accomplished within that midling focal length range, now go blow off some film with it. (Or fill up one of those little memory card thingys if that's what floats your boat.) If you're a fan of super wides or maybe longer focal lengths who could blame you. Without a doubt they are part of what gives your work that particular character that makes it yours. If on the other hand you find yourself lustily flipping your way through catalogues of the prestige glass, imagining the experience of cradling high end extreme optics in your hands as you eye blue and magenta glint of the high tech multicoating laid onto a flawless curve wrought into the surface of a piece of exotic optical glass with sub micro-metre precision then I'd suggest a moment's pause to consider whether it just might be the case that some notion of the ideal optical system (with maybe just a hint of avarice tossed in for good measure) has drawn your attention away from what could be accomplished with something much simpler, more common. Don't let the affordability fool you.



1. The photo nerd in me won't allow me simply toss out the term "telephoto" without pointing out that while the word is commonly understood to mean a lens with a focal length in excess of what would be considered the normal range, this usage is sloppy and when it comes down to it incorrect, hence the quotes. When a lens has an optical focal length that is longer than its actual physical length, that's a telephoto. It's generally true that most long lenses have a telephoto design, but not always. The 240mm Symmar-S pictured above for example is not a telephoto. My pedagogical instincts no satiated I'll leave you be. Sorry folks, it's a character flaw I know but I'm working on it.

Abstract

When I was posting the above image on my Flickr page the other day I stopped myself short of tagging it with the term "abstract". In practical terms it was a good tag to use, a word a lot of people might search on, drawing more eyeballs to my image. It made me uncomfortable though, so that even after I finally decided to use it I went back and took it out. Heaven forbid I do anything myself that might lend credence to a photograph, one I took no less, being referred to as "an abstract."

 Before you jump to any conclusions though let me hasten to add that that "abstract" is not something I find objectionable or in any way wish not to be associated with my work. Quite the opposite. What bothers me is that when a particular image is deemed to be "abstract", especially "an abstract", the implication is that it possesses some quality that distinguishes it from all those other images that aren't abstract. The problem is there are no such photographs. If I could point to a single realization I've acquired over the years that is most critical to who I am as a photographer today it is the understanding that when I make a photograph, especially one with any sort of expressive intent, abstraction is, without exception, the whole point. That point only gets lost when the term is used to single out only some images from all the rest.

To be clear here I'm not imagining that acquired any special talent that allows me imbue my work with some subtle abstract quality that I'm surprised others don't see. What I'm suggesting applies equally to anyone who has ever made a photograph whether or not they had any notion of this. While this may not be of much interest to those who do photography practical documentary purposed, but even here images are occasionally seem to posses a compelling visual appeal purely by accident. The reason is simple, a camera is a tool of abstraction, that's what it is, that's it's very nature. In short, if it's a photograph, it's abstract.

By this point I am imagining most if not all of you are thinking something along the lines of "But that's ludicrous. I know what abstract art is and that beautiful shot I took of my nephew standing by the window that everybody loves so much is not it!" So if you are thinking something along those lines, given that we're all intelligent, reasonable people here, it's probably safe to assume that I'm not using that word abstract in quite the same way you are. If this were a mere semantic quibble though I'd have done you a disservice allowing you to read as far as you have. The understanding I've come to of that word abstraction though is how I make sense of the fact that the some of the most mundane sights, things you might have passed right by and never even thought to cast a glance towards, perhaps a row of dishes drying on a rack or a clump of trees lying across a soggy field of barley, can become the subjects of photographs we find absolutely captivating. Not incidentally I also find it immensely helpful in the way I understand and approach my own work. When you're trying to make a interesting photographs it can't hurt to have an idea about what it is about photographs that can make them so interesting. If you have a notion to read on then I'll try to make it worth your while.

First, let's talk about the way the word abstract is usually used with reference to art. I think it would be fair to say that whatever the particular usage it is meant to convey a sense of the intangible. We might call the work of a surrealist like Dali abstract because what it depicts defies our sense of how we've come to understand how the world works. Or it could be used with reference to "installation art" such as that pioneered by Marcel Duchamp who used very concrete objects to represent and invite the contemplation of abstract concepts. Perhaps more than anything however it calls to mind non-representational art epitomized by the work of Jackson Pollock whose expressive paint dripped canvases bear no relation or resemblance to anything found outside the world of the psyche. All are abstract, certainly, in obvious though different ways.

The only trouble with this in my view is that when a painting, photograph or any other piece of art is only referred to as abstract when it incorporates some unusual element of abstraction that makes it stand out the message is that when art doesn't have these elements the word abstract doesn't apply. The reason that's not trivial is that it can keep us from appreciating how the element of abstraction is at play throughout all art. As I see it, it is the very essence of art. So how can we ever understand art if we think the word only applies when, for example, a painter is attempting to depict a state of mind without reference to some external "thing"?

Having said that let me take a moment to reel things in a bit. I'm a photographer, this is a photography blog so let's get back to talking about photography more specifically. To me the central mystery of photography and why I even bother with it boils down to the following question:

 How is it that, finding myself before some rather pedestrian scene or object, something I might otherwise have walked right by without a thought, point a camera at it, trip the shutter and end up with something beautiful and engaging enough to want to hang on my wall so I can look at it everyday for years? 

Objectively that thing on the wall is just a pale reflection of whatever it was that I photographed in the first place. To start out with it's been removed from the context of its surroundings to be confined within the rectangular borders of a print. There's no motion, no depth, no hint of the sounds or smells that were present when it was taken. If it's a photograph I made chances are very strong even the colour has been left behind. Given that the thing photographed was often not worth a second glance to begin with this whole endeavour sounds like a profound waste, a good quantity of time material of effort gone to take something that may not have been all that interesting to start and make it even less so.

Except that it isn't. A photograph can be so much more than a poor substitute for the thing photographed, a mere memento. It can become a new thing entirely, not despite the loss of context, dimension or motion but because of them. When we remove these things we make them less specific and therefore more universal. This is how that old pair of shoes in the front foyer you just haven't gotten around to throwing out yet can, when photographed, become all things that have been cast aside and forgotten about. We may not even be aware of the symbolism when we see it, but w well conceived and executed photograph can make you feel it even though those actual shoes in the foyer strike you as a pair of meaningless inanimate objects that would be cause for embarrassment if they were still laying there when company stopped by.

What has happened here is abstraction. That may not seem like it has much to do with the way we usually hear the word abstract use. Commonly understood abstract is sort of the opposite number to that which is real and concrete such that abolishing slavery is a concrete action while freedom is the abstract notion behind it. Fair enough, but it doesn't really help much with our understanding of how a photograph of a thing can possess engaging qualities that even the thing itself lacked. For that I want to go a bit deeper at what that word I keep batting around, "abstract", means more generally. It's comes from the Latin "abstractus" meaning drawn or pulled away. It would have been used mainly to describe some sort of material process such as separating, or drawing away, the wheat from the chaff, the metal from the ore and so on. More simply it means to take a pile of stuff that is a mix of things you want and things you don't, pull away only bits you're after, and leave the rest behind.

Now as a photographer, if you hold it in mind that this is what abstract means you'll see at first that it's a process that's at play in every photograph you've ever made or ever will make. On a foundation like this it now becomes simple to understand how all of the camera's inherent limitations - the way it flattens a three dimensional scene, severing its connection to limitless surroundings to imprison it within a tiny rectangle, all motion arrested, all sounds silenced - these are not limitations at all but the source of its power, the means by which we draw the photographic wheat from the chaotic chaff of the world around us.

I believe any photographer possessing even a modest talent will have some intuitive sense of all this, and even if they go on to great mastery may never put their now highly developed sense into these terms. When we reserve the word abstract denote only work of a more experimental nature the developing photographer (i.e. any photographer not on their death bed) is left to grope in the dark on their own for this understanding. Nor is it enough to save the word to mean "especially abstract" or "abstract in an unusual way". For example, photography has been called an "art of subtraction", where subtraction means something very close to what I mean by abstraction, so why don't I just say subtraction and leave those who want to talk about abstract photography as a special category alone? The answer is that used this way the new word "subtract" in no way fails to apply once we start talking about the things people like to refer to as distinctly "abstract", such as an image in which we have subtracted the cues that normally allow us to clearly identify the subject, thereby introducing one more abstraction.

The problem isn't the choice of terms, it's that we're trying to use terms to draw a distinction between things for which no fundamental distinction exists. Pretending they do only obscures things more, stifling our understanding along the way. The kinds of abstraction we use - the more abstract black and white rather than colour or more abstract still photography rather than motion pictures - are creative choices and asserting that the choice to photograph the more abstract distorted reflection of a subject (thereby creating "an abstract") rather than shooting it straight on is somehow different in kind from all the other choices does nothing but put up additional barriers to understanding.

And if the word abstract makes you a little uneasy because you fancy yourself someone who goes for literal interpretations in photography, remind yourself that, in photography especially, the idea of being fully literal and the idea of interpretation are inevitably at loggerheads. As is true with so many things, in photography abstraction is inevitable. Learn to embrace it, to use it. It will bring you greater understanding and make you a better photographer. And if you're not sure how, imagine yourself standing in front of a print by a one of the great photographers who's name you would never think to associate with the idea of "abstract photography". Let's say it was Ansel Adams, and he was standing there with you so you could ask him how it was made. I don't know what his real answer would have been, but a perfectly true and valid answer could be... "I simply cropped away, desaturated and tonally compressed everything that wasn't Moonrise Hernandez."

See... abstract.

Meet the Beast: Part IV

At long last it's time to wrap up this series with a few final thoughts on the RB67 and how it might or might not be a good fit for photographers in this day and age interested in a classic analog medium format system. As I hope I've made clear to this point these cameras have a lot going for them - they're ruggedly built and designed to perform to professional standards, but drastic changes in the way that the professionals these cameras were designed for work has flooded the market with used systems, often in top condition, priced lower than the most basic of entry level DSLRs. Why would anyone with a fondness for shooting film and an eye towards the increasingly popular medium format think of looking at anything else? Well, there may be a few reasons.

The price of the 17% gain in negative size you get with the Mamiya RB67 (left) is an added burden in terms of size and weight that is much higher percentage wise compared to a camera like the Bronica S2A on the right.

My closing comment in the last episode (the text portion, not in the video) let you in on the fact that I've been using a different camera lately. That's it on the right in the photo above, a classic Bronica S2 or S2A (there's been some debate about which of the two models this actually is, they're virtually identical). I put it there for comparison though, it's still all about the Mamiya. As you no doubt have guessed the comparison is all about size.

The Bronica is a fairly typical 6x6 cm square medium format SLR. Though it's a bit heavier, in terms of physical dimensions it's roughly the size of the more widely recognized Hasselblads such as the 500cm introduced at about the same time. To be fair the RB67 will produce somewhat larger 6x7 cm negatives, but the slight increase in negative size comes at the price of an anything but slight increase in equipment bulk. It's not just a weight increase either, the RB takes up more shelf space and requires a roomier camera bag when you bring it into the field.  The problem is only compounded when you add lenses and other accessories that are similarly scaled up compared to most other popular medium format gear.

Is all the extra bulk necessary to go from 6x6 to 6x7 with a medium format SLR? Another well known 6x7 format SLR is the Pentax 6x7 (later to become the Pentax 67). Though they shared the RB's format, these cameras had a very different design philosophy. Gone is the revolving back design, the integrated bellows focusing and the in-lens shutter, these cameras could only be described as scaled up 35mm SLRs. With a waist level finder and normal lens a Pentax 67 would come in at around 2kg, about half way between a similarly equipped Hasselblad and an RB67. The layout of these cameras however limited the usefulness of waist level viewing, so prism finders are the norm for the Pentax's, bringing the total weight just shy of our Mamiya. Add to this the fact that vertical shooting with the Pentax will require a heavier tripod and the RB is arguably the easier camera to carry and handle in the field.

Carrying an RB67 to get this image rather than a typical square format SLR involved a huge penalty in terms of weight sheer size, only to end up cropping the result down to the square dimensions a smaller camera would have given me.

Whether the larger negative is worth it or not is of course a personal question, one that I had to answer for myself. There are times that for particular images I've really appreciated it. At least as frequently however I end up cropping an image square, completely negating any advantage carrying all that extra bulk gave me, not to mention the extra bit of wasted film that gives me 10 rather than 12 exposures per roll. The appearance of a new square format camera in my collection is a good clue to the direction I've been leaning as of late.

That said it was actually one of the RB67s other shortcomings, a seemingly minor thing, that got me to thinking about moving to a square format system. Back in part II of the series I discussed the normal/mirror up switch on the lens and how leaving it in the wrong position can leave a photographer firing away with nothing to indicate the shutter wasn't opening until the blank film emerged from the processing tank. This was not a problem so long as I stuck to my usual "slow photography" M.O. of shooting tripod mounted, locking the mirror and using a cable release. For reasons I'll save for a future episode I've been thinking of expanding my approach in such a way that, given my predisposition for absent minded oversight, would inevitably find me staring at clear pieces of film where anxiously anticipated images should be. And of course there's also the sheer size of the RB, did I mention the size?

While in my experience the range of Mamiya Sekor lenses available for the RB67 (Sekor is Mamiya's house optical brand) are entirely up to professional standards optically, if you make the usual assumption that bigger lenses are faster lenses you may be disappointed. Normal lens for most medium format SLRs typically have an f/2.8 maximum aperture and it's not unusual for there to be a number of equally fast lenses in the range. Though lenses in the RB range are larger than those for rival systems in about the same proportion as all the other components, the fastest lens anywhere in the RB67 system has an f/3.5 maximum aperture, and no lens outside the "normal" range is any faster than f/4.5. This isn't something I consider a real disadvantage when in slow photography mode (though paying a penalty in both size and speed doesn't necessarily sit well) but it does start coming into play when I start envision radical concepts like purposely leaving the tripod in the car.

Though the Mamiya RB67 was always considered a camera for the professional photo studio this is by no means an indication that it's not up for use outside the controlled indoor environment. In fact it's quite the opposite. Their failure resistant all mechanical construction mean these cameras are anything but delicate. As so many of them outlasted their usefulness as the computer age brought more speed to the business of photography than a camera like the RB could keep up with it's no surprise that so many of them have found their way into the kit bags of photographers looking to bring them further afield. Doing so requires a willingness to accept the limitations that once made photographers look at the RB as cameras of the controlled environment, their size, their weight and the methodical approach using one demanded.

Those limitations are still present, but they're not insurmountable. After all, photographers have been carrying much heavier and slow to use large format cameras into some of the least accessible locations in the world for over 150 years. With a good carrying system and a strong back (or failing that a good chiropractor on speed dial) these cameras will put up with almost any environment a photographer hearty enough to haul it that far is likely to tolerate. Once there a willingness to take the time the RB67 demands can result in images that make it all worth while and more.

The Side Arm Camera

A parting image shot with the Nikon F80 while the RB67 sat in the bag 

Should fate ever see me trying to submit an insanity plea in court I can at least submit as evidence in my favour the sheer mass of kit I routinely slog across difficult terrain as a means of passing time. When the Mamiya that is my go-to camera was made it was considered studio equipment because few would be fool enough to carry it for any distance outdoors. Given the commitment involved just heading out the door with it and a few of its similarly massive lenses there never seemed much value in tucking something smaller and lighter weight into the pack. Why would I need something else if I had my favourite camera with me?

As it turns out there are a few good answers to that question after all. I discovered them almost by accident. It started last fall when I started taking my recently acquired Minolta Hi-Matic 9 along when I was out with the big camera. The idea was simply to get a test roll through the new camera that wasn't another 36 frames of the dog looking at me awkwardly. My first outing with it was an off-season visit to a public beach that after decades of decline as a recreational attraction is now being eyed by condo developers. I'd been there before but on this visit I was drawn to the graffiti marked foundation walls of a long-ago demolished building that I previously hadn't taken much notice of.

Whether or not the fact it piqued my interest this time had anything to do with the presence of a more maneuverable, hand holdable camera with which to explore it this time I can't say. What I can say is that I immediately put the heavy pack down and just went with the Minolta. There was no rush, the walls would wait for me had I chosen to set up the tripod and fiddle with the big camera, but there seemed no question that the Hi-Matic was the right tool here. That might strike the majority of you as obvious but my methodical self usually doesn't work that way. I'm used to spending some time with a composition, considering my approach, noticing all the details. The difference here I think is that my subject called for more exploration than analysis.

A shot taken while exploring with the Minolta Hi-Matic 9, again while the Mamiya kit I had with me stayed in the pack.

Since that time whenever I'm out with the Mamiya kit there has always been a 35mm camera along for the ride, though more recently it's been a Nikon rather than the Hi-Matic. It's my side arm, the camera to use for all those situations not suited for pulling out the big gun. Those fleeting opportunities that won't wait for you to set up are the first thing that comes to mind. Even when it seems like there's plenty of time, grabbing a quick shot with the small camera can serve as quick insurance against the unexpected such as an unfavourable change in the light or a Volkswagon camper van parking in the middle of your previously pristine scene while you're setting up.

That's not the only advantage I've found in to carrying a side-arm camera. It's not even the main advantage. The fact is that even though I may gear up in anticipation of shooting with a slower paced, more considered approach doesn't mean this is the way I'll be inspired to work once I'm out there. When you're using a heavy tripod mounted camera deciding to stop and get a photograph is a little bit like pitching camp and doing this too many times can get a bit overwhelming.

My new side arm - the conveniently non-automated Nikon FM

In one form or another I've been carrying a side arm camera with me when I'm out with the big Mamiya kit for months now and I'm still shooting far more 120 film than 35mm. I may even try bringing the Iskra along to see if it works in this role - medium format is still the sweet spot for me. More than likely it will be the Nikon FM I recently acquired. The F80 served well enough I suppose but it won't meter with all my lenses and the way nearly every function possible has been automated doesn't appeal to my sensibilities like it once did. When I think about it it takes far more work to earn the money to buy the batteries that power the auto winder than it does to just use the winding leaver.

A Close Call

There's a long time running debate among photographers about the use of protection filters, nearly clear screw in filters like a UV or skylight kept permanently affixed to the front of a lens to bear the brunt of scratches and frontal impacts, sparing the lens itself. There are pros and cons to using them, and though back in the old camera store days I saw a reasonable number of lenses spared from disaster by them I remained ambivalent about their use.

Yesterday I had one of those experiences that tend to make people question position in matters like this. I set my tripod mounted RB67 down, removed the lens cap RB67 from my prized 50mm Sekor-C lens that was mounted to it and, turning my back to dig something out of the camera bag, just caught the whole assemblage toppling out of the corner of my eye, the camera nose diving into the ground. It seems the tripod legs weren't spread out as much as I thought. Now I have one UV filter that will fit any of the four lenses I own for the RB system, but though I value the 50mm above all others this isn't the lens I use it on. This is to avoid the possibility of vignetting in the corners of its wide-angle field (equivalent to a 25mm lens on a 35mm camera) if I stack another filter or two on top.

As the title suggests however this isn't a eulogy for my favorite lens. Good fortune intervened on my behalf because, while there was no protection filter on this lens, it so happened that I had left a red contrast filter in place after the previous shot I had taken.

A fallen red-coat who gave its life to save its unit, a sacrifice that will not go unforgotten.

After carefully removing the filter all appeared well with the lens and indeed I went on to use is and the camera for the rest of the day without incident. Better still, this is (was) just a cheapo no-name filter that cost me maybe $6-7 shipping included.

While I'm more than happy this filter was there to play the part of a protection filter that obviously wasn't what I had it for. I got this, along with a yellow and a 10 stop ND filter, more as temporary fill ins until I had the budget to replace them with something that didn't involve such an optical compromise. And it's this that brings us back to the reasons I'm not as religious as some about always having some sort of filter in place for protection.

"It's cheap insurance" is the phrase I've heard countless times from advocates of this practice. In a sense it's usually true, but cheap is part of the problem. A good lens may incorporate from six to fifteen or more precision made multicoated elements. A protection filter that could rightly be called cheap is unlikely to be either precision made or multicoated, but once in place it's just as much a part of the optical system as all the rest. Better filters are available of course but then we are getting out of the realm of what could rightly be considered cheap, and no matter how much money you sink into one you'll never achieve better than not using one at all and taking your chances. It also goes without saying that having a filter in place is only protection from certain kinds of mishaps. As you can see from the photo above the ground this fell on was mostly sand. Had it fallen on something harder or more jagged the filters sacrifice would have been in vain.

Still, the fact it can't protect you from all possible injury is a poor reason not to wear a helmet and the arguably the logic is the same here. It's also possible I'm being a bit unrealistic about how much a moderately priced protection filter will impact the overall optical quality of my lenses. Though I hope to add better quality contrast filters to my kit I don't sweat the fact the ones I have are bargain class when the shot calls for for one.

Has this experience been enough to change my mind then? For now all I can say is I ordered the replacement for the red filter today and, thought I gave it a moments thought to adding a few protection filters to the lot in the end I gave it a pass.

Medium Format To Go

In past episodes I've made casual mention of "The Iskra" once or twice as though everyone knows what I'm talking about, a bit of a foolish assumption given that a year ago it would have meant nothing to me either. It occurs to me therefore that a few words of explanation might be in order.

The story begins early last spring with two things I was wishing I had. One was a proper take-everywhere camera, something I could just tuck away in the backpack I take most everywhere so that I'd never be without a decent camera should the unexpected opportunity arise. Having resisted modern notions that ranks portable telecommunications devices right next to shoes in terms of indispensability I don't even have a camera phone to fall back on in a pinch.  The second thing I was after was a medium format camera that would allow me to be a bit more free-wheeling than what I had. The RB67 is a wonderful tool and will remain my tool of choice, but it's not something you take along unless using it is the sole object of the trip, It's no surprise then that a lot of medium format SLR users have something like a twin-lens reflex for those times they need to go lightweight. In place of a camera bag of the kind that keeps chiropractors in business one can simply sling a lighter camera over the shoulder instead while sacrificing little more than lens interchangeability.

An Iskra photo demonstrating the virtue of procrastination. Can you imagine
 how dull this shot would be if I'd ever bothered to paint that door?

I like the idea of having a TLR at my disposal, but a TLR and a take everywhere camera are two different things for most people. In fact the terms medium format and take everywhere camera don't sound like they belong in the same sentence. There is in fact an option that, given a fairly generous space for totin allow both of these desires to be met with one camera - the medium format folder.

Medium format folders were a popular camera style in the decade or so following WWII, but seemed to lose appeal to consumers faster than other styles of medium format camera in the face of the increasing popularity of 35mm during the 60's. It makes sense I suppose as the appeal of folders is their compactness, and consumers who were looking for that would have been the first to switch to the smaller format. I have to say though that on a strict compactness vs. quality basis I think those who went for 35mm got a raw deal. (Of course there's probably more to it, like 3 times as many exposures on a roll.) Personally, I find it far easier to carry a medium format folder than a 35mm SLR, but I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.

As this style of camera had its day well enough before my time a bit of research was in order. There was a whole world of features, reputations for mechanical and optical quality, and of course prices to acquaint myself with. In term of features the only must-have was a rangefinder. Many cameras of this ilk require the user to guess at the subject distance then dial it in to focus, relying on depth of field to cover for any errors. That may be good enough for grampa's vacation snaps, but there's a difference between in focus and covered by DOF, and I need in focus. Also, my strong preference in terms of format is for 6x6 as this is what I end up cropping to most of the time with 6x7 negs anyway.

Features are features, but it gets trickier when it comes to optics and mechanical reliability. Being vintage cameras much of what one can learn about the various models comes in the form of their reputation, and it's been my experience at any rate that it can be difficult to separate what portion of a reputation is earned and what is brand mystique (or in some cases whatever you'd call its opposite.)

There is some objective information to be had in terms of optical and mechanical design. Laying aside things like quality control, mechanically some choice of materials, ways of putting things together, arrangement of parts that make things happen and so on are better than others. Further, leaving out considerations like how well or consistently lenses are assembled, their optical design itself is just a matter of what glass elements are involved, how their arranged and the types of glass used. In this regard cameras of this design and vintage nearly always have either a 3 element Cooke triplet or a 4 element design that is normally a Tessar variant. No surprise here, other things being equal the four element designs will have the more sought after characteristics. There's also the matter of whether or not the lenses are coated.

Finally there was price. I didn't want to spend too much either in absolute terms or in terms of value per dollar spent. If I just wanted the best there are dealers with unsullied reputations who sell the most sought after models, fully refurbished and warrantied  at a fully worth the price premium if you have it in your budget and just want something that will work with no questions. I could have done that but then I would never have been able to afford the 50mm lens for the RB that I don't know how I lived without and would probably just now be getting 'round to being able to buy film again. Also, where's the fun in that?

Instead I followed my usual instinct to find something that was a bit of a sleeper, a camera that performs well enough to be on the most sought after list but due to whatever oversight isn't. My search ultimately lead me to, well I guess you already know, the Iskra. So what's an Iskra?

The Iskra as it looked shortly after it arrived. I've since made a few cosmetic changes,
reskinning it in blue vinyl and restoring the logo to its original fire-engine red.

I'm sure you've already guessed that it's a medium format folder. It has my favoured square format, coated Tessar design lens and fully coupled rangefinder. Not only does the lens have a reputation as a solid performer, the focus mechanism has a superior helicoid design that moves all the lens elements together rather than just moving the front element with relation to the others. Adding to its sophistication is an advanced (for the time) film detection mechanism that obviates the need to line up start arrows or watch through a little red window as you wind. Best of all the Iskra usually goes for a fraction of what similar models on the sought after list do.

So what gives? Well, let's start with the logo on the camera, which if you can't quite make out the script in the photo above reads "Искра". These are Soviet cameras made from 1960-63 at the KMZ factory in Kiev. As such they come with the default reputation attached to all "Russian" cameras as cheaply constructed, mechanically unsophisticated and subject to spotty quality controls. Whether this reputation in general is deserved or the product of leftover cold-war biases and the "knock-off" stigma based on the fact that, unburdened by international trademark or patent agreements, many of these cameras either heavily borrowed from or outright copied from Western designs. A few things there doesn't seem to be much dispute about include the fact that light leaks in the bellows aren't uncommon, thought this would be true of any camera of this vintage that had bellows, and the fact that frame spacing is typically uneven, though I don't know if this is true of the Agfa model this camera is based on that has the same mechanism.

In this last regard the Iskra is no exception as one look at the functionally and cosmetically nearly identical Agfa Super Isolette of the late 50's should convince you. (The Agfa also sold in the U.S. as the Ansco Super Speedex.) Does this make the Iskra an inferior instrument to the Western model that inspired it, enough to account for the fact that it was selling for about 1/3-1/4 the price of an Agfa or Ansco in comparable condition? Opinions I was able to find online seemed remarkably polarized ranging from the notion if any Iskra out there still manages to function at all it's only been kept going with duct tape and rubber bands to those who contend that they're mechanically equal to and optically a bit superior to their Western counterparts. What to make of this?

I had an hour to kill and was parked right beside an old cemetery - perfect time
to remember I happen to have a medium format camera in the backpack with me.

A bit more digging though was enough to bring some sense to these wildly differing opinions. It came from a piece written by a collector of Soviet cameras (sorry, I couldn't find it again to give you the link) who shed a bit of light on the very different journey an Iskra may have taken to get through the past five decades to arrive in 2014 compared to a camera made in the West around the same time like an Agfa. Unlike, say an Agfa that got used regularly for a few years but otherwise spent most of that time on a shelf or in a box, Iskras were made for Soviet citizens who weren't running out to replace them the moment there was something newer and better on the market, and many of them were still in every-day use long after the Soviet Union dissolved and that Agfa had become a curiosity the original owner's grandson found while rummaging through the attic. How much use a particular Iskra may have seen over the decades could vary, but in the USSR a camera like this could represent a professional photographer's bread and butter. Until not that long ago they many of these cameras were used day in and day out and to be kept going at almost any cost. Not every Iskra out there has this kind of history but there are enough beaten up and barely functional to leave anyone who has seen a few that their condition is the result of poor initial construction rather than the fact they're doing the equivalent of comparing two cars of the same model year without considering the odometer on one reads twenty times higher than the other.

It didn't take too much effort to find a well priced Iskra on eBay from an experienced and highly rated seller who included enough good photos to convince me this one hadn't been run into the ground. The package travelled from the Ukraine to Canada and arrived faster than most things I order from the U.S. and for no higher higher shipping cost. Now here it is more than half a year and a good few rolls of film on and time enough to look back and and ask how well it has fared compared to my expectations. I don't have and have never used one the Agfa or Ansco cameras that would allow me to make that sort of comparison, but let's have a look at my actual experiences.

While loading the first roll into the camera I couldn't help but notice the spiked wheel that allows the camera to detect when film, and not just backing paper, is moving from the camera. It looks like a miniaturized version of a medieval instrument of persuasion. The same mechanism with the same spiky wheel is used on the Agfa Super Isolette. As I found it actually does perforate the backing paper and leaves its impression on the margin of the film. It look bad but I haven't seen any evidence that any light at all gets through to the film at any point.

My real concern when I unloaded that first roll was that it seemed alarmingly loose on the takeup spool, and indeed when developed it was obvious that light had leaked in along the edges, though for the most part it had not intruded into the image area. For the next few rolls I kept the film in camera when the last exposure had been taken, waiting until it could be unloaded and wound right onto the developing reel in one go under complete darkness. After a few rolls it was evident though that my first experience had been an isolated incident and I haven't had problems with film I changed in the field since, though there's always the concern it could happen again.

In the absence of issues like that the camera is the kind of capable performer that I'd hoped. I have no quibbles with the quality of the optics and the focus is accurate. Not quite as accurate is the viewfinder which experience has shown requires me to compensate by aiming up and a little to the right regardless of the subject distance. I've had some otherwise good shots ruined because of this. As for the frame spacing, yes it can vary from frame to frame, but only once have I found two frames actually touch and even here there was no overlap so I can't say I consider this a real practical concern.

Though aside from that one loosely wound roll I had no issues with light leaks for the first several rolls, a problem suddenly appeared a few months on. It traced back to a leak in the bellows which is more or less to be expected in cameras of this vintage. I found it easily enough by shining a light from inside the camera and did a spot repair with a dab of plasti-dip, the goop that's used to put a nice rubbery grip on the bare metal handle of tools. It's likely that once one hole appears others may begin to appear so every roll or two I'll have to remember to do a quick check on the bellows.

For the bulk of the summer the camera went largely unused. It was a surprise then that when the roll that had been sitting in it for a few months was developed it was almost completely done in with an entirely different kind of light leak. It might not be a bad idea to do a future post about diagnosing light leaks, but suffice it to say that unlike the blobby patch of leaked light that stayed within the frame area this roll had the linear stripes extending the entire width of the film that indicated light was coming in along the edges of the door in the back of the camera. The door of the Iskra isn't hinged, it comes right off and needs to be hooked over a protrusion that forms a sort of light trap to be closed. It was possible the door didn't seat quite right and it did have a few months to accumulate leaks, but though the next roll spent less than a week in camera a few leaks were visible in several frames here as well. Though the Iskra isn't really designed to employ the sort of spongy light seals found in more current cameras I decided to address the issue by taking some of the material that was left over after replacing the seals in the RB67 and try to place it strategically to prevent future problems. Results of this to be determined.

And so we've come to the part where it would be customary for me to offer some sort of conclusion. I'll take a pass on anything by way of passing judgement as this always involves some measure of foisting my own preferences and expectations to the foreground. By my count on average I've experienced some sort of operational issue with every other toll of film I've put through the camera. I know many out there wouldn't even consider taking that kind of chance with their photos while others would be overjoyed to be able to get the kind of quality this camera is capable of without paying a premium price for a device that, for its age, could be a whole lot less reliable. I'm sure the same could be said for many cameras of this ilk whether the factory they came from was located in the East or the West. I think the experience owes as much to how I bought it as what I bought. I got as good as could be expected from a reputable eBay dealer who was clear and honest about what he was selling. The camera works, the lens in clean and clear, the shutter fires, the film advances and all the rest but there's the occasional glitch. This is entirely different than purchasing from a highly regarded restorer who tests, calibrates, replaces what's not up to snuff and warranties everything. It may be triple the price, but if that's enough to get rid of the glitches I've run into I can't see where there'd be much else to quibble about with this camera.

Adventures in Long Exposure

The technique of long exposure photography, purposely using exposure times ranging from several seconds to several minutes or more to create time dependent effects such as giving flowing water a gossamer appearance or creating continuous light trails from the motion of stars or tail-lights, is nothing new. As you may already be aware however over the past several years the popularity of using long exposures in landscape and architectural photography, not just as a special technique reserved for particular kinds of situations, but as a sort of de facto approach that can be applied nearly any time something in the frame is moving, has been growing to become almost a style of photography unto itself. For many well known and highly talented photographers it has become somewhat of a signature look.

An exposure of several minutes I made last year. Lacking the near-opaque neutral density filter often considered requisite for long exposure photography my attempts at long exposures like this were limited to those two narrow time bands each day when the sun was just far enough below the horizon to permit extended exposure times. A bit too dark and exposure times quickly climb from minutes to several hours - far longer than I was willing to wait it out. 

While a deep appreciation for the work of many of these photographers has lead me to incorporate long exposure into my own, I have to confess I'm a little leery about it. The technique seems to be most commonly applied today in a way that is right up my ally photographically speaking, to use the motion of ripples and waves to transform the textured glassy surface of oceans, lakes, firths and so forth into something that appears far less substantial, a mist perhaps. Clouds, meanwhile, often shed all pretense of being stationary when exposures go on for more than just a few seconds. As a result fairly ordinary scenes can take on an air of mystery, a juxtaposition of the familiar and the other-worldly.  Had I ever sat down to write a photographic manifesto the previous sentence would probably feel right at home among its pages, so what's not to love?

A small part of it at least was simply cost. Photographers who regularly use long exposure techniques typically recommend a 10 stop neutral density filter, at least as a start, and maybe a few more 2-4 stop filters to stack on top of that when 10 isn't enough. Considering the advice I find tends to come from photographers for whom long exposure plays a big roll in their work, and who typically are working with larger budgets than a schmoe such as myself, some rather premium brands get mentioned. By far the most commonly cited is the Lee Big Stopper, a square drop-in filter requiring an adapter ring and holder (ideally for each lens) which would easily run me over $200 once all is said and done. Considering that's what I paid for my most prized component of my RB67 system, the 50mm Sekor C lens, it wasn't something I could see ever working its way up to the part of my priority list where things get bought. Fortunately with a bit of digging I was able to find a generic 10 stop filter for under $20. So far it's proven to be perfectly adequate and if long exposure proves to be a more satisfying creative outlet than I've been thinking I can always upgrade.

A more recent photo made through a 10x neutral density filter in order to achieve a 90 second total exposure time. Using Fuji Neopan Acros film eased exposure calculations somewhat a no reciprocity adjustments are required for exposures up to two minutes.

Somehow I'm not seeing it happening though. There are things to be lost as well as gained when this technique is used. I don't always like what it does for the look of clouds for example. There are also times when the surface of the water as it appears when exposures are short enough to freeze its motion is what works best. For an example of this have a look at the first photo in my previous post and note the texture of the water  and how it helps tell the story of churning winds and sunlight. I would be quite a different photo if the shutter were kept open long enough to allow this motion to blur into a sea of marshmallow fluff. Arguably it might still be an interesting photo, it just wouldn't say what I wanted it to in this case.

This might be why, despite my interest in experimenting with long exposures and my belief that it may be the key to getting the right look in some circumstances, I have no ambitions of making it a signature look of my own. When looking through the work of photographers who turn to the technique time and time again I can sometimes get a little numbed by a certain sameness of feel. It leaves me to wonder if for some photographers the heavy neutral density filters are being brought to bear out of habit. I have my own filter to play with now so it remains to be seen how it goes for me. As always I'll keep you posted.

At long last we've started to hit pay dirt. This is a test exposure from the 8x10 pinhole camera which, although it reveals a few issues mostly related to handling sheets of the x-ray film I used, shows that we're really in business now.

What we're looking at is from a scan of a contact print made on Ilford Multigrade RC paper using a make-shift contact printing frame that consisted of a piece of 11x14 picture frame glass, taped along the edges and laid over a left-over sheet of the black felt used in the build. The long white scratch towards the top middle is actually a scratch in the glass I didn't notice at first or I would have chosen a different piece. The black mark in the lower right corner is a fingerprint. Though I handle the unprocessed film with surgical gloves I was having a time of it getting the exposed sheet out of the film holder that way and taking off the glove seemed less risky than continuing to struggle glove on and risking even more damage.

I knew going in that developing the film would be a challenge. Unlike more conventional film if the surface of the unprocessed emulsion is touched it will be permanently visible in the developed negative. To make matters worse the emulsion is coated on both sides front and back so there's no part that's safe to touch. Further, the emulsion is soft, especially when wet, and scratches (both sides) very easily in the development process. At nearly 1/10th the price of conventional 8x10 film though I'm willing to put up with a few challenges. It even has the advantage of being okay to handle under safelights. Handling film in total darkness has become so instinctive that I found I had to keep reminding myself that it was okay.

The preferred method of processing sheets of x-ray film is to put them in stainless steal hangers and processing in vertical tanks. These are hard to find these days and can be a fairly expensive proposition. The most popular way to process large format film generally is to use trays and develop them in much the same way print on photo paper are processed. With delicate x-ray emulsions however it's a virtual guarantee this will result in scratches, mainly from the ridges found in conventional processing trays. Some x-ray film users get around this by using flat-bottomed trays. The ridges are there for a reason though; it's easy for sheets of paper or film to get stuck to the bottom and with no way to work your fingers underneath you may have a time of it getting them out.

In the various forums where thing like photography using x-ray film is discussed I had heard of another method, processing in zippered freezer bags. A sheet of 8x10 film fits just right in a standard large size freezer bag. You can pour chemicals in, zip the top up and do almost anything you want with the sealed bag. I decided to try this. Unfortunately none of the people who mentioned this method went into much detail about how to implement it.

So began the learning curve. For my test shots I drove down the road to the International Railway Bridge between Fort Erie and Buffalo NY and made two exposures. I actually got three negatives as I had accidentally loaded one side with two sheet stuck together and the film is actually transparent enough that there was an image on the sheet underneath. This method requires processing one sheet at a time and I had three to practice with. I spent the first two (the two that were stacked) to learn that having a separate bag for developer stop and fix was not the way to go. The third image, this one, was processed by putting the film into a dry bag, filling it with developer which I poured out into the developer tray when finished, pouring the stop bath into the same bag and dumping it into the stop tray when finished and so on. After fixing I simply filled the bag with wash water, let it sit a few minutes with a bit of agitation and going through several changes of water like this before hanging to dry. This has the added benefit of washing the interior of the bag. I figure each one should be good for a few sheets of film.

I believe the major weakness with this method is visible in the odd density variation seen towards the lower left. Getting the bag closed after pouring a new liquid in can be a challenge. I got the kind that you can feel teeth meshing to confirm you have a good seal, but it can sometimes take a few tries under dim red lights to get both sides lined up properly and all the while the film is sitting only partially submerged in the chemistry. It also tends to float up and get in the way of closure so the operation is further complicated by the need to hold it down. I think what happened here is that the film was too close to the seal and even though it wasn't in the way of the seal it got pinched up there limiting the flow of developer around it. I found it useful to use only enough chemistry to keep the film easily submerged once the bag was laid on its side - about 500-600 mL. More than this made it harder to close the bag and increased the tendency of the film to float up. With a bit of experience I might be able to get reliable results with this method. If not I'll try something else. With a bit of luck maybe the chance to get my hands on some 8x10 film holders may come along.

A final note, getting back to the camera itself, I have given it one of the updates I talked about before. While making the test shot went fairly smoothly it was evident the camera would benefit from a better plan for the shutter than to literally use my hat so this was priority number one.

The idea of keeping the pinhole covered with a simple magnetic sheet, the kind typically used for refrigerator magnets, is so simple I can't believe I hadn't run across it before. All that's needed is a steel washer surrounding the pinhole opening. I thought I would need to replace the aluminium one I had used before this plan occurred to me, but a serendipitous find in one of my boxes of odds and ends turned up a large convexly curved steel washer that fit right over the existing setup. I epoxied everything in place since I didn't want screw heads jutting above the surface and even the large washer seems too thin to counter-sink. I have a large sheet of this magnetic material with peel away adhesive backing, left over surplus from the old family business, that I used to make the  custom magnet in the above photo, but just about any old fridge magnet would do for this. They have enough hold to keep the pinhole securely covered until everything is ready to make the exposure but not so much to worry about jarring the camera when it is pulled away to start the exposure. To end the exposure simply slap it back in place. What could be simpler?