Another shot from the KAS2.
J. and I took a day trip to Northampton. I fired off about a dozen frames in less than five minutes, mostly of the back sides of the buildings facing Main Street and Masonic Street.
I love what happens when old buildings are updated and retrofitted ad hoc, with pipes and wires and ducts and stairways sticking out in a jumble.
The frame counter died again on the KAS2, but it should be easily fixed.
This is a similar shot as the one I took with the Retinette (see below), only this one was with the KAS2.
I used the same film type for both shots–Efke KB100–and shot in similar conditions. In both cases I set the cameras to shoot at mid-aperture (which tends to be the “sweet spot” for most lenses), and I did what the meters told me to do.
Taking a shot is a different process for each camera. The Retinette is much more of a manual camera: the meter is still connected (or “coupled”) to the exposure setting, but you have to manually set the shutter speed and aperture. And because there’s no rangefinder or other visual focusing aid, you’re stuck with scale focusing: you estimate your distance to the subject, and focus by rotating the front element to the correct mark printed around the lens. This forces you to think about depth of field (thanks to DoF markings around the lens, too) as part of your composition, and really gets your eye–and your head–out of the viewfinder.
Shooting with the Retinette forces you to see how much of a luxury automatic exposure and visual focusing really is, and low little they have to do with taking a picture. In the end a camera is just a light-tight box with a lens, an iris, and a shutter.
The KAS2 is a much fancier camera. It can be set to automatic (shutter priority) mode: you set the shutter speed, and the camera’s meter reading is linked to the aperture setting. The KAS2 has an aperture scale on the lens, too, but your tendency is to use the rangefinder to focus instead.
Both cameras have a lens with the same focal length–45mm–but the KAS2 delivers a very different result than the Retinette. There’s more light being pulled in here, and more of a sense of depth. This might have something to do with the way each camera meters the shot–I think the Retinette’s selenium meter might be tending toward underexposure–but I don’t think that explains everything.
The Retinette has a different lens design: a 3-element f2.8. The Konica’s f1.8 Hexanon design uses 6 elements in 5 groups. (Again, it’s a much fancier camera, and a newer design.) What does the extra glass get you, other than a wider iris? It looks like it gets more detail, more depth, more subtlety between values, and more light.
Two cameras, two different results.
This little (big?) camera is amazing, a great street cam: unobtrusive, quiet, easy to focus (even in low light) with predictable framelines and a fantastic lens. Once I dialed in the focus/rangefinder calibration, it really came into its own. I find myself carting it around more than any of the other cameras, simply because it takes such great shots without calling attention to itself or to me.
Shutter-priority auto is a great thing: set the shutter speed to something that will give you the desired aperture range, and off you go. The KAS2 has exposure lock, so you can lock the shot against a shadow to “bracket” it toward over-exposure, etc.
Night-time shots at 400ASA and, say, 1/30 and f1.8 is totally doable. And unlike the Canonets, the KAS2’s meter still works in manual mode, when you need it.
It’s a great shooter’s camera, and it produces fantastic results.
This building is right on the Somerville Community Path, between Davis and Mass Ave.
I shot this with a Pentax K2 and a 50mm F1.4 lens, part of a group of cameras (including the Argus and a Kodak Autographic 1A) I got on eBay. (The K2 was Pentax’s first K-mount flagship model, offering aperture-priority automatic exposure as well as full manual control. It was superceded by the LX.)
This camera/lens needed some work, so I sent it off to this guy for a CLA. It’s a beautiful machine, and weighs a ton.
I’ve always wondered about this house, visible from the Minuteman path on the way down into Bedford. I’ve watched it sag and sink further into the mire as the years go on.
This view is from the other side, shot with an old Kodak Retinette given to me by Monkeyboy. I had to peer through a gap in a chainlink fence to get the shot.
The Retinette is a neat little camera: totally manual exposure, with scale focusing and a selenium light meter. This one–a Model 045 from the early 1960s–is fully functional, including the light meter. (Selenium meters didn’t require batteries, but they often wear out after a few years.)
Scale focusing is an interesting exercise: you’re not actually looking at any kind of representation of what is and what isn’t in focus; instead, you have to estimate your distance to the subject and use the markings on the lens to set the focus.
Here it helps to know a little bit about lens optics and what you can and can’t get away with at a given setting: at a narrow aperture, you can focus at or near infinity, and stand a good chance of getting everything you want in sharp focus. At wider apertures, there’s less depth of field (less of the image will be in sharp focus) so estimating is a little more critical, especially when the subject is very close.
Luckily, this Retinette’s lens only opens up to f2.8–wide enough for most exterior shots during daylight, but not so wide that focusing becomes a critical problem without a rangefinder or focusing screen.
This forces you to visualize the image before you take the shot, and think about depth of field during composition.
In this shot, I chose a relatively slow shutter speed so I could maximize depth of field (i.e., shoot with a smaller aperture) and get acceptable focus throughout.
I am the (accidental) owner of an Argus A2B. I won it in an eBay auction, along with a couple of other cameras. (More on the other cameras later.)
A little history: Argus started out as the International Radio Corporation in the 1920s in Ann Arbor, Michigan, making Bakelite radio consoles. Radio production turned out to be a seasonal business: people would crowd around the radio in the cold winter months, but then they would go outside for their recreation in the warmer months. IRC needed some other product that could keep their factory busy during the rest of the year. But what else could they make out of Bakelite that would appeal to people running around outside?
Cameras.
The company is probably best known for the Argus C3, aka “the Brick,” which was a slightly higher-end camera than this A2B I won at auction.
The A-series cameras were introduced in the early 1930s, and had a very Art-Deco look to them. There were a number of variants, including some with fixed-focus lenses, others with fully focusing lenses, and still others with a rudimentary exposure meter for determining correct shutter speed/aperture settings. These B-series cameras were produced and sold into the 1950s.
If Sturmey-Archer made cameras, they’d probably have a similar design gestalt to this Argus. (It even smells a little bit like a Sturmey hub!) The thing is a very cheap, simple picture-taking machine built like a small tractor. The metal bits are mostly stamped steel and brass; some parts are plated with a thick layer of nickel. You take off the aluminum back plate to load the camera (it takes regular 35mm cartridges) and a hilariously simple ratcheting frame counter/transport mechanism directs the film across the image plane and to a stamped metal takeup spool on the other side. The lens assembly retracts into the camera body for stowage, and springs out when you want to take a picture.
The shutter assembly is mounted to the front of the lens barrel. You turn a ring around the front lens element to set the shutter speed (B, T, 25, 50, 100 and 150), and set the aperture with another concentric dial. (Aperture ranges between f4.5 and f18.) You peer through a little tunnel that serves as the viewfinder, then flick the lever to trip the shutter. (Early manuals written for a public unfamiliar with 35mm photography suggested people take shots with the camera held against the forehead upside down, in order to improve camera stability. Or something.) Then you press the ratchet release button next to the film counter wheel, and turn the big knob on top to advance to the next frame. More brilliant hilarity: when you advance the film, the frame counter wheel rotates almost all the way around and stops at the next frame notch. No sprung ratchet-and-pawl mechanism like in a “conventional” frame counter.
(These were shot on a very expired roll of Kodak Plus-X Pan film, which probably only helped matters here. With up-to-date film, it might even take acceptable pictures!)
Mine–I think it’s an early postwar unit–has a two-step focus (a close range for ~6 to 18 feet, and a far range for ~18 feet to infinity), a broken exposure meter, and a fogged lens. There’s no shutter interlock, so multiple exposures–both accidental and deliberate–are part of the experience. But it works, even after decades of neglect.
I haven’t posted in a while; I’ve been having a lot of fun shooting and developing my own film. Here’s my workflow:
Regarding cropping: I’ve created a simple rule for my images: if it’s from a rangefinder, light cropping is OK. If it’s from a SLR, cropping is not as OK. (My rationale here is that though I’ve been getting better at framing shots with a rangefinder, I’m still not quite sure of what I’m getting in the frame until I’ve developed the film. So light cropping is OK.)
I’ve been posting a bit to my Flickr account, too.
I spent a week in London visiting my brother and his wife. (They’re expecting twins in June.) I finally built up my Surly Traveler’s Check for the trip, and it was AWESOME: it took about 30 minutes to unpack and build up, and another 30 minutes to break down and pack up at the end of the trip.
I built it up with an eye toward easy assembly and disassembly: no index shifting, no internal or aero cable routing. So it’s a bike with upright handlebars and downtube shifters. The bike just fits into its box without having to take off the stem or either crank arm–again, easing assembly/disassembly. (No need to adjust the headset, and no need to a crank extractor.)
Shots of the bike are here.
It was very nice, low-key visit, and it was just great hanging out with family and not trying to charge around and get too much done. It was also great to get familiar with another part of London (Chiswick/Shephard’s Bush/Hammersmith). Each time I go there, I get just a little more familiar with the city, and feel a little more at home there. That’s a very good thing.
I’ve also figured out how to better navigate the city on a bike. J. and I found that the published cycling maps are quite good (they’re basically larger, fold-out versions of the AtoZ), but the suggested routes aren’t really meant for fast riding in unfamiliar territory. (The suggested routes are more appropriate for folks getting back into cycling, who know their neighbo(u)rhoods well and want to stay off the main roads.) I found that the better way was to stick to the main routes and follow the big green signs to the next borough. I was able to find my way thorough a sizable swath of the city this way, including a major portion of town I was totally unfamiliar with (Brixton/Clapham/Wandsworth/Putney/Fulham).
I brought along one digicam, but shot mostly film, with the Pentax ME and the Konica Auto S2. I got much more familiar and comfortable with the Pentax than I was before, and shot a lot of rolls with it (mostly 100 ASA Fuji, using mostly the 28mm lens). The KAS2’s fast lens and very quiet shutter made it a great street camera, though the focus/rangefinder mechanism isn’t quite perfect. (I re-adjusted it after I got back–the right way this time–and am looking forward to seeing how I did with it.)
The two cameras required different approaches: the Pentax ME is aperture-priority, and the KAS2 is shutter-priority. I thought I would like aperture-priority better, but it’s a little fussy for street shooting, and it almost gives you too much control over the aperture. I found myself fiddling with the aperture to get the shutter speed I wanted (not too slow), or forgetting myself and trying a shot on a too-small aperture, making for a blurry shot. I like the way shutter priority is implemented on the KAS2, with continuous adjustment of the iris to work for a given meter reading. So you stick it on the shutter speed you want, which works for a range of aperture settings, without having to think too much about exactly which aperture it’s picked.
The rolls of Ilford HP5+ (all from the Konica) came out really well.
Shots here. The weird thing is how jarring and plasticky the digital shots look compared to the film shots. I don’t think I really groked (or “clocked,” as they say in the UK) how differently film responds to light until I had souped the roll of Efke 100 from the Canonet 28. It’s much more luminous than digital.
I souped a couple more rolls: one from the Pentax ME (which didn’t come out well), and another from the Canonet 28.
The Canonet was a surprise: beautiful shots from a roll of Efke 100, steeped for 10 minutes at about 22 degrees.
I was out shooting with my brother-out-law’s Pentax ME yesterday, and really enjoying it. I was chasing the sun over the hill toward Cambridge, plinking at the neighborhood with a roll of color film. I stupidly forgot to bring another roll with me, and tried to race back to my apartment for more film, but the light changed before I had a chance to get out again. Drat!
But the Pentax ME was really a lot of fun. When you trip the shutter, the whole camera gives an almost imperceptible hop. The iris closes, the mirror jumps up, the first curtain is chased by the second curtain across the image plane, the mirror jumps down, the iris opens again–all in a fraction of a second, all with a very satisfying, almost ceramic-sounding “Clink!”
It says, “Yes!”
But that hop, when the whole camera almost pops in your hand–that’s absolutely delightful, and strangely familiar. Where have I felt that hop before?
Oh–right.
My motorcycle did the same thing.
Imagine standing over a 400-lb machine. You stand it up and balance it between your feet, straighten out the handlebars, and turn a key. A couple of lights show up on a rudimentary instrument panel. You make sure a certain green light is on, then you squeeze the clutch lever and press the starter button. The machine gives a short, staccato cough, and suddenly it’s rattling and vibrating and oscillating uncertainly under you, like a nervous dog waiting for its command, the crankshaft spinning at about 20 times per second, the camshafts at half that speed, each spark plug firing ten times per second, each valve opening and closing five times per second, metal clutch plates spinning and rattling idly in a bath of oil. The whole thing is vibrating and ringing under you, some of the sounds at certain frequencies finding their way through your helmet’s padding and into your head.
And then you squeeze the clutch lever and stomp into 1st gear, and the whole thing gives an eager hop and says, “Yes!”
This camera and the motorcycle were of the same era, during a transition from all-mechanical to mechanical/electronic control. The motorcycle, at least my early 1980 Kawasaki KZ550, was all mechanical, right down to the contact breaker points which pinched open and closed to fire the ignition coils. Though it was designed a couple of years earlier than the KZ550, this Pentax has more brains than the Kawasaki, and it takes a few tentative steps into electronic control: you select the aperture, and the electronic meter determines the shutter speed. You can see what the meter is doing when you peer into the viewfinder, and see the little LEDs light up next to a corresponding shutter speed. It can be a little fiddly (I was running into weird metering issues with it as the sunlight failed the other day), but the tactile experience is still fundamentally mechanical, and fundamentally satisfying in a way that purely electronic devices are not.
Now, as we work to eliminate any and all mechanical components from electronic devices–expunging mechanical disk drives and other spinning platters from our computers, removing mechanical linkages and controls from our cameras, even banishing control cables from bicycles–the tactile, mechanical experience is becoming more and more elusive.
The mechanical experience isn’t easy to achieve with a device that is mostly electronic. (It was easier in the machine age, before integrated, programmable electronics became truly commodified and ubiquitous, and before mechanical linkages were replaced by electrical contacts, servos, and integrated circuits.) It can be done, but it takes a great deal of engineering and expense now to get it right. (Auto companies now spend millions of dollars engineering tactile/mechanical/aural feedback back into their cars, after the now-compulsory electronics and hydraulics have taken them out.) That’s why a satisfying mechanical experience costs so much now: the electronics are cheap, but the springs, buttons, cams, levers, bearings, and click detents that make up a mechanical interface all have to be designed, fabricated, tested, and integrated into a largely preexisting digital matrix–and that’s a much larger part of an engineering budget than the integrated circuits and resisters and capacitors, all of which can ordered off the peg.
