Whenever the term “war photographer” is mentioned, it’s impossible not to think of the indelible images of World War Two, the Spanish Civil War and the war in Vietnam. But if you want to find the godfather of the genre, you have to go back to the 19th century and the American Civil War, when Mathew Brady pioneered not just war photography, but photojournalism itself. 

Brady and his team of photo apprentices traveled in the wake of, and sometimes were embedded with armies. They captured the casualties and destruction of the bloodiest war in American history with a clinical, detached eye. Their photos became the greatest documentation of the war and can be seen where any mention of the war has accompanying photos – most famously in Ken Burns’ landmark documentary “The Civil War.”

Brady himself studied under Samuel Morse, the pioneer of the daguerreotype method in the United States. In 1844 he opened his own studio on Broadway in New York, and started doing mostly portrait work, the most significant of these being a “collection” of presidential portraits beginning with Andrew Jackson in the 1830s and ending with William McKinley in 1897. One of Brady’s portraits of Abraham Lincoln was even used on the five dollar bill and the Lincoln penny. 

The Daguerrotype Process

Brady photographed using the daguerreotype process, which had been the primary method of image-making since photography was invented. Producing a daguerrotype is a long process requiring hard work and precision by the photographer, not to mention requiring plenty of patience from the subject.

The process began with the photographer (or the period term daguerrotypist) polishing a sheet of silver-plated copper with four different chemicals until it achieved a mirror finish, then treating it with nitric acid until the surface was light-sensitive. Then, the silver surface would be exposed to halogen fumes in darkness, which produced a surface of silver iodide and made the plate ready for exposure. 

The plate would then be carried to the portrait area in a light-tight holder and inserted into the camera. A dark slide would then be removed from the camera and the exposure would begin when the photographer removed the lens cap. Depending on how the photographer sensitised the plate and the amount of available light, exposure times could range from seconds to minutes. (Contrary to the popular opinion that people didn’t smile in old photographs to avoid showing bad teeth, in reality, smiling for a long exposure would create motion blur and ruin the photograph.)

After the lens cap was reattached, the dark slide was reinserted and the film holder removed from the camera. To develop the image, the plate would be exposed to the fumes of heated mercury for several minutes. After development, the sensitivity of the plate was stopped by removing the silver halide with a solution of sodium thisulfate. Later, gold toning, or gilding, would be used to warm up starkly gray images. The extremely delicate plate would then be rinsed, dried and placed under glass for protection. 

Daguerrotype images are either positive or negative depending on the direction from which it is viewed, ambient lighting, and the type of background used. Dark areas of the image are pure silver with lighter areas having an extremely fine light-scattering texture.

By the time of the Civil War, exposure times had been cut down by the development of faster lenses, and the creation of additional (and very different) processes such as ambrotyping and tintyping.

Brady and the Civil War

The Civil War would be the biggest boon for Brady’s career, and his shrewd self-promotion quickly paid off. He advertised in New York newspapers hoping to attract soldiers willing to pay to have their likeness sent home to their families as they marched to war. One advertisement even went so far as to say “You cannot tell how soon it may be too late.”

For hundreds of these soldiers, too late was enough of a motivator to pay Brady to make them a carte de visite, the most popular form of keepsake photography. Made with a thin paper paper photograph mounted on a thicker paper card, they were small enough to fit into envelopes. They were also cost effective for the photographer as he could make up to eight negatives on a single plate. In the decade before the Civil War, the carte de visite had taken the world by storm and “cardomania” had seen people from all walks of life – from Queen Victoria to slaves with whipping scars on their back – captured on a card.

At the same time that Brady was riding the carte de visite wave, he did two things that would ensure his reputation as the greatest photographer of the 19th century; he created a mobile studio and darkroom for wet plate photography, and began hiring photographer apprentices. Together, these decisions would allow Brady to take his cameras to the war, rather that waiting for it to come to his studio. He equipped each of his photographers with their own mobile studio and sent them out to photograph a war that spanned more than 2,000 miles.

Brady’s shrewd enterprising has meant that today he often receives credit for the work of those who worked for him. In fact, these photographers, including Alexander Gardner, Timothy O’Sullivan and George Barnard, took the majority of the Brady Civil War images, many of which continue to define that war in the public consciousness.

“The Dead of Antietam”, Sharpsburg, Md., 1862

With more than 23,000 casualties, the Battle of Antietam remains the bloodiest single day in American history. After the battle, Brady sent photographer Alexander Gardner to photograph the battlefield. His photos were filled with dead soldiers, bringing the true horrors of war to millions of newspaper readers across the country.

This photo shows Confederate dead near a damaged caisson (which held cannon ammunition) in front of the Dunker Church, the scene of some of the battle’s fiercest fighting. There’s an emotional detachment to the photo that makes it so compelling – it seems like a traditional landscape photo that happens to have dead bodies in it. 

This image, along with the other images that Gardner made at Antietam, are matter-of-fact documentations of the battle, made without comment or agenda. They were the perfect tools with which to strip away the last varnish of sentimentality and romanticism anyone still had about war, both in the North and the South.

Upon publishing the photos, one newspaper editor would say, “Mr. Brady has done something to bring home to us the terrible reality and earnestness of war. If he has not brought bodies and laid them in our dooryards… he has done something very like it.”

Three Confederate Prisoners near Gettysburg, July 1863

As was shown in the Antietam work, Brady and his photographers had a rule that the dead shown in their photographs were almost exclusively Confederate. This meant that while the people at home in the North were seeing the carnage of war, it wasn’t their boys in the images. But the most indelible image of Confederate soldiers wasn’t of the dead, but the captured. The three Confederates in this image were captured just before the battle of Gettysburg and were photographed before being sent to a prisoner-of-war camp.

Each of the three men reacts to being photographed differently. The soldier on the left ignores the photographer altogether, while the soldier on the right makes an effort to pose himself as he might in a studio. The middle soldier combines the approach of the others, clearly posing but acting aloof to the fact that he’s being photographed. Together, they exude three characteristics that would define the entire South for the next hundred years; pride, defiance, and defeat.

Company E, 22nd New York Regiment, near Harpers Ferry

When Union soldiers were captured by Brady’s photographers, they usually appears as those in this image – in groups resting in camp. These New York soldiers are camped near Harpers Ferry, then in Virginia and now in West Virginia. The small town at the convergence of three states changed hands more than eight times during the war and was the scene of John Brown’s attempted slave rebellion that helped lead the nation to war. 

This particular photo is one of my personal favorites. For four years I worked at Harpers Ferry as a park ranger. My job as an interpreter was to tell the many stories of Harpers Ferry to visitors. We even wore period clothing to make the park a more immersive environment for visitors. While I didn’t sit in the same location as these soldiers, I did wear their clothing and will forever remember the feeling of true southern humidity while wearing wool pants and a wool jacket on a July afternoon.

The National Archives have Brady himself taking this photo, and during the four years of the war he and his photographers would take group portraits of thousands of Union soldiers.

Portraits of U.S. Grant (1864) and Robert E. Lee (1865)

No two generals defined the war as iconically as Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee. And no two men were more different from one another. Lee was the son of Virginia royalty who made honor such a core of his life that peers at West Point nicknamed him the Marble Man. He found glory in the Mexican War and was considered America’s finest soldier before the war.

Grant was also a hero in Mexico but a failure in everything else except marriage and fatherhood. But he found success again in the army, winning battle after battle in the west as Lee did in the east. It would be the aristocrat Lee that surrendered to the one-time dirt farmer Grant. Both would be presidents after the war – one of a small Virginia college and the other of the United States.

The portraits of both, made by Brady or his associates, capture the essence of each man. Grant poses in the field, hat askew and right arm against a tree. It’s hard to imagine this photo being taken during his first campaign against Lee, a campaign in which Lee beat him so badly that he wept in his tent on the first evening. Grant betrays none of that, showing only the determined stubbornness that would win the war.

In Lee’s portrait, he looks unflappable, distinguished and proud. But the image was taken after he surrendered his army to Grant. Facing defeat, his generals begged him to not give up and instead wage guerrilla warfare. He refused, opting for an end to the war and an embrace of reconstruction. Even the chairs in each are a reflection of the man next to them; Grant’s a simple wooden field chair, Lee’s a more distinguished upholstered type.

Ruins in Charleston, South Carolina, 1865

In the third year of the war, Northern generals began to embrace total war – the idea that war would only be won once the civilian population was made to feel its horrors. After capturing Atlanta, William Tecumseh Sherman would lead his army on a march to the Atlantic, destroying military and civilian infrastructure ranging from railroads to plantation homes. Sherman himself said that only one fifth of the destruction actually benefitted his army. Cities on the coast saw what was in store and frequently surrendered to avoid destruction.

No such luck would be enjoyed by Charleston, South Carolina. The city that served as the cradle of secession and saw the first shots of the war fired in its harbor had been under siege for more than one year when it finally surrendered to Union troops in February 1865. Photographers dispatched to the city by Brady found a wasteland of destruction, with formerly beautiful antebellum buildings lying in rubble. This image perfectly captures not just Charleston, but the entire South in 1865. It would be only two more months before the final surrender and the war’s end.

The entire meaning of the war was captured in this one image. Three black children leaning on the pillar of a destroyed building, the pocked and beaten pillars symbolizing the ruined social order that had enslaved these children and millions of others. The rubble of Charleston shows the cities past and present, while the faceless boys serve as a symbol of the future.

Brady after the Civil War

While war brought fame and fortune to Mathew Brady, it would elude him afterwards. He had spent more than $100,000 to create 10,000 images of the war. But once the war ended, no one had much appetite for his images anymore. When the government he hoped would buy the plates declined, he was forced to sell his studio and declare bankruptcy.

Suffering from depression and loss of eyesight, he died as a result of a streetcar accident in New York. The man who photographed eighteen United States presidents and the leading men of both sides of the Civil War died penniless in a charity hospital in 1896.

In an even sadder indictment, he was so desperate for money after the war that he resorted to selling his glass plate negatives for use in greenhouses. As a result, thousands of important images of America’s bloodiest war were used as window panes, their subjects slowly burned away by the sun.

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In 1991, Olympus released an unusual point-and-shoot film camera. They called it the Écru, a French word that, according to Google, means “raw” and according to my French friends means “off-white, not quite beige.” In the Écru’s more aspirational user manual, Olympus chose to define the word as “unprocessed.” Which is funny, since we could rightly say that the Écru is really just a more processed version of another Olympus camera.

This vaguely unenthused preamble hints at just what the Écru is all about, and knowledgeable photo geeks will know what’s to follow. Like the Olympus O-Product before it (which we reviewed here), the Olympus Écru is a simple point-and-shoot camera wrapped in an unusual skin by a celebrity designer, produced in limited numbers, and made to generate interest.

And it did generate interest. Also like the O-Product, the Écru’s 20,000 units sold out quickly and its monolithic, pale body was splashed across the covers and centerfolds of the best photo magazines of its day. Almost thirty years later we’re still intrigued by this curious little camera. Which makes sense – despite its parts-bin heritage, its clumsy user controls, and its high price, there’s still a lot to like about the Olympus Écru.

What is an Olympus Écru

The most obviously interesting element of the Olympus Écru is its external appearance. A product of Naoki Sakai and his famed Japanese design studio, Water Design, the Olympus Écru is certainly unique.

A striking assemblage of sharp edges and restrained curves, it looks less like a camera and more like a carved marble tombstone propped atop the grave of traditional camera design. Rest in peace.

The squarish face, the mirror-finish square lens cap, the flat beige plastic and symmetrical body – none of these elements recall the classic, metal cameras of the past, nor do they portend the sleek, ergonomic cameras that shooter’s in its day expected the future would bring. The Écru was neither old fashioned nor modern, professional-level or entry-level; it was neither pure form nor pure function. It was just weird. But I guess that’s what we should expect from a designer whose desk space was dominated by his toy dinosaur collection.

Under the surface, things are more recognizable. The Écru, like the earlier Olympus O-Product, is a highly stylized redesign of a pre-existing Olympus point-and-shoot camera. In the case of the O-Product, Water Design built an incredible body around the innards of the humble Olympus AF-10. With the Écru, Sakai and his team would use the bones of one of Olympus’ most successful point-and-shoot cameras, the original Olympus Mju (Infinity Stylus in some markets). A near complete transplant, the spec sheet of the Olympus Écru matches the Mju’s so closely as to be almost identical.

The Écru is an entirely automated compact 35mm film camera. It’s fitted with a 35mm prime lens composed of three elements, and with a maximum aperture of F/3.5. A shutter sits directly behind the lens and exposes film through automatically selected speeds between 1/15th of a second and 1/500th of a second. There are no manual controls of aperture or shutter speed.

Focus is handled automatically via an active infrared beam system, capable of close-focusing down to 0.35 meters (13.5 inches). It features a built-in flash (guide number 12) with multiple flash modes including automatic, fill-flash, red-eye reduction, and no flash. There’s a tripod mount on the bottom, strap lugs on the sides, an optical viewfinder with focus and flash ready lights, and a power switch on the front. It runs on two AAA batteries.

None of this is exactly Earth-shaking, or even segment-defining. It’s a decidedly pedestrian feature set. But sometimes less is more, and the long-lived reputation for quality enjoyed by the Mju should and does naturally transfer to the Écru, since they’re essentially the same camera. As far as image-making tools, they’re both good and capable (if technically limited) machines.

Shooting the Olympus Écru

If the Écru is an aesthetic dream, and I think it is, then it’s also an admitted ergonomic nightmare. It’s a camera at odds with its own nature. A point-and-shoot camera that’s horrible to hold – that’s rare.

The camera’s square shape and the positioning of the lens as a centrally-mounted circle with equidistant spans of plastic surrounding the glass means that there’s really no distinct handle. Where other point-and-shoot cameras leave ample room on the right hand side, promoting an obvious space to grip, there’s no such luxury here. Even though the back of the camera has a tiny, raised striation that hints at a thumbrest, it does little to solve the problem.

One-handed operation requires the user to twist their fingers into a horrific claw. A full day of shooting left me with deformed digits, mutated and grotesque like Johnny Tremain. (Is Johnny Tremain still a relevant reference? If not, give me a minute. I think I can come up with another character from young adult literature who also sported a disfigured hand.)

It burns.

The only salve for this injury is to shoot two-handed, which isn’t a big deal, except when it is. For example, any time I’m out with my children (which is always) I’m holding a tiny child’s hand in mine. And anytime I’m out shooting in the city in the winter, the season which it currently is, I need to keep my extra hand in a pocket away from the biting cold. And then there are the times when I simply don’t feel like holding a point-and-shoot camera with two hands, because there’s no reason anyone should ever have to do that.

The back of the camera’s no treat either. Rest your thumb in even the vaguest vicinity of a natural position and one of two things will happen; poke your eyeball, or cover the viewfinder. There is no other result. Twist your thumb downward and you’ll be picking your nose. Cinch it up tight against the pathetic excuse for a thumbrest and we’re back to turning our poor hand into a gnarled monkey’s paw, minus the wishes.

To properly hold this camera it becomes necessary to hold it as one holds a cheeseburger, or suffer a hand more twisted and useless than that of Albus Dumbledore after he’d foolishly slid Tom Riddle’s Horcrux ring over his knuckles. And those two things are actually the same.

By the way, did you see that? I did it. A Harry Potter reference.

The minimal user controls aren’t too pleasant, either. There are three of them, and each is annoying.

The flash control is a sequential single button – press it to cycle through the flash modes. The problem is found in its physical form. It’s absolutely tiny, obscenely pointy, requires far too much pressure, and offers no feedback, no click. It’s the kind of button a sponge manufacturer might make.

Next is the self-timer button. In the spirit of terrible sequels, it repeats all of the faults of the flash mode button, and then fails harder. It does this by requiring that the photographer not only press it, again applying the amount of pressure one might apply were they attempting to plug a dam with a single finger, but it also requires the shooter to hold the button down while also pressing the shutter button. Then the self-timer activates, allowing us to scamper away and pose in front of the World’s Largest Protozoa roadside attraction.

Last, is the shutter release button. A typical half-click focuses and locks exposure, a further press releases the shutter. Simple, except the physical button is aggressively narrow. Any thinner and it might’ve been a pin. I’m not sure which intern Naoki Sakai appointed “Shutter Button Designer,” but I hope they were unpaid.

And I should probably complain about the On/Off switch. I hate it. I’ve never hated an On/Off switch so deeply, and that includes the one on my treadmill, which I hate quite a bit. But the Écru’s On/Off switch is a disgusting and shapeless vestigial tail protruding grotesquely from the front of the camera

Looking through the viewfinder yields a predictable view. There’s a central patch for focusing, and frame lines for close-up shooting. To the right of the frame there are two LEDs, one green, and one orange. The green illuminates steady when focus is achieved, the orange illuminates steady when flash is charged (and blinks when not).

The strap lugs are a propriety type shared by the O-Product, so we’ll need a special strap. And there’s a tripod mount on the bottom. But I called Olympus and they said that they have no evidence that anyone has ever fitted an Écru to a tripod.

The much-bandied lens cap, which Olympus seemed really proud of (the original packaging for this camera has a special place for the lens cap to be displayed) is as shiny as a mirror. And I suppose I understand being really excited about it, in the same way that a crow might be really excited about a discarded Hershey’s Kiss wrapper. A bit uncommon, glints in the sun, might look good in the nest. That sort of thing.

But practically speaking, it gets covered in filthy fingerprints, doesn’t attach as securely as a regular lens cap, and is just another accessory to lose in the course of actual use. The Mju, by comparison, has a brilliant sliding clamshell lens cover, and the O-Product has an amazing metal hatch that flips away into the camera body on powering. I think I prefer either of those.

And aside from all of that, the rest is pretty predictable. The Écru is a point-and-shoot camera. Point it at things and shoot, and rely on the capable auto-exposure, capable auto-focus, and automatic film transport to do their thing. They’ll do it all well, and you’ll get good photos.

The lens is sharp in most cases, shows interesting vignetting in low-light and when shot wide open. There’s no controlling any of this, of course, so the only way we can really influence our final shot is by selecting the right film for our intent. Slower speed film should force the camera to shoot wider, faster film will theoretically give sharper frames due to a more narrow aperture. With non-DX coded film, the camera defaults to a setting of ISO 100.

Olympus’ typically excellent lens coatings do a fairly decent job of coaxing punch out of the typical point-and-shoot lens. Flares and ghosts happen, especially when shooting into direct sunlight. Bokeh is non-existent. What else can I say? It’s a point-and-shoot lens that makes point-and-shooty images.

The flash does a decent job at not overpowering subjects, though like most point-and-shoot cameras, care should be taken when shooting up close. Fill flash works well in harsh lighting to kill shadows on near subjects, and red-eye reduction does exactly what it’s supposed to do.

The autofocus system, as mentioned, works well. In seventy-two shots, maybe six showed out of focus subjects. And of these six, all were moving targets – dogs, birds, kids. It’s a good AF system. Good enough, anyway.

The takeaway, regarding image quality and performance, is pretty simple. If you like the images from the Olympus Mju (or any number of point-and-shoots from the 1980s and ’90s), you’ll likely enjoy the imaging aesthetic of the Écru.

You just may not enjoy the act of shooting one. I (mostly) don’t.

[All photos in the samples gallery were made with Kodak T Max 100 – some were shot by a three-year-old]

The Olympus Écru in 2019

Is there a reason to own an Olympus Écru today? It’s hard to think of a practical one. The Écru is a collector’s camera. I could almost argue that it’s a good camera for photographers looking for a capable and user-friendly film point-and-shoot because it takes nice pictures with virtually no effort, but there are plenty of cameras that more effectively and comfortably fill the same role, and for less money.

Take the Mju, the camera on which the Écru is based, for one easy example. Compared to the Écru, the Mju is an improvement in nearly every way. It’s the same basic camera with a better shutter release button (flat and comfortable as opposed to thin and pointy), a better dimensional profile (the Écru’s not fitting into a pocket), and a built-in lens cap. You can shoot a Mju comfortably with one hand, and fit it with a wrist strap if you like. It’s black and discreet, where the Écru is exactly the opposite. Add these arguments to the fact that the Mju, even in today’s inflated point-and-shoot economy, costs less than the collector-premium price-hiked Écru, and it becomes even harder to recommend it as a shooter.

But for the Olympus collector or the camera collector, there’s a strong argument for owning an Olympus Écru, especially one that’s complete with box and papers. It’s a unique camera with an interesting pedigree, a design unlike anything else to be found on the collector’s shelf, and if that weren’t enough, it makes pretty great pictures too. For camera nerds who really love design (maybe even more than they like taking pictures) the Écru is a must-own.

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Ara Güler’s first published interview incited a riot. He’d taken his Graflex Speed Graphic, paired with a flash, to the Kumkapi ports of Istanbul under cover of the morning’s darkest early hours. On the waters of the inland Sea of Marmara he would watch and document as fishermen trawled the waters searching for smelt on the surface, or bream in the saltier depths. 

His photos of the Kumkapi fishermen were made for the local parish newspaper Jamanak, and though he made them early in his career, they’re among his most gripping work; pensive, cap-adorned men smoking cigarettes as they cut the Marmaran chop, Istanbul’s mosque silhouetted in the far off distance. Later these men would storm the Jamanak offices accusing Güler of portraying them as alcoholics. Güler would recall, “I wrote that they drank spirits for the hell of it, and the blighters stormed the paper.” 

Though unsettling, Güler’s piece on the fishermen set the tone for the remainder of his career. Güler would go on to reject the notion that what he produced was art and shirked time and time again any title that pushed him into that realm – he even took exception to the title of “photographer.”

“I am a photojournalist, not a photographer; I certainly am not an artist. I shoot what I see. I don’t do art. I transmit what is natural, what I see to people. That is called photojournalism. A photographer is very different from a photojournalist.”  

These words are strange coming from a man who would in his lifetime be declared “Master of Leica” by Leica (an honor given to only thirty-eight photographers in history). But perhaps Güler’s admonishment to those that would deem him “artist,” is more appropriate given the existential burden he bestowed onto his so-called “photojournalist.” A sort-of ubermensch, Güler’s photojournalist “rushes towards death … [and] records history with his camera”; the photojournalist is “tasked with transmitting the life of the era, its arts, traditions and customs, what people are involved in, their joys, their sorrows to future eras.” 

For Güler, then, the photojournalist is one tasked less with creation and more preservation – but that preservation will ensure the life of moments and epochs for millennia to come. 

From the Turkish Life to Cartier-Bresson’s Magnum 

Güler grew up living the posh life, a pharmacist’s son. As a child, he would swim at the beach in Florya and as an adolescent he rode horseback while wearing his Borsalino hat. It was evident that Güler’s interests lay not in medicine or law, as his parents might have hoped, but rather in something more creative. 

Ara’s first love was the cinema. His father had gifted him an Ernemann Kinox projector and the local shop Ipek Film would happily let Ara trod off with ten rolls of film for free, just to clear space for new stock. Güler recalled that he “was absent from school and flunked for three years to play films.” This was the way of his life, until Ara nearly perished in a cinema fire. He was the last person to be saved from the roof of the burning cinema, and with that, his filmmaking days were over. 

If the cinema would not have him, maybe the stage would. By twenty, Ara had written nine plays. His ninth, A Strange New Year’s Eve, was published in small newspapers, and it was then that journalism caught Güler’s eye. 

At twenty-two, Güler bought a Rolleicord II. Soon after, he transformed his father’s pharmacy storage warehouse into a darkroom. After working for small papers like Jamanak, Güler sought a wider reach and more prestige. He found himself working at Yeni Istanbul, a new and popular paper that stood out from the traditional red mastheads of the other papers with its novel, blue header. 

Güler’s camera and apparent photographic ability meant he covered myriad stories, from sports to crime to culture. He took photos at breakneck pace, blowing through five rolls of film a day, compared to his peers’ typical pace of one roll in the same span. He devoured release after release of Camera and Leica Photography magazines, which compelled him to acquire his own Leica. The journalists that Güler admired did their work using Leica cameras, so he too decided to work with a Leica. He remembers every detail down to the serial. “It was my first Leica…Leica IIIb, number 382418, 1938.” 

What might have been Güler’s big break came on a serendipitous night in 1954. Upon perusing the list of new guests at the Hilton Istanbul, Güler happened across the name of Tennessee Williams, the famed American playwright. Chance, raki, and maybe charm on Güler’s part led to Güler photographing Williams in his hotel room followed by a night of socializing, drinking, and a midnight dip into a hamam (a heated Turkish bathhouse). But the paper for which Güler was writing, Hurriyet, didn’t want the photos. 

Disillusioned with the Turkish newspapers and what he perceived to be a disinterest in quality photography, Güler took his talents to a publication that cared more about images than copy. Hayat was known as the Turkish equivalent to Life magazine. The quality of the stories and copywriting was poor, but the magazine prized its aesthetic, central to which was high quality photographs. 

While at Hayat, Güler had the chance to explore pieces he felt were actually valuable – touring Anatolia to cover pressing stories; being the de-facto-official photographer of Prime Minister Adnan Menderes; work with cultural figures like Halide Edip Adivar, the prominent Turkish feminist novelist. Point being, Güler’s life had become one defined not just by photography generally, but photography of public figures. 

It wasn’t long before Güler’s status started to rise. After Hilmi Sahenk, the chief of photography at Hayat, threw a Rolleiflex across the room at a managing director, Güler was chosen to replace him. With this new role, Güler found himself reaching an audience three times that of Hurriyet’s readership.  

Over time, Güler managed to branch out from Hayat to simultaneously produce material for other publications such as Time, which had opened an office in Istanbul. While working at Time, Güler became acquainted with what he called “European style journalism” taught to him by Bob Neville, an acclaimed American journalist and Time’s global news editor. In particular, Neville impressed on Güler that photojournalist must be empowered to be in the right places at the right times, even if nothing comes of it. 

When Pope Pius XII became ill in the later stages of his life, Neville dispatched his photojournalists to Rome to patiently anticipate the coming events and what would surely be a global story. But Pius XII recovered from that scare and so the resources poured into covering the story were apparently wasted- even so, Bob Neville received a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus. Güler understood the message communicated; being prepared for a story that falls through is better than not being prepared for a story that happens. 

Balancing Hayat for Turkey and Time for the U.S., Güler began to add more spinning plates to an already tenuous act. At the Cannes Film Festival, a story Güler would not have to be convinced to cover, he met Andrea Lakaz, editor of the wildly popular Paris-Match, a French lifestyle and news magazine which at the time had a massive circulation of 1.8 million. Paris-Match wanted Güler to produce interviews and photographs for them; when he asked his American bosses at Time they simply said, “go ahead, our market is different.” Another plate Güler would have to keep spinning. 

Around this time, Germany sought Güler out to add another plate yet. Stern, one of Germany’s largest news magazines, reached out to Güler to see if he would lend his eye and camera to their publication. Another quick conversation with Time.

“’I have been offered a reporting job from Germany, what do you say?’

‘We are the U.S., Europe is of no interest to us, do what you want.’

So, I accepted the offer.”

Due to Güler’s prolific work, he would often carry with him four cameras. One labeled Stern, another Hayat, another Paris-Match, and a fourth Time. Güler recounts that he chose which camera by whatever his intended audience would be interested in. The Stern camera would be used to shoot photos that would interest Germans. The Time camera would be used to shoot photos that would interest Americans, and so on. 

By 1960, Güler was working for Time, Paris-Match, Stern, and a fourth publication, the British Observer. This was the year that The British Journal of Photography cemented Ara Güler’s place in the annals of photographic history. Each year, the journal published a Yearbook in which they selected the world’s seven best photographers in a highly competitive and rigorous review process. Güler was chosen as one of the seven, among names like Walter Klein and Philip Jones Griffiths. 

Eventually Güler become associated with the legendary Magnum Photos cooperative. It was Romeo Martinez, editor of Camera from 1953 to 1964, who introduced Güler to Henri Cartier-Bresson, a co-founder of Magnum. Martinez, described by Cartier-Bresson as “the father confessor of many photographers who came to him begging for absolution,” managed to catapult Camera to higher heights than its already prestigious beginnings. Though not a photographer himself, Martinez used his knowledge of journalism and the art world to broaden Camera’s readership at the same time as he refined its mode and message. 

It was Martinez that gave showcases to photographers like Cartier-Bresson, Robert Capa, and Bill Brandt – a range of photographic style was procured because Martinez loved the medium in its saturation. Cartier-Bresson felt that Romeo Martinez “knows each of us better than we know ourselves.” And so Martinez introduced one luminary to another. After meetings in Paris, a visit to Istanbul, and because of Ara’s growing journalist clout, Güler become a regular member of the Magnum cooperative. 

For Güler, Magnum was “prestige” and “a symbol to aspire to”- being a part of Magnum “was like a business card … [or] like having an American Express card.” Güler himself clarified, however, that his responsibility was never to Magnum, despite the fact that Magnum distributed the majority of his most significant interviews. True to form, Güler insisted that his first responsibility was to “representation, reporting.” Magnum was simply a seal of prestige on the work Ara Güler produced for history’s sake and history’s sake alone. 

The Choreographed and the Unchoreographed 

Ara Güler’s photography can be neatly divided into two subject matters; the common folk and the celebrities. Güler roved around the world taking photos of simply what was – a lethal train catastrophe in Catalca, a quiet morning in a Rajasthan temple, a group of herdsmen in Mongolia. 

But beyond his photojournalism and street photography, Güler became the visionary behind one of the most impressive archives of public figure portraits. The personalities captured by Güler’s lens include Ansel Adams, Mother Teresa, Winston Churchill, Pablo Picasso, John Updike, James Baldwin, and Indira Gandhi. 

Güler’s portraits are haunting. The photos are almost always shot on black and white film stocks—as Güler himself said: “We have black and white in our genes.” The subjects are most often unposed, but frequently staring the camera down as if trying to express in strain alone a message that will make its way from the light in that moment to the viewer’s eye now decades later. 

Güler’s best portraits come when he is looking down the lens into the subject’s face as they glare upward. These are the defiant captures of timeless personalities against the preserving agents of Güler, his camera, and his film. 

The same thing that compelled Ara to become a renowned celebrity portraitist is the same thing that impels his street photography, that is, his love of humanity. “There is nothing without humans,” Güler said. The temples, the mosques, the ships, the docks, the alleys, and the markets all matter less than and only because of the people that inhabit them: “It was never about what venue I shot. I shot pieces of life.” 

Güler maintained that long after he developed his last roll of film (which, for posterity’s sake, he developed with his own hands) his archive contained 800,000 to one million frames. The ones he clung to dearest were the ones taken in the cityscapes and landscapes of his home, Turkey. His photos of Istanbul are homage to the city. They do not depict the city with glitz or sanitation, they simply depict. 

Güler was known to have lamented the supposed loss of Istanbul’s roots. In a revelatory profile published by the New York Times in 1997, Güler mourns the lost “poetic, romantic, esthetic aspect of the city”; luckily for those too young to have witnessed the great Istanbul, Güler proclaimed, “I understand the smell of Istanbul.” His photos are of the swirling ethos of what Istanbul was and perhaps still is beneath the artifice of modernization. Güler’s Istanbul is the Ottoman yalis, the stone-and-plaster backstreets where children clamor, the men of the sea that give fervor to the city from dawn to dusk, and the solemn religiosity of a city marked by mosaic rather than monolith. 

Of his work, Güler said he completed only three major projects in his life; the biblical ark of Noah, the ancient Mount Nemrut, and the village built on the ruins of the Hellenistic city Aphrodisias. All three sites are located in Turkey and all three bear distinctly religious heritages ranging from Judeo-Christian histories to Greek goddesses. In his photos of these places, Güler photographs the past and, in doing so, commemorates the historical importance that his homeland had to the development of civilization. 

What persists throughout Güler’s extensive and varied portfolio is his desire to prove, not to create. With his photographs, he proves to you that Istanbul is beautiful, that Yarimburgaz train crash was cataclysmic, that Turkey is one of humanity’s birthplaces. 

Ara Güler on Photography

Güler was as opinionated about photography as he was good at photography, which is to say tremendously. The man owned up to fifty cameras, believed his best photos were shot with a Rolleicord (coincidentally), best liked Kodachrome (get in line, Ara), and would take with him up to five hundred rolls of film for one photographic trip. 

The following are the three most poignant claims made by Güler that I have come across in my reading. Rather than dissect and explicate them as if I am qualified to clarify the master’s teachings, I simply leave them here at the end as they were when he said them, straightforward and unexplained. 

“Photographs are not important enough to be hung on walls.” 

“A good photographer can take a picture with a sewing machine.” 

“The magic that enhances our world is nature, the cosmos itself. When light is spread, it is beautiful, when the light is gathered it becomes dark, something else. Therefore, the magic paint will always be present. This is light, everything starts with light.” 

More information on Ara Güler can be found via Magnum Photos

The post “Everything starts with light” – An Oral History of Ara Güler appeared first on Casual Photophile.

In the pantheon of fast Double-Gauss lenses from the 20th century, the Sonnar, Biotar, and Planar, are well known. But there’s also a lesser-known lens that is their equal; the Xenon. This lens was invented in 1925 by Dr. Albrecht Wilhelm Tronnier (1902-1982) while he was working for Jos. A. Schneider Optical Works in Bad Kreuznach, Germany, known as Schneider-Kreuznach. And while it is less heralded compared with more popular designs, the Xenon’s history and performance are worth a look (and a shoot).

The sample images in this article were made with my Schneider-Kreuznach Xenon 50mm F/1.9 (for Instamatic Reflex) which was manufactured between 1968-74 in Deckel or DKL mount, but the Xenon has been produced in a variety of lens mounts over the years including Leica thread or screw mount, Alpa, and most commonly M42. The majority of the post-war 50mm F/1.9 lenses are optically identical, only the lens barrels and mount differ. 

Xenon is Schneider-Kreuznach’s appellation for their asymmetric double-Gauss lens design, which resembles Zeiss’ Biotar/Planar/Sonnar lenses. In 1900 Zeiss chose to name their Anastigmatic lens Protar to separate it from competitors and trademarked the name to hamper their rivals. Subsequently all German lens manufacturers followed this practice of giving their lenses pseudo-scientific sounding names to lend them credibility and protect their inventions. 

Tronnier chose to name his lens design Xenon, which derived either from the Xenon atom with atomic number 54, or stemmed from the word Xenos the Greek word for “unknown.” Frankly, I think it most likely that the naming came in a similar way to how modern cars derive their names; for marketing purposes – sounding good and being easy to spell and pronounce. Once the Japanese consolidated their control of lens-making the process of giving names to designs slowed or ceased, and lenses were typically given only a manufacturer’s name and specification designations for focal length and maximum aperture.

Dr. Albrecht Wilhelm Tronnier, Inventor of the Xenon

The Xenon lens was invented by Dr. Albrecht Wilhelm Tronnier (Born 1902 – Died December 1, 1982) while he was chief designer of Jos. A. Schneider Optical Works in Bad Kreuznach, Germany from 1924 to 1936. Sadly, Dr. Tronnier does not share the fame of the other lens designers of his era such as Dr. Willy Walter Merté who invented the Biotar, or Ludwig J. Bertele who invented the Sonnar. But he has every right to fame – he invented the Xenon when he was only twenty-four years old, and then went on to have a remarkable career during which he accumulated 360 lens design patents. 

That the Xenon has been in continuous production by Schneider-Kreuznach from 1925 up to the present day, and the fact that it is still considered one of the best cine lenses in the world, is a testament to the design skills of Dr. Tronnier.

In 1924 Tronnier, then just twenty-two years old, joined Schneider Optik Works in Kreuznach, Germany as their chief lens designer. In the previous year Ludwig J. Bertele and A. Klughardt working at Ernemann had shocked the lens industry with their release of the Ernostar lens, which boasted the then unprecedented speed of F/2 for the 6 x 4.5 cm medium format Ernemann Ermanox plate camera. The speed and capability of the lens revolutionized photography by allowing photographers to shoot indoors and in low light situations. It was used to great effect by photographer Erich Salomon, who could be rightly dubbed the first Paparazzo because the lens allowed him to capture candid indoor photos. 

Tronnier was given the impossible challenge of developing a fast lens to compete with the Ernostar. He used some design elements from the Opic lens invented in 1920 by H.W. Lee of Taylor-Hobson in the United Kingdom. The Opic moderately collapsed the symmetrical structure of the Zeiss Planar from 1896, and reduced spherical, chromatic and field curvature aberration in the symmetrical Gaussian design. Tronnier adopted the asymmetrical design of the Opic, but to be able to achieve his goal he needed to create a six element lens. However, to achieve the desired speed the front elements had to curve, which increased the refractive index and introduced large aberrations from each element. 

Tronnier completed the project three years after starting, in 1925, and patented the Xenon F/2, an asymmetrical Double-Gauss design of six elements in four groups, equivalent to the Opic with German Patent #DE 439556. 

The methods Tronnier used to develop the Xenon, specifically by splitting cemented lenses into single groups and through the use of five to six lens elements, anticipated the solutions for high-speed lenses which are still used to this day. After WWII Tronnier was appointed by the British occupational administration as Chief Designer of Voigtländer. He then designed (or oversaw the design of) numerous lenses, including the Ultron F/2, Nokton F/1.5 and Color-Skopar F/2.8, the Color Heliar F/3.5 for the Bessa II, Ultragon, Skopargon, Dynarex, Skoparex, and the famed APO Lanthar lens.

The Leitz Xenon 

Sadly for Tronnier, before the Xenon could be released to market Ludwig J. Bertele (who at the time had begun working at Zeiss after that brand had absorbed Ernemann) developed the Sonnar lens formula in 1931, which became publicly available as a 5cm F/1.5 lens on the Zeiss Contax I in 1932. The Sonnar was ground-breaking, and the seven elements in three groups design became a great commercial success. 

Leica, who were up and coming competitors to Zeiss’ Contax with the recently released Leica IIIa 35mm camera, needed a fast lens to compete with the Sonnar. So Ernst Leitz engaged Schneider-Kreuznach to create a fast lens. The Leitz-Xenon 5cm F/1.5 lens referencing Taylor-Hobson British patent 373950 and US patent 2019985 which was originally designed as a cinema lens came into production in 1936.  Zeiss’s Sonnar had already captured the market, and the Xenon only sold a fraction of the amount of the Sonnar. 

Interestingly, the first model of the Leitz Summilux 50mm F/1.5 (of 1959) was identical in cross-section to the Xenon/Summarit, but was an improvement over the earlier lenses because of the use of the newly invented high refractive index Lanthanum glass. 

The second version of the Summilux, introduced in 1962, was a redesign of the first version Summilux by Dr. Mandler of E. Leitz Canada in Midland. The modern Leitz Summarit 50mm more closely resembles the design of the Zeiss Biotar. Leitz was not able to offer a lens with significantly greater performance over the Summilux until 2003, when they introduced the Summilux ASPH FLE lens, which incorporated a floating element and exotic glass.

Descendants of the Xenon 

Although the Xenon is less well-known than its competitors, many photographers own a lens which owes its design to it. The Xenon design went on to become the basis for a host of fast lenses made by Japanese lens manufacturers, up to the present day. Here are just a handful of the many lenses that are based on the Xenon design. 

Konica Hexanon 60mm F/1.2 : The Nikon Historical Society Journal number 58 (NHS-58 Journal) relates the interesting story of the origin of many fast lenses developed in Japan following WWII. At that time, the Japanese government requested that the top five lens manufactures in Japan combine their technical expertise to create an ultra-fast lens of F/0.65 or F/0.85 for use in X-ray machines.

Those five optical companies were Fuji Kogaku (Fujica/Fuji), Konica Kogaku, Minolta Kogaku, Nippon Kogaku (Nikon), and Ohara Kogaku. The project was assisted by the fact that when Japan and Germany had signed the Axis pact in 1940, Adolf Hitler transferred nearly all of the patent rights from Carl Zeiss to the Japanese government. Two results from this government scheme were the Konica Hexanon 60mm F/1.2, and the Nikkor-N 1:1.1 F=5cm, both based on the Xenon design. 

Nikkor-N 1:1.1 F=5cm : In 1930 Tronnier patented an improvement of the Xenon design with three attached rear lenses, an eight element F/1.2 lens (spherical, chromatic and astigmatic corrected). After WWII the design was used by Saburo Murakami at Nikon as the basis for the Nikkor-N 1:1.1 F=5cm with eight elements in six groups. When it was released in 1956 it was the world’s fastest 35mm lens (trivia: Che Guevara owned and used one for reportage).  

Nokton & Ultron 

After WWII Tronnier continued to work on the Xenon design which led to the invention of two other lenses, the Voigtlander Nokton and Ultron lenses. The suffix “on” showed it was a derivative of the Xenon, and this nomenclature continue with the Ultron. Similarly to the Xenon these two designs were used as the basis for a variety of fast lenses in the 1970s. 

Voigtländer Nokton : In 1947 Tronnier used the Xenon as the basis for an upgraded lens called the Nokton. Being very difficult to get a patent in Germany following the war, he patented the lens in Switzerland in 1950. To his original Xenon design Tronnier added a rear lens to increase performance, and the 50mm F/2 lens was first released with the Vito/ Vitomatic/Vitessa cameras. The version for the Voigtländer Prominent is the famed 50mm F/1.5. 

Voigtländer Ultron : The Ultron has been a famed lens since its introduction as the top of the line lens for the Voigtländer Vitessa and Prominent cameras. This original 50mm F/2 version released with the Voigtländer Prominent is reputed to have twice the resolution of competitors like the Leitz Summicron F/2, and Summitar F/2 at 165 lines per millimeter at F/4. 

During the mid 1950s the second generation Ultron was redeveloped using a very early Zuse computer. This lens with seven elements in six groups, the Ultron 1.8/50 was first produced between July 1968 and December 1971, and famously had the highly unusual attribute of a concave front element. This version of the Ultron produced in M42 and Rollei QBM mounts is reputed to be one of the best 50mm lenses ever produced and is highly sought after by collectors. 

Carl Zeiss Planar 50mm F/1.4 : As part of Zeiss’ purchase of Voigtländer AG in 1975, Zeiss came into ownership of Tronnier’s patents. In 1972, Karl-Heinrich Behrens and Erhard Glatzel updated the Xenon design by adding an extra front lens, making it seven elements in six groups. Zeiss marketed this lens as the Carl Zeiss Planar 50mm F/1.4 in Contax Yashica mount, an absolutely stellar lens (which James reviewed here).

Schneider-Kreuznach Xenon 50mm F/1.9 for Instamatic Reflex : Kodak’s Retina series of cameras was a long-running line of premium cameras produced by Kodak AG in Germany. The early folding models had the “Kleinbild” 50mm F/2 Xenon lens, but it wasn’t until the Retina Reflex series was released that the F/1.9 model of the lens appeared. Kodak’s Retina Reflex III with the Xenon 50mm F/1.9 cost $248.50 in 1961, the equivalent adjusted value is $3,622 USD in 2019.  

The Kodak Instamatic Reflex was an SLR made in Germany by Kodak AG from 1968 to 1974. It was one of the last cameras to come out under the famed Retina name and was the most sophisticated cameras ever produced to use 126 Instamatic film. Using the Kodak Retina lens mount, sometimes called Deckel mount or DKL mount the camera’s “kit” lenses were the Schneider-Kreuznach Xenar 45mm F/2.8 and the fast Xenon 50mm F/1.9.

How good is the Xenon?

Being a late model of the Xenon, my lens was in almost brand-new condition, which is quite common because the Retina version came in beautifully designed hard plastic cases which tended to protect them from damage. As with all Schneider-Kreuznach lenses the build quality is tops, epitomizing the workmanship that Germany was famed for. The hardened chrome finish resists wear, and even well-used copies don’t show their age. 

The signature look of the Xenon is a remarkable sharpness across the whole frame, even wide open, and a beautiful, painterly bokeh, as well as the vibrant color rendition for which Schneider lenses are famous. Look at the sharpness, bokeh and vibrant colors of the shots I have taken with my Xenon. I think they speak for themselves. 

I am a big fan of Agfa Ultra Color 100, but sadly it is long discontinued, but ordinary Ektar 100 and the Xenon produces almost the same level of vibrant color.  A good comparison to visualize the bokeh of Xenon is to compare it to that of the Carl Zeiss Jena Biotar 58mm, or its descendant the Helios 44. To me the famed swirly bokeh of theses lenses reminds me of the brushstrokes of a Vincent Van Gogh painting, wild and almost hallucinatory, and definitely not to everyone’s taste. Whereas the Xenon resembles the delicate brush strokes of a Monet. 

I own the DKL version mentioned above, so my opinions are reserved solely for that model, but optically the many versions of the Xenon perform similarly. I’m still lusting after an early M42 version. But the relative disinterest from collectors in this DKL mount version is a benefit to shrewd shoppers. With some time and patience it’s possible to pick up a copy of this legendary lens formula for very little cash.

Buying Tips

As far as trying to buy a good Xenon lens, we can exclude the lenses made for Retina cameras as they aren’t practical everyday shooters. But the Xenon came in a variety of lens mounts Exakta, Praktica, Robot Berning, Rollei QBM, M42 and even Alpa (which tend to be expensive because of the collectability factor). Even more uncommon is the Leitz Xenon 50mm F/1.5 which was produced from 1936 to 1950 in Leica thread mount. Only 6,190 were produced, and buyers of this version will be paying for rarity. 

During the 1950s and ‘60s the Xenon competed against prestigious lenses such as the Steinheil Quinon or Rodenstock Heligon and was on par with both. Both of those now fetch high prices, but you can buy a Xenon for a fraction of the price. The M42 mount is one of the most common, and easily adaptable to mirrorless digital cameras, and many copies in good condition are readily available. 

But the best value for money is the DKL mount version, like mine, because they were produced in large quantities for the Kodak Retina cameras, and DKL mount is not as sought after. These DKL lenses are astonishingly good, and only five to ten percent the cost of a comparable Leitz lens. The one downside is that buyers will need a DKL adapter, but they are readily available, and I would recommend buying the best quality one made by Yeenon. 

The final lens hunting tip I’ll suggest is to look for the camera, not the lens. I bought my lens for $40 USD when I found it mounted to a Kodak Instamatic Reflex camera and told the seller to just keep the camera and send me the lens. Because the Instamatic Reflex takes 126 cartridge film, it is not as popular as the Kodak Retina cameras, and there’s no demand for these models. Through this trick, it’s possible to get a lens with legendary pedigree for an unbelievably low price. Happy hunting. 

Want your own Xenon 50mm F/1.9?

Search for one on eBay

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The post A History of the Xenon Lens appeared first on Casual Photophile.

Every Friday, I end the workweek by posting an Ask Me Anything on the site’s Instagram stories. Through these AMAs, readers of the site and customers of the shop get a chance to yell at me about something we’ve published or ask questions that have been nagging them about photography, cameras, and anything else. It’s a great way to engage with fellow photo geeks, and it’s a lot of fun.

Last Friday, a reader asked me to choose and list three cameras that are overrated, and three that are underrated. I did this, and I included in my trifecta of over-hyped cameras the Contax T2.

Another reader, Gabriel Fontes, disagreed with me so vehemently that he wrote in to let me know I was wrong (very politely, I should add – thanks for that Gabriel). We chatted for a while, and he shared his opinions and some images made with his Contax T2, which he says is one of the best cameras he’s ever used. He made some good points, though I won’t go so far as to say I’m totally convinced.

But rather than leave that conversation languishing in my inbox, I thought, why not put his argument on the site? I told people on Instagram that the T2 is overrated, why not let someone else have their say. 

In the spirit of community and conversation, here’s what Gabriel had to say about his experience with the Contax T2. And below, see some of his photos.

“I keep reading people saying that the Contax T2 is overrated and I reached out in defense of the camera because I don’t find that to be totally fair. I admit that the Contax T2 is completely over-priced right now, no doubt, and I do understand that there is too much hype around it. These things can cause some backlash among more seasoned photographers.

I got my T2 a while ago, after resisting it for a long time because the prices were just too crazy. I took it out immediately and started shooting. Even on that first day, my impressions couldn’t have been more pleasant.

The body is much sturdier that I expected, the viewfinder is hands down the best I have ever seen in a point-and-shoot camera and the autofocus seemed fast and reliable. Perhaps the grip could be farther away from the lens to prevent the occasional finger bump during focusing. But that’s all the improvement that I could think of.

The camera feels like it was really designed with absolute care. By the end of the day and three rolls later, it really felt like I’d found my perfect companion. It was just a hassle-free, nice experience and it made me want to shoot more.

Then the negatives came back from the lab. I couldn’t believe how much I loved the results. It’s all about the lens. I have a Contax G2 and the Planar 35mm, and I still don’t know if there’s any actual difference between image quality from the two setups. The Contax T2 is as sharp as the G2 with 35mm. Images show beautiful bokeh, and more micro-contrast than I could dream of in a point-and-shoot. That all leads to insane resolution. And the autofocus and light meter are reliable. I seldom get anything improperly exposed.

I had many point and shoot cameras before I had the T2, and none delivered to me the same experience shooting. Amazing lens paired with a sturdy, reliable, made to last titanium body with a good amount of features. And oh, it looks insanely gorgeous.

I must have shot more than a hundred rolls through it by now, and every time I pick another point-and-shoot to go out I get this FOMO [fear of missing out] feeling for leaving the T2 behind.

So yes, despite the high price, I do feel like this is one very rare example of the hype being real.”

So that’s one argument for the Contax T2. My argument is naturally the inverse, that there are plenty of point-and-shoots that will make the same quality images at a tenth the cost of the T2. But to really argue this I need to put together an actual shootout, rather than just make claims.

I admit, I’ve not yet reviewed the T2, even after shooting one for a few months. They’re lovely cameras, I just have a hard time justifying the cost. But Gabriel makes some good points, and this seems like as good a time as any to get to work on a T2 writeup. It is, after all, the most popular point-and-shoot in existence today. Look for that, coming soon.

Thanks to Gabriel for chiming in, and for sharing his photos. Plenty more can be seen at his Instagram.

How do you feel about the Contax T2? Or the T3 for that matter? Let me know in the comments, and tune in every Friday for our AMAs on Instagram. Maybe your conversation will get the spotlight next.

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The post I Called the Contax T2 Overrated, This Reader Disagreed appeared first on Casual Photophile.

The Pontiac Super Lynx I is one of the most beautiful 35mm film cameras I’ve yet seen. It’s also a rare camera. Finding one in excellent condition (and with the SOM Berthiot 50mm F/2.8 Flor lens) took nearly two years of intermittent searching. But I’ve finally bought one, and over the past few months I’ve run a few rolls of film through this unusual machine.

It’s not the easiest camera to shoot, and it doesn’t create the sharpest images. Its bokeh isn’t phenomenal, and its viewfinder is pretty dismal. Its shutter is limited and its methodology is archaic and clunky. But all of these complaints are largely irrelevant. The Pontiac Super Lynx I is a striking camera, and I love it. For me, this is what shooting and collecting classic cameras is all about.

A Brief History of Pontiac Cameras

We’re going to spend most of this article examining the Super Lynx range, and the Super Lynx I specifically, but a brief history of the brand that made the machine can’t hurt. We’ll make it quick, and save in-depth details for a larger retrospective (if readers seem interested).

MFAP, an acronym for Manufacture Française d’Appareils Photographiques (French Camera Maker), was as the name suggests, a French camera company. MFAP released numerous models under the brand name Pontiac, beginning with the original 1938 Pontiac Bakélite, a folding 6×9 camera made predictably out of Bakelite. Later models in the 6×9 range were made of cast aluminum, a characteristic that would define the aesthetic of Pontiac cameras. These were called Bloc Métal 41, Bloc Métal 45, and Bloc Métal 145.

Contemporaneously released alongside these larger folding cameras was a series of smaller, fixed lens machines utilizing 127 film. The first of these, the leaf-shutter-equipped Lynx I of 1942, is an incredibly rare and gorgeous machine, its cast aluminum body showing the intricate and uniform machining that was (and remains) so unique to Pontiac cameras. Like rows of wheat or woven strands of fiber, the areas of the body that would be typically covered in leatherette on other cameras is a work of metallic sculpture on the Lynx. And while it looks gorgeous and interesting, this materials choice was likely driven by necessity – during the time when the camera was made, leather was most certainly hard or impossible to find.

The Lynx camera would see numerous evolutionary models release over the next eight years. The Lynx II changed the original’s leaf shutter to a more capable focal plane shutter. This camera was manufactured in various outfits, with a choice of fixed 50mm lenses of differing complexity and speed. A luxurious model for night shooting, the Lynx de Nuit followed and featured a blisteringly quick, seven-element 55mm F/1.5 lens (I am on the hunt for this one). The Lynx Standard of 1948 boasted a wider 40mm lens. Toward the end of Lynx production in 1950, the Lynx III was announced and advertised to offer interchangeable lenses that were intended to be compatible with the larger 35mm Super Lynx II, but the Lynx III would never come into existence.

As the production cycle of the Lynx was nearing its end, Pontiac developed and released a new 35mm film camera. This was the Super Lynx I, of 1948. A more modern camera compared with the original Lynx, the Super Lynx I featured a focal plane shutter, film frame counter, self-timer, an optical viewfinder, and one of three available fixed lenses. It was followed in similar fashion to the Lynx by a series of variants on the core design.

In the same way that the Lynx Standard was the wide-angle version of the Lynx, the Super Lynx Standard was a wide-angle version of the Super Lynx I. Released around 1950, it replaced the Super Lynx I’s fixed 50mm lens with a 35mm lens, and today it’s incredibly rare.

In 1951, production of all Pontiac cameras was moved from Paris to Morocco. These cameras are easily distinguished from earlier machines – the makers mark, which on French cameras had read “Pontiac Paris” within a stylized lens formula, was replaced with “Pontiac Maroc,” and the bodies which had been formerly exposed castings were now covered with leather.

Following the move, which may have been an effort to reduce production cost, a simplified Super Lynx was released. This Super Lynx (which dropped the “I” from its name and faceplate) deleted the Super Lynx I’s self-timer feature and was only offered with one lens, the SOM Berthiot Flor 50mm F/3.5.

The Super Lynx II of 1952 was an improved version of the Super Lynx I, and featured a range of interchangeable bayonet-mount lenses spanning focal lengths from 28mm to 90mm. All of the Super Lynx cameras were made as scale-focus machines – a rangefinder version was announced, but never produced.

In 1954, production of all Pontiac cameras ceased.

A Closer Look at the Super Lynx I

The Super Lynx I is an uncommonly balanced combination of mechanical functionality and artistic craftsmanship. Its polished aluminum body gleams like the Mithril of Tolkien’s fictional elves. Its gears and film transport are made of brass and aluminum. Its body has all the weight of a carved idol. On top of that, it’s a capable, and even impressive, machine (for 1948).

There’s a self-timer, an optical viewfinder, a shutter-release cable socket, a film frame counter (manually set), a film rewind lever and knob, a tripod-socket on the bottom, and a swing-away hinged film door, and strap lugs are built into the body casting.

Its focal plane shutter is capable of various speeds, which aren’t measured in uniform increments like the cameras of today. Instead of speeds which halve or double with each adjustment, here we see irregular speeds of 1/25th, 1/40th, 1/50th, 1/75th, 1/100th, 1/200th, and 1/500th of a second.

In front of this shutter sits a fixed, collapsible lens. In the case of my camera, this is the SOM Berthiot Flor 50mm F/2.8. The ten-bladed aperture stops down step-lessly from F/2.8 to F/16. Focus is achieved by estimating distance and setting the lens scale to an appropriate setting from infinity to one meter (the focus scale is registered in meters only). There’s aperture marks on the barrel to facilitate zone focusing, and a convenient infinity lock.

Other Super Lynx I’s may come equipped with different lenses. Beyond my 50mm F/2.8 there are two other options; the SOM Berthiot Flor 50mm F/3.5 and the extremely rare Sagem Hexar 50mm F/2. This is arguably the most valuable and most coveted version, due to that camera’s stunningly large maximum aperture.

Shooting the Super Lynx I

Last week, it was fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit and I was feeling great. After two weeks of snow and sub-freezing temperatures, the sudden balmy weather had me eager to get out and shoot. I loaded a bag with far too many cameras and hit the city streets.

Within minutes of unpacking the Pontiac, I discovered a serious annoyance. Holding the all-aluminum camera was like holding a block of ice. Even in near-to-early-Spring-like temperatures, the Super Lynx was frigid. I felt a sudden urge to become the founding member of the “Camera Leatherette Enthusiasts Society of America” (requests for membership can be written on the back of a twenty dollar bill and mailed to the office).

Once gloves were donned, shooting became less painful. The operative word here being “less.” The Super Lynx I is not an easy camera to shoot. It’s a product of its time, a camera that’s seventy years old. Every action is an exercise in care, and rapid shooting is a study in concentration.

Since the shutter speed selector is a spring-loaded unit that rotates when the shutter is cocked, it has two index marks, one for use when the shutter is cocked and one for when it’s not. Knowing which is which is the responsibility of the user. To set a different speed, we need to lift up the dial and twist it to the desired setting. When the shutter’s released, we need to remember to keep our fat (or gloved) fingers away from the dial as it flicks back to its rest position.

Nothing on this camera is marked for ease. The film advance knob has a spring-loaded button in the center, and you’ll never know what it does unless you read the manual (which you can’t find because it’s rare, and you can’t read because it’s French). Luckily I’m here to tell you that pressing the button allows us to set the manually-set film frame counter.

The self-timer has no markings to tell us that it’s a self-timer, nor does the self-timer release button. The film rewind lever is similarly lacking in any identifier. Only by opening the back and observing the actual gearing change when this lever is actuated did I know for certain its function. The focus scale assumes we know metric measurements, but it doesn’t actually say that it’s measuring in meters. And there’s quite literally nothing in the viewfinder to help with frame lines or focusing.

Before every shot we need to remember to choose a shutter speed, choose an aperture, and make sure to dial the focus. Easier said than done; a capability to measure light and distance from target will be essential. Fail at either and we’ll just be wasting film. Since I’m not a very good measure of light or distance in meters, wasting film is something I do fairly often. And even with honed ability, taking photos with this camera is a slow process. To increase my slim chances at getting the right shot, I bracket, taking three or four photos at various shutter speeds and apertures. This brings my time per sequence of shots up to about ninety seconds.

All of this old-world methodology means that the Super Lynx I is not just a camera for people who know how to use cameras, it’s a camera for people who know how to use cameras that were made in 1948. Frankly, there’s not a lot of people like that still around.

[I wanted the samples gallery to have an old look, so I chose to shoot in the dead of night with expired Kodak TMax P3200. Lots of grain, no light, a difficult 70-year-old camera, and a general lack of photographic talent yielded these results.]

[Shots in the samples gallery below were made with Arista EDU Ultra.]

With practice, however, things start feeling real good, real fast.

Part of that pleasure comes in knowing you’re shooting a unique camera with a unique lens. The shutter actuates with a soft hiss. The levers, dials, and knobs ratchet and click like a wristwatch. The six-element SOM Berthiot renders with the gorgeous imprecision of classic lenses. There are lens flares and ghosts and plenty more supposed flaws.

It reminds me; when I was a guest on the Classic Lenses Podcast, the hosts asked me what sort of photos I like to make. I told them, in too many words, that my favorite types of photos are ones that are imprecise. I like the idea of a photograph more than I like the clinical precision of a photograph, if that makes sense. Compare the images from a modern Canon lens on a digital SLR to ones made with a Carl Zeiss Sonnar on a Contax II and you’ll get the idea. The lens of the Super Lynx I makes the latter type of image.

Focus might be a little bit off. Sharpness is certainly not very high. These are not clinically excellent images. But they are beautiful. For lack of a better term (and I don’t say this with any assertion that my photographs are worthy of the word), old lenses like this make photos that are art. Whether I can make art or not, I love the way these old lenses render.

Buyer’s Guide

I’ll start the consumer reports section of this writeup with a disclaimer – I’m not a good source for sensible advise on collector camera shopping. I’m too in love with mechanical things. And don’t forget that I’m an idiot who can’t help but be impressed by shiny metal objects.

I also spent my formative childhood years watching a Japanese cartoon that taught, among other things, the value of teamwork, to have belief in one’s self, and to be kind to Jigglypuffs. Good life lessons, but what Pokémon really instilled in me was a profound and unslakable need to literally “Catch ’em All.”

You see the problem. I am the type of person who must catch ’em all. I must own every Lynx camera. But let me try to help anyway.

There’s a lot to unpack when advising a potential buyer on which Pontiac camera to buy. If you want to shoot 35mm film, the only answer is the Super Lynx range, since as mentioned, the other Lynx cameras shoot 6×9 or 127 film. Within the Super Lynx range, the Super Lynx I shown here is probably the best choice, since it’s the most common of these uncommon cameras. Finding one in fully functional condition is not easy or inexpensive, but buying one that doesn’t work seems like a horrible idea. I can’t imagine that anyone is servicing this machine.

Any other model will be harder to find and more expensive. The Super Lynx II, with its interchangeable lenses and general improvements, may be a better buy for those looking to make serious photographic use of a Lynx. But they made fewer of these than they did the Super Lynx I, so prices will jump. And then there’s the Standard, the wide-angle variant, with that enticing 35mm lens. This version will cost more than double the price of any other model.

See, it’s a real challenge, and my best advice for anyone interested in a Super Lynx is to spend their life trying to catch ’em all.

Final Thoughts

There’s no other 35mm film camera that will look better in a collection. The Pontiac Super Lynx I is a visually stunning machine, and just about the prettiest object I own. I’m obsessed with it. I even framed a fantastic print ad that I found in a 1949 French design magazine, and this gorgeous art sits just behind the Lynx on a shelf in my office. It’s beautiful.

But more than just a pretty face, the Super Lynx is also a functional, usable camera, even today. The characterful lenses make lovely images. The clockwork mechanisms of its body make all the right sounds. If you’re lucky enough to find one in working condition, give it a shot. Load it with film and spend a few months with it. If you don’t love it after that, sell it and make your money back. These cameras have been around for a long time, and they’re not getting any cheaper.

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Zone focusing (sometimes called scale focusing) allows a photographer to know what will be in focus without even looking through the viewfinder. It’s an invaluable technique that’s often used in street and other types of photography where speed and spontaneity are factors. It can help us get the shot when autofocus lag or direct manual focusing would otherwise cause us to miss it.

It can sound complicated, but it’s not, as long as you understand depth-of-field (DOF) and how a photographer influences DOF. For those unfamiliar with the concept of depth-of-field, the basics are simple – as a lens aperture is stopped down, the zone of focus of the image increases in depth. Larger apertures (lower F numbers) yield very shallow depth of field, creating images that isolate the subject in focus while blurring the background and foreground into pleasant bokeh. Smaller apertures (higher F numbers) create images in which more of the composition is in focus, perfect for landscapes and photojournalism.

Zone focusing uses this understanding of depth-of-field to allow the shooter to know what parts of the photograph will be in focus by simply looking at the camera lens. Most manual focus lenses and some AF lenses have a distance scale on their focusing ring and barrel to indicate which areas of a composition will be in focus based on the set aperture. By looking at the focus ring in relation to the focus scale, it’s possible to see that when set to F/8, for example, everything that falls between the markers for “8” on the focus scale will be in focus. As you spin the focus ring, the distance scale rotates to show that the area in focus is changing.

Let’s illustrate the point. In the left photo of the lens below, we can see the lens aperture has been set to F/8. Looking at the depth-of-field scale and focusing ring we can see that when set to F/8, the final image will have a zone of focus that spans from infinity to 10 feet away. If we then change the aperture to F/16 we can see that the final image will have a zone of focus that spans from infinity to 4.5 feet away. Within these spans, the image will be acceptably sharp.

Using this technique, the shooter sets the aperture and then simply makes sure the subject is within the marked distances when taking the shot. This allows for rapid and candid shooting, crucial in street photography, or when fast moving subjects negate the possibility of viewfinder composition.

But remember that depth-of-field is a gradual change. The exact point of focus is still whatever distance is directly in the middle of the zone of focus (usually marked on the lens by a straight line projecting from the set value on the aperture ring), and depth-of-field gradually decreases in front of and behind that point of focus. But an area of this zone should be rendered acceptably sharp in the final image. This relates to the classically confusing photographic concept called the Circle of Confusion.

Because of this, it’s still important to be able to accurately estimate your distance to subject and release the shutter at the right moment. Even if your zone focus indicates it will cover subjects from 20 feet to 2 feet away, you’re still best served to shoot when the subject is approximately 10 feet from the camera.

It’s also important to note that lenses of different focal lengths produce intrinsically different depths-of-field. A wide-angle lens, for example, produces greater depth-of-field at numerically identical apertures. See below, where the 50mm set to F/8 produces a focus zone from infinity down to fifteen feet whereas the 18mm lens set to F/8 produces a focus zone from infinity way down to three feet. Because of this, zone focusing is a technique best used with wide or wide-standard lenses (though with practice it can be used effectively with longer focal length lenses).

[The photos below were made with the Rollei 35, a zone focusing camera.]

See? Zone focus is a pretty simple concept once we’ve visualized it. In fact, back in the earlier days of photography there were plenty of cameras that only used zone focus. Just take a look at Zeiss’ beautiful Contina or the amazing Rollei 35. These great cameras certainly aren’t hampered by their being exclusively zone focus machines.

Today, zone focusing is most useful to photographers who are using viewfinder or rangefinder cameras with manual focus lenses, but shooters using SLRs and modern machines can also benefit from this knowledge.

It’s an especially useful technique for when we’re trying to be inconspicuous. That’s why so many street photographers use it. With zone focusing, we don’t even need to hold the camera up to our eye to get the shot. We can shoot from the waist or make snapshots in the run-and-gun style popular with so many modern street shooters. It’s even useful when we do have time to peer through a viewfinder – by zone focusing we can concentrate entirely on composition and framing and forget about focusing. One less thing to worry about.

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Popular opinion on the Contax TVS says that its sluggish aperture and softer zoom lens make it a third-rate camera. The choir sings that the TVS is the compact Contax that you buy, only if you can’t afford the Contax T3 or T2 or T. There’s some truth to this, as is the case with most popular opinion, but a more nuanced and balanced voice might add enough useful commentary that people might realize just how good the Contax TVS is.

I’ll add that voice, partly because it’s my job. But also because I’ve spent the past few weeks shooting the TVS and I feel it’s been overlooked. I’ll even go so far as to make the bold claim that the Contax TVS is the one Contax compact that’s actually worth buying these days. Sure, it lacks certain capability compared with the others in its line, but the unique things that it offers over these other cameras do overbalance the few ways in which it comes up short.

What is the Contax TVS

In 1984, Kyocera released the Contax T, a titanium-bodied compact rangefinder camera aimed to satisfy the well-heeled photographer looking for a luxurious and incredibly compact 35mm film camera. This camera was exceptional, allowing creative control and packing a phenomenal Carl Zeiss Sonnar T* 38mm f/2.8 lens in an astoundingly small and well-built body. It even had a synthetic ruby for its shutter release button.

In 1991, Kyocera further refined the formula with the Contax T2. This second of the series continued the high level of build, retained the same high performance lens and respectable creative controls, but added automation in the form of available autofocus. It was a true point-and-shoot camera, eschewing the manual focus rangefinder of the original T.

In 1994, Kyocera released the Contax TVS, a variant of the T series that swapped the prime lens of its predecessors for a Carl Zeiss Vario-Sonnar T* 28-56mm f/3.5-6.5 zoom lens (the “VS” denotes that this is the Contax T with a “Vario-Sonnar” lens). Made of the same titanium as the earlier cameras, and fitted with all the latest technology, some shooters have described the Contax TVS a zoomy version of the T2. This is coarsely true, but there are finer points that differentiate the TVS from every other model in the range.

The Contax TVS compared to the T, T2, and T3

As touched upon, the big gripe when comparing the TVS to the other Contax compacts is leveled against the relatively slow lens of the TVS. The other three cameras feature a maximum aperture of f/2.8. The TVS has a variable maximum aperture across its range of focal lengths, but at its fastest (at the wide-end of the range) it only reaches a maximum speed of f/3.5.

Sure, f/3.5 is slower than f/2.8, but is this really a problem? Let’s think about it. The difference between f/2.8 and f/3.5 in light-gathering potential is precisely 2/3rds of a stop. That’s really a very small difference and easily overcome. Simply by loading, for example, ISO 400 film instead of ISO 200, or ISO 800 in place of ISO 400, we more than completely mitigate the loss of light that we incur by shooting at f/3.5 versus f/2.8 (and then some).

But let’s concede, for the sake of argument, that the nearly insignificant loss of light we suffer on account of the slower aperture of the TVS actually will negatively impact our photo-making. It will only do so after the sun’s been down for an hour, or when shooting indoors in low-light, or in restaurants or parties, or dimly-lit clubs, or whatever it is that kids do with these cameras. But I argue that even in these proposed shooting environments, if the camera’s loaded with high speed film, Kodak P3200 or Ilford Delta 3200, or Cinestill 800t, or Kodak Portra 800, or Fuji Superia 1600, it’ll do just fine.

Complaining about the Contax TVS being slow because it can’t shoot crisp shots on Fuji 200 in a club at midnight is like giving a Chinese food restaurant a one-star Yelp review because you expected them to serve Cap’n Crunch. It’s not their fault.

But even if we don’t load fast film, f/3.5 is almost always a fast enough maximum aperture. I spent the hour after sunset shooting Kodak Ektachrome 100 through my TVS, and aside from a few shaky frames, shots on this extremely slow film were properly exposed and sharp when shot between f/3.5 and f/5.6. With a sensitive shutter release, comfortable grip, and no mirror-slap it’s an easy camera to shoot in low light.

I know there will be commenters that say something about subject isolation or some who may even drop the term “bokeh.” The Contax T series, even those cameras equipped with an f/2.8 maximum aperture, do not produce bokeh. And the subject isolation from any of these cameras will be indistinguishable from another when each is shot wide open. Furthermore, these are among the type of camera that’s typically shot at smaller apertures anyway, since they’re often used as snapshot machines, for travel or street photography, etc. With the T series, we get context, not bokeh, and the TVS is as good a context camera as the rest (possibly more so, for reasons I’ll discuss right now).

It’s the 28mm wide-end of that Carl Zeiss Vario-Sonnar T* lens. Thanks to this incredible lens, the Contax TVS offers the widest field-of-view of any of the Contax compacts. Compared with the 38mm lens of the Contax T and T2, the TVS lens is substantially wider. Even compared with the 35mm lens of the T3 there’s a noticeable difference. And sure, we could argue that simply taking five steps backward will get the same frame with the main-line T series cameras, but we could also argue that the TVS has something no other T series machine can match. For shooters looking for a 28mm Contax compact, there’s really only one choice, and that’s the TVS.

It’s true that this lens isn’t as sharp as the ones found in the T2 or T3, since some image quality is lost as the formula becomes more complex. But I’ve been shooting the TVS concurrently with the T2 for about three weeks, and the difference is so negligible as to reach the realm of pedantry. No one (in the real world) will be able to tell a TVS shot against a T2 shot based on sharpness.

What else?

It’s got a built-in flash, which the original Contax T does not. It’s got a decent AF system, which again is something lacking in the original T (that camera is manual focus only). It’s capable of exposure compensation to an astounding +/- 5 full stops (the T2 can only do +/- 2). It’s got manual dials for aperture, focus lock and exposure compensation, a combination of controls that’s not found on the overly-menu-focused T3. It’s got a panorama mode, which is a total gimmick, but a gimmick that can’t be found on any other T.

Oh, and it’s got that Vario-Sonnar, which is capable of zooming from a 28mm wide-angle to a 56mm focal length with hardly any discernible loss of image quality compared to the other T series machines. That’s pretty great.

Lastly, and so important that it’s the entire reason I think the Contax TVS is the only Contax T series camera worth buying today, is that it costs so little compared to the others in its lineup.

In the past few years, prices for the Contax T2 and T3 have surged on a wave of celebrity endorsement. Famous and (society tells me) beautiful people have been seen on television, at the Oscars, and on Instagram flashing the camera with their Contax T2s and T3s. Because of these popular influencers, prices have climbed to previously unthinkable (and unadvisable) heights. But while the T2 and T3 cost between $1,000 and $2,000 respectively (for perfect units from a reputable shop), the original Contax TVS sits at a price point closer to $250.

That’s an incredible price, considering it arguably (as I’ve argued) offers more than these other cameras. Even the second improved version of the TVS, the Contax TVS II, doesn’t match its brethren in price, selling typically for around $500. And the third version, though more expensive, tops out around $700 (this version is substantially different and, in my opinion, less of a unique offering due to its lens and menu system).

The non-Contax competition

But all of this doesn’t mean that the Contax TVS is the obvious choice for someone who’s simply looking for a compact point-and-shoot camera. Even for shooters looking for a compact camera with a 28mm lens (something a bit rare in the segment), it’s not the obvious choice. For shooters seeking wide point-and-shoots, there’s the Ricoh GR series, a series of cameras that have legendary 28mm f/2.8 lenses. But these usually cost more than the TVS. There’s the Fuji Natura Black, which features an even wider 24mm lens with an impossibly fast maximum aperture of f/1.9. But this camera is pretty rare and costs about three times the price of the Contax TVS.

For shooters who want a zoom-lensed compact, there are plenty of options that are decidedly less luxurious, but make equally excellent photos. These cameras get no respect – the Olympus Stylus zoom machines (especially the Wide Deluxe versions) offer similar specs at a lower price. The Minolta Freedom range offers some models with wider lenses, and these cameras are typically found for under $100.

As shown, there are options, but there’s no escaping the fact that for shooters who specifically want a Contax compact camera and who also want a 28mm lens, the TVS is the one camera to own.

Performance and real-world shooting

I’ve made a pretty strong case for the Contax TVS, and I stand by all that I’ve said. It’s a more balanced camera than the other Contax T machines, and a fantastic camera for the money. But it has enough flaws that the next few paragraphs will contain sprinklings of both praise, and criticism.

The Contax TVS is weighty and dense, characteristics of all of the Contax cameras of its era. Its titanium body panels fit tightly, its battery cover is metal, and its film door clicks heavily into place. The winding motors and shutter produce sounds that inspire confidence in its electromechanical innards, and a textured rubberized coating in critical locations creates confident handholds.

In short, the TVS feels like an exceptionally high quality camera. Until we look through the viewfinder, which is small and finicky, since any change to the angle of approach will create optical display issues that black out the edges of the frame. Only by repositioning the eyeball are we able to get back to centered and see the whole frame. It’s also less informative than I’d like. When operating outside of Program mode, there’s no indication in the viewfinder to show which aperture we’ve selected, and there’s no numerical indication of our relative focal length, which would be helpful since this directly influences how fast our aperture can be.

The film frame counter and flash mode display sit on the top of the camera in the form of LCD screens. These aren’t illuminated, which makes information gathering at night a total nightmare. In low light it’s nearly impossible to see whether or not we’re using exposure compensation, or which flash mode we’re using, or how many frames we’ve shot without looking through the viewfinder (exposure comp and flash mode are displayed here, but only incompletely).

The manual focus mode is acceptable, but I dislike using it. Essentially we spin a focus-scale-marked thumbwheel and set it to the distance to our subject. Then a half-press of the shutter release button will display a dot if we’ve set the correct distance, or a left or right arrow to show we need to adjust focus until the dot illuminates. It feels a bit clumsy in the same way that the Contax G series cameras’ manual focus systems feel clumsy, but it works. Since, for me, it is a slower method, I just use the AF.

Autofocus is fast and effective. While not as quick as later Contax T series cameras and certainly leisurely compared with modern AF, the Contax TVS achieves focus quickly and accurately in most situations. There’s an Infrared Focus Assist for shooting in low light, and this works well, too. Simply set the subject in the middle of the frame, then half-press the shutter and watch for the focus status lights (a dot illuminates to show focus has been successfully achieved, while an arrow flashes if the subject is too close). In the event that the camera can’t achieve focus, two arrows will flash (this happens very rarely).

The metering system shares its lock methodology with the autofocus system. A half-press of the shutter release button activates the center-weighted metering system and locks exposure, after which we’re able release the shutter or to recompose and shoot as desired. This system is accurate to a nearly perfect success rate.

Shutter release is near-silent and, more importantly, so is film advance. Some automated point-and-shoots have criminally loud film advance motors. This one, like the G series, is perfect for subtle shooting.

Manual aperture control is engaged by spinning a stiffly clickable ring at the base of the zoom lens. By rotating away from the Program mark, we deactivate Program mode and activate the aperture-priority mode. Now we’re free to select whatever aperture we like in single-stop increments. Just beyond this aperture dial is the manual zoom control. I love this tabbed ring, which doubles as an On/Off switch, and swings through a concise range to zoom or widen the Vario-Sonnar in a single, smooth sweep.

When flash is required, an indicator blinks in the viewfinder. The flash works well, and is balanced and controlled. With options for fill-flash, red-eye-reduction, and the ability to turn the flash off completely, the TVS can do its thing in any light (or lack thereof). The aesthetics of on-camera flash photography can be polarizing – some people love the look and some hate it. With the Contax TVS, I’ve found ways to make it work for me.

Image quality from the Vario-Sonnar is excellent in nearly all cases, but flawed in certain specific instances. There’s pretty heavy vignetting when shot with the aperture wide open. This light falloff is especially heavy when shot at the wide end of the zoom range. This rectifies itself if we shoot at apertures from f/5.6 and smaller, or when we’re zoomed in even a little bit (which may come from the maximum aperture closing as we travel the zoom range). There’s also very minor distortion on the far edges of the frame, only prevalent at the wide end of the range. This likely won’t be noticed by anyone in the real world.

Beyond these few minor qualms, this camera creates excellent images. Shots are sharp and punchy, full of that amazing Zeiss micro contrast on which the German optics brand has built its reputation since before any of us were born. The T* coating does its typically exceptional work and mitigates flares and ghosts and chromatic aberration.

Final thoughts

For what it offers, the Contax TVS is the best Contax compact camera available right now. Its combination of image quality, performance, and versatility at least matches its fellow T series cameras. What truly tips the scales, however, is its surprisingly low price. Getting this much Contax for this little money is hard to beat, and until prices for the T2 and T3 fall, the Contax TVS is the only Contax compact that’s currently worth the price.

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The magnitude of Kodak successfully rereleasing a film like Ektachrome is huge. It’s also a milestone that, frankly, many of us never thought possible. When the staff here at CP first heard whispers of an Ektachrome revival, we were happy, but skeptical. We’d been through this before with other film projects. Big promises on social media to #keepfilmalive, the flashy promotional campaign, the buzzworded crowdfunding, and the whole load of nothing that happens afterwards. For more than a year we heard just a few intermittent reports that Ektachrome was still coming. But we were entirely ready to be disappointed again.

When I walked out the doors of my local camera store holding an actual roll of new Kodak Professional Ektachrome E100, I was astonished. Those crazy folk from Rochester actually did it, I thought. They revived slide film.

The rerelease of Ektachrome was an important moment in the revival of film as a popular photographic and artistic medium, so we decided to give it some time before writing our impressions of the new emulsion. For the past six months, the entire CP staff has been shooting this film to get a complete picture of what it is, and how it fits in the age of film revivalism. Here’s what we’ve found.

What is the new Ektachrome

Ektachrome E100 is an E-6 process slide film, the most endangered of all film species. Once the creme-de-la-creme of all color film, E-6 slide film was hit the hardest by the digital revolution. Mounted slides of family vacations churning through the mechanical teeth of a projector were replaced by online photo sharing services. Professional fashion and editorial photographers abandoned the laborious process of shooting and developing slide film for the infinitely quicker and easier to use digital files. The neighborhood labs that developed everyone’s film naturally abandoned the E-6 process as fast as demand would allow.

Today, slide film is kept alive by the most hardcore of hardcore film shooters who love it for its high-risk, high-reward nature. They’ll gladly trade hard work, mental toil, and untold amounts of disposable income for the rich, vivid, and true-to-life images only slide film can bring. I’d even say those same shooters enjoy the laborious process of shooting slide film because it is the very antithesis of the fast-paced, ephemeral nature of modern photography. If you like film photography, you’ll probably like slide film.

But like all the hardcore segments of any market, these slide film shooters are far outnumbered by casual, everyday shooters. It would seemingly make more sense for Kodak to introduce an easy-to-use, affordable color negative film, not a technically demanding, outdated, niche film. And yet, here we are.

The new Ektachrome is a daylight-balanced color transparency film, like the old Ektachrome. It’s a lower contrast formula to provide balance and a wide dynamic range, and it has a neutral tonal scale for greater color accuracy. Super fine T-grain keeps images smooth and suitable for scanning.

Shooting the new Ektachrome

Ektachrome E100 is no different from old school slide films in that it’s a difficult, inflexible film meant for the more experienced shooter (or at least one who has a reliable camera with an accurate metering system, and a general understanding of light). At ISO 100 it’s a slow film. Shooters used to pushing C41 or recovering highlights and shadows on badly exposed shots in post processing, as well as lovers of high-contrast lighting conditions, will be in for a rude awakening. Ektachrome doesn’t hesitate to blow highlights and crush shadows if exposure is a half stop off. Nor will it hesitate to throw your colors out of whack if incorrectly exposed by even small amounts.

A difficult film like Ektachrome needs a more experienced touch to be shot to its advantages. Ektachrome demands an intimate knowledge of how to meter for specific situations, or at least an incredibly accurate metering and autoexposure system, lest you end up with a horribly exposed shot. I would hesitate to trust this film inside a pure auto-exposure camera, and I would also be very careful while running this through an old meterless mechanical camera unless you have a good handheld light meter or a perfectly-trained eye for light.

All those worrying words spoken, best practices for shooting Kodak’s new Ektachrome are actually surprisingly simple. For people with experience, Ektachrome is easy. Shoot it at box speed and meter for mid-tones. Over-exposing by one stop will create color shifts, and over-exposing by more will destroy highlights. Under-exposing will kill contrast and color. Just shoot it at 100, and make sure you’ve got the right camera, lens, and light for a 100 speed film.

Image Quality and Character

What are the advantages of this troublesome film? Ektachrome’s technical data sheet notes a remarkable sharpness and a neutral, but rich color palette, which should result in a truer-to-life image compared with most C41 film. While this is objectively true, it only scratches the surface of what this film really is. Let’s dig a little deeper.

To get closer, let’s first take a tip from St. Thomas Aquinas and define this film in terms of what it is not. Despite its marketing as a professional film, Ektachrome is not the most capable, most accurate slide film on offer. That title still belongs to Fuji Provia 100F. Provia is a more versatile film because of its wider exposure latitude, and for my money, it’s a more accurate film when it comes to color balance. If pressed for a job that required an accurate color slide film, I’d choose Provia over Ektachrome. 

We could end it there, but measuring Ektachrome by the yardstick of sheer technical achievement is a mistake. In fact, I’d argue that technical achievement was never the point of Ektachrome to begin with. Ektachrome’s value doesn’t lie in the sheer majesty of its technical ability, but in the way it leverages that technical ability. For example, Ektachrome is incredibly sharp, but it still features a bit more grain than would be expected for a modern film. Ektachrome uses this to its advantage – images recall the older slide films that populated the pages of old National Geographic issues from the 1980s and 90s. These shots are super fine, but we can still tell they’re made on 35mm film.

An even bigger part of Ektachrome’s signature look is its color rendition. As stated before, its color balance is much more neutral than its color negative counterparts, but still falls a little short of the absolute neutrality of a film like Fuji Provia. It features a slight emphasis towards blue, which again is a signature of old school E-6 slide film. Ektachrome also features a signature color saturation and contrast that I’ve never seen with other films. The colors are deep, rich, and vivid, but never cartoon-esque as some C41 color films can be. Skin tones of any flavor are perfect, true-to-life. Looking at Ektachrome’s colors is like looking at a well-preserved painting by Titian himself, which makes most color offerings look like dime-store Fauvism by comparison.

All this being said, it’s a film that requires the right context and setting to succeed. I’d hesitate to recommend this film to run-and-gun street shooters, first for its lack of exposure latitude, and then because of its high saturation, which can unnaturally emphasize more incidental parts of a scene. This is a film that excels under controlled lighting, or with a slower, more careful style of shooting. It rewards patience and anticipation, precise subject placement, and an intimate understanding of color. Ektachrome also excels particularly well in diffused lighting, which tames its high contrast and saturation and lets details pop just a little bit more.

Final Thoughts

Ektachrome’s specificity makes it hard to place among other color films. It’s not a do-it-all film like Kodak Portra 400 or Fuji Pro 400H. It’s not even the cream of the crop professional tool like Fuji Provia 100F. If I had to place it anywhere, I’d place it close to Kodak Ektar in that it’s a bit of a character piece, even though it features a better overall color rendition than that film. But if I really think about it, Ektachrome stands alone.

I suppose that’s fitting – by all rights, Ektachrome shouldn’t even be here. Up until a few months ago it was all but certain that we’d be saying goodbye to E-6 slide film. Kodachrome fell in 2010. Fujifilm, though producing some of the best film in the game, keeps cutting film from their catalog like a bitter ex deleting every photo of you off of their phone. And even though film is experiencing a resurgence, it never looked like the difficult, strange pleasures of slide film would ever be attractive to new shooters, not to mention film manufacturers.

And yet, here we are with a newly manufactured but completely old-school film in Ektachrome. Even if it acts much like its old, outdated predecessors, people love this film, if not for what it is, then for what it represents. The reintroduction of Ektachrome represents a big vote of confidence from the world’s biggest film manufacturers, and bodes well for film photography as a whole. It ensures us that slide film, still an integral part of film photography, is preserved for the foreseeable future. Most importantly, it’s a sign that a big company like Kodak thinks that our weird little obsession with film is actually worth something. As somebody who loves film, that means everything.

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When I got my first proper film camera, a Cosina PM-1, for the grand total of £3 from a car boot sale, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I had one camera, one lens, and a couple of rolls of expired film. It quickly escalated from there, and though I cringe when I think of all the money I’ve since spent on photo gear, there are a few accessories I simply can’t live without.

Here are five must-have accessories for the film photographer. These items won’t be too surprising for anyone who’s been shooting film for a while, but for those just starting out, buy this stuff as soon as possible. You will thank me. They’ll improve your quality of life, make the process easier and faster, and (most important of all) make your photographs better.

A decent tripod

When experimenting with long exposures or shooting slow film in low-light conditions, a tripod is absolutely essential. There are plenty of people who will tell you that it’s important to have the most expensive, lightest weight carbon-fibre tripod. Don’t listen to them. Unless you’re regularly hiking up a mountain with your gear, a few ounces of extra weight to save a couple hundred bucks is worth the trade. In fact, for most uses a heavier tripod is better – more weight means less vibration, shake, and swaying in the breeze.

For ease of use, try to find a tripod with a longer tilt/pan handle on the head – this makes it much easier to maneuver. K&F Concept make good quality starter tripods, most with ball heads – unless your setup weighs over 3kg, one of these will see you right for most shooting situations. For heavier rigs, try the larger-scale aluminum tripods from Manfrotto. And if you’re looking to save money and don’t mind older gear, search eBay for a big-honking tripod. James, the site’s founder, uses a thirty-year-old Manfrotto tripod. It cost $30 and works great.

[Without James’ $30 tripod pictured below, Anthony couldn’t have made the photo to the right. In addition, the camera is fitted with a one-stop, center-weighted neutral density filter.]

Filters

There are a few types of filter I’d consider absolutely essential. If you’re a black-and-white shooter, an orange filter will darken skies and increase contrast – I never leave home without one.

For long exposure shots, to pair with the aforementioned tripod, a set of Neutral Density (ND) filters should also be on your list. “ND” stands for Neutral Density, and the purpose of these filters is to block light without impacting colour cast. ND filters come in “stops”, with a ten stop filter being darker than a two stop filter. These filters allow the photographer to make shots in lighting situations that would otherwise be impossible – for example, long exposures to smooth water in a landscape bathed in bright sunlight. The absolute top of the range are Lee’s Big Stoppers, but you needn’t break the bank – Cokin also make excellent filters, and as they’ve been making them for decades, are available second-hand too.

You should also consider buying a set of macro filters (we wrote about these here). With a high quality +10 filter, it’s possible to make stunning images without spending a lot of money or carrying the weight of another lens. These filters screw onto the front of any lens, just like any other filter, and act as a high quality magnifying glass. For under $20, you can make shots like the one below, which is close to the magnification we’d get from a dedicated macro lens (these can typically cost hundreds or thousands of dollars).

Made with a Minolta MD 50mm F/1.4 and a plus ten macro filter.

If, like me, you’ve ended up with lenses in various diameters, look for a filter set with a range of step-up adapter rings. These will allow you to mount larger diameter filters onto smaller diameter lenses, meaning you won’t have to buy duplicate filters for different lenses. Picking a filter set that’s compatible with Cokin’s A (ideal for smaller 35mm lenses) or P range (larger, for medium format lenses) means you can take advantage of the huge range of fun, creative filters too – starburst, anyone?

Notepad

When switching between different film stocks, cameras, or lens combinations, it’s essential to keep notes on what works, and what doesn’t. ShootFilmCo’s PhotoMemo books are perfect for this – with space to record the specifics about each roll, plus extra notes, it’s all you’ll ever need. Yes, you could record this on an app, or a regular notebook, but the PhotoMemo book is made for photographers, and it’ll never run out of batteries. They’re slim enough to fit in your pocket, too. Just don’t forget a pen!

Light meter

Being able to use an external light meter can open up a whole new range of cameras to you. Funky pre-war Soviet tank cameras, old Leicas, or bargain cameras that other people might pass over for not having a built-in meter – all of these can make perfectly exposed photos if you have access to a good light meter.

We’ve previously covered the Sekonic Flashmate L-308s, and it’s definitely my pick when it comes to getting the most bang for your buck. Before picking up an external light meter, I was using an app on my phone, which worked just fine, but was fiddly – after unlocking the phone, getting rid of notifications, getting distracted by Twitter, I’d usually lost my focus. Light meters can be a little confusing to get to grips with at first, but they’re worth the effort of learning – after a few rolls, you’ll be a natural.

Camera bag

Of all the recommendations on this list, a camera bag is the most personal choice. Backpack or messenger-style bag? Modern, black nylon or retro cool canvas? My recommendation would be to find a bag that will fit a camera body, two lenses, plus a few external pockets for the other bits and pieces you need to lug about day-to-day.

My preference is for messenger or satchel-style camera bags – I like being able to swing the bag around to access my gear without too much hassle. Consider whether you’ll need waterproofing, or a place to secure a tripod. Domke offer a range of messenger bags, with rugged, understated styling and well-considered finishing touches. They also offer a protective pouch, designed to protect your film from fogging while passing through airport x-rays – evidence that they have the interests of film photographers at heart!

Did we forget a crucial accessory that you won’t leave home without? Let us and our readers know about it in the comments.

You can shop for all of these accessories and more at B&H Photo

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“After a few weeks with a Pentax 50mm lens, I had the feeling of suffocating. I realized that I needed a wide angle. As soon as I had my Zeiss Flektogon, the world looked very different.” Words spoken by Joel Meyerowitz on the Flektogon, and how it completely altered his photographic vision.

During World War II there was a maxim amongst fighter pilots; if a plane looks good, it must fly well. I think that maxim applies equally to lenses. The early silver version of the Flektogon is a thing of beauty. The shiny barrel, the lovely engravings, the machining of its knurled focus ring; everything about the Flektogon screams German precision engineering. It feels right in the hands, the focus is smooth and buttery, and it’s a joy to use. It was one of the finest lenses ever made by Carl Zeiss Jena, and if you have the opportunity to buy one I would highly recommend you do so. I have compiled this guide to help you choose one. 

The Flektogon produced by VEB Carl Zeiss Jena was so successful in its various forms that it was in continuous production from its initial debut in 1950 until shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1990. It became the progenitor for a whole family of wide-angle lenses, however this article only deals with the first design of the lens, produced from 1950 to 1976. Today, this Flektogon is one of the most affordable Zeiss lenses that you can buy.

There’s debate amongst purists whether lenses produced by VEB Zeiss Jena in what was then East Germany are genuine Zeiss products compared to those produced in Zeiss Oberkochen in West Germany. But despite being separated by a big, dumb wall, both were genuinely Zeiss.  

The Flektogon (or “Flek” as it’s affectionately known) has a cult following because it offers outstanding image quality from its Zeiss glass, and in some models the ability to focus from 19cm to infinity, making it useful for an astoundingly diverse range of styles, from macro photography to portraits, landscapes to architectural shots. If you’re planning to travel and could only take one lens, then the Flektogon is an unbeatable choice.

The Genesis of the Modern Retrofocus Lens

The Flektogon and its brother the Angénieux retrofocus are the grandfathers of all modern wide-angle lenses, and prior to their invention in 1949, wide-angle lenses for 35mm film cameras simply didn’t exist. Their birth can be traced back to the days just after the end of World War II when the very first single-lens Reflex (SLR) pentaprism cameras, such as the Rectaflex and Contax S, hit the market. While SLR cameras would go on to revolutionize photography and become the dominant form of 35mm camera, in the early 1950s their invention created problems for lens designers. 

With his invention of the Biogon 35mm f/2.8 lens for the Contax camera in 1934 Ludwig Bertele had shown that lenses with an angle wider than 60 degrees were possible on a 35mm camera. However this type of lens was unsuitable for SLR cameras because they required a much longer flange focal distance (the distance between the lens mounting flange and the film plane). For example, the flange focal distance of a Leica rangefinder of the time was 27.8mm, whereas the flange distance on the Contax S camera was 44.4mm. Wide-angle lenses for SLR cameras required additional space for the internal reflex mirror, and the existing lens designs of the pre-SLR days could potentially hit the SLR’s mirrors, a problem that still exists to this day. 

The solution to both problems was solved by two companies at almost the same time, independently from each other, on separate sides of what was then the Iron Curtain. These were the team of Harry Zöllner and Rudolf Solisch at VEB Carl Zeiss Jena in what was then East Germany, and Pierre Angénieux at his own company in Paris. By 1950 they had both applied for patents for 35mm wide-angle lenses for 35mm SLR cameras. 

“For years lens makers had tried to produce a 35-mm wide-angle for the Exakta but had been stumped by one basic handicap. A lens of conventional design would require a long rear element that would have to penetrate deeply into the camera body, an impossibility with the Exakta because of the mirror. Etablissements Angenieux de Paris solved the problem with a startling idea-inverting the optical system of a telephoto lens so the lens does not penetrate deeply yet provides a short focal length. This idea produced the remarkable 35-mm Retrofocus with a 64° angle of view.” – Angénieux brochure 1952. 

While they both solved this dilemma, their methods were quite different. Except for the front meniscus element, Pierre Angénieux’s Retrofocus type R1 35mm f/2.5 was a five element Tessar in three groups, which was pretty standard for the time. Zöllner and Solisch’s solution was a more complicated Biometar type configuration, again increased by the added front element of considerable diameter with a large air distance from the rear elements.  

Neither Angénieux, Zöllner nor Solisch cannot be regarded as the inventors of the retro-focus lens, as they based their designs on the principle of the inverted telephoto lens which had been invented in 1931 for cine cameras by Horace W. Lee at Taylor, Taylor & Hobson (GB Patent 355,452 and US Patent 1,955,590).  However, they were both simultaneously the first to have created wide-angle lenses for 24×36mm format on 35mm SLR cameras. Because of the limitation of glass technology, coatings, angle of view and the oblique incident rays of light desired, creating wide-angle lenses has always been challenging. Credit must go to these men who achieved their solutions at a time before computer-aided design. 

Angénieux named his lens “Retrofocus” to indicate that the focus was shifted backward. This term was originally used by Taylor, Taylor & Hobson to refer to their inverted telephoto lens. Angénieux attempted to unsuccessfully trademark the term. It has now become a generic term for this family of lenses. 

Zöllner and Solisch at Carl Zeiss Jena dubbed their lens Flektogon, which originates from the Latin Flecto, a verb meaning ‘bend or curve’, and the Greek γωνία (Gonia) a noun meaning angle or corner. This naturally refers to the wide angle of view of this type of lens. The exact translation would be “Curved Angle” which very accurately describes what wide-angle lenses do with light.

Zeiss Oberkochen, in what was then West Germany chose to use the same retrofocus design. They dubbed their lenses Distagon, derived from “distance” and the previously mentioned Greek word for “angle,” (a wide-angle lens with a large distance to the image).

Angénieux retrofocus lenses are highly collectable, and very expensive, especially copies in rare mounts like the ALPA. But good working copies of the late model multi-coated Flektogon can be purchased for less than $100 USD. Some other famous retrofocus lenses are the Mir-1 B 37 mm F 2.8 (Soviet copy of the Flektogon), ISCO Westrogon 24mm f/4 lens, Voigtländer-Cosina Super Wide Heliar 15 mm f4.5, Konica Hexagon 17 mm f16 L39, and the Konica Hexanon AR 28 mm f3.5 AR.

Flektogon Models & Variations 

It can be confusing to read about the Flektogon on the internet due to the various models of the lens and the obscure (but important) differences between each. As I said in the introduction, this article only deals with the first iteration of the Flektogon which was produced from 1950 to 1976. It was succeeded by the 35mm f/2.4 Multi Coated Flektogon which has a very different optical formula. The image above only shows M42 mount variations, there were other variations in Exa – Exakta, Praktika, Praktina, and Werra mounts which look different, but are optically the same. The names of the variations, and version number vary widely, so I have tried to simplify the model variation names to make them easily identifiable, if any purists or historians are offended, I offer my apologies. 

Version 1.1 Silver/Alu (1952 – 1954) 

The very first Flektogon was produced by Carl Zeiss Jena in August 1949, and only 250 copies were produced, most likely to be used with the Contax S camera. The first production lenses were released in February 1952, which had twelve aperture blades, and were occasionally missing a front filter thread. Version 1.1 and 1.2 both have a full aluminum body, with a beautiful tulip shaped lens barrel. They also use a preset aperture ring indicated in catalogues at the time as N (Normal) or NB (NormalBlende). The system predates the automatic aperture system in the later version and is quite easy to use. You preset the desired aperture, then simply twist the ring to wide open at f/2.8, focus, and when you are ready, a quick flick of the ring closes the aperture to what you’d previously selected. 

Version 1.2: Silver/Alu (1954 – 1960)

The differences between this and the first version are almost imperceptible, the major one being the change from twelve aperture blades to nine. The weight is slightly heavier, and the minimum focus distance increases from 33cm to 36cm. If you are considering buying an early version, ask the seller how many aperture blades it has. In 1955 the Flektogon was recalculated, and a variant with the new calculation was sold, but only in Werra mount, which looks very different to the M42 versions. The twelve- and nine-blade early versions create a nicer Bokeh than the later six-bladed versions, but that has to be balanced with the fact they only have a single optical coating; the later f/2.5 version of the Flektogon offers multi-coating. 

Version 2: Gutta Percha (1961 – 1963)

A final recalculation took place in 1960, by Harry Zöllner and his team at Carl Zeiss Jena using OPREMA (OPtik Rechen MAchinery), the first workable computer built in the GDR (East Germany). This recalculation of the lens design was used in Version 2 released in 1961, and would remain the same until a completely new version of the Flektogon was released in 1978. The second version looks radically different from the first, having a metal and rubber, black and silver design. The distinctive focus ring with raised knobs was made of Gutta Percha, a rubber like product. This lens and the following versions were all automatic aperture, and have the small pin on the rear of the lens which connects to the camera body.  

Version 3: Zebra (1965 – 1975)

In 1965, a new version of the lens was released. This version is commonly referred to as the “Zebra” version. The same Zebra pattern can be found on some other cult lenses from Carl Zeiss Jena, such as the Flektogon 20mm f/4, Pancolar 50mm f/1.8, Sonnar 135mm f/3.5, and the ultra-rare 75mm Pancolar f/1.4, of which only 550 copies were made. This version and the final version are optically identical, only the design of the lens barrels is different.

Despite using the same optical formula, this version radically reduced the minimum focus distance from 36cm (14 inches) down to 18cm (7 inches). The minimum focus ability of this version of the lens is why the Flektogon has developed a cult following, and anyone that loves macro photography will be familiar with this version. Version 3 was produced in massive numbers, and quality control was good, meaning that good copies can be purchased relatively cheaply. If you want to experience the “Flek” at the best price, then this is the model I would recommend. I have a Version 1.2 Flektogon because I set out to collect a full set of Silver or Aluminum lenses, which appeal to me for aesthetic and historical (rather than practical) reasons. 

Version 4: Rubber Ring (1975 – 1976)

This is the rarest of all version of the first type of Flektogon, only being produced for one year, so prices reflect rarity and collector value rather than optical performance. Optically the design retains the recalculation done in 1960, but the lens barrel has been completely redesigned presaging the design of the next version of the Flektogon. Like the f/2.5 multi-coated version, the lens has an all-black body and rubber focusing ring, a design that became common on lenses from the 1970s up to the 1990s. 

Mir-1 37 mm f/2.8 1954 (Russian: Мир = World)

The optical formula of the Carl Zeiss Jena Flektogon was recalculated by D. S. Volosov in 1954 to be able to produce it with the glass that was available in the USSR. Volosov was the Soviet lens master at the Vavilov State Optical Institute, and is known as the Father of Soviet Optics. He discusses the Mir-1 in his book Photographic Optics 1978, on page 369.

“Mir-1 is an outstanding lens. We have developed it in 1954 on the basis of the optical scheme of Flektogon of Dr. Zöllner (GDR). Contrary to Flektogon, in which lanthanum heavy crowns are used, we used simple optical glass. Though we succeeded in more complete correction of the spherical aberration of higher orders and all chromatic aberrations in the region of the spectrum from G’ (l=434,1nm) to C (l=656,3nm), in particular the chromatic aberrations of the rays of wide oblique pencils, which led to an improvement in the overall image…”

The Mir-1 is a very good quality lens and won the Brusseles Grand Prix at the Expo 58 in Brussels in 1958, and lenses subsequently made by ZOMZ, are engraved “GRAND PRIX” Brussels 1958. But note that the prize at the Brussels World’s Fair was awarded to a set of lenses, not just the Mir-1.

In 1959, the lens was awarded a Diploma of the II degree of the USSR Exhibition of Economic Achievements. Interestingly, while the actual focal width of the Flektogon was only 37mm, only the Mir-1 was honest enough to state that. If you cannot afford an early silver version of the Flektogon, the Mir-1 is very cheap and widely available. It’s not a Soviet knock off as some disparagingly call it. It was produced under license from Carl Zeiss Jena, and is a very good quality lens. It’s also commonly available in black, which matches the look of modern digital cameras. 

How good is the Flektogon? 

The main reason the Flektogon has attained a cult following is for the close focus ability of the third and fourth versions, however all versions offer the same optical quality. I own the silver version, and while it may lack some of the ability of the later version of the Flektogon, it sure makes up for it in looks and feel. 

If you’re fan of street photography in 35mm, then follow the lead of Joel Meyerowitz and try shooting a Flektogon on black-and-white film. Perhaps like him it will solve for you the argument about whether 50mm or 35mm is better. Despite being known as a Leica shooter, it was a humble Pentax Spotmatic camera and a Flektogon lens that allowed Meyerowitz to discover his signature style of street photography. 

“I had gotten the Pentax with a 50mm lens on it. After about a month, I got so frustrated using it, though I knew nothing about lenses. I just kept feeling, “Oh, I’m too close!” So I went to a camera store and talked to a guy: “Everything’s too close, there’s no space in the picture.” He said, “You need a 35mm lens. So I bought a used 35mm Zeiss Flektogon lens with a screw mount, which could fit on a Pentax. It was incredible. It changed my life. A 35mm is virtually a 1:1 lens. If you stand someplace and look at something, it’s at the right distance, so you see what you get. It’s not closer or further away.” – Joel Meyerowitz 

However, the Flektogon is capable of a wide range of shooting styles macro, documentary, landcapes, travel, or even portraiture; so as I said earlier, it’s an ideal travel lens.

What’s Good 

As with all the early lenses from Carl Zeiss Jena these are beautifully crafted lenses, manufactured with excellent quality control. The ergonomics are good, and the lens is easy to use with a well-balanced, smooth focus. The version I own feel very solid, even a little heavy, giving it a feeling of quality and permanence. The only plastic is the lens cap.

Optically this first version of the Flektogon is surpassed by the later multi-coated f/2.5 variant, but what it lacks in ability it makes up for with character. There’s minimal distortion and center sharpness is excellent at all apertures.

On a digital camera the character of the lens gives images a film-like feel. Shooting on film I’d say it’s ideal for black-and-white; for color I would save the Flektogon for bright sunny days. There is some fall off and vignetting, but that adds some artistic imperfection, which is of course subjective. I love it. 

What’s Not 

The first version of the Flektogon may not appeal to all people, and it does lack some of the abilities of the next version, which was faster and had multi-coating. The vignetting is a result of the single coating, and much of the light being reflected off the front element, but a lot of that can be removed in post-production. I wouldn’t choose this lens for Bokeh, but then I don’t enjoy a 35mm focal length for portraits, so that’s not so much of a drawback for me. I mainly use it for scenery, street shooting, and landscapes in strong sunlight.

It definitely performs better stopped down, and f/5.6 to f/8 seems to be the sweet spot. I live in the tropics with very strong light, so the Flek performs well for me, but if you live somewhere where the light may not be as strong, you should consider the later model. The lens element is very close to being the frontmost extremity of the lens, and it only has a single coating, so I strongly advise using a lens hood. Pentacon 49mm lens hoods are commonly available, and cheap. However, If you’re looking for artistic flaring, then it’s perfect. Probably its weakest points are the lack of contrast wide open, and that it can struggle in low light. 

Acknowledgements 

I am indebted to the work of others in writing this article, and wish to offer my thanks to Marco Kröger, Dr. Hubert H. Nasse, Eberhard Dietzsch, Larry Gubas from the Zeiss Historica Society, Marco Cavina, Ilya Volkov at Moscow Optical Works, D.S. Volosov, Walter Owens of vintage-camera-lenses.com and Marek Fiser for providing lens images. 

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I’m on top of the mountain Kehlstein in Obersalzburg, Germany. Nestled about thirty minutes west of Salzburg and fifteen minutes east of the more famous Berchtesgaden, Obersalzburg has the dubious legacy of being the Alpine retreat of the top Nazi goons. In fact, the chalet on the peak of the mountain Kehlstein – formerly called the Eagle’s Nest – was a birthday present from the Nazi party to its Führer, whose name need not be written here.

Fortunately, the previous owner was relieved of the property by the “band of brothers” from the U.S. 101st Airborne Division. Today, the chalet is a destination for the hundreds of thousands of yearly visitors who make the harrowing bus trip up the mountain, and ride the astoundingly long elevator to the summit. As I sit on the patio of the restaurant there, I stare at my F4 and wonder about the exposed images inside.

There’s no shortage of outstanding views from the summit of Kehlstein. Turn to your left and you’ll see the mountains of Berchtesgaden National Park surrounding Germany’s cleanest lake, Konigsee. Turn to the right and on a clear day you can make out the skyline of historic Salzburg in Austria. As I look at these views, it’s about 10 a.m. and the late-morning hi-key sun is making the scene less than ideally lit. The first roll loaded into the F4 was CineStill 50D, which is about as slow a film as you can get, these days. 

And it proved to be too slow. For reasons beyond my photographic comprehension, my meter was showing unbelievably slow shutter speeds underneath intense lighting. Not wanting to walk away empty-handed, I sacrificed the roll and loaded a roll of Kodak Pro Image 100.

Only a few weeks before my trip, in July 2018, Kodak announced that it was bringing something called Pro Image 100 to the European market. This came after a trial period in the United Kingdom which Kodak judged to be overwhelmingly positive. The film must also have been well-received on the European continent, because just last month Kodak announced that Pro Image 100 would soon be (presumably) flying off of shelves in the United States. 

But just because it’s arriving in America in 2019 doesn’t make this film a spring chicken. Kodak Pro Image 100 debuted in 1997, making it older than the current iterations of Kodak’s Portra and Ektar lines. For more than twenty years it was a mainstay in Asian and South American markets.

What is Pro Image 100?

It’s important to note that despite what the packaging says, Kodak Pro Image 100 is not a professional film emulsion. At first it was the little things that made me wonder; the seemingly twenty-year-old images on the packaging, its spec sheet only having three curve charts instead of the four shown on the sheets of Kodak’s professional films. Then there was the conversation I had with a Kodak representative at Photokina 2018. When I asked him for a spec sheet for Pro Image 100, he responded with “No, and that’s actually not a professional film.”

I say all of this up front, but I don’t mean to imply that Pro Image isn’t a good film. In fact, I think it’s a really good film for what it is, and is capable of producing images packed with saturation and contrast. 

Kodak says that Kodak Pro Image 100 is intended for portrait and “social applications” (whatever that means). I interpret social applications to mean soccer games, barbecues, and bar mitzvahs. If this film is used for weddings, it would be in consumer point-and-shoots, not the camera of the wedding photographer. 

Curiously, the film’s literature calls the ISO 100 Pro Image a “medium-speed film” at the same time that it calls the ISO 200 Kodak Gold a “low-speed film.” The same literature also says that Pro Image 100’s printing characteristics are similar to those of Kodak Gold. It goes on to say that Pro Image 100 has good under-exposure latitude and can be stored in hot, humid climates, which was probably a selling point for its initial markets.

But beyond all the talk of pro or not, beyond the comparisons even, the film’s most attractive attribute is its price. A five-pack of Pro Image from my local store only costs 27 euros (about $30 US). The same amount of Ektar or Portra 400 would be 39 and 45 euros respectively ($43 and $50 US). That’s a considerable savings.

Check out the film’s specification sheet for additional technical data.

Shooting Pro Image 100

My experience with Pro Image – filled with snapshots taken on travels in Europe – definitely falls under the “social application” umbrella. The photos in this review were made with a Nikon F4, Nikon L35AF, and a Werra 1, and were all processed at a film lab. The majority of the images were shot at box speed or pushed one stop, with just a few exposed at ISO 50. 

A lot of the talk related to Pro Image is its supposed lack of grain. I’ve found that doesn’t bear out, both in chemical reality and real-world experience. Print Grain Index is a method of measuring the grain in a traditional photo print, in this case for a 4×6 inch print. The baseline is 25 units, which is the lowest amount visible to the human eye.

Among Kodak’s current low-to-medium speed color films, Portra 160 and 400 have 28 and 37 units respectively, and Ektar comes in at less than the threshold of 25. The number goes up with consumer films. Kodak Gold 200 is measured at 44 units with Ultramax slightly higher at 46. Pro Image fits in with the other consumer films at 43 units. These numbers are useful in a comparative sense, but when you add in the variables of the scanning process and the post-processing to correct it, the grain will be different than its index rating.

Few of my photos tried to test the film’s ability to reproduce skin tones, but the few I did take showed a normal reproduction, noticeably better than both Gold and Ultramax. Insomuch as sharpness can be measured (or matters), I didn’t see outstanding or lackluster characteristics. It’s suitably sharp for a film with its grain structure, and nowhere near as sharp as the similarly-rated Ektar.

I was ambivalent about my initial results with Pro Image 100. The film wasn’t a disappointment per se, but it didn’t stand out above many of the other consumer grade films that I’ve used. The images made the film feel like just another face in the crowd. 

That changed when I shot another roll at the Palace of Venaria in Italy’s Piedmont Region. Located near Turin, the palace was one of the many homes of the House of Savoy, whose throne ruled from 1003 to 1946. With sprawling gardens and a backdrop of the Italian Alps, it seemed a good opportunity for some photos. Pro Image was the only film in my bag, and with the sun low in the sky I opted to push the film to ISO 200.  When my images came back I was over the moon. Saturation was outstanding while sharpness was maintained. Grain was noticeably higher, but in a pleasing way that added to image.

It’s safe to say that among film profiles, warmth is the strength of Kodak film with coolness being Fuji’s wheelhouse. Greens and blues pop more with Fuji C200 and Fuji Pro 400H and reds pop more with Gold or Ektar. But the images of Venaria’s gardens tell a different story. Here Kodak was asserting a claim to outstanding green and blue reproduction. The reds of peppers popped, the greens of leaves and stems balancing their intensity. The blues of the ponds weren’t muddy and helped accent the white of the swans swimming atop. 

Another advantage of Pro Image when compared to other consumer films is in its shadows. While it’s not going to hold a lot of shadow information, the film also doesn’t seem to blow apart or get noisy in post production. Shadow information may be in small supply, but the blacks are smooth and don’t cause any distraction.

Final thoughts

It’s hard not to recommend Kodak Pro Image 100, especially to shooters on a budget that want try their hand with low-speed films. It’s not as cheap as Gold 200 and doesn’t even come close to Ektar’s sharpness or lack of grain, but it makes up for it by being a combination of both of those films at a very attractive price. 

Consumer films were originally created with the intention of doing a lot of things in an acceptable way. They’re the films that parents load into their do-it-all point-and-shoot zooms to capture memories without a lot of work. But beyond their meat-and-potatoes utilitarianism, they allow the shooter to experiment and try new methods without going broke in the process.

For me, that experimentation was with saturation. Feeling burned out on overexposed dreamy pastels, I wanted to make some photos with an almost savory saturation. This film gave me that in spades. I think Kodak Pro Image 100 could satisfy a lot of needs for a lot of modern day film photographers. And with the film’s affordability and its new availability in North America, I predict it will do just that.

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While many cameras have gone from unknown to idolized as a result of the film renaissance, the Contax T2 stands shoulders above the competition. In terms of the sheer hype it has received in the past decade, no film camera can match it. And the effect that hype has had on the prized titanium point-and-shoot’s price has been equally unmatched. 

The Contax T2 entered the mainstream cultural stratosphere in 2017 when supermodel Kendall Jenner used the camera to snap photos of Jimmy Fallon live on primetime television. This moment announced to the world of 2017 that film was officially back in style. More than that, it announced that the Contax T2 must be the coolest film camera of them all. Millennials have coveted the Contax T series ever since. No wonder I ended up buying one. 

But the real question is whether or not the camera lives up to the hype, and more importantly, the astronomical price that it now commands. 

I used the Contax T2 extensively during 2018, taking it to Lake Como and documenting England’s unforgettable World Cup run, which happened to coincide with a vintage summer in terms of weather. 

From the first moment that I held the Contax T2, it was clear that it’s not the average point-and-shoot. Clad in titanium, cold to the touch, and featuring well-damped controls, the camera instantly inspires confidence. Even its battery cover is a milled disc of solid metal (the T2 uses one CR123 battery). Very few point-and-shoots are made of metal, with titanium even rarer. Plastic is ubiquitous in this film camera segment, which may help to explain why the Contax T2 has stood out from the competition since its introduction in 1990. I had to work hard to resist the temptation to snap random photos for no reason other than to hear the beautiful mechanisms of the shutter and automatic film advance spring to action.  

The camera’s superior build quality may be the first thing we notice about the T2, but it’s the array of manual controls that arguably set it apart from most of its peers. Its manual aperture control, manual flash engagement (no more awkward exchanges with strangers as a result of a candid botched by unintended flash), and exposure compensation are all features that certain Contax T2 users will eventually take for granted. The T2 adds to this concise feature set a manual focus capability.

While these manual controls are nice to have, they are by no means perfect. I rarely used the manual focus beyond setting the camera to infinity for landscapes, and it was too fiddly to use for fast action. With a rather long close-focusing distance of 70 cm (20 inches), focusing on up-close subjects is also a challenge. The snappy autofocus of the camera means that a sub-standard manual focus mode isn’t a dealbreaker.

The aperture control is flawed as well, since the f/2.8 setting actually activates program mode, meaning that you cannot intentionally shoot the camera wide open when the camera’s metering system decides light conditions are too bright for f/2.8. The aperture ring, located around the tiny retractable lens barrel, is a bit small and offers no protruding grip. This makes aperture adjustment a minor challenge. Lastly, the exposure compensation dial is a recessed crater that requires the shooter to jam their finger into the crater and twist. While this keeps the entirely flat top-plate free of protrusions (good for portability), it makes using exposure compensation an unpleasant haptic experience.

The viewfinder is somewhat informative. It shows the camera’s set mode (program or aperture-priority, flash mode, focus lock, etc.), and the shutter speed at which the camera will fire. This last data set is limited to just a few shutter speeds displayed in LED. Speeds under 1/30th of a second are shown by an “L.T.” displayed in LEDs. A flashing “L.T.” indicates that the light is so low that the camera’s enabled bulb mode.

The big flaw in the VF is in its diminutive size. This is a typical point-and-shot viewfinder – a tiny window that blacks out whenever our eyeball isn’t pressed directly and aligned perfectly. It’s not a bad viewfinder, for a point-and-shoot, but it’s also nothing that sets the Contax T2 apart from any other point-and-shoot.

All of the creative freedom that these manual controls allow would be moot if the resulting images weren’t worth their salt. Luckily, the Contax T2 possesses a pretty incredible lens.

The Carl Zeiss Sonnar 38mm F/2.8 with T* coating of the Contax T2 is a five-element optic that provides outstanding color rendition and clarity. The lens delivers medium contrast negatives with only a hint of vignetting and no major aberrations to speak of. This results in organic images bursting with character – the sort of image that had caused me to fall in love with film photography in the first place.

Bokeh is subjective, but the T2 produces out-of-focus elements that could be described as “just barely out-of-focus” at the best of times, though it’s not an unpleasant effect when focusing up-close.

The Contax T2’s Sonnar lens is right there with the best SLR and Leica M lenses available, which goes some way toward explaining the massive prices that the Contax now commands. During my holiday in Lake Como I also shot my beloved Leica M4. Equipped with a Zeiss ZM 35mm 2.8, it performed beautifully. This is no surprise. What was surprising was just how closely the Contax matched the image quality from this much larger Leica kit. Knowing that your little travel camera provides both portability and photographic punch is hugely confidence inspiring, and may help to embolden shy photographers into pursuing photos outside their comfort zone (street, I’m thinking). 

Although it had a size advantage over the Leica M with which I was also traveling, the Contax T2 is by no means a tiny camera. It’s small, for sure, but not tiny. While it may be ideal for sauntering around the Italian peninsula, the camera tends to bulge out of most jean pockets, making it suboptimal for everyday carry. Though some argue that the image quality and manual features of the T2 justify its larger size, I find this argument problematic. I have since acquired the comparatively microscopic Contax T, which is a much more manageable size for a pocket camera that also retains the amazing Zeiss lens, and improves on the manual controls of the T2 (it’s a true rangefinder with manual focus, aperture controls).  

To me, a point-and-shoot should be a do-everything sort of camera for those in-between moments such as a walk in the park, where a Leica M would be overkill. If your point-and-shoot is large enough to make you weigh up taking a larger camera, or consider leaving it at home altogether, then it has failed in its primary objective. Before I sold it, I ended up leaving the T2 at home on numerous occasions due to its size. 

Because my Contax T2 stayed at home more often than not, the camera inevitably competed with larger machines like the Leica, at which point the subject of price and value became impossible to ignore.

Unlike mechanical film cameras which are readily available today for a fraction of the price, the Contax T2 relies on aging electronics to function. This means that while it matches the price tag of a Leica M, the Contax T2 certainly doesn’t share that camera’s reparability. One large drop onto concrete or two splashes of water could leave turn the owner from a photographer into the owner of the world’s most expensive paperweight. In this regard, a Leica can be considered a safer investment as it can at least be repaired, should the worst happen. Film cameras should be enjoyed, not babied. Unfortunately, the cost of the Contax means that the former is not possible without the latter. 

I don’t mean to bash the Contax T2. I shot dozens of rolls with it during my trip to Italy and throughout the sweltering summer of 2018, and it made great images. The Sonnar lens is simply superlative, nearly unmatched in the point-and-shoot world. However, when I got the opportunity to trade it for the much smaller Contax T, I jumped at the chance and haven’t looked back since. 

Although the Contax T2 has unrivaled pedigree, the value proposition just doesn’t bear out. For me, it’s not small enough to take everywhere comfortably, not cheap enough to be disposable in the event of a breakdown, and while it has an amazing lens, this doesn’t outbalance its functional limitations and too high price. The Contax T2 is a great camera, victimized by hype.

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A little more than one year ago, while preparing to emigrate to Europe, I decided to put together a proper kit that could shoot nearly any type of photo. I settled on a Nikon F100 SLR camera, the AF Nikkor 24mm f/2.8D, the Nikkor 85mm f/1.8D, and the 50mm f/1.8D. This comprised a D-series lens lineup spanning the focal lengths I most often shot. One year later only one of these lenses remains an indispensable part of my camera bag; the Nikkor 24mm.

My choice of Nikon’s AF-D lenses over their more expensive, premium lens ranges was a practical one. Not only are these lenses (typically) light and small, making them perfect for traveling, but they’re also much more affordable than their counterparts in the Nikon AF-S and G series. But most critical of all, the AF-D lenses have physical external aperture rings.

Because of that, they are compatible with many more Nikon film cameras than are the newer and more expensive lenses. This almost universal compatibility was the key deciding factor when it came to choosing AF-D lenses, and it makes the series a perfect choice for those of us shooting digital and film Nikons. With AF-D lenses, I can just as easily attach any of these lenses to a DSLR like my D850 as I can to my film SLRs the F4 and F2, and they’ll work equally well.

A History of Nikon’s 24mm f/2.8

Nikon’s first 24mm f/2.8 Nikkor lens debuted for the F mount in 1967. It was a manual focus lens with nine elements in seven groups, and was single coated until Nikon’s coatings were upgraded in 1972. In 1977, an improved AI version (auto-indexing for cameras with built-in metering systems) was introduced with a nine elements in nine groups design. An AI-S version soon followed in 1981, equipping the 24mm with an aperture that could be controlled by the camera body (to be used on cameras with program and shutter priority modes). More details on the differences between pre-AI, AI, and AI-S lenses can be seen here.

The next big change came in 1986 with the first 24mm autofocus Nikkor. While the lens used the same metal and glass construction on the interior and lens mount, the shell of the lens was now a less impressive plastic. In 1994 Nikon added distance encoding to the lens and upgraded its build quality. The lens now had the ability to measure the distance to the subject, information it sent to the camera to assist with metering for flash.

Nikon continues to sell the manual focus AI-S and the autofocus versions of the lens in 2019. 

Build Quality

The AF Nikkor 24mm f/2.8D has the same nine elements in nine groups construction that has been used since 1977, along with multi-coating and a floating element for close-range correction. Its seven straight aperture blades open up from f/22 to a maximum speed of f/2.8.

Despite being a small lens and weighing just above nine ounces, it doesn’t feel cheap or insignificant. It’s heavy enough to convey the quality of its parts, but light enough to be unnoticeable in a camera bag. The shell is plastic, but not cheap, thin plastic. Manual focus is controlled by a rubber ring below the filter thread and spins through infinity to a close-focus distance of 0.3 meters. Focus throw is about 90 degrees, and since autofocusing is done mechanically, it’s not especially quiet. The lens will extend slightly when focused. A distance scale rests between the lens badging along with a depth-of-field scale with f/11, f/16 and f/22 markings.

By the time my AF-D version was made, long gone were the days of the manual focus Nikkors and their silky rings that glide into place like butter on toast. The aperture ring on my AF-D is similarly lacking compared to the older models. If there’s one very minor criticism I have with AF-D lenses, it’s their stubborn, harsh aperture rings. The 24mm is no exception. As with many of the modern variations of AF-D, the ring also allows for locking when stopped down to f/22 for wheeled aperture control on more modern cameras.

The AF Nikkor 24mm f/2.8D sells new today for $392, and an excellent copy can fetch between $250 and $350 on the used market. Off the shelf new, it’s substantially (and counter-intuitively) less expensive than the $537 manual-focus AI-S version, which contains the exact same optics.

Lens performance

The lens pitches sharpness right down the middle throughout the f-stop range. There’s corner softness at f/2.8, which is drastically reduced by f/4 and gone at f/5.6 and beyond. Sharpness doesn’t improve after f/8, and images become softer due to diffraction at f/22. Because I’m almost always using this lens for landscapes, I live in the f/5.6-11 range and have always been happy with the sharpness in my images.

Similar to the sharpness rating, there’s a good amount of vignetting at f/2.8. This decreases at f/4 and is barely noticeable by f/5.6. Noticeable distortion tends to depend on the angle of the photo – it will be highlighted when the subject is photographed from an angle, and minimal when shot straight on. 

It seems strange that Nikon would ship this lens without a lens hood included, an especially egregious omission since this flare magnet certainly needs a hood. The HN-1 lens hood fits, but is sold separately. 

Wide angle lenses aren’t designed with bokeh in mind. Shooting with a 24mm lens, it’s a challenge to actually get a background out of focus. And when that does happen, you’ll wish it hadn’t. Bokeh is nervous and suffers from outlining that turns beautiful bubbles into schizophrenic amoebas. If bokeh quality is a real factor in your 24mm lens selection, this Nikkor won’t make the grade.

Like any neurotic buying something expensive, I do my best to overanalyse every single aspect of every possible purchase. But when it really comes down to it, I’ll either like the images a lens produces, dislike them, or (worst of all) be indifferent to them. 

In my year with the lens, I was consistently happy with the images I made with it. I liked everything from its color rendering and contrast to its sharpness and distortion. Before buying it, I mostly shot with a 35mm lens because it was close to what my eye really saw. Now I’m using a lens with a focal length that brings additional personality.

It’s easy to correct the imaging flaws of the lens in post-production, but I had done enough of that working in corporate photography. These days, I lean into the lens’ “issues.” To my surprise, some of my favorite images I’ve made with the lens are vertical landscapes that became more dramatic because of its drastic convergence and inherent distortion.

Final Thoughts and Consumer Advice

To know if this lens is worth buying, it’s worth considering Nikon’s two other 24mm lenses, which both have faster maximum apertures. The faster Nikkor 24mm f/1.8G is twice the price of the AF-D version and weighs more by one third. The even faster Nikkor 24mm f/1.4G costs almost $2,000, more than quadruple the price of the AF-D, and it comes in at more than double the weight. The obvious winner for those who value money and lightness, is the AF-D.

Even for those who aren’t concerned about their budget or their backs, I’m really pressed to find a serious advantage in either of the other Nikkor 24s. Certain performance measures will be marginally better in the G lenses, but not enough to justify the additional costs, especially with the f/1.4 lens. It’s also worth noting that both G series lenses will present limitations on cameras made prior to the F5, since they don’t have external aperture rings. With some cameras they’ll only be usable in program or shutter-priority mode; with others they can only focus manually. 

As far as speed is concerned, I would be truly amazed if anyone could think of a real world use of f/1.4 on a 24mm lens. I seldom go as low as f/2.8 on mine and have never wished for more speed in real-world shooting.

Comparing this to zooms with 24mm in their range would be a false equivalency. But I will say that while I miss having an 80-200mm f/2.8 every single day, I’ve never missed having a 24-70mm. When I did have one, I found that I typically stayed near 24mm. I’m happy to pack this little lens and sacrifice the convenience  to lose the weight of a zoom.

It should be obvious at this point that I really like this lens. My appreciation is somewhat clinical and practical. The AF Nikkor 24mm f/2.8D isn’t a lens that’s wrapped in legend, as are so many of the special lenses we write about on this site. There’s no romantic backstory and it wasn’t made to be a personification of its designer. There’s no single optical feature that makes it stand out. Instead, it does a pretty good job at everything, and it goes about it in a quiet, modest way.

It’s a product of the designs of the late eighties, which allows it to travel incognito today. Along with the other AF-D lenses, the 24mm slips by unnoticed. Riding the wave of Nikon’s first autofocus lineup, it was born straddling two eras of camera technology and allows today’s Nikon photographers to co-exist in both media. It’s not as fast as Nikon’s newer 24mm lenses, and it lags behind in lab tests. But if you’re looking for an affordable wide-angle Nikkor to travel with, the Nikon AF Nikkor 24mm f/2.8D could be the lens for you.

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Two years ago we tried to help budget-conscious photographers by publishing a list of excellent but affordable rangefinder cameras. Today, as more and more people begin to understand the historical importance and to appreciate the functional brilliance of old cameras, prices for the most in-demand models continue to rise. The result of this rightful market correction is that some of the affordable cameras in that original article have now become unaffordable for new shooters.

To help the cash strapped photo geek of 2019, we’ve compiled a new list of five additional rangefinders that still offer an excellent shooting experience on a shoestring budget. 

Canon Canonet 28

I’m not above admitting when I’m jealous. In this instance, it’s because so many of my fellow CP writers have gotten the chance to write about the Canonet GIII QL17, while I have not. I consider the QL17 one of a very select group of perfect cameras. It’s almost certainly the most interesting camera Canon has ever produced. The only flaw in this majestic machine is its use of now-illegal mercury batteries, which I assume helps keep its market value reasonable. But to avoid talking about it again, I’ll choose a different, and much more affordable rangefinder from Canon – the Canonet 28. 

Within the Canonet family, the Canonet 28 is the pared down, budget-friendly little brother to the faster “quick loading” or QL models. Its 40mm lens was slower than the others with a maximum aperture of f/2.8 (compared to f/1.9 or f/1.7). It was also less complicated optically, with fewer elements, and used a Seiko LA rather than Copal SV shutter. But what it surrenders in prestige it gains in simplicity. Just choose the desired aperture (or the Automatic function) and shoot. As Drew noted in his review of the camera, the Canonet 28 produces well-exposed images with center sharpness and great contrast. 

The Canonet 28 isn’t the same camera as the GIII QL17. It’s designed for a different shooter with a different budget. Despite that, it retains many of the most important characteristics of the Canonet line, notably solid construction, compactness and a good focusing system. Most important to this particular article, it’s the best and cheapest Canonent.

Argus C3

Seldom have the words “Made in America” graced a camera body. Beyond Polaroid’s famed SX-70 and the Graflex Speed Graphic, competitive, traditional camera companies just never took root in the United States. Even giant American manufacturers, like Kodak, contracted their camera production to firms in Germany and Japan.

But there are still opportunities for photographers (especially the historical-minded) to “buy American.” One such opportunity is the Argus C3, a rangefinder whose simplicity of design and operation led to it being given nicknames like “the lunchbox” and “the brick.”

And it’s a brick alright – a simple rectangle of metal and bakelite with a lens stuck on for good measure. The “brick” moniker specifically makes me wish it had been named the C4, because looking at it makes me think it could easily blast open a bank vault.

But as James said in his review of the C3, there’s more to the Argus than meets the eye. It was an achievement for the era in which it lived, sporting a coupled rangefinder and interchangeable lenses. Both of those features are taken for granted now, but in the 1930s and ‘40s, they were a marvel in such an affordable camera.

The C3 can’t be recommended as your daily shooter, or your only rangefinder. It’s a bit too slow and a bit too clunky, and finding one in perfect condition will be tough. But we do think it’s a camera that every film photographer should own. It’s a camera that forces its owner to examine the photographic world from a different perspective. While it is certainly capable of making wonderful images, their final wonder is partially due to the experience of making them. 

Fed 5b, Zorkis, and Other Soviet Rangefinders

Uncle Sam may not have produced many cameras, but Uncle Ivan sure did. Despite their spotty reputations for quality and reliability, cameras made in the former Soviet bloc offer photographers outstanding cost savings in almost every single camera category. This includes rangefinders, which factories such as FED in the Ukraine and KMZ in Russia turned out in abundance.

I didn’t choose a specific model of Soviet rangefinders, because you’re generally guaranteed a cheap price with whichever one you choose. If you’re someone who relishes walking uphill both ways, then I recommend the FED 5b, which I wrote about last year. FED started out making copies of better cameras from Leica, first turning the Leica II into the FED 1. Later models would move away from direct plagiarism and become better representations of the stresses of a planned economy. While an occasional copy will suffer from quality control issues, all Soviet rangefinders benefit from the interesting glass they carry. These bubble bokeh wonders produce great saturation and personality.

Zorki rangefinders are another option from the Land of Lenin. These were made in the same factory as the famous Zenit line of SLRs and Horizon panorama cameras. Zorkis are some of the most beautiful cameras made behind the Iron Curtain, especially domestic models using Cyrillic script.  

A fair warning; the cost savings of a FED or Zorki camera are often offset by the shooting experience, which is frequently marked by frustration brought on by light leaks, an ornery film advance system and a painful focusing process. But if you’re willing to overlook those hazards, you’ll have a machine capable of producing great images for very little cost. 

Ricoh 500G

On its surface there’s nothing outstanding about the Ricoh 500G. It’s plain, slow and there’s very little about it that makes it stand out above any other similar camera. But as Dustin said in his review, picking one up is like finding the “quaint alleyways and lesser-known pathways” of Rangefinder City.

The 500G offers semi-automatic and manual shooting modes. For beginners, this lowers the barrier of entry by making it a camera that gets off the ground quickly while offering learning opportunities down the road. Its 40mm f2.8 Rikenon lens isn’t the stuff of legends, but it’s indistinguishable from Canon’s 40mm lenses at f/8 and makes a great companion on family outings or as a street shooter. 

From its average viewfinder, mixed ergonomics, passable focusing and obsolete battery, the 500G towers over few other cameras. But if you’re someone who places importance on affordability, the 500G will exceed your expectations with its sharp design, high usability and compact size.

It doesn’t pop up online as much as the other cameras on this list, but when it does it’s priced to sell. Find one from a reputable seller and make sure it’s tested and working (these cameras suffer some reliability issues), and either make sure the light seals are replaced or be prepared to replace them yourself (a simple and cheap operation). One last tip – the Ricoh 500G was also sold as the Sears 35 RF, which means that in 1978 you could have purchased it with a new set of radial tires and a pair of husky jeans.

Yashica Lynx

It might be hard to remember now, but there was a time when the Yashica name wasn’t a groan-inducing joke. Before the days of their hugely-successful Kickstarter that introduced the abomination of the “digiFilm” camera to disappointed backers everywhere, Yashica was a lauded camera manufacturer responsible for a number of fantastic cameras and some amazing lenses.

The most famous Yashica rangefinder is the Electro 35 GSN, which Josh included in our original affordable rangefinder list from two years ago. That camera was famous for its excellent lens, ease of use, and for being an everyday carry of Spider Man. Yes, it’s still an affordable choice for budget-minded photographers, but we hate to repeat ourselves, so I’ll choose another – the Yashica Lynx 14.

It’s hard to find a bigger rangefinder south of medium format film anywhere. The Lynx 14 weighs in at 30 ounces, thanks to its dominating Yashinon 45mm f/1.4 lens – which makes it one of the fastest fixed-lens rangefinders ever made. It also has a Copal SVE leaf shutter with a range from 1 second to 1/500 of a second. Since the shutter is inside the lens, shutter sound is barely audible and there’s virtually no camera shake at even slow speeds, making this a good street camera.

While there are a number of variations in the Lynx line, the 14E is probably the best of the bunch. A purely mechanical camera with a coupled rangefinder, frame lines and parallax compensation, it also has a CdS metering system that will indicate over- or under-exposure.

You have to give to get, and the Lynx’s toll comes in the form of its tiny focus patch that can be hard to use in bright light and extremely difficult in poor lighting. It’s also, as mentioned, a pretty hefty machine. But the price is right. The Lynx sold for for $160 in 1968 and can be found for less than that today. You’ll be able to find it much cheaper if you’re willing to slug it out in antique stores and flea markets. I found mine there for $25.

Even though the film camera market has corrected after three decades of being depressed, there are still fantastic deals to be found. It’s still possible to buy a professional-level film camera that will last (literally) a lifetime for under $200, and that’s pretty amazing. Many of the rangefinders on this list can be found for under $50.

Lastly, we know that some of our dedicated readers are among the most knowledgeable photo geeks on the planet. If any of you have suggestions for cheap, reliable, and capable rangefinders, let the rest of us know in the comments.

We hope this helps. Happy hunting.

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I remember the little Italian-made camera my father gave me when I was seven or eight years old. I didn’t know it was Italian at the time. I’m not sure I even knew what “Italy” was. But the camera I remember. It was mostly silver and black, and had a shoelace for a camera strap, and the film was a paper-backed roll and had to be loaded carefully or it would unroll itself and be ruined, and film was expensive. Or at least my father instilled that particular fear into me at an early point of my photographic adventure. My father did the film loading and unloading. What I did with the camera in between these two events was up to me. 

The camera, I know now because I still have the thing, was a Bencini Comet S that fed on 127 film. Because nostalgia is a powerful drug, I’ve recently asked TheInternet if it would care to share with me a source for 127 film. TheInternet laughed at me. It would appear Amazon’s singular failing is that it’s not a source for film that hasn’t been made in twenty-three years. That doesn’t lessen my disappointment in Amazon. I pay for a Prime membership, I expect better. 

Maybe it’s best that I can’t easily get film for this camera. Maybe the memory of it is better than the reality. I still have (somewhere, I think, in a shoe box) prints captured by the Comet. There’s a picture of my Uncle’s Golden Retriever wearing a cowboy hat, and of my cousin as a toddler, and there was even a great photograph taken of whales or dolphins flying through the air at SeaWorld in Florida, a common destination for my family during the spring breaks of my youth. At least I think these were the photographs I took. I can’t find them either. 

One of the few photos that I could find that I made with the Bencini. I was ten years old. As a kid raised in a small, one employer town in midwestern Ontario, I had never seen a pink flamingo, so when on vacation in Florida I was amazed by a real life pink flamingo. And thus documented the event.

Photographs are memories, or representations thereof. They transport us through time and space to remind us of the good times, of how skinny we were, of where we spent a few days in March of 1980. In this case, the missing photographs themselves are a memory. They’ve become a memory of a memory, reinforced by the memory of a moment spent staring at small, glossy, black-and-white squares containing images slightly blurry because, well, the Comet S has a stiff focus ring that was hard for a young kid to deal with, assuming he even remembered that “focusing” was a thing. 

Another feature of the Bencini Comet S was the film advance dial; a knurled aluminum knob standing proud on the right side of the body that you turned (if you remembered) between exposures, just far enough so that the number printed on the film’s paper backing identifying the next frame was visible through the little red portholes in the back of the camera body. The shutter was always live, and double or triple exposures were common. And there was no indication of shutter speed. 1/60th of a second? Maybe. That’s about as good a guess as any.

Truth be told, it was a shit camera. There was no ISO setting, no shutter speed control, no light meter, or aperture adjustments. There was only a poor excuse for a focus ring, and no focusing mechanisms in the viewfinder to let you know you’d done a good job of focusing. You just hoped the scale on the focus ring was relatively correct, and that you could judge distances with some semblance of accuracy. The viewfinder was nothing but a vague rectangular-ish hole on the front of the camera fed by the smallest of circular eyepieces on the back, with a suggestion of framing that amounted to “best guess.” 

Yeah, it was a shit camera but it’s where I started. And I still have it, for better or for worse.

What the Comet did do successfully, was foster an interest in photography that eventually led to my father letting me use his prized Pentax Spotmatic, and that experience with the Spotmatic lead to a level of brand loyalty and sense of devotion that I didn’t fully comprehend the first time I spent my own hard-earned cash on a camera. That was a 35mm Pentax SF10, which was fancy because it moved the film by itself with electric motors, could autofocus with the right lens, and would rewind the film automatically when it was done; all technological marvels in my experience.

This camera was later stolen in Vancouver, containing the last roll of film I’d shot driving across Canada with a woman I thought I loved for the second time. We eventually broke up a second time, and I still wonder what happened to that roll of film with the carefully-posed and timer-delayed portraits we made standing in front of the “Welcome to BC” roadside sign. Undoubtedly it was thrown away. Even permanent memories are fleeting.

I eventually bought a slightly better Pentax SF1, second hand, and carried it around for a long time despite limited use. Digital was a new thing, but a powerful thing, and I was keen to invest. 

My dorky tech-loving younger brother had bought one of the first “real” accessible digital cameras, an Olympus C-3030, and through some quirk of bad pixels and underpaid employees in the Olympus warranty department, not to mention some critical comments about Olympus on internet forums, my brother ended up with two replacement cameras in exchange for the one he sent back to Olympus. So I bought one from him. 

It was a terrible camera that retailed for the better part of a grand and a half in the year 2000. Three megapixel images, 32-96mm focal length equivalent, 1/800 of a second max shutter speed. It was the most amazing digital photo technology available, and total junk at the same time. 

It was this camera that had me thinking I didn’t know how to take photographs anymore. The images it made were appalling at best, and often blurry. I think it had one very slow auto-focus point, though that might be optimistic. It had one thing going for it though, it didn’t use film. As my father had told me, film was expensive and easy to ruin. 

When it was time to replace the Olympus with a more capable digital camera I re-embraced my Pentax loyalty and walked into the camera store demanding a camera with one of the worst names ever, an *ist D. The salesperson quickly talked me out of that camera. He told me to buy a Nikon D70, and so I did. I’ve been shooting Nikon ever since. 

Armed with a functional digital camera I fancied myself a rock concert photographer and took photographs for a local music paper. The photos were alright, and photo passes to some of my favourite alternative shows didn’t hurt either. 

The photos of rock bands still happen to this day, sometimes, when I get the energy to fight people half my age or less to see a band I still care about enough to stay up late. I wear ear plugs now, and have a fancier full frame digital camera, and some decent lenses to make the “work” easier. And through it all there have been a dozen or more side cameras. 

Tricky Woo at Broken City

There was the quest for a pocketable point-and-shoot that knows what to do with “blue” (which is somewhat important, because; sky), the long term loan of a Leica M3 which ended a few years ago, and garage sale Yashicas, a “new in box” Rolleiflex a friend’s Uncle left to him upon his death that I should have bought but instead borrowed until he sold it to a good friend for a stupidly little amount of money. There’s a medium format Mamiya I innocently bought for next to nothing because the owner had had a stroke and he thought the light meter was busted when all it really needed was a battery. 

And I’ve found myself going nearly full circle. 

Copies of my father’s Pentax Spotmatic litter my apartment. I’ve had near a dozen pass through my hands over the last few years. They regularly show up on Craigslist for less than $100, these beautiful and well-made Japanese stars of photography sporting fast Super Takumar lenses (how could anything with “super” in the name be bad?) and I would buy them and give them away to friends who were interested in trying film photography. 

I still have three Spotmatics, but I can’t give any of these three away. One of the three used to belong to my father. The light meter in it died, along with a couple of others I collected along the way and I sent the bunch of them to be fixed by the noble and near legendary Eric Hendrickson. Problem is, when I sent my father’s camera in with the others there was a drop of paint on the back of the body that matched the colour of the kitchen of the house we lived in in 1976. When I got the trio of cameras back with fully functional light meters, Eric had also cleaned them all, including removing the paint spot. Now I’m not sure which one is the one that belonged to my father. Nostalgia, as mentioned, is a powerful drug. 

This is a photo taken before I was born. It’s of my father and his camera that I still use.

Going back to taking photographs with the Bencini Comet S might have fully closed my photographic circle, but the soulfulness of shooting and developing my own 35mm black-and-white film in a camera that may or may not have been my father’s is close enough. This I’ve learned. 

Oh, and I’ve also learned that there’s no such thing as a bad photograph. Some photographs are better than others, for sure, but that photo I took of my Uncle’s dog wearing a cowboy hat was the best photograph ever taken, even though it was blurry and badly exposed, and may not even exist anymore. 

The post My Favorite Camera is Not My Best Camera, Nor is it My Favorite Camera appeared first on Casual Photophile.

The German language lost one of its best ambassadors when Bruno Ganz died earlier this year. The Swiss actor was a mainstay on both stage and screen, with more than a hundred credits to his name. To Americans, he is best known for his haunting portrayal of Adolf Hitler in the 2004 film Downfall (Der Untergang), and equally known for that performance’s subsequent proliferation as a YouTube meme.

But it was his performance in Wim Wender’s Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin) that defines the actor in my imagination. Wings of Desire is a hard film to describe succinctly. Ganz plays Damiel, an angel who observes and sometimes comforts the citizens of Berlin. He then falls in love with a mortal trapeze artist and begins to consider giving up his ethereal existence in favor of a mortal one. But the film is much more than that. It’s a meditation on life and death.

It’s a brilliant film, and one of the few that could be considered perfect. It could also be considered the last in a line of films stretching back twenty years, known as the German New Cinema. Following in the footsteps of the French New Wave, German New Cinema saw the emergence of experimental and daring directors creating films with low budgets for art-house audiences that ensured commercial failure and critical acclaim.

The movement is a gold mine of auteur filmmaking, including films like Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant; Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre; Volker Schlöndorff’s The Tin Drum and literally anything by Margarethe von Trotta. These films were creatively daring and experimental, usually infused with an introspection not found in the work of their French and Italian counterparts.

But none of the New German filmmakers struck as personal a chord for me as did Wenders. Alice in the City and Kings of the Road remain personal favourites and sources of inspiration. Wings of Desire and its portrayal of late-80s Berlin in alternating black-and-white and color sparked an interest in the city that would lead to Berlin vacations and eventually calling the city my home.

This fairly long and informative preamble is leading somewhere relevant, film photographers. And we just got there.

Lomography recently announced a new black-and-white film called Berlin Kino, a film that they said is inspired by the New German Cinema. Given my enthusiasm (cited above) I was more than eager to try it out.

What is Berlin Kino?

Wether it’s been by re-releasing 19th century lenses, creating new instant cameras or recycling old Russian glass, Lomography has firmly established Vienna as the center of lo-fi, unconventional photography. Part of that empire is a menagerie of experimental film stocks featuring weird color shifts, extreme contrast, and plenty of unpredictability. While their more traditional film stocks (especially the Color 800) can be budget-friendly alternatives to budget-oriented photographers, Lomo’s biggest splashes seem to come from their more adventurous endeavors. 

Lomography often surprises us with releases of new limited-edition film stocks with interesting backstories. In 2017 they released Color Negative F²/400, which was aged like wine in oak casks for seven years. It’s debatable just how much it would have affected the film, but it remains the film I’m most disappointed about not being able to shoot (it sold out very quickly).

In Fall 2018 Lomography announced their newest film with a unique backstory – Berlin Kino 400. According to the company, Berlin Kino was extorted from a roll of cinema film produced by a “legendary German company” that has been in operation since the early 20th century. 

Berlin Kino’s native sensitivity of ISO 400 places it in the medium speed community with the likes of Kodak’s Tri-X and T-Max, Ilford HP5, and others. The film most apt for comparison is the cinema-derived Eastman Double X, with which it shares a general personality. Since Berlin Kino is panchromatic and sensitive to every color visible to the human eye, the film is especially suited to the creative use of color filters. As far as technical specs go, that’s about as much as Lomography gives regarding this new film.

As they have in the past with films like F²/400, Lomography tries to create a romanticism behind Berlin Kino by not saying explicitly where it came from. But it’s not hard to guess. Lomography says that the film comes from the stock of a film producer still in business since the 1910s. To the best of my knowledge, ORWO (Original Wolfen) is the only producer of cinematic film in Germany that has been in constant operation since the early 20th century. It’s doubtful that ORWO was the source of the film for the movies of the German New Cinema since it was a state-owned property of East Germany. But it would have been available at the time.

How does Berlin Kino perform?

I shot my five rolls of Berlin Kino during a week in January with my Nikon F4, and 24mm f/2.8, 50mm f/1.8 and 85mm f/1.8 AF-D lenses. I also frequently used a Nikon A12 orange filter. Processing and scanning was done by Mein Film Lab here in Germany.

I shot all five rolls at box speed. Lomography claims that Berlin Kino has a wide exposure latitude and can be comfortably pushed up to ISO 3200. I’ll have to take them at their word, because when it comes to my black-and-white rolls, I’m strictly a box speed man.

Already one of the biggest European cities by population, Berlin is even bigger when measured geographically. To equal its geographic size you would have to combine the cities of Prague, Amsterdam, Stockholm, Zurich and Lisbon. Its biggest lake, Müggelsee, is larger than the entire city-state of Monaco. The German Hauptstadt is made up of twelve boroughs, ninety-six neighborhoods, four airports (two functional, one historical, and one theoretical), two rivers, dozens of lakes and no shortage of forests. It takes an hour and a half by train to travel from Frohnau in the northwest to Schmokwitz in the southeast. 

So yeah, Berlin’s a big place.

In my unbridled ambition, I sought to capture the entirety of Berlin with the five rolls of Berlin Kino I’d received. I fell so far short of accomplishing that goal that I hesitate to even call my five rolls an impression of the city. Not only did I not have enough film, but I was also fighting frigid sub-zero high temperatures. In the winter, Russian wind blows west and chills Berlin – a frightening yearly reminder of the two nations’ complicated 20th century history.

With friends from the U.S. visiting, I instead captured the places we went. There were the usual suspects like the Brandenburg Gate, the glass-domed Reichstag, flavors from the former East German world like the grand boulevard Karl Marx Allee, the Olympiastadion, and an original piece of the Berlin Wall. 

Having shot and processed all five of my rolls at the same time, I was certifiably anxious when I put them in the mail. Not only was I completely unfamiliar with the film, but I had a lot of time and effort (re: walking) invested in their success. 

When I got an email with a link to my scans, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and feeling. Not only was the film exceeding my expectations with every shot, but the results were even better than I could have hoped. I think the phrase “over the moon” was used earnestly for the first time in my life. 

Full disclosure; I’m unapologetic in my love of Berlin. There’s no better city anywhere, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Because of that, I’m going to be susceptible to the marketing of companies using the city to make a buck, or Euro. The excitement that led to me preorder the film wasn’t because of a love for new films, but rather the love of a film with the words “BerlIn” and “Kino” on a box with a drawing of the skyline and a photo of the U-Bahn. Throw in a few allusions to my favorite films and watch how fast I can open my wallet.

And that’s why I haven’t written a review of it until now, nearly six months later. It seemed that a reaction as strong as mine needed to air out for a while. If I felt the same in a few months, then the feelings would be legitimate. 

Now that I’m a few months detached, I can confirm my initial findings. I really like this film. For one, it really does translate a particular kind of cinematic feel into still form. New German films were experimental, often sloppy and quite far from perfection. Such is the case here. Berlin Kino seems to adequately tackle most photographic situations. Low contrast scenes highlight the film’s cornucopia of greys while a scene with more contrast will punch up the blacks for a gritty look. My orange filter increased the contrast as well, going a little too far for my taste in bright light.

Berlin Kino’s tonal range its biggest strength, which makes sense for a cinematic film. I shot it in bright mid-day light, overcast and at night, as well as in the rain, direct sun and a snowstorm. Everything translated well. Not only was the film forgivable, it also seems to scan well. 

For more information on developing and printing, consult Lomography’s Berlin Kino Cookbook.

Final Thoughts

Lomography released Berlin Kino 400 more as an invitation to experimentation than as a competitor to the old classics of the black-and-white scene. Their use of the New German filmmakers in marketing is proof of that. The film itself is a limited release, so it won’t even be available much longer (though they will be soon releasing a “Potsdam Kino” companion film rated at ISO 100, which I’ve had the pleasure of testing).

So it feels like wasted effort trying to break the film down in a language it’s not meant to speak. Its native tongue is the freewheeling, shoot and hope for the best mentality of its company. In that vein, I found the film highly successful. I had set out with the film to capture a snapshot of a city and think I succeeded in doing so. It’s flexible, capable in a wide range of environments and its marketing actually follows through on delivering a timeless, cinematic look (I even cropped a few of my images into a 16:9 ratio). I don’t feel any closer to the giants of German cinema, but it was neat to use similar tools for a few days.

Berlin native Marlene Dietrich once said she always kept a suitcase in Berlin. I think I’ll always try to keep a roll of Berlin Kino here as well. 

You can buy Lomography Berlin Kino direct from Lomography here (while it lasts)

After that, you’ll have to hope that some lands on eBay

Shop our own F Stop Cameras film shop

The post Shooting Berlin with Lomography’s Berlin Kino 400 Black-and-White Film appeared first on Casual Photophile.

Remember that girlfriend or boyfriend from your youth? That really special person that you still find yourself dreaming about long after you’ve gone your separate ways? That’s how I feel about Polaroid Chocolate 100 film. The two of us had an intense and all-too-short fling that left me with nothing but memories and a few precious mementos of our time together. This is the story of my brief, but spectacular romance with this now long-lost film.

In 2014, I had a near fatal car accident and injured my spine in three places. To take my mind off of the pain of recovery, I dreamed of what I would do when I was able again. One of the happiest periods of my life was when I lived in Paris in the 1980s. At that time I’d bought a Minolta X-700 from a tiny camera store on the Boulevard Beaumarchais that specialized in vintage cameras, and spent hours wandering the city capturing its beauty. I decided that as soon as I was able, I’d relive those halcyon days. But this time I’d have a project, a theme to my photography. 

I started researching my favourite photographers. Cartier-Bresson, Robert Doisneau, Willy Ronis, Jacques Henri Lartigue, and many others; but the photos that really touched me were those of Eugene Atget. I decided that I’d spend my time documenting the spots that Atget loved in a way that might replicate the look of his photos (which was distinctive due to the processes and tools he used, as well as the passage of time).

Atget was obsessed with the history of Paris, and capturing the things that were disappearing, he led a solitary, poignant life, a lifestyle that comes through visually in his photography. He shot with a view camera using glass plates, a process that was old-fashioned even then, and used the plates to print Albumin prints. Over the years the prints have aged to a beautiful chocolate colour. This last point created a challenge – how to replicate the look of these aged photos? 

At the time, I was shooting a lot of Polaroid peel-apart film, specifically the glorious 669 film famous for its pastel colours. While I was shopping for film in preparation for my trip, I saw an advert for two boxes of Polaroid Chocolate 100 film. The seller had accompanied that ad with some images shot with the film, and I was dumbstruck because they looked identical to the aged look of Atget’s prints. I bought the two boxes immediately, and then tried to find as many more boxes as I could. This wasn’t easy because, as I was to discover, Chocolate was one the last films ever made by Polaroid, and probably the rarest and most sought-after as well. 

Paris Chocolate film utilise – Paris shot with Polaroid Chocolate Film

After much hunting I’d managed to find ten boxes of the super-rare film. I traded some of my precious Polaroid 669 (at an exchange rate of three boxes of 669 to one box of Chocolate) and managed to buy the others at pretty steep prices. But I had my film, and my sites mapped out, and in Spring of 2015 I finally received a clean bill of health, my car accident compensation insurance check, and flew to Paris. 

On the way I stopped off for a private tour of what was then the Impossible Project factory in Enschede, the Netherlands, where all my cameras were serviced by the wonderful Jos Ridderhoff. Then before departing I met up with a Walter Sans, a professional photographer who shoots portraits using Polaroid Chocolate 100 film. Walter has been kind enough to provide some of his images to accompany this article, and you can see more of his work here – Walter Sans’ analog photography.

As you can see from my images above, I managed to shoot several images in Paris with Polaroid Chocolate 100, and the images bear a remarkable resemblance to Atget’s prints. But not all was well. As many people had warned me, the film was prone to drying out, after which the film sticks in the rollers and the tabs break. For each box of film, I only managed to make one or two images. The images were so beautiful, just as I imagined, but sadly I was unable to fully document my project. But I am happy with the few that I managed to get, and my favourite is the view of the Cathedral Notre Dame, which has just been damaged by a massive fire. 

The Birth of Polaroid Chocolate 100

Specifications

Production: Small run of 29,980 packs that expired October 2009

Film Speed: ISO 80/DIN 20

Format: 3¼ x 4¼” (8.5 x 10.8 cm) pack film

Type: Peel-apart Pack Film, medium-speed and medium-contrast coaterless, Chocolate print film

Image Area: 2.88 x 3.75 in. (7.3 x 9.5 cm)

Finish: Glossy

Exposures: 10 exposures per pack

Development Time and Temperature: 30 seconds at 75°F (21°C)

Despite being such a unique and beautiful film there was very little written about Polaroid Chocolate 100, so I decided to research its history and speak to those directly responsible for its development. I was fortunate enough in the process to be able to deal first-hand with the people responsible for this miraculous film. 

Polaroid Chocolate 100 was one of the rarest films Polaroid ever made, and because of its unique production process it produces images starkly different to every other Polaroid film. The black and white/colour cross-process method produces chocolate/brown images with a warm texture in which highlights are suppressed, and deep shadows are given an almost solarizing effect unlike any other photographic process. The photographs produced with Chocolate film have a painterly and timeless quality exactly reminiscent of the nineteenth century toned albumen prints that Atget made.

In late 2008 (just prior to Polaroid ceasing film production), Dr. Paul Telford from Polaroid management, asked the Polaroid production factory in Queretaro (Mexico) to combine left over materials into three limited run pack films – Chocolate, Sepia, and Blue film. Packaging design was created by Polaroid’s in-house graphic artists. All three films were some of the last ever produced before the factory was closed forever in 2009. Chocolate 100 had a very limited production run of 29,800 packs with an expiry date of October 2009, so if you manage to find any today it will be ten years past its expiry date.  

I asked Dr. Telford how Polaroid’s Chocolate 100 film came to be developed. Here is his reply. 

“The special runs of 100 series peel apart films came about as part of what was called “end of life” planning for the instant film business. Because Polaroid was highly “vertically integrated” virtually all film components and chemicals were manufactured in house. It was inevitable that as the end of production was reached there would be a mis-match of components and chemicals required to produce the traditional products. Film production, planning, engineering and marketing representatives therefore looked at what could be done to both optimize materials usage and provide some viable and interesting products for Polaroid enthusiasts.

Film production at this stage was already running at extremely high quality levels, due to the expertise and commitment of the relatively small numbers of people remaining in the business. Their skills enabled the development, fine tuning and manufacture of the films. Final selection of what was most viable was a judgement call based on image quality, stability and anticipated desirability.

Our relationship with Unsalable (later to become Impossible) was the natural choice for the distribution of these films since there was an existing connection with the key target market. We had previously developed and manufactured other films which were exclusively marketed in this way. They were never available through any other source.”

Dr. Florian Kaps who was running Unsaleable – later to be PolaPremium, and the precursor to Impossible Project – purchased all of the film along with the limited production Sepia and Blue films. On Thursday, December 4, 2008, PolaPremium unveiled all three films for sale on its website. Kaps had commissioned famed Polaroid graphic designer Paul Giambarba to create new packaging for the three films, these were covers that slipped over the Polaroid packaging designed by Polaroid. All three films cost $16 USD per pack of ten exposures and were available from the PolaPremium film shop. Later remaining stock was sold by the Impossible Project.

[Images in the galleries below are courtesy of Walter Sans]

Image courtesy of Walter Sans

The Polaroid Chocolate Process

“Cross process or chocolate film began life as an accidental combination of Polacolor ER negative and Polapan 100 positive and reagent. This unintended combination produces a result where the silver from the colour negative transfers to the BW positive and the colour dyes in the negative “stain” the BW positive. This results in a chocolate brown image colonization (cooler in tone than sepia) and unusual suppressed highlights not unlike 19th Century albumen prints. The deep shadows can solarize at times, producing an effect like no other photographic process. The results are stunning and Polaroid recommends that final prints be scanned to insure unlimited archival stability.” – Polaroid 20×24 Film Brochure

Polaroid Chocolate 100 was made to replicate the Chocolate process which was already in use in 8×10 and 20×24 Polaroid film whereby a color negative was paired with a black-and-white developer pod, but in 3×4” peel apart film making the unique process more accessible. Polaroid “Chocolate” was originally developed as cross-processing method using the color negative from 809 film, and the positive from 804 black-and-white film. The result is about ISO 50 and produced images with a unique solarized, split-tone, sepia-like luminescence. The process was discovered by experimentation with Polaroid 8×10 film. Images were shot on colour positives (809 or 879), and then processed using black-and-white negative development pods (803 or 804). 

Normally when you shoot Polaroid 809 film, you put the negative half in a Polaroid filmholder, expose as you would normal film, and then slide the positive receiving sheet into the holder (for the earlier type of holder, which serves both as a filmholder and loading tray for the processor). The positive side contains the developing chemicals in pods just like smaller format Polaroid. When you run it through the processor, it breaks the pods and spreads the chemicals, just like when you pull a sheet of Polaroid out of a 4×5″ holder. So what you’re doing with Polaroid chocolate is using a color negative and processing it in black-and-white chemistry. The color dyes developed in black-and-white chemistry migrate from the negative side to the positive side and form the brown image on the positive receiving sheet. 

The same process used in the reverse order creates the wonderful cross-processed look favoured by photographers Paolo Roversi and Cathleen Naundorf in Paris. With Chocolate 100 film the same process was used except in the 3×4” peel apart film format, which was described in detail by the Polaroid engineer who worked on the project, Stephen Herchen, PhD. 

“By exposing the color negative and then processing the exposed negative with a black-and-white developer pod and black-and-white positive receiver sheet. The result would be that you would get silver developed in the negative and undeveloped silver dissolved and transported to the positive sheet where it would be developed on the nuclei there to form a black-and-white positive image. This is basically the normal instant black-and-white process but with the color negative the resulting image is not a neutral black but more brown. 

What makes this different from the standard black-and-white film is that the color negative has the three image dyes (yellow, magenta and cyan) which are normally not there in the standard black-and-white negative. So, with the color negative the image dyes can migrate to the positive and “contaminate” the black-and-white image there. Also, control of the dye diffusion would not be as good as that in the full color system where the developer and positive receiver sheet have been optimized to work with the color negative. 

The result of all of these factors – the brownish black-and-white image process and the contamination of the black-and-white image with the color image dyes – gives the image the chocolate look.” – Stephen Herchen, PhD

The chocolate process became quite famous after being used in a series of photos for the December 2002 issue of Sports Illustrated with the cover shot being a portrait in Chocolate film. The story featured a portfolio of NFL player portraits by legendary Sports Illustrated photographer Walter Iooss Jr. and Tracy Storer using an 8×10 camera and the chocolate process described above. Tracy Storer and John Reuter, the Director of Polaroid’s 20×24 Studio, also used the chocolate process to produce 20×24 Polaroid images. 

Image courtesy of Walter Sans

Marc Langrange: The Master of Polaroid Chocolate 

Just as my love affair with Polaroid Chocolate film was brief and poignant, there is another very poignant story linked to Chocolate film. Without a doubt the photographer who truly mastered the beauty of Chocolate film was Marc Lagrange, who had given up his engineering career late in life to follow his passion for photography. If you ever have the chance to see an exhibition of his work do not miss it, or you can view his works online at Atelier Marc Lagrange, or buy the beautiful book of his Chocolate Polaroids appropriately called Chocolate. 

Sadly, just as Polaroid 100 disappeared too soon, Lagrange’s life was cut short in a tragic accident in 2015, when the golf cart he was driving outside his hotel in Tenerife fell four meters, killing him. It was a great loss to the photography community, and he was only on the cusp of commercial recognition. The publication of his book Diamonds and Pearls in 2013 was his breakthrough with the general public.

Over the years, Lagrange developed his own signature style of female portraiture, and Polaroid Chocolate film was an essential ingredient of his beautiful images. Like many photographers in the late 1990s Lagrange would have used Polaroid film for what was called “proofing”- making an image on Polaroid film to check the light before shooting with expensive medium format film. But Lagrange immediately recognized the beauty and immediacy of Polaroid peel apart films, and started using it as his main medium. It quickly become a hallmark of his works. 

The Polaroid Chocolate cross-process method produces images unlike any other Polaroid film, adding a creaminess to the highlights, and the darker areas produce a rich chocolate brown tone with a very slight texture that gives the images a dream-like quality which Lagrange used superbly to advantage. His glorious portraits have their own signature style helped along by the film, which immediately set them apart from the standard hard-edged fashion portraiture. The models in his portraits seem to be ethereal and other-worldly, as if photographed from a memory or a dream.  

“Therein lies my ambition: to place the durability and significant immobility of the photograph opposite the speed of our daily world. My settings are places for dreams, for the imaginary to prevail.” – Marc Lagrange.

Acknowledgements

This article relies on a former article published in Pryme Magazine in 2015. The author wishes to thank Walter Sans; Dr. Florian “Doc” Kaps, Supersense; John Reuter, 20×24 Studio; Paul Giambarba, Polaroid graphic designer; Dave Bias, formerly Impossible Project; Amy Heaton, formerly Impossible Camera GmbH; Paul Telford, formerly Polaroid; and Stephen Herchen, PhD, formerly Polaroid.

If you’d like to try shooting the long-expired Chocolate film yourself, you can find packs on eBay even today. If you’re so adventurous, please feel free to link to your Chocolate photos here in the comments. We’d love see them.

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From my first foray into modern film photography, I was confronted by the apparent supremacy of Leica and its M mount. But for some reason, the Leica bug has never seemed to bite me. To start, I have little interest in paying the prices that M bodies and lenses demand (and even less ability to do so). But also the ubiquity of Leica-appreciation makes the cameras somehow uninteresting to me. This is, for my tastes, where Contax arises as the foremost competitor to Leica.

Casual Photophile has always been a place where a few quiet voices issue unpopular takes that are evidence-based and hype-opposed. This leads to occasional opinions that might appear intentionally contrarian. You can see this in some of our tongue-in-cheek articles, such as when we listed our least favorite cameras and they ended up being traditional crowd favorites; Leica, the Mju II, and the AE-1, to name a few. Or the early-days article that heralded the Minolta CLE as the best M mount body, an at-the-time controversial opinion that has become more widely accepted, or at least begrudgingly tolerated. The point isn’t to stir up controversy. We just love unloved cameras, and finding value in something under-valued is one of life’s great pleasures. 

All of this points us to today’s writing, and the opinion I’m proffering within – that the Contax G1 is the best 35mm luxury camera one can buy on today’s market. This opinion isn’t completely wild, the G1 is known to be a great camera. But it does get a little more controversial when I specify that I’m particularly targeting its younger brother, the Contax G2. This runs in direct opposition to what nearly everyone claims, that the G2 is the better of the two without question.

In his review of the G2 last year, Casual Photophile founder James called this interchangeable-lens autofocus rangefinder “a camera in a class of its own.” Some might be wont to suggest the Konica Hexar AF as a companion machine, but such a camera lacks the triangulation-focusing characteristic of a rangefinder. To find an autofocus rangefinder camera, one can look only to the Contax G series. In this way, the G1 and G2 are in their own domain. 

Off the line, the G1 gains a step on the G2. It costs substantially less money to buy today. Where a G2 body will retail for around $600, the G1 can be found for about $200, or $250 for a green label version (more on this later). This means that it’s possible to buy the G1 and its most impressive lens for less money than most G2 bodies sell for (without a lens). That’s hard to ignore.

That lens I referenced isn’t a bargain-basement bit of glass, either. It is, without hyperbole, one of the best lenses ever made at a price point far lower than anything ending in –lux or –cron. This lens is, of course, the Carl Zeiss 45mm T* Planar, which James thoroughly reviewed here. 

It is uncontroversial to say that the G-mount Planar 45mm is one of the best lenses ever made for 35mm photography. It is on par with any lens made by Leica in terms of build and image quality. The lens uses what Contax called a “spigot” mount, similar to Canon’s breech-lock FD mount. Thanks to the short 29mm flange-to-film distance (about a millimeter different than Leica’s M mount), Zeiss designers were able to construct a Planar without typical mirror-box restraints. This short flange focal distance is what makes rangefinder lens typically superior to their SLR counterparts. 

I won’t spend time rehashing all of what James said in his review of the lens, but the fact of the matter is that in shooting with the 45mm, you’re shooting with one of the best lenses ever made, bar none. Even with that presupposition established, though, the G1 isn’t a sure bet. A lens means little if the camera or the shooting experience is terrible, and since we’re comparing the G1 with the G2, or a Leica, or even a Voigtlander rangefinder body, it had better be a pleasant shoot. Luckily for my argument, it is. 

In This Case, The Before Photo is Better than the After

The G1’s body is in many ways superior when compared to the G2. To start, the G1 boasts a smaller, sleeker overall package. When comparing the total dimensionality, the G1 comes in at about 19mm smaller than its successor; the major difference being the 10mm difference in depth that makes the G1 a significantly thinner camera. It’s tempting to scoff at differences of minuscule millimeters on paper, but 10mm is a substantial difference in the hands. The G1 is simply a much smaller camera. 

The G1 also weighs less by 3 ounces, again making it not just the tinier camera but also the nimbler camera. Why the extra size with the G2? Well, one point in favor of it is the added active focusing system that constituted an apparent “marked” improvement over the G1 (more on this later). Otherwise though, there are a handful of design decisions that went into the G2 that make it more compartmentalized and, frankly, less user friendly from my perspective. 

On the G1, only the top plate of the camera is in play when it comes to controls. On the G2 this is far from the case, and when truly considered, this is very odd since the G2 was supposed to improve upon the G1. A great example of why it’s not wise to mess with perfection. 

Let’s really dig into the differences in controls between the two cameras. I hope you like details.

First, on the left of the Original’s top plate you find two slim, oval buttons: one for ISO and one for drive mode selection. ISO is easily manually set or automatically set using DX coding. The drive button rotates through single-frame, continuous-frame, timer, and multiple exposures (offering as many exposures of a single frame as the photographer desires). 

On the G2, the drive mode button is transformed into a drive mode dial blocked away from the ISO selection button (which is now a round button with a sort of shroud guard around it). We see in this one design choice that the G2 creates interruption where the G1 possessed fluidity. 

On the right side of the Original’s top plate we find a hefty dial (the tallest on the plate and with the largest diameter) that controls shutter speed selection, auto shutter, and exposure compensation for when the shutter is set to auto (offering plus and minus two stops in one-thirds increments – same as the G2). Beneath this dial is a switch for ABC (Automatic Bracketing Control – when your camera shoots three exposures for a single frame – one “properly” exposed, one higher, and one lower). 

Across the way from this dial is another dial that controls the autofocus selection and the manual focusing distances (this dial has a nicely beveled top). Both dials include a lock button at their centers for switching from the auto settings to the manual settings.  Lastly, on this right side is the on/off switch that also includes one step further for AEL (auto exposure lock) and the shutter release button (which also acts as the focus lock when depressed halfway). 

The G2 diverges from this setup by moving things around and dealing with the fallout of added features (namely continuous autofocus during single-frame shooting, an impossibility with the G1). In this later model, the taller dial is now the smaller-by-diameter dial and only controls exposure compensation. The shorter, but larger-by-diameter dial controls the shutter speed (both auto and manual settings) and is no longer beveled but rather just slightly sloped. (For a full explanation of, and debate over beveled versus sloped dials, @ me in the comments). The shutter release and on/off switch remain the same between the two models. 

To where did the cherished manual-focus dial go? (Tongue-in-cheek, for what it’s worth, because I don’t know anyone that uses, let alone uses consistently, the manual focusing abilities of the Contax Gs). Well the focusing selector slipped down the backside of the camera and is now a dial that allows the photographer to select MF, AF, or CAF and includes a button that allows for focus lock when CAF is selected. The actual focusing dial has slipped down the frontside of the camera into a vertical pocket, but it has no markings on it to indicate focus distance. Instead, manual focusing must be done entirely in the viewfinder by aligning a marker with another marker- I repeat, there are no actual distance markings anywhere in the viewfinder or on the camera for manual focus. 

Manual focusing with the G1 is actually surprisingly easier. First, one can just use zone focusing and turn the demarcated focus dial to the desired distance. For instance, if you know you’re shooting something far away, just manually focus to infinity. On the other hand, if you know you’ll be shooting a subject at two meters distance, just turn the dial to two meters and fire away. If you want the precision of turning the manual focus dial while watching the markers align in the viewfinder (indicating a match between measured distance and manual focus selection), you can do that too. Both are surprisingly easy. 

In terms of why the G2 needs a focus lock button separate from the half-depress shutter release technique, the answer is nauseatingly complicated. With the G1, you can only “choose” AF or MF; you don’t get to choose continuous AF. However, if you select continuous-frame as your drive mode, the G1 AF becomes CAF. So when you’ve got AF selected and you’re shooting single-frame mode, the focus will lock once you depress the shutter release halfway. When you’re shooting continuous mode, conversely, the focus will not lock when you depress the shutter release halfway but will instead continuously autofocus as you alter the frame. In sum, the G1 has basically two AF options. 

Formula G1a: single-frame mode, single autofocus and focus lock (with half-depression of the shutter release button) 

Formula G1b: continuous-frame mode, continuous autofocus (with half-depression of the shutter release button), no focus lock

On the other hand, because the G2 introduces a selectable setting for CAF, there are more AF formulae. 

Formula G2a: single-frame mode, single autofocus and focus lock (with half-depression of the shutter release button)

Formula G2b: single-frame mode, continuous autofocus (with half-depression of the shutter release button), option of focus lock with focus lock button pressed 

Formula G2c: continuous-frame mode, single autofocus and focus lock (with half-depression of the shutter release button), successive exposures locked at original focus 

Formula G2d: continuous-frame mode, continuous autofocus (with half-depression of the shutter release button), option of focus lock with focus lock button pressed

In my mind, nothing is gained over the original G1 functionality. It makes little sense to use CAF with single-frame mode (Formula G2b) because you only need to focus once per frame. It also makes little sense to use single autofocus with continuous-frame mode (Formula G2c) because then you’ll just be ripping through frames without refocusing. It makes even less sense to lock CAF when shooting continuous-frame mode (Formula G2d) because then you’re back to essentially shooting with a single focus. 

All you really need is a locking SAF for single-frame mode (Formulae G1a/G2a) and a non-locking CAF for continuous-frame mode (Formulae G1b/G2d), which is exactly what the G1 delivers. That way when you take a single shot, the camera autofocuses for that single frame. And when you want to rapidly take many shots, the camera will refocus as you shoot. 

All of this unpacking constitutes a hell of a lot of words simply to say that the G2 unnecessarily complicates things in the name of user control, but that user control is unnecessary. There’s a point at which the addition of more and more user controls reaches a point where the diminishing returns are so small that they’re actually harmful. This may be strongly evidenced by just how confusing the last section of this review was. 

At this point, we’ve established that the G1 costs less than the G2, uses the same fabled Planar, and is smaller, lighter, and more streamlined in terms of controls. Where to next? In my mind, I still want to explicate the stand-alone beauty of this machine. And then there’s confirmation or debunking of the myth of its autofocus incapability (a commonly touted argument against the camera). Further still is the actual shooting experience, which conveniently ties in with the former two matters.

Sparkly Titanium – What more could you want? 

In the interest of total disclosure, much of the proceeding fawning that I’ve lavished upon the G1 is fawning that’s equally applicable to the G2. Many of the following accolades are shared between the two machines, but I’ll also show that the G1 stands apart even from its very similar descendant. 

The G1 is built on an aluminum chassis, making it light but durable at the outset, but the real beauty of the camera comes in its titanium finish body. When compact and SLR cameras were trending increasingly to thick, sturdy plastic, Kyocera took things a different direction producing all-metal bodies for their T and G series cameras. The titanium is a beautiful champagne gold that effortlessly and subtly captures the metal’s best quality – its pearlescence. In fact, titanium oxide is used in paints and other products to imbue them with the subtle sparkle unique to titanium. 

In bright light, the camera literally glistens. 

The Contax G1 features etchings or laser-etchings for all markings that are on the main body of the camera. Where “DRIVE” and “ISO” are just slightly engraved into the metal, the larger “CONTAX G1” (in its proprietary styling) is deeper. There are visible, minuscule screws (they must be about 1mm in diameter) on the camera’s top plate. The electronic shutter is of the metal-bladed focal-plane type. Every element of the camera oozes attention to detail and quality. 

The dials are truly pinnacles of pleasurable use. The clicks of the shutter speed/exposure compensation dial are firm without being rough. The sides of the dials feature a nice, coarse, straight knurl (those last two descriptors are official Knurl terms), but in this case the knurl is split in the middle horizontally across the dial. In this way, the dials actually feature two separate knurls stacked on top of one another and separated by a thin groove. The dials also rest on a very, very slight pedestal on the surface of the top plate. These tiny details would be described by some people as insignificant, but they’re not. Even if the differences they make in real-world use are statistically immeasurable, they exist. They help my finger find its way to the dial faster or easier, or make turning the dials that much more pleasant. At the very least, they’re nice to look at.

A common trope among the Casual Photophile writers is that we enjoy talking about things like knurls and metal finishes and engravings more than we like talking about camera specs. Well, it’s a trope for a reason. We’re real nerds for this stuff, and when it comes to the things that detail and design nerds find to be exciting, the Contax G1 gets everything right.

The lenses made for the G mount feature the same design choices made in the camera body. The lenses typically feature multiple rings on their exteriors, though only two serve a legitimate purpose and only one has movement. The aperture ring has full-height, straight, coarse knurling around the ring save for where the aperture markings are. The ring just prior to the aperture ring features the same knurling for about 38mm segments opposite one another. This allows for a firm grip when mounting the lens. 

One design element introduced by the G1 that the G2 promptly (and foolishly) squelched is the curves and angles featured on the back of the camera. In the G1, the film door features a straight edge on its top dimension, but a split edge on its bottom where the door becomes narrower (by way of a diagonal line) just after the right edge of the eyepiece. This symmetry is easily missed, but demonstrates the care put into the design. It also adds angularity to an otherwise sleek camera. The curve I mentioned comes in with the grip. The G1 and G2 feature a matte plastic grip that wraps from the back of the camera around to the front. I will talk more about how amazing this grip is when I get into the shooting experience, but the part that matters here is how the grip meets the metal. 

On the G2, the grip simply ends on an angle with a straight line. This is also where the film door narrows, losing the symmetry with the eyepiece and making the door itself less visually dynamic. These lackluster designs were conveniently left out of James’ beautiful photos of the G2. Luckily, the G1 does not bear the same errors of the G2; (it’s almost as if the G2 messed this up and the G1 came along to fix it…). On the G1, the grip comes to a swoop joint with the metal door, producing a curvy yin-yang look. Again, the G1 takes the cake for arresting, intentional design. 

I could go on about the camera’s features and feels. I love the oval film preview window. There’s a diopter on the eyepiece for those of that are vision impaired. The LCDs (while admittedly prone to some leakage) give exactly the information necessary and no more. The camera is a marvel of ‘90s engineering. When other manufacturers were producing eyesores (albeit, functionally excellent eyesores), Kyocera sought to produce modern cameras that retained a certain timelessness of design. They succeeded, because the G1 looks high-end, even twenty-five years later. 

Maybe They’re the Problem?

It’s common for film aficionados to comment that the G1’s autofocus system is “sloppy” (thank you, Ken Rockwell), “serious trouble” (thank you, James Tocchio), “slow” (thank you, B&H), and inaccurate (thank you, thousands of forum experts). I will grant these detractors the fact that the G2 added an active AF system in addition to the G1’s passive AF system, which matter-of-factly assists with autofocusing. But is the G1’s autofocus system actually problematic? The answer is both yes and no, but the individual scenarios that make these easy answers true are as informative as the answers themselves.

To get the heartbreak out of the way quickly, the autofocus of the G1 can indeed be slow in certain cases, or more aptly, with certain lenses. The photos I shot with the 90mm Sonnar lens on the G1 were often out of focus, especially when shooting portraits, which is supposed to be the purpose for a 90mm Sonnar design. It’s possible I just wasn’t paying close enough attention to where the camera focused when I locked focus before shooting, but I am meticulous about checking this and never have problems with the 45mm lens. My take is that the camera simply had trouble at the narrower focal length. This may come as a blow to some, but given the supremacy of the 45mm lens, it did not dampen my spirits. 

And this is why I can equally argue the G1 is actually not problematic when it comes to autofocusing. Out of many rolls of film shot on the G1 with the 45mm, I can count on one hand the times it missed the focus, and these were likely due to fast shooting on my part. The fact of the matter is that if you are conscientious about noting the focus as you compose and focus lock with the shutter release, you will not experience focus problems using the 45mm lens. 

Training oneself to watch the distance in the viewfinder is really no work at all. Maybe you prefer shooting from the hip and intend to get crystal clear shots every time from an AF system. I would suggest – no, not the G2 – but digital cameras. Film photography is a considered process, even when using an autofocus camera. The time it takes for me to see the distance it determines, perhaps reset the focus once or twice, and shoot the photograph is really no time at all. 

The ineffectiveness of the G1’s autofocus system is so grossly exaggerated that it has become something I often roll my eyes at when I see it espoused online. Don’t worry. The camera focuses well, provided you’re shooting with (maybe) the only lens you should be using. 

This would be a good moment to acknowledge the camera’s other deficiency, namely, that it cannot accept every lens made for the G mount. The range of G-mount lenses comprises a complete set – the 16mm Hologon, the 21mm Biogon, the 28mm Biogon, the 35mm Planar, the 45mm Planar, the 90mm Sonnar, and the 35-70 Vario-Sonnar. Of this batch of seven lenses, the original G1 could accept only four, the 16, 28, 45, and 90mm lenses. Later or modified versions of the G1, the so-called “green label” G1 indicated by a literal green sticker where the film canister is inserted, could also accept the mythical 16mm lens and the 35mm lens. Unfortunately, the G1 is incapable of using the Vario-Sonnar due to the fact that the lens requires seven electrical-contacts to the G1’s five. 

Other than this slight downside (and if you acquire a green-label G1, you’re batting over .800 anyway), the shooting experience of the camera is second to no other autofocus camera. To demonstrate, let’s walk through the experience of shooting the G1 from start to finish. 

The Shooting Experience

You wake up and remember that you’re meeting friends for a walk around your city’s fine arts museum. You decide you’re in a mood to shoot the restrained effervescence of Portra 160, so you pop open the G1’s film door with an easy twist of the switch on the left side of the camera. 

You effortlessly insert the canister and pull the leader out to just slightly over the spool (marked nicely by an orange line). You close the back. The camera winds the film for you and nails it. But if you messed up, by putting the leader to far in or not far enough in, the camera would flash double zeroes at you in the frame counter to indicate, “Hey, you made it so that I can’t do my job.” 

You think that it might be a bit darker than desired in the museum, so you change the rating from 160 to 320 with the hold and then single tap of the ISO button. 

You make your way to the museum on your city’s public transit. Your friend’s newborn baby is sleeping and holding the giant-in-comparison index finger of your friend. You decide to it’s the perfect moment to allow the 45mm to demonstrate its half-a-meter minimum focusing distance. As you carry the camera up to your eye, you first think that the viewfinder is too small, but you remember reading in that 1994 feature of the G1 in Popular Photography that it’s a Keplerian viewfinder meaning it is small, yet still surprisingly bright. 

As you half-depress the shutter release to focus on the intimate touch between your two friends, you’re surprised, as the viewfinder seems to zoom with the lens as the lens focuses. Just like that, the viewfinder, which was already showing the correct finder field for your 45mm Planar has now corrected for parallax error as well. It finds the focus easily since you deftly placed the center marker on the contrast of vertical lines at the juncture of the small hand wrapped around the single finger. You know to do this because you read the helpful G1 pamphlet entitled “Useful Hints on focusing the lens [sic].” 

Once the camera finds the focus, you keep it locked and reframe the shot. You complete the full press and the photo’s taken. With the zip of the film advance, you’re ready to take another photo. 

You realize that you accidentally smudged the focusing window of the camera, so you gently wipe off the smudge and make sure the window is clean and ready to focus unobstructed. You decide to take advantage of the multiple exposure feature, so with three clicks of the drive button, you’re set up to take your friend’s profile against a bright sky followed by your full frame of foliage. Compose, focus, shoot. Compose, focus, shoot. Instant karma. 

You’re walking now and trying to keep up with the group. Thanks to the grip, which is somehow soft but not rubber, your thumb finds easy support on the back of the camera and your middle finger finds a prefect resting place on the front, while your index is poised to shoot. With one hand—you’re still holding the museum map in the other—you raise the camera to your eye, quickly focus on the backs of your laughing friends 15 feet away, and you shoot with one hand. 

The camera never feels loose or at risk of being dropped. It’s steady in your hand as you shoot. There’s no slap of the mirror. And in the light draping in from the atrium glass, it found its focus distance in a matter of seconds. Not enough time to move out of focus. You know the shot will be sharp, contrasty, and tickled with the pungency of the T* coating color. 

When you take your final shot (maybe it’s indicated as frame thirty-seven in the frame counter) and the camera immediately begins to rewind your film, leaving the leader out thanks to a setting you chose, you have full confidence that within that canister are thirty-seven photos commemorating your day. Maybe you got lazy once and that one shot of your friend with their face filling the frame will be out of focus because you accidentally composed with the center mark to close to the background. 

But the rest will be exactly what you envisioned because you’re shooting with one of history’s best lenses on one of history’s coolest cameras and you’re a badass photographer that saved hundreds by preferring what those-in-the-know know is the better model anyway. 

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For my thirteenth birthday I was given a Canon Sureshot 105 Zoom camera and a booklet explaining, among other things, how to load the film, frame a photo correctly, and shoot without getting your fingers in the frame. One page that I still remember today explained ISO values, and that sunny, outdoor shots were best made with a low sensitivity 200 ISO film, whereas indoor or fast-moving subjects needed something in the 800 or even 1600 range. The example given in the booklet was some kind of indoor jousting tournament, which on reflection was rather specific and a little bit bizarre. But what’s more bizarre to me now, is that it’s becoming harder and harder to find these high ISO films.

For black-and-white shooters, there are still at least a handful of films for late-night shoots. Ilford’s Delta 3200 and Kodak’s recently re-introduced T-Max P3200 are extremely high quality options. But for color film, and most photographs are made in color, it’s a different story.

In today’s world of phone cameras, is there still a need for high ISO color film? Film producers seem to think not. Fast color films have been cut from manufacturers’ rosters in recent years with alarming frequency. Fujifilm, the serial destroyer of film stock, have axed five of their high-sensitivity color films in the past few years (Press 800 and 1600, Superia 800 and 1600, and FujiColor 800). According to Wikipedia, there even used to be an 800 ISO version of the old faithful Agfa Vista film (but no longer).

[Shots in the gallery below were made by James on Fuji 1600, and would’ve likely been impossible on any slower film.]

A workaround?

Pushing film has always been an option for photographers trying to get the most flexibility from their rolls – this is achieved by tricking the camera into assuming the loaded film is a higher ISO than it is, taking the shots, and then compensating during the developing process. But this technique is most useful with black-and-white film where it’s not unheard of to push by two, three, or even four stops. Conventional wisdom advises to meter for the highlights if you fancy doing this, and my own personal advice would be “Remember To Label Your Film” – otherwise all that trickery will be for naught!

Kodak Tri-X is the king of pushing, as I’ve found on more than one occasion, and suits itself well to stand developing, my favourite method of lazy home development.

But color film is trickier to push. Doing so can can yield good results when we keep things chill, pushing just a single stop for example. But push any farther and things can quickly come undone (depending on what film we’re shooting). Excessive pushing with color film can easily lead to extremely chunky grain, or color shifts, or low-contrast images that simply look under-exposed.

All is not lost.

Kodak seems to be the only company still producing higher sensitivity color film, but even they have limited their production these days. Where they used to produce numerous variants of 800 speed color film (Kodak Max 800, Kodak Zoom 800, etc. – all the same film with different branding) now there is only Portra. This legendary range, beloved for its pastel tones and excellent rendering of skin tones, is available in the slower 160 speed, but also the mid-speed 400 and the high-speed 800 – all with a consistent colur palette, excellent sharpness and good availability.

[Shots in the galleries below were made by the author, Charlotte Davis.]

So why should we need anything more than Portra? Choice and preference (and cost).

My personal preference is a film that will, undoubtedly, bring me nothing but pain as the years go on. I just adore Fujifilm’s color rendering. I love how heavily-saturated the Superia line of films is, how the green of the grass pops against the red of a picnic blanket. I adore the crisp, inky blacks, and the way the vignetting of my XA4 darkens the corners to produce even deeper, almost indigo blue skies.

I’m not one for subtlety – I want party colors, brash and bold, and I want to be able to keep shooting well into the evening. For this reason, my few rolls of the now-discontinued Superia 800 left in the fridge will be used up this summer, then I’ll revert to the 400 ISO version, and see how well it handles being pushed.

What I find interesting is that both Kodak and Fujifilm are still producing and selling disposable one-time use cameras that come preloaded with their 800 ISO films (at the time of this writing). In fact, Lomography used to offer 800 ISO color film as well, though it’s fairly certain that these were rolls of the same Kodak 800 film found in the same mentioned disposable cameras, repackaged for Lomo (not that that’s a bad thing).

Whether or not Lomo’s 800 ISO film will come back (it’s currently unavailable) is hard to say. And whether or not the disposable cameras being sold today are simply sell-offs from a massive run of older production is equally opaque. No one outside the walled towers in Rochester and Tokyo knows the answers to these questions.

An outsider might also be found in cinema film – film that’s typically used for movies, but now often repurposed for still photography use. Cinestill offers its 800T tungsten-balanced film, which is also sold directly by Kodak under its original name, 500T (albeit without the remjet layer removed – you can read all about this in our review). Being tungsten-balanced means this film stock is geared towards use under warmer electric light, and can look quite cold in daylight. This can be easily corrected with a blue filter, or in post-production if you’re using a camera unable to accept filters.

Perhaps all is not lost – for now, at least, we still have Portra, we still have Superia 400 (which isn’t speedy enough, to be honest), and the occasional roll of super expensive cine film.

For me, these are not enough options. I lament the loss of Superia 1600, the old Agfa emulsions, and even the days when Kodak was making Max 800 and (the much less-known) Ektar 1000. Can you imagine Ektar at 1000? Perhaps more poignant than that, can you imagine a future in which we wax poetic about high-sensitivity color film on the whole in the same way the old folk do for Kodachrome slide film today? I hope that future never comes. But it looks like it might.

What are your favourite high-sensitivity colour film stocks? If you can think of any I’ve missed, let me know in the comments – I always need an excuse to fill up the film fridge with a few more rolls.

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