Now that we are digitized, pixelated, megabit, living life on somebody's cloud, and technology's promise has successfully lead us into UTOPIA; things that can't be rammed down a copper highway, pushed through cable, or etherized over a network, still come and go in cycles. Each generation re-discovers what was lost from generations before. And suddenly, it's all new again. Vinyl records are back. Local life is coming back. Backyard gardens are so retro they're cutting edge. Green spaces and places rebound from concrete depths and efficiency's deception. And the noisier life becomes, the more silence increases in value. Silence is free, yet today finding that freedom is expensive.
But I digress. Speaking of cycles, rebounds, and rediscovery...maybe because now I am older and slower (more oriented toward craft instead of mass consumption), for the first time in 50 years I dusted off and picked up the first camera I used in high school: a Yashica Mat-124 G, Twin Lens Reflex.
Old camera, old photographer.
This camera does not make phone calls. This camera does not tell you where you are or provide directions to where you'd rather be. This camera doesn't have SD card slots or power cords or data ports. It does have a small battery, but it will never reach a cloud. No menus, LED displays, auto focus features or auto exposure capability. One has to physically open the metal, collapsible lid and look down through the layer of ground glass to see what's out front. There isn't any software in this hardware. This camera can't order food, has no banking abilities, ticket purchasing power, or global reach. It's reach is limited by the legs and arms of the photographer carrying it around.
If you move the camera left, the image moves right. If you move the camera right, the image moves left. Up is down and down is up and it's all backwards. In those days "point and shoot" referred to rifles.
Knurled focus knob with depth of field scale. Front of the camera to the left.
No bells or whistles. Just knurled knobs, focal range scale, shutter speed and aperture dials, a film advance handle, film speed window, frame counter, and a delicate lever or two. The top lens is the viewfinder and the bottom lens feeds light into the camera box exposing the film. There's even a small magnifying glass on top that pops up to help fine tune your focus in low light.
The nifty, pop-up magnifying glass helps focus in low-light conditions. Camera facing forward.
Mechanical f-stop and shutter speed window with a match-needle light meter.
Oh for the long gone days of having my own darkroom. Shooting, developing, enlarging, printing all in the comfort of a darkened, chemical-laden bedroom closet of fluids, tongs, trays, tanks, timers, paper, mysterious aromas, frames and dodging tools. No clothes in that closet.
But again, I digress. Digression is one of the privilege's of age and, if you hadn't noticed, I'm getting age-ier.
Now THAT'S a film advance handle for a real photographer.
And 2.5 inch wide film providing 12 square, black and white images per roll.
Photographic film. I remember it. My little sister and fellow photographic dinosaur reminded me of film. When each shot counts, each shot becomes rich, pre-meditated, envisioned, purposeful. Twelve shots per roll. One thinks before they shoot, formats the frame in the camera, and when all seems right "click"--magic happens when the box camera's shutter lets in JUST THE AMOUNT of light you told it to for the split second of time you selected.
Every roll of film becomes its own Christmas Morning. Days go by, serious time passes, before you see the results of orchestrating point of view, light, film speed, focus, aperture size, depth of field, and shutter speed. Twelve shots. Each. One. Counts. Only the best get printed. One of twelve? Two?
In a world out of control, that has forgotten much and continues to forget even more, sometimes it's wonderful slow down a bit, and remember. Convenience, speed, and an endless supply of pixels will eventually kill us.
Don't get me wrong pixels have their place. It's just in a different world.
Now I DO sound OLD.
Four Images Of A Burned Out, Abandoned Textile Mill In Alamance CountyThanks for listening. And looking. And, maybe remembering.
Film. It forces me to see the future.
