In our last episode, I found myself taping a green filter to my Lomography Sprocket Rocket. I liked the results very much, but didn’t like the tape job. Also, the Bay-1 filter I used was actually visible in some frames depending on focus. So, it’s time for a mod!

I got a 43mm -> 52mm filter step-up ring. There are two screws on the face of the Rocket, but get this: those are ornamental. I tried to unscrew them but they don’t catch. I think they’re rivets. So the circumference of the area between the “screws” and the lens is perfect for 43mm. I happen to have a bunch of 52mm filters so this works out well. Given the extreme wide field of view I worry that something narrower, say a 48mm filter plus the step up ring, might actually extend out far enough to be visible in the frame. 52mm seems perfect.

I sanded the back edge of the step up ring to remove the anodized black and give my cement a better chance to hold. Then I used contact cement to affix it to the face of the Rocket. The seal feels pretty solid to me.

Now I’m ready to shoot some Tri-X pushed to 1600.. and beyond!

And yes, if you missed my custom covering for the Sprocket Rocket, details on that are here.

My Mom came across this old camera. Thinks it may have been used to take film of me with my father. Aha! It’s a super-8 Interesting…

But, wait! Is that film in there? Oh my…

Oh, yes it is. Kodachrome film! The legendary, amazing, beautiful, Kodachrome. The no-longer-able-to-be-developed Kodachrome. Big sigh. I can investigate getting it developed as black-and-white negative, that plus a video transfer would be a lot of money for something that may be nothing. Video of me with my Dad? Might be cool, might be depressing. I’m pondering my next move.

Got a surprise from a friend this morning: he gave me his ol’ Canon A-1. What a legendary camera! He kicked over a 50mm macro lens too. I just ordered a 25mm extension tube on KEH for it. Looking forward to some walk-around macro distractions. This is such a gorgeous, classic design. I’m very, very grateful!

Of the seven on the shelf, this was the only one that worked, so I had to get it.

The shutter on Olga stopped working, so I opened her up. The simple mechanics are a delight to behold: a poetry of springs, leverage, and tension threshholds. I rousted then about and realigned the shutter disc and now she should be good to go. I’ll give her a spin soon.

What will happen on 09/09/09 at 09:09?? A little cat told me we’ll be in ninth heaven on that date. What will be given birth to? Hmm. Will it be full-frame?

All jokes aside: I guess the more important question is: Can I afford to be part of this nonogonal notion?

Nein!

Images from the Nine group on Flickr.

A few trusted friends have pointed out that some recent work of mine has been plagued with a lot of crud on my digital sensor. I’ve huffed and puffed and rocket-blown the heck out of it. Alas, the gloop persists. I have all the materials to clean the sensor on my Canon 5D on my own. However, since I have been having spotty luck with cameras lately, and knowing I’m down to my bottom dollar, I just didn’t want to risk it. The possibility of damaging it during the tricky business with no means to replace it was something I’m not ready to risk at the moment. So, I wheeled it into the Canon Service Center down in Irvine, CA. They said I should also get the mirror adjusted — free — so it’s gonna be a week. They’re also gonna replace my worn-down serial number plate. Unexpected bonus!

Fingers crossed. Can’t wait to get it back.

When I smashed my Rollei in Montréal, for a few moments I was sure it was all over for the thing. My favorite camera makes it seem almost too easy to take compelling pictures, and absent-minded will be my epitaph. But, the hardy machine was unfazed, but for a mirror in the viewfinder that had come unhinged. I can still take pictures with it, but I have to really wrestle with the finder. Alas, it needs fixing again.

I was hesitant to take my camera back to the master machinist Harry Fleenor, fearing another eight-week wait for an eight-minute repair. This was simply beneath him.  A contact had recommended a repair wizard here in the San Fernando Valley, a man named Zvi who supposedly knew everything about every camera. He sounded promising so I followed up with some Web research and found a few gushing testimonials, including one that called Zvi the “camera whisperer.” That convinced me.

I planned to take my bruised Rollei to the camera whisperer and then head down to San Diego for a baseball game. I’d asked a few of my baseball-aware friends if they’d like to join me to go see the Phillies play down there. My mates respectfully declined, but I needed to get out of the house, so I decided to go solo. I planned a micro-excursion to America’s Finest City, to get from my apartment to Petco Park in downtown San Diego. I’d eschew my car and go via bus and train, stay downtown, and then come back the next morning.

The Phillies called up a rookie to make his first appearance in the major leagues. His name is Antonio Bastardo, and I was excited that I would be there for his debut.

I wasted away the morning, and while I packed extremely light, I have a way of misplacing critical items at crucial times. Time passed like it does, and abruptly I realized that I had no time to take my camera anywhere. In fact by the time I walked out of my place, I realized I had exactly one hour to make it to Union Station for the two o’clock train departure. Yikes! The repairs could wait. I had to go!  I thought back to the last time I’d gone to Union Station. I remembered that it had taken me exactly one hour. I was worried.

For one to go to Union Station in downtown Los Angeles from the San Fernando Valley goes like this: Walk four blocks. Wait for bus. Catch bus. Get off bus, cross street, wait for subway. Take the subway to the very end of the line. You’re there.

It was a day of unsurpassed beauty, the sun was bright and warm, the sky was playful and clear. I vowed not to look at the time until I’d made it to the train station. I made a conscious decision to have faith, and that brought me a peaceful, beautiful, trancelike focus. I made made each connection smoothly without undue delay. And, when I got off the metro subway I finally checked. It was 1:55. I hustled up the escalators, through the station. I still had to print out the ticket from a kiosk. I tried one. It didn’t work, and I calmly moved to the next kiosk. I had such a blissfully assured calm. I was spiritual. I was quick without being crazy. I got the ticket. I checked the board. I had to make it to Track ten. Ten! I ran down the needlessly long hallway. Track ten was the farthest option. What were they hiding? I saw the clock. It was exactly two. I reached the ramp to the platform, looked up and saw motion blur. The train was speeding, speeding away without me.

Despite the economy, I guess the trains still run on time.

I stopped short, caught my breath, and let the anxiety that I’d outrun catch up with me. I stood there while that anxiety washed over me, and I let it pass me by. The aura of calm returned and I just chuckled. So much for faith, though.

I took out my camera, as Union Station was surely a great place to take pictures on such a day. For reasons I can’t comprehend, I couldn’t see any of those pictures. I ended up leaving without taking a single photograph. But, I’d convinced myself that I’d guaranteed the Phillies would win in the baseball game that I’d missed. That’s just how it would go. I knew it.

Back at home, I called the hotel in San Diego and canceled my reservation. I called the Padres ticket office. Despite their no exchanges policy, I explained what had happened, the train and everything. Kathleen was the service agent, and she convinced her manager to exchange my ticket for one for the next night’s game. My train ticket was good for any of these trips, so I’d just try again tomorrow.

And, I still had a few hours of daylight. Feeling productive, I jumped in the car to head to find the camera whisperer. I didn’t know his hours, but surely if I got there by five, I’d have a good chance of finding him. And, like the review said, don’t bother calling. This would work. Probably.

There was some light traffic, and Tarzana was a little farther than I figured in my head. But, again I was quick without being crazy. I found the address, parked, and saw the door to the shop open. It was five on the dot. I got out and approached. There was a tall man in his thirties at the door staring off into the distance , which I now noticed was flanked by a security gate that was pulled to the edge of the door. About to close. The man seemed unaware of me, of anything other than his cigarette. Was I going to be too late by a matter of seconds twice in one afternoon? I eyed the sign on the door listing hours as ten to four. Curious. Standing before the morose man, I said “You’re not open are you?”

“No,” he said simply and quietly, not to me but to the afternoon’s haze. If I’d hoped for some leeway, that reply was enough to turn me right back around.

“Was there something you needed?” asked another voice. A stern, wizened woman whom I’d somehow not seen was right behind me. Much older than the man at the door, she looked at me painfully.

“I was just hoping to get a camera repaired,” I offered with an optimistic tone that seemed to die in the vast space around me.

“We don’t do that anymore,” she said gravely, dubiously.

Determined to be friendly, I pressed her if it was because business has been slow. I wanted to be supportive, empathetic.

“My husband has just passed away,” she said to no one. Zvi was gone, probably very recently.

Stunned, I lowered my head. These people were his survivors facing an uncertain future. I offered some unheard condolences, unheard by them and by me. And, I stumbled off awkwardly. I didn’t know their story, but I wish I did. What could I do? Back to my car, back home.

Antonio Bastardo and the Phillies played the game without me. I watched from home, and they won easily, putting on quite a show. I knew they would.

The next day started cloudy and filled with gloom, quite a contrast with the previous.  But, I tried again and made it down the coast. Another  day, another train, another baseball game. It was adventure mixed up with some fun, loneliness, and a ballpark hot dog. I still found it hard to take photographs. I don’t know why.

I’ve found another camera repair man in Los Angeles complete with tales of history and character. His name is Walter. I’ll take the Rollei to him. I’m sure it’ll be an adventure.

Probably.

“Old Things” – Codeine

How did I end up with a Leica? Good question.

I visited Scott Hevener in Montana, and during an off moment he handed me his Leica M2. I responded badly. The correct response would have been an enthusiastic yelp as I grabbed it and begged to try it out. I should have been peppering him with questions and learning. However, I reacted with fear, hoping only to not break it. My life is often poorer for fear. Then doubly poorer for lamenting the fact without being able to do anything about it. Maybe triply poor because I know how lame the analysis cycle is. The Leica: I gingerly held it, looked at it in quiet fascination, then passed it back. Failure via fear. This is not a sign that I’ll never be a photographer, but it is evidence that I’m not one now. I have yet to step fully into the light.

I cruise Craigslist and eBay hourly, it seems, looking at marvels of photographic design history. I am thrilled by the existence of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese cameras, I coo at ostentatious displays of luxury, I imagine owning rare and wonderful cameras. A Leica, though has the weight of history behind it. Capa, among many other legends, used one sometimes. Despite the boutique prices, the Leica somehow retains an aura of hard work and determination, of serious business.

I saw this sad Leica on eBay, at first it seemed like something to be wary of. The condition was atrocious, it looked beat-up. The viewfinder was impossibly warped, as if it had been dropped from a very great height or hit with a very great hammer. It was hard to imagine the force required to do that to a camera. Surely the insides must be a sock full of screws. What must have happened to this small machine since its birth as the model M2 in 1958? Yet, still I took notice. I mentioned it to Scott, who said he had already seen the listing and that he had thought of me when he did. I’m not sure how true that was, and initially I was even a bit disheartened. Was I only worthy of some last-legs Leica? Scott then told me that he knew of the seller personally, that the man was competent in his work and honest in business. The seller was named Youxin Ye, and he made a habit of acquiring questionable Leicas, fixing them up, and selling them. In fact, were I to acquire a Leica through some other shady dealing, Youxin Ye would be where I would have to take it to be properly overhauled. If his auction description promised a cosmetically flawed but solidly working camera, I could be assured that is what was available.

So this was actually a very good opportunity to get a reliable Leica that other bidders, collectors, may ignore due to the immaterial cosmetic blemishes. This was one that had the cleaning, lubrication and adjustment already performed by one of the best. Could this be The One? Then, Scott dashed my hopes by opining his estimate for what price the camera would eventually sell for — something so high I still could not afford. With a day to go, poor auction strategy to be sure, I put in my maximum bid, far below what I now believed to be the ultimate selling price.

I slept on it.

The next morning, I checked without much curiosity. With long hours still to go, the bidding had reached my maximum bid but had gone no higher. I was still the high bidder, but I knew from experience that this was a standard tactic from snipers to determine just what price they’d need to beat. Complicating matters, the seller was selling multiple cameras. In fact another example of the exact same Leica model in slightly prettier condition was set to end mere minutes before the one I wanted. I knew that anyone who lost out on that higher priced one would swoop in for a consolation prize — the one I’d pinned my hopes on.

At that point, I knew I was out of it. Rather than dwell on it, or even contemplate going higher, I let it go. Even I knew it was better to move along and wait for another chance down the line. I’d bookmark Youxin Ye and wait for him to offer another. I’d keep hawking Craigslist.

Three hours later, I went to compose an e-mail and discovered that I’d won the thing.

It’s just an object, a tool — fifty-one years old. I still need to find the light. But, a week later I’m still happy about it. I’m going to go outside now to take pictures now.

“1958” – Skalpel

Song of the Day “Waste It On” – Silversun Pickups

I just want a film camera that can use my existing Canon EF lenses — that means an old film EOS. When I saw a Canon Rebel II on Craigslist for ten dollars. I figured that would be a good try. When I picked it up, I tested the shutter without actually looking at it. It sounded fine. When I loaded film, I noticed how beat up the curtains looked. Hmm.

So most of the frames came out like this:

I am highly bummed because I had some promising shots, some portraits of some people hanging outside a smokeshop last night. Four out of thirty-six came out all right. But I wouldn’t like to risk it. I don’t know how I’d flatten out those curtains. Probably a sunk ten spot. The search continues.  I’m looking for a cheap working film EOS. Whatchugotfome?

The post title refers to Pacman Jones.