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.

I arrived at the address on a bright and hazy Thursday after a long and dreary afternoon drive through muddled Los Angeles congestion. Battling traffic had imbued me with a sense of undeserved urgency, there was no real rush.  Actually, I arrived after missing the place twice and circling back around. For it was a sterile, invisible,  two-story office outcrop that could have once been called Sea Breeze Motel in some other century, but which was now sturdy home to dentists, tax attorneys, and hairstylists. Parking was scarce. In fact, each space was visibly assigned to a specific suite number. The most popular building tenants rated two or even three spaces. There was no space at all allotted for suite number four.

Classic camera repair must not generate much foot-traffic, I thought.

I parked at a laundromat, forced to legitimize my taking up space by buying an orange soda at a liquor store. I considered that it would be a bit surreal to walk in with a Rollei and an orange soda. I stashed the bottle in my bag. Up the stairs past some wooden men speaking Spanish who looked like they knew me, but didn’t. The doorway featured a carved wooden Rolleiflex badge, so there could be no mistake. I looked for any posted information to discourage me from just barging in. I found none, I opened the door, I entered.

I have to confess that I paid too much for my Rollei when i first got it. I didn’t do my homework.  The model that was advertised to me was not what I bought. I think this was not through any malice on the part of the seller, just a matter of general confusion among amateurs. Perhaps this is why I am so keen on making it work for me. I’m self-conscious of its well-worn condition, though Carmen says it’s just well-loved Whatever. I really want the Rollei-tionship to work, and I’m willing to compromise to make it happen.

Inside the door was a tiny hall with a chest-high counter that separated supplicants from the Master. I didn’t have time at all to take it all before a slight lanky greybeard and wire-frames greeted me quietly, and not without some pain in his eyes. I realized I had been counting on waiting a few minutes to be acknowledged, but he was on me in an instant, wanting to know my business.  I insisted first upon introducing myself and offering my hand.  Didn’t he know that he was a legend? Harry Fleenor introduced himself in turn and shook my hand with a worried and awkward curtness. Having done that I launched into a staccato rendition of my problem:

“I have this Rolleiflex  (did I pronounce it right?) I’ve run a dozen rolls through it and the shutter doesnt always want to cock and i think it needs an overhaul (god no why am I telling him just let him check it out) so I was wondering if you could take a look at it, if you wanted. Sir (oh crap i’ve blown it already)” And, I quickly notice the small notice on the wall that there is a ten dollar charge for inspections.

With the jittery slowness of someone who has seen his share of fools like me, he took the camera, popped it open and cocked the –

“Oh, what’s that grinding?” he accused me.

“I can’t say,” I offered mutely.

He fired, wound, fired, wound, fired, wound. He’s going to say it’s fine and why am I wasting his time, I dreaded.

“Oh, yes there it didn’t cock.”

Whew.

“The shutter sounds a little slow, I’d like to test it, if that all right with you.”

Please do.

He stepped back into the office, and I could see it all. Esoteric machinery with Rollei logos, a gaggle of shiny bodies, stacks of documentation, Rollei’s history in posters, magnificent clutter measured by the decade. And, a woman of Italian lineage who was beautiful when the clutter was just a mess, seated at a table with a worklight with some interrupted intricate task, staring at me without curiosity but with unrestrained disgust. Fleenor’s wife? Faithful assistant? I lacked the experience to know just by looking. My life looked pale in that moment.

I noticed the wall with tacked up testimonials and thankyou cards from satisfied customers. I’d seen the same notes at a garage while waiting for a new car window, one that took four hours to replace.  I noticed a printout of a camera mural painted on a wall in Reno — a photo I had seen myself only a week prior. This comforted me slightly, as my circle was not wholly distinct from Harry Fleenor’s after all. I noticed a two foot square print on the wall of greener times with yellower flowers. My only thought was that I could take a better photograph than that.

“The shutter’s a bit slow. And, see here the tripod lug is loose. I can tighten that up for you if you want.”

He quoted a price. I nodded.  He added that based on the grinding, he’d also recommend a transport overhaul, and quoted a price on that. I said okay. This is what I’d feared, but expected.

“Do you use a Rolleikin?”

I thought: Oh course not, whatever that is, What is that? Wait, wait! I know what that is. Yes, I have one Yes I do use one. This is what I wanted to ask him about. Oh God how long am I pausing?

I said: “Yes, well I have. I mean, I do. I want to, but I can’t figure out the counter works. With that. I want to.”

He proceeded to show me how the counter works, that a crucial pin was missing. He could install a new one if I wanted. He didn’t know if I wanted to use thirty-five millimeter film. I said I did. He quoted a price.

I said okay.

At this point, he must have figured he had a boat payment on his hands.

“I don’t know if you want to spend the money, but I have some custom Maxwell focusing screens.”

He proceeded to describe them, but before he could quote a price, I said that I was happy with the the screen, thanks. We both knew the measure of me at that point. I offered that in my limited research, I thought the shutter might have been replaced at some point as I thought that model was supposed to have the Compur-Rapid shutter that went to one-one-thousandths of a second. He looked at me as one might view a child who has spit up creamed peas all over the family photo album. “No, all Rolleis of this model go to one five hundredth.”

So, he got out an invoice and started to write it up.

“My backlog right now is about six weeks. Is that all right?”

Paperwork ensued. He made some small talk about never having heard of Valley Village in the sixty years he’d been there. I assured him that happened to me all the time, as if that were somehow notable given my four years there. He made special note of my mirrored lens cap, and I searched for some hint of approval in his voice for that tiny detail. I may have imagined it, but I think I heard just that.

A significant cash deposit insured an amicable parting, another handshake and I was gone.  I’d taken in my camera to get juiced up, and I’d learned how to use the counter for the Rolleikin. I’d survived Harry Fleenor!

As, I went back down the stairs, the men from before were gone, but a shifty character lumped in their place, he avoided my gaze conspicuously. I couldn’t explain him, and I doubt if anyone could. I resolved that when I returned for the Rollei I simply must bring a roll of film and demand to test it by taking Mr. Fleenor’s  picture. I will try

Incredibly, my car was neither towed nor cited. And, the orange soda was the best I’d ever tasted.

Song of the day: “The Talkin’ Song Repair Blues” – Alan Jackson

I imagine Robert Capa had one just like this:

Leica IIIa + Lenses and Accesories.

$500? nah…

A series of funny listings for real gear in the “photo/video” section of Los Angeles Craigslist. Some homophobic tics make the seller even more nutty. That’s Reseda for you.

The ad for the Vivitar reads:

Stock the Vivitar 283 flash comes with an inferior, sub-standard, faggot hot foot mount. But this flash has one of the bitchin’ aluminum mounts from Holly Enterprises. Plus a velcro-attach bounce card. With this flash you will be swinging big and taking the best of the best exposures. Plus if some snobish photog blocks your once in a lifetime shot of the ghost of Jim Morrison, you can smash him over the head with your camera without worrying about the flash breaking off…then take the image of backdoor man’s vapors.

Feb 20 – TAMRAC PHOTO BACKPACK – $50 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – LOWPRO TREKKER BACKPACK CAMERA BAG – $25 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – MINOLTA IV F FLASH METER – $100 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – QUANTUM TURBO BATTERY PACK – $75 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – NIKKOR 16MM 3.5 FISHEYE – $100 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – VIVITAR 283 FLASH WITH HOLLY ENT. ALUMINUM MOUNT – $50 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – NIKKOR 50MM 1.8 MANUAL FOCUS – $50 - (Reseda)

Feb 20 – TOKINA 28-70 AT-X AUTO FOCUS LENS FOR NIKON – $75 - (Reseda)