Well, this is fun

•September 30, 2017 • Leave a Comment

I came across something unusual in a bag of old camera equipment the other week. Well, it didn’t look unusual at first glance. It appeared to be a bog-standard 135mm f2.8 aftermarket lens in a Nikon Ai mount. If one were to gather up all the old 135mm lenses mouldering away in old camera bags in the world’s closets and garages and attics…. well, there’s tons of aluminum and glass sitting there.
The 135mm lens faded from popularity when the 80-200 and 70-210mm lenses became affordable and decently sharp – around the early 1980s. Before that, good zooms were very expensive, and affordable ones weren’t that sharp or contrasty. They tended to be long and bulky too in those days.

Looks ordinary

It’s just another 135mm 2.8, even if it looks a bit fatter than usual.

So the 135mm lens was the go-to choice for the young photographer short on cash, like me with my first 35mm SLR: a Minolta I’d bought shortly after my 16th birthday. It came with a normal lens, but when I’d saved up more money, I quickly bought a 135mm f3.5 genuine Minolta lens and my photography came alive. As a handy cropping tool that also brought subject matter up close and personal, it’s not hard to see why 135mm lenses were popular for so long. The fact they were affordable didn’t hurt either.
When I bought that Minolta 135mm, I spent a good bit more than if I’d settled for an off-brand budget model. The difference was maybe $30-40, but to me that was a lot of hours babysitting the neighbour kids. I’ll admit I’d looked over the budget 135mm’s and the fit and finish turned me off. I decided to save up the extra money and do it right. I have to acknowledge the Minolta 135mm was only an f3.5, whereas I could have got the 135mm “Makinon” in a f2.8 for much less. I can only presume that if I’d looked around, I might have been able to buy a good quality Vivitar or Tamron or something like that for more money, but less than the genuine Minolta, and maybe with a f2.8 aperture.
So back to the mystery lens I found in the camera bag the other day. Yes, it was a Vivitar f2.8 135mm lens, short and compact, but curiously fatter than most of the type. Instead of a 52mm or 55mm front cap size, this one was 62mm. Taking the cap off revealed “Auto Telephoto Close Focusing” markings.

Front nameplate

Behind the 62mm front cap, you find the trim ring promising “close focusing”

Uh oh, one of those, maybe. I recalled that back in those days, aftermarket manufacturers tried to add value to their budget lens offerings, especially the 135mms, with extra features of dubious quality or utility. I recall some 135mm’s having an adjustable ring on the front to dial in soft focus. Back in those days, soft focus filters were very much in vogue, and special purpose “soft” lenses were used by pros. Nobody seems to like that too much these days – unless you’re geeking out about the “bokeh” on your f1.4 lens wide open.
But other times the adjustable ring up front added a “macro” mode to a basic 135mm. You got closer all right, but sharpness went out the window. This Vivitar, however, had no such extra ring, but the regular focus ring was marked down to 0.75 meters. A regular 135mm Vivitar I compared it to only went down to 1.4 meters. Okay, so close focusing is possible, and I gave the ring a turn and found the lens extending out, out, and out, exactly like Vivitar’s well known Macro 50mm and 100mm lenses of the day. The ring actually makes one and a half turns, and reveals a second close up scale extending down below 0.6 meters. Another scale says that’s 1:2, or half life size.

On the body

That focus ring just turns and turns, and this is what you end up with.

So, is it a macro lens? Well, probably not really, as true macro lenses are specially designed and tuned for close up photography – and the word “macro” does not appear on this thing. “Close focusing” is the only claim.
Maybe it’s only a regular 135mm f2.8 stuffed into a macro style lens barrel, so you can get in close without having to add an extension tube onto your rig. I certainly remember using an extension tube on my old Minolta lens to get in close, and I never worried at the time that I wasn’t using a proper “macro” lens.
I had to take this lens apart to give the elements a good cleaning of probably two decades of haze from poor storage. The tiny holes you see in the front trim were drilled by me just so I could get the stuck ring unthreaded. It wouldn’t budge otherwise. The glass came clean, and everything else worked fine, so it all went back together.
What to do with it? If it’s just a junky old Vivitar with macro pretensions, someone might have fun with it on a modern Nikon body. But I did an internet search and discovered that over on the Pentax Forums, more than a few Pentax owners were raving about this close focusing 135mm Vivitar (in K mount, naturally) and posted some nice-looking pics to prove its worth.

Nice colour

This lens reminds you how pleasant that 135mm perspective can be

Really? Could this thing be any good? I counted only four glass air-spaced elements inside it, and sure enough, that’s the design. Contemporary macro lenses usually had five elements and were limited to f3.5 or f4.0. I’m still going back to the idea that this a fairly regular 135mm 2.8 design stuffed into a close focusing barrel.
But apparently a good one, according to the internet buzz. Since Vivitar never actually made any of the things that carried their brand, this particular lens was apparently made by the respected Japanese optical house of Komine, and badged up for Vivitar. How much of a hand the optical experts at Vivitar had in its design is uncertain.

Great detail

The perfect lens for a walk in the woods

What is certain is that it’s darn fun to use. While I have a Nikon 135mm f3.5 in my collection, it doesn’t get much use. Part of that is because if I’m carrying a 80-200 or 70-210 zoom, I’ve got that covered. For portraits I’ve preferred an 85mm for some time. And there’s the sad, but silly fact that the old 135mm and 105mm manual lenses I own are very compact and skinny and look a bit skimpy on a big full-frame DSLR. I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does. The lens has to look like it belongs, and this chubby little Vivitar looks and feels well-balanced on the big camera.
That’s really why many of the newest lens offerings these days have large plastic barrels with lots of airspace inside and oversized lens caps on the outside. Sure they could make that 35mm, 85mm or 50mm a lot smaller (and they have done in the past), but they’d look unbalanced on a plump, overstuffed modern body.
So I took the Vivitar with me on my recent visit up north to cottage country, and honestly wondered if I’d get around to trying it out. But once on the camera, it rarely came off, and I ended up revelling in that nice, tight short telephoto perspective I recalled from my youth, and loving the fact that it just kept focusing closer, and closer and closer…. And unlike my proper 55mm micro, it has lot more “working distance” between the object and lens front when you are getting right in tight.

Glowing

Despite its simple specs, this darn lens performs

The 70-210mm just stayed in the bag, and the Vivitar took the most of my photos – at least when I wasn’t using an ultrawide or fisheye to photograph the night sky.
The images are sharp, with nice colour and lovely smooth backgrounds. I think I used it mostly at f4.0 to f5.6 with no complaints. Some close critical examination showed a bit of chromatic abberation around brightly lit objects – but then that’s true of most lenses these days anyway, regardless of price or design.
If you should come across one of these in a mount that’s useful to you, give it a second look.

Advertisements

The rarest of the rare

•September 1, 2017 • Leave a Comment

This camera up for discussion might not be in the greatest of condition, but it is surprisingly rare.
What’s so rare about a Leica 35mm SLR, you might ask?

Leica RE with lens

If you have those Leitz R mount lenses, this is where they belong

Well, Leica SLRs are certainly out there, about a half million having been made from 1964 Through to 2009 when the last R9 sank beneath the waves (along with the Digital Modul R that converted it to a very costly 10 megapixel DSLR). But this camera here is a Leica R-E, which oddly enough ranks as the lowest production model of all the Leicaflex/Leica R lineup. It was introduced in 1990 as a lower cost alternative to the full-fledged R5, but pretty much the only features missing were the program and shutter-priority modes that no one really ever needs. The trouble was that Leica at that time making a lower cost SLR was like Rolls Royce making a lower priced sedan – so only about 6,000 or so R-E’s rolled off the production line, and that makes it a low production rarity in anybody’s book. Even the poor-selling last-gasp R9 got 9,000 customers. In contrast, the most successful Leica SLR was the R4, which sold over 100,000.

Leica RE front

A bit of wear, here and there, but still in perfect working order.

I was loaned this rare camera for a few days to help test and adjust a bunch of Leica R series lenses that were headed for a new career in cinematography, so it seemed appropriate to run a few rolls of film through the beast – especially since I don’t think I’d ever had the privilege to shoot with a Leica SLR before. I’ve owned and used a few Leica rangefinders from time to time, but never a “Leicaflex”.

Leica RE top

That little “m” in the round circle means manual mode with spot metering.

If you aren’t familiar with Leica’s foray into the SLR world, you can be forgiven. The first Leicaflex arrived in 1964, and despite being precisely well made and German, it was already obsolete, using an external meter cell when everyone else had embraced the TTL concept. The Leicaflex SL and SL2 played catch up, but fans of the Leitz SLR glass realized something was up when Leica turned to Minolta in Japan to help launch the Leica R3 – which was essentially a beefed up and refined Minolta XE-7. The Leica R4 arrived in 1980, as a beefed up and refined Minolta XD-11. Even some of the vaunted Leitz lenses were made under contract by Minolta in Japan. You couldn’t dispute the quality and precision, but were they really German? Were they really Leica?
The later R5, R6, and R7 cameras also used the revamped Minolta XD chassis, even though Minolta by that time had moved on to increasingly plasticky autofocus cameras and lenses.
So this rare-ish Leica R-E is still based on the XD platform, and still has that slow “ker-chunk” shutter sound I enjoyed so much in my XD-5 a gazillion years ago. But the thing to remember is that this Leica isn’t a 1970s model, or 1980s, it came out in 1990. Like its R5 big brother, its flash sync was only 1/100th, and autofocus was strictly verboten. Leica was still chasing the Nikon F3, at a time when the F4 was already looking long in the tooth, and the F5 was on its way.
When this R-E was new, I was shooting with a Nikon F-801s, and enjoying autofocus, flash sync at any speed up to 1/250th, and built in autowind, all run on four AA batteries. Could I have done all the same things if I’d bought an R-E or R5 at that time? Not a chance.

Leica RE back

Clean and simple. A 1980s camera made for the 1990s.

Nevertheless, this R-E is a lovely thing to behold. While the layout and technology is very reminiscent of the old Minolta XD models, there’s a lot more refinement and solidity. Every metal part that could be made thicker and beefier, was.
There’s no on/off switch. Pressing the shutter button always activates the meter (also just like the Minolta), but the R-E continues Leica’s fascination with the spot meter. In aperture priority you have a choice of average metering, or spot. Manual mode is spot only. The viewfinder display uses a combination of LED lights, and windows for aperture and manually set aperture. Again, this all anyone really needs, although newer cameras with digital readouts all in one place below the screen have us spoiled.
The oddest thing about the R-E is its viewfinder, which has a strangely bluish-green tint about it. I don’t know about you, but I prefer my viewfinder image to be the same colour as the outside world. But that split-image focusing ring in the centre is just the way things ought to be.
I took the camera out, with four Leitz lenses, making for a very hefty kit. To add to the misery, I brought along my latest DSLR, which needed to be shown the ropes. While the DSLR is big and pudgy, the Leica feels dense as uranium, especially with those stoic, precise, and thickly barrelled lenses. The Nikon lenses seemed deft and nimble in comparison.


Still, one doesn’t knock the Leitz optics. I don’t care whether they were made in Germany, Canada, or Japan, they all prove their worth. The only downside is that they won’t turn ordinary photographs into masterpieces, despite what their well-heeled owners may have been told.
The R-E wasn’t going to be a big seller in the early ‘90s, not with all those AF cameras dominating the market. And Leica was still towing the party line in those days, insisting the magnificent precision of their lenses was not compatible with the loosey goosey sloppiness of autofocus. Contax, the upscale brand from Yashica, said the same thing about their German-sourced Zeiss optics. Trouble is, magazine covers, and award winning journalism was being shot with autofocus Nikons and Canons at the time. The old ways might have been appreciated, but were being forced into the background.
It wasn’t long before Leica was essentially becoming less a manufacturer of high-grade, but relevant and practical 35mm equipment, and more a maker of Euro-luxury goods. Prestige was supposed to win over practicality, but it was a slippery slope. It might work for Rolex, but photographers don’t buy jewellery. I wasn’t the only one nauseated by the long list of special edition models that permeated the Leica rangefinder line. I think I truly lost a lot of respect for the concept when I evaluated an M6 Titanium, with its matching titanium lens. Now, titanium had been used to make camera shells lighter and stronger for some time. That M6 had a gorgeous tan metallic sheen on both body and lens, and complementing ostrich skin leather. But further inspection revealed it weighed no less than a regular M6. Huh?
Turns out the “titanium” was merely a finish on a normal body and lens. And the ostrich was also just embossed leather. Despite the premium price, it was no lighter or more durable than a regular M6. I guess the collector types weren’t supposed to notice.
But this R-E was made before all that nonsense, and as a no-nonsense 35mm SLR, it deserved to be loaded up with black and white film and put through its paces. The solid, firm handling lenses inspired confidence (I used a 50mm f2.0, a 24mm 2.8, 90mm 2.0 and a 80-200mm f4.0 zoom). The images didn’t disappoint, and I share some of those scanned negs here.
The irony is that cameras like this are enjoying some renewed interest these days. It just seems appropriate to have a traditional wind lever under the thumb, and a shutter dial under the finger when shooting 35mm film. The higher tech AF bodies, with their LCD displays and multi-modes just seem like digital SLRs without the digital, and nobody wants them right now.
It was nice to have the privilege of trying out this classic rarest-of-all Leica SLR, especially as it’s getting harder and harder to do so. All those solid, well-made, sharp R series lenses are being poached by the cinema crowd and having all manner of adapters fitted. Sad to say, those Leica SLRs will all be sitting around lenseless.

How we learned to stop worrying, and love our batteries

•June 17, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Some weeks ago, a regular customer stopped by for a little help with his Ricoh SLR. I think it was the XR-P, which ranks as one of the last Ricoh SLRs put onto the market. It only took a moment to figure out his problem, and as I just happened to have an old Ricoh product brochure close at hand, I opened it up to see if his camera was in there.
The XR-P, was a model boasting new-fangled multiple program modes intended to lure photographers away from knowledge of shutter speeds or apertures, and it had a new line of updated lenses – Rikenon “P” lenses, which still used the Pentax-type K bayonet, but added extra electrical contacts to help with programmed exposures. These lenses were short-lived on the market as autofocus was the next big thing on the horizon, and Ricoh, like many other SLR companies, never made the investment for jumping into the AF marketplace. Instead, they put their eggs into the 35mm point-and-shoot marketplace, and did well there while the SLR line faded away. One trick to remember today is to never try to mount those “P” lenses on a current Pentax camera – they’ll jam on the AF coupling.

The flagship XR-S

Billed as the world’s first “solar powered” SLR.

But that brochure I pulled out didn’t show the XR-P. It was just a couple of years too old. Instead, the flagship Ricoh shown was the XR-S. I was quite familiar with photos and descriptions of the XR-S, but I told my Ricoh-enthusiast customer that it was the one model I’d never, ever seen. I’d even asked the Pentax Forum people if the camera really existed, or had only been a short-term “vaporware” kind of proposition. However, those who responded assured me the XR-S was a real product they had seen and used, once upon a time.
My only conclusion then, is that the XR-S didn’t make it onto shelves in Canada, whereas its almost-identical little brother, the XR-7 … well I’d seen lots of them over the years.
My Ricoh-fan customer looked at the brochure, and said he hadn’t even heard of the XR-S, but promised to see if he could find one. I’d almost forgotten about the conversation, but the other day, he walked through the door and presented to me an honest-to-goodness, XR-S!
I asked where he found it, and he confessed he’d bought it on that on-line auction from a fellow in England. He didn’t come across any in North America.

XR-S b

While Nikon were still putting leatherette on their prism sides, Ricoh had a better idea.

So what is an XR-S, and why does it hold such a fascination? Well, as the brochure clearly states, it was the first camera to use built-in solar cells to keep the battery charged up.
In around 1980-81, when this camera appeared on the market, many photographers were paranoid about battery-dependent cameras. Low battery voltage could suddenly render a camera useless. Whatever would you do?
Never mind that you could ask the same question about your radio or flashlight, the fact was that cameras had traditionally been mechanical devices, powered by springs and such. Professionals demanded cameras that had some mechanical override should the batteries die. Which is why the Canon New F-1 of 1981 could shoot at most shutter speeds if you pulled the battery out. Nikon’s F3 had one 1/80th shutter speed should things go dead.
And Ricoh’s XR-S had solar panels up on the sides of the pentaprism, recharging a special 5-year battery.
Trouble is, 10 minutes later, photographers seemed to forget all about mechanical backups. Nikon, after all, had made their F3 able to draw power from the motor drive pack. Any self-respecting Canon F-1 owner just made sure they had a spare battery or two in the camera bag.
And Ricoh shoppers probably thought the XR-S looked cool, but saved a few bucks and bought the almost-identical, but not solar, XR-7.

XR-S a

Aside from the solar panels, the XR-S was pretty similar to the less exotic XR-7

And, as I said, autofocus arrived only a few years down the road, and batteries were going to be an essential part of that. The worrying and fretting about batteries seemed to fade away.
Still, the XR-S was a neat testimony to those battery fearing days. Despite being Ricoh’s top-of-the-line model in 1981, it’s still only a basic, competent, aperture priority SLR. Ricoh never had any models with professional aspirations, but they always offered good value for the money. Despite the fact this camera probably cost nearly half what a Nikon FE did at the time, it had manual speeds from 1/1000th down to 16 seconds, depth-of-field preview, a memory lock button, an electronic self timer (with new-fangled beeper), multiple exposure button, and an LCD viewfinder display that mimicked a traditional needle readout. Oh, and there was a window so you could see the aperture below the focus screen. All the goodies.
Sad to say, this particular XR-S didn’t work. Its shutter wasn’t cocking properly, but its owner wasn’t deterred. He came back a few days later with another one – but it too was dead. A few days later again, he came in with another in good mechanical order, and only needed new seals to put it back to work.

XR-S d

The bigger battery was rechargeable, but two button cells were a logical replacement.

But he also held up a special trophy – a pack of three of the special rechargeable batteries. A specialty battery supplier he found on-line sold them to him at a close-out price. Naturally, we found they could only be barely charged up, and died a little while later, solar cells or not. We don’t think these batteries were actual 1980’s vintage cells, but were probably old stock from their revival in a solar recharged bicycle computer. Not that it mattered, we couldn’t get them to work. At least we know what they looked like.
My best guess is that owners of the XR-S probably used the original battery until it pooped out after the first five years or so, and then never bothered to seek out another one: two regular 1.5v cells fit and work fine, but don’t have the tab on them to activate the solar recharging system.
Oh, and by the way, none of the fellow’s three cameras were found in Canada.

The “Girl Watcher” lens

•March 9, 2017 • Leave a Comment

The word came this month that Popular Photography, the venerable American magazine, would be closing its doors.
No doubt a victim of both the declining interest in enthusiast photography equipment, and the preference for many consumers to get their information more rapidly, and for free, on-line.
Still, it’s a sad thing to digest, especially since, for me, photography and magazines were inseparable – at least in the beginning.
Before buying my first 35mm SLR, eons ago, I pored through articles, test reports, and advertisements in magazines, and I think Popular Photography was my favourite.
A year or so later, after I’d gone through more than a few rolls in my shiny new Minolta, I happened upon the mother-lode: a big box of old photography magazines being sold at a neighbour’s yard sale. I can’t remember if I paid $5 or $10 for the box, but it was worth every penny. The magazines all dated from about 1967 through 1973, with most being from ’69 to ’71. And most were either Popular Photography or Modern Photography.
I devoured them all. It took me months to read each and every one, but read I did.
While they were really only about 10-12 years old at the time, to my young eyes they were from an earlier era – before cameras had LED displays, beepers, or program modes. Automatic flash was still in its infancy, and automatic exposure was the new kid on the block and regarded with suspicion.
There was also a bit more of the “Popular Mechanics” ethos still around: technical articles telling you how to build your own this or that, or how to modify a military surplus lens into something useful. Fun stuff like that was mostly gone by the ‘80s. As responsible camera consumers we were expected to buy only the officially sanctioned accessories and lenses described in the official test reports.

Girl Watcher001

Yes, the “Famous Girl Watcher Lens”, complete with a snapshot of a supposedly unsuspecting bathing beauty. I guess that sounded better than “Lothario Lens”.

And then there were those 1960’s ads. Wow, did they look out of date when viewed through the eyes of a 1980s teen (of course, looking at ‘80s ads today is equally cringe-worthy). Those late ‘60s, early ‘70s ads drew inspiration heavily from the ‘60s counter-culture, hippie movement.
But one ad I remember seeing again and again, and it seems every other photographer who read those magazines back then remembers it too, was the “Girl Watcher” lens ad.
The big New York mail-order houses were at their peak back then, offering insane deals on items of questionable quality, along with recognized brands. I had thought the “girl watcher” ad came from Cambridge or Spiratone, two of the big advertisers at the time. But a check of some old magazines on hand quickly found that it was the Sterling Howard Corp. of Yonkers, NY who ran those ads with their completely pervey hook. Did it seem that creepy and inappropriate at the time? Dunno, but they ran the ads for years, so they couldn’t have been crushed under the complaints.
What was the “girl watcher” lens, you ask? Well, it was simply a 400mm f6.3 telephoto, which offered apparently enough magnification to snap pictures of unsuspecting bathing beauties at the local beach. It sold for only $34.95 in the late ‘60s.
The other mail order ads offered similar lenses, at similar prices, but with less creepy descriptions.

Girl Watcher002

Still 34.95, and still called the “Girl Watcher” a couple of years later. Notice you could buy, for a lot more cash, a 600mm f8, or a 800mm f8.

And it’s not like $35 was chump change back in those days. I recall seeing mid-‘60s ads for bachelor apartments going for $35 a month in a new building. Of course, real-estate and rents have soared more than most other things in the following decades.
So, you plunked down your $35 plus shipping, and maybe spent a bit more to get a leather case, a hood (good idea), maybe a filter – what did you get? Well, I’ve handled and tried out more than a few of these type lenses over the years, and I have to conclude they were pretty good fun for the money.
The 400mm lenses were typically f6.3, which looks a little dim through the finder of the standard SLR, film or digital. The 500mm f8 versions (which is what I’m picturing here) were even dimmer and trickier to focus accurately. The apertures were pre-set – meaning you have to remember to manually close them down before shooting. With the right T-2 adapter on the back of the lens, you could fit your “girl watcher” to just about any interchangeable lens camera, from the fanciest Leica reflex, to the crappiest Petri.

Kimunor A

No doubt many of these lenses were sold just for bragging rights: “I’ve got a 500mm!!”

The lens design is modest, despite the advertising hype, and you can’t expect results to compete with multi-kilobuck high-end lenses of today. But if you focused carefully, stopped down to f11, or f16, and kept the thing steady at a decent shutter speed, the results weren’t dreadful – and probably not all that far behind the long telephotos offered by the camera makers at the time – before high-grade coatings, and exotic super-low dispersion glasses came along.

Kimunor 8

Wide open at F8, and even after some digital sharpening, you can see the Kimunor is a bit lacking.

Kimunor 16

Still, stopped down to F16, it’s pretty decent. But how easy is it to live with a 500mm lens at f16?

But even today’s photographers, armed with newer-spec lenses, know that long telephoto photography is never easy. Atmospheric haze, loss of contrast from light-scatter, and the struggle to avoid high-magnification shake are always an issue, and the buyer of the $34.95 lens faced all that and a bit less overall sharpness, and some more chromatic aberration to boot.
As I said, the results aren’t dreadful, but many bargain hunters quickly learned their bargain was difficult to use well. The $34.95 either whetted your appetite for something better, or more likely got stashed away in the closet as a constant reminder that the 200mm telephoto or zoom was really plenty of lens for most situations.
So what happened to the cheapie pre-set long telephoto lens? Did they fade away along with bell-bottom pants and Neanderthal-era sexist advertising? Actually, no, they are still alive, well and with us today.

Kimunor B

Long and skinny, and lightweight, they’re no threat to the big boys offered by the major makers. Add in a manual aperture, and tricky manual focus, you can see the pre-set telephoto spent more time in the closet than out in the wild.

Kimunor C

It doesn’t take much to unscrew the basic parts of the pre-set budget telephoto. There’s only optics at the very front of the front barrel (top left), and in the group front centre.

The 400mm versions are gone, understandably, as many zooms these days achieve 300mm. But you can still find brand-new 500mm f8.0 pre-set lenses being peddled on line – where the disappointed customers are less likely to expect their money back. They are no longer made in Japan, but now come from Korea. There are more plastic parts here and there, but they’re still basically the same thing as the old Tele-Astranar, Albinar, Spiratone, Promaster, Rexatar, and the one I share with you here: a Kimunor. Current names include Bower, Samyang, Rokinon, Phoenix, and Vivitar. No doubt there are others. You can even see them with cosmetic upgrades, like white painted finishes and red trim lines, meant to make you think “Canon L”. You can find all you want for $150 or less, usually including the t-mount of your choice (but I don’t think they’ll get you a Petri mount these days). Accessories include cases, filters, and cheap 2x converters in case you have a hankering for a super-dim 1000mm f16 (I dare anyone to get a sharp picture that way).
What they don’t come with is a big floppy sandbag to drape over the lens while bolted onto your biggest, sturdiest tripod. These things are still lightweight, and those tripod collars are still bendy, and the lightest breeze will still conspire to wiggle your pixels into a blur if you aren’t super careful.
I’ll wager they are still better optically than the budget 500mm mirror lenses offered by the same outfits these days, so take a chance on one if you must, and have some fun.
But, please, stay away from the beach.

The one that got away… returns

•February 16, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Every hobby seems to inspire tales of “ones that got away”.
There’s the car enthusiast who sells off his old Mustang, only to see it rise up as a sought-after classic a decade or two (or three) later.
There’s the gun collector who gets talked out a favourite shotgun by his buddy, only to get a glimpse of it scratched and beaten up a few years later.
Or the watch collector who sold off his old dive watch for a hundred bucks years ago, and winces as they become valuable vintage pieces, with prices soaring into the four figures.
And photographers often part with beloved cameras they wish they’d kept. Usually it’s a Rolleiflex. I’ve had more than a few guys bemoan selling a Rollei, even if it was for a handsome price some years ago. While they could buy one back, it would cost the same, or maybe more today – and they likely won’t spend that kind of dough on a film camera again. But if they’d only kept that one….
For me, it’s not a Rolleiflex, at least not yet. No, some twenty years ago, I purposely bought a batch of cameras needing repair for the express purpose of selling them once fixed up. I think there were six in all, including a couple of well-worn screw mount Leicas, and a Braun Paxette that was beyond saving. I don’t recall the others, except for the one I wished I hadn’t let go.

vitessa-f

Stylish design. You could be forgiven for thinking this camera was made in the 1960’s.

It was a Voigtlander Vitessa, model N, and after I got its shutter going and the rangefinder fixed, I was captivated by its beauty, enough to run a test roll through it … before selling it to some ungrateful dealer who was going to flip it again for a few dollars more.
That one, I wish I’d kept.
Another couple have come across my repair bench in the years since. I think one had the fancier lens, and another had the built-in light meter. And like most vintage leaf-shutter rangefinders, they needed the same rangefinder repair and shutter cleaning and lubrication. But they already had owners and weren’t for sale.
Finally, a few months ago, I got a pleasant surprise when a nice lady promised to show me a “German camera, a Voigtlander”, if I was interested. I expected another Vito or Vitomatic model, as these seemed to be favourite models on the local market, back in the day. But, upon opening the case, I indeed beheld a Vitessa, model N.
She told me the sad story of how it had been owned by a friend of the family who left it behind when he went overseas to study. But he passed away over there, and it remained abandoned in her cupboard or drawer for some forty years. Sure enough, there was a roll of Kodachrome II still inside, so the story fit.
As expected, the rangefinder patch was dead, which seems to be the standard malady for a Vitessa, but the shutter clicked perfectly. Even the self timer purred steadily, which is amazing for a camera that likely hadn’t had its shutter wound and clicked since I was in grade school.
I bought the camera from her, with the promise I was not going to part with it. This is something I would do my best to treasure and keep for as long as I could.
So after twenty years, a Vitessa came back to me.

vitessa-e

What’s inside? There’s no separate button or latch to open up the Vitessa. Push the shutter button, and those thickly chromed front doors pop open.

Why the fuss and interest? Well, just take a look at it. That’s one sleek camera. Voigtlander always prided themselves on lovely materials and finish, and this Vitessa just does it for me. The combination of satin chrome on the top plate, and thick, shiny chrome on the barn doors scream quality. Soft rounded corners, and no exposed screws (except the three on the flash shoe) make for one supremely elegant design.
I’ve shown this camera to several camera buffs, and while a few pegged it as a 1960s model, one thought it early ’70s.

vitessa-d

Open wide: Once opened up it becomes apparent the Vitessa is a bit more old-fashioned than it first appears. Notice the frame counter/film reminder window below the viewfinder.

Incredibly, the Vitessa N showed up in 1951, when it must have looked like it came from the future. Remember, in 1951 the airliners at your local airport still had propellers.
However, the Vitessa hides its true vintage behind those barn doors. Press on the shutter button and the doors pop open a little. Ease them open and the lens extends into position on collapsible bellows. Ah yes, a 35mm rangefinder with bellows, just like an old Kodak Retina of similar vintage – just way more elegant.
But the other thing you notice right way when opening up the camera, is the large plunger/antenna thingy that pops up on the left side of the top cover. That is your wind lever. Give it a press and the film advances and the shutter cocks. Under your right thumb on the back you find the focus adjustment. It’s a very speedy arrangement if you plan on shooting several shots quickly. But of course vitesse, is French for speed.
Not that it’s all that speedy. This is a ’50s leaf shutter, folding camera after all. So you set the shutter and aperture with fiddly small dials around the top-grade Compur shutter. And if you didn’t own a fancy light meter at the time, you were making those settings by reading the recommended shutter/aperture combinations off the film package.
Still, it’s the thought that counts. And the drop-dead styling, of course.

vitessa-c

The cockpit: Using a big plunger to wind the film never really caught on, but the Vitessa certainly claimed to be quick to use. The thumbwheel was for focusing. Unfortunately, the viewfinder/rangefinder is smallish compared to what the Japanese brought along a decade or so later.

And there is a nice lens up front: a modest f3.5 50mm Color-Skopar. The “color” in the name reflected the new growth in colour photography, and the lens presumably had better coatings to prevent the overly bluish flares seen in lesser optics at the time.
So while the model N got the basic f3.5 lens, the higher-up Vitessas could be had with f2.8, even f2.0 beauties. But I’ve learned that modest aperture optics outperform their bored-out big brothers sometimes. And even though upgrade models could be had with light meters, many of those have pooped out over the years. Even if found working, their days may be numbered. The meterless N is just fine by me, and looks sleeker and prettier for it.

vitessa-003

Sharp and flare free, the Color Skopar lens doesn’t disappoint

Another quirk of the 1950s design is that the whole back/bottom comes off for loading film, and that front mounted frame counter (now that’s an odd spot) has to be manually re-set each time. But hey, this is 35mm, and with 36 exposure film, you only have to re-load four or five times a year anyway, right?
The last Vitessas from Voigtlander did away with the collapsible lens behind the barn doors. The rigidly-mounted lens may have been a more precise build, but not only did you need a lens cap, you lost all the Vitessa’s sleekness.

vitessa-b

There was never any denying that Voigtlander were masters of materials, fit and finish – both inside and out.

The Voigtlander company was around at the birth of photography in 1839 and developed the earliest useful lenses for the Daguerrotype process, but Voigtlander eventually disappeared, absorbed into the Zeiss group in the 1960’s. The name lives on today in lovely lenses and cameras made under license by Cosina in Japan.
But back to my Vitessa. As I said, the shutter worked perfectly, but the rangefinder needed repair, since they all seem to suffer the reflective mirror falling off and rattling around inside the top cover. It can be glued back where it belongs, but getting the whole shebang correctly adjusted is a bigger nightmare than just about any other rangefinder I’ve encountered.
I got it going eventually, and tried it out with a roll of film. The lens was wonderfully sharp, but the focus was off. Sure enough, a double check showed I’d somehow missed proper alignment, or it drifted a bit during final assembly.
Since I had other things on the boil, it took me some months before I got it back on the bench, and then spent way too long getting it to perfection. But perfect it is now, and ready for its next roll of 35mm black and white.
I share it with you now, hoping you understand why I felt the first one had “got away”. Of course, there aren’t as many Voigtlander collectors around these days, and the values of these Vitessa treasures has sagged a bit. Still, if you see one, snag it, and don’t let it get away so easy.

vitessa-a

While upgrade Vitessas could be had with f2.8 or f2.0 lenses (the Ultron!!) even the basic f3.5 Color Skopar was highly regarded.

Collector madness

•June 24, 2016 • Leave a Comment

The other day I came across something that reminded me I have a light meter collection.
The item in question was a Weston Master III light meter – but in a less common black body with a white dial configuration I hadn’t seen before. Aha, something new to acquire!
Then I realized I should share with you the rest of the collection, and my fascination with the darn things.
I don’t remember which light meter started off my Weston collection – the only brand I collect. All I know is that 20 years ago, they were common fodder at camera shows, and often came in with older traded-in equipment.
Basically, Weston kicked off the whole light meter thing. The first viable electrical light meter with a light-sensitive cell was the Electophot of 1931- but it was bulky and needed a battery to get readings off the selenium cell. It wasn’t a success – which makes it a super rare and valuable collector’s item today.

Model 650

The Model 650 Weston meter had distinctive Art Deco styling. Notice that the Pierce extinction meter sitting below it copies the 650’s style. The Exophot (styled after the Weston Master) and Wirgin are also extinction types.

Weston, the same company that made those big dials and meters that adorned the walls and control panels of hydro electric plants in the 1920’s, jumped into the photographic market by making a light meter with two selenium cells and a gauge in the middle: the model Universal 617 of 1932. These too are pretty rare, and I’ve never seen one in person. The last time I saw one up for sale on eBay, the price tag was too rich for my blood.
Soon, however, Weston was able to run with just one selenium cell with the model 617 type 2. We did have a nice working one here years ago, but I never put my claim on it, and it went to some other collector. A more common model is the Model 650, with its octagonal bakelite case with 1935 art deco styling.

Master

This original Master is the one that got it all going.

Master flipside

The secret of the Master series was the flip open door that set up the low light range.The white cap is the “Invercone” incident attachment.

But I think the breakthrough meter for Weston was the original “Master” of 1939. The cell was now sensitive enough to have a pinhole cover over it for bright light. Flipping it open changed the meter scale to the low range, and you could make accurate light readings indoors. Gasp!
You can’t really discount the importance of such advances like this in the 1940s. Now the serious photographer could measure the real, actual light available in most settings. Film could be exposed reliably, not wasted. If you could afford a good meter like the Weston, you were king of the photographic world.
Before the invention of the solar/electric light meter, knowing how to set your shutter speeds and apertures was a lot fuzzier process. There were charts and tables to cross reference your film with lighting conditions. There were little bits of paper that you timed to see how long it took to turn dark. And there were “extinction” meters, that you peered into to see which letter or numeral you could clearly see in the light you had. All methods were very subjective and
prone to error. Electric meters were the way to go, if you could afford one.

Master II

The Master II is the most commonly seen Weston, and was available in several variations, and Cine versions.

The main competitor to Weston in those early days was good old General Electric, who also made flashbulbs. There are those who concentrate on GE collections, but I’m partial to the Westons.

GE competition

General Electric also made excellent meters, but went on to make your fridge, and then jet engines.

1946 brought the Master II: a trimmed down version of the original, but in a tough metal case. Gaskets kept out moisture and dust. I’m always impressed how well-made these things are.
The very similar Master III updated the cosmetics a bit, and looked a bit more 1950s appropriate.

Master III

The Master III is probably the sleekest version of the series. I wasn’t aware there were any made in black, until I came across this English-made one just a few days ago.

The Master IV of 1960 or so, was further trimmed down, now in a stainless case, and a switch to lock the needle’s reading. It was also the first to go with proper ASA (now ISO) film speed settings. The earlier versions used “Weston” speed, which was only 1/3 stop off from ASA.
The IV also had a much cleaner, easier to read dial – so you’d be forgiven for thinking the V of the 1970s actually looked older as it reverted to the tiny, hard to read, markings of the earlier meters.

Master IV

The Master IV (English on left, Japanese on right) went with a smaller stainless case. Neater, but not quite as rugged.

Each generation seems to have benefited from more sensitive selenium cells, and I’ve found you can’t really interchange the cells between models. Oddly enough it’s common to come across an ancient Master II that works perfectly, but a IV or V will have a dead meter cell. I can only conclude that the older style varnish or coating put over the cell to stop it oxidizing and dying was longer lasting. The newer cells often get spider web cracks on them and no longer make voltage.

About 15 years ago I got ambitious about rescuing the old Master IV and V by replacing the selenium cells with silicon cells you could buy at Radio Shack. Yes, they put out more voltage, but I reasoned that with the right neutral density filter over top, I could dial them in. Well, they worked; sort of. With some tweaking I could get excellent accuracy in daylight, but indoors under tungsten light they would over-read by about 1.5 stops. I traced this to the stronger sensitivity of the silicon solar cell to infrared – which regular light bulbs pump out in abundance.Still, for outdoor work, they were fine. I marked these conversions with a little “si” on the dial, and used them often.But back to the collector’s items. There are quite a few variants of the Weston meters, even if you’ve got Masters I to V collected. For instance, the case and dial colours do vary, especially if comparing those made in the USA to those made in Great Britain (sometimes marked “England”). I don’t believe I’ve found a Master IV or V from the USA, but I recently found a IV marked “Japan”, which I didn’t know existed.My collection also has a Master 6, which I bought on an early eBay auction. I paid way, way too much, only to discover the 6 is not a true Weston, as it is lightweight plastic. Oh, and didn’t work either.

Master V and 6

The Master V was the last true Weston master. The Master 6 looks pretty, but it’s actually lightweight plastic.

The last true meter in the Master line was the “Euromaster” which was apparently made in England after Weston lost interest in the photo market. Pretty much identical to the V, it soldiered on for some years, bought by photographers who still wanted a no-battery, reliable meter.
There were other Westons over the years, including many less-costly models. But the only ones to challenge the Masters were the Rangers – a line of battery CDS celled models. I have admired them, but never bought one.
It appeared Weston was out of the photo market by the time silicon cells and digital readouts became the norm. Well, no, I suppose the “norm” by then was the in-camera meter, already hooked up to electronic controls of shutter speeds and/or apertures.
Those who did need a hand-held meter began to prefer something like the Gossen Lunasix with its near-darkness abilities and narrower measuring angle – even if it did need a battery. The sun had set on the Master series.
Still, I love to pull out the Westons from time to time, admire their build quality, look over the artwork of the instruction manuals, and think back to a time when a solar cell and a meter movement was honest-to-goodness state of the art.
It’s also nice when testing out a vintage camera to bring along the appropriate era Weston – say, a Master III when trying out a Leica M3, for instance.
I know, I really should seek help.

Teleconverter tests – Part 2

•March 23, 2016 • Leave a Comment

I thought I was done with lens testing for awhile, after that round of comparisons of four generations of 300mm Nikon optics. At least I thought the results were interesting. I think I can still hear you yawning.
If you recall (or scroll down to my earlier post) the results of the two different teleconverters I tested were interesting too. I had thought my ancient TC-200 converter was a perfectly good optic – until I put it up against the TC-301 that was supposed to be a better match for a 300mm lens. It’s no fun finding out that your earlier notions were all wrong.
Then just the other day, a third gizmo arrived on the scene, threatening the superiority of the TC-301. This is Nikon’s mighty TC-20E III, that not only boasts a hefty price, but also “aspherical” optics. How good would this be?
Well, if you can put something to the test, you must. And so out came the lens, test chart, and the two older converters.
But let’s have a short discussion about teleconverters first. Many of us recall when they were sold inexpensively as add-ons to our basic telephoto or zoom lenses. It was an easy up-sell to convince someone that the $229 aftermarket zoom lens they were buying (probably an 80-200mm, if this is 1980 or so) could be quickly transformed into a 160-400mm with an extra $50 gadget. Sold!
Trouble is, those converters got used once or twice, then got pushed to the back of the drawer after the results were, shall we say, a little disappointing? Stretching the limitations of a budget lens with a budget add-on wasn’t a recipe for sharpness. Often the exposure came out a little dark too.

Converters

The teleconverter add-on. Some were good. Most were bad.

I have what amounts to a scrap heap of these old converters from the manual focus era. Take your pick of lens mounts; I think I have them all.
So what happened to inexpensive add-on teleconverters? Where’d they all go?
I think a few things conspired to make the budget converter a thing of the past. The first was autofocus. Since AF cameras worked with lenses as slow as f5.6, f5.6 became the standard for the inexpensive (or not-so-inexpensive) zoom lens. Putting a 2x teleconverter on such a lens drops its effective aperture down to f11 – where autofocus often hunts and searches, if it tries at all. Converters intended for autofocus also have to have extra couplings and/or electronic contacts, which makes them more costly than their 1980-spec predecessors.
And then, of course, inexpensive zoom lenses got stretched to the 300mm range, at which point most people are quite happy and realize they can’t make good use of more magnification, especially with a crop-sensor DSLR.
But don’t professionals use teleconverters, I am often asked? Yes, yes they do. But putting a $400 or so converter onto a $3,000 or more lens isn’t quite the same thing. When a lens is big, heavy, and made with premium optics, then adding a little gadget to the bag that can boost its range by 40%, 70%, or 100% can be worthwhile, even if it costs you a little sharpness.
This is where these three Nikon converters come in. All were/are pro-grade for their respective eras.

Three TC's

Up for testing: three top-notch teleconverters and a lens that is no slouch in the optical department.

The TC-200 (which was later made as a TC-201 with updated Ai-S couplings) is my old standard. As an old 2x manual converter, it means you have to put up with manual focusing on any newer AF lenses. G-type lenses without an aperture ring won’t work. But on the plus side, it was intended to work with and fit a wide variety of Nikon lenses, as its front element is nicely recessed. It has seven elements, which is a badge of a top-grade converter. Many companies, like Vivitar made both high-grade 7-element, and budget 4-element versions. Cheap converters were all 4-element, if you were lucky.
The TC-301 is an odd duck. No it’s not a 3x converter (Nikon never made one); it’s still 2x, but its name implied it was made for lenses 300mm and up. That big snout of a front element only fits lenses that will allow it inside. It has only five elements, but they’re obviously widely spaced out in a design optimized for big glass.
The newest one is the TC-20E III, and has one aspherical optic in its 7-element design. It’s noticeably heavy. The big thing, of course, is that it supports autofocus, and G-type lenses. The down side is the list of lenses it fits is quite small. A tab on the front mount physically blocks from fitting unapproved lenses, although some owners have resorted to modifying the mount to fit a few more.

Different designs

The three different designs up for review. All are pro-grade, and not to be confused with the cheap add-ons of yesteryear.

One of the least costly lenses on the approved list is the 300mm f4.0 AF-S I happen to own, so that’s what I used for testing this time round. One lens allows us to learn something, even if we can’t learn everything.
So, the lens was mounted on my big tripod, converter and camera on the back. Focusing was done carefully on magnified live view, and the flash exposure was made with the mirror locked up. Hopefully this gets rid of any notions of camera shake ruining the data.
Again, the results were interesting. And again, the TC-301 came out on top. Unless there’s something wrong with the new aspherical converter, and I doubt there is, the old design showed it up – except perhaps with the lens used wide open (effective F8) where the TC-20E III is a tad sharper. But again, the TC-301 was best in the corners, and added less chromatic aberration to the image.

TC200

The TC-200 again proved it is not up to the standard set by its big brothers. However, it was intended to be a doubler for lenses shorter than 300mm.

I didn’t bother testing how easy it would be to remove the chromatic aberrations in Lightroom or Photoshop, but rest assured, that might be helpful.
As you can hopefully see from the composited test shots, all three converters benefited mightily from stopping the lens down to an effective f11. Again, I didn’t bother stopping down further because I don’t think the world needs a 600mm f16 telephoto, sharp or not; f11 is dark enough.

TC-301

The odd-looking, and obsolete TC-301 delivered the best overall results, especially at f11 (one stop down). Note less chromatic aberration.

So does this mean we can write off Nikon’s latest top-dog teleconverter as not living up to its obsolete predecessor? Probably not. Obviously the new unit allows AF with its approved list of lenses, but we have to concede that testing just one AF-S 300mm lens might not tell the whole story. This TC-20E III was built mainly to double the range of some really big, and really pricey optics. How well does it perform on a 400mm f2.8, or a 600mm f4, compared to the TC-301? I can’t say. And if and when the stars align enough to allow me to play with one of those behemoth optics, I probably won’t have the suitable converters around to run more tests.

TC-20 E III

The TC-20E III had the best centre sharpness with the lens used wide open.

At the end of the day, am I ready to retire my venerable TC-200, given that it came up dead last again? Well, no. Don’t forget it was actually designed for shorter lenses than the 300mm. However, while it fits, it isn’t recommended for my 80-200mm f2.8 either (I do recall some noticeable light falloff last time I tried it).
No doubt there’s a lens or two in my collection where the TC-200 will shine. I’ll just have to get out the test chart again to find out for sure. This time, I promise not to bore you with the results.