Finding the range

Isaac, left, and Maya-Jean Lathan pose April 19 in one of the booths at the Nacogdoches Farmer's Market near downtown. Ease of use and quality construction made the Yashica Electro 35 GSN rangefinder camera popular with casual photographers in its day.

Once more, I venture into the world of rangefinder cameras. This time, cameras made in Japan, primarily during my youth.

I have three: A Minolta Hi-Matic 7s (which has some issues), an Olympus 35 RC, another one of the cameras I inherited from my late father, and the one used to make the photo which leads off this post, a Yashica Electro 35 GSN.

The Yashica was a real blast from the past for me when I acquired it earlier this year from a gentleman who had read and enjoyed one of the first Analog East Texas features in The Daily Sentinel.

LEFT: A trio of 35mm rangefinder cameras manufactured in Japan during the 1960s-70s. The Yashica Electro 35 GSN, bottom left, the compact Olympus 35RC and the Minolta Hi-Matic 7S, top, all featured a host of electronic controls for ease of use coupled with high quality lenses which made the cameras popular with amateur photographers.

He brought that camera and, if memory serves, a vintage Canon A-1 with a strobe and a couple of lenses. Now, it wasn't exactly fair, because when I was studying photography, the Canon A-1 camera was sort of my personal Holy Grail. I'd always wanted one, back when I was a Canon shooter. (And we won't go in to why I'm not a Canon shooter any more. At least, not exclusively.)

I just loved the way the A-1 looked, felt and, most importantly, shot. So it was natural for me to take him up on his offer to sell me the cameras. The Yashica was just icing on the cake, so to speak. That was one of the first cameras I'd learned on and, in fact, the model I shot the image which got me my first, first-place award in a photo contest, back in junior high.

Deceptively simple to use and built like a brick, the Yashica was still an unknown quality when I bought it. Fortunately, he'd taken good care of it, meaning he took the old battery out when he stopped using it and put in on a shelf. I don't know how many beautiful, vintage cameras I've seen, only to find they had a long-dead battery which had leaked and probably rendered them useless.

But that battery gave me a bit of a worry, never-the-less. Cause you can't find 'em any more. In fact,
because they were based on mercury, they're illegal in this country. But, I bought the camera anyway, knowing (at least being pretty sure) I could figure out a work-around for the power source on the good ol' world-wide interwebs. And, a quick search of the Great E found me what I was looking for and I have a working Yashica Electro.

RIGHT: Highway 21 west of Douglass in June through the lens of the Yashica Electro 35 GSN rangefinder camera. The addition of a red filter to the front of the lens turns the sky dark and highlights the clouds by blocking out blue light.

As for the other two, the Olympus is special to me for a variety of reasons. As I said, it was my father's camera, one he used extensively. I can remember him having it with him just about everywhere he went, particularly when he'd head out in the morning to make his regular rounds, calling on farmers to drum up orders for the feed store.

But even further back than that, I guess while I was still in junior high, him carrying the little thing around with him in a pocket of his big jacket, pulling it out occasionally to snap the odd photo. Or, even more thrilling for me, the first time he sat me down and showed me how to use it and then let me go at it.

And that's part of the beauty of the Olympus 35 RC: It's just so danged small! It fit perfectly in my young hands, back before I hit 6-feet when I was 14 or so. And it just makes such beautiful negatives, even today, decades after it was brand new and shiny.

LEFT: A lone chair sits by the window in one of the buildings at Millard's Crossing Historic Village in March in this image made with the Olympus 35RC compact rangefinder camera. Despite its small size, the 35RC is big in features, capable of sharp images made with ease using either automatic or manual settings.

Unlike the Yashica, which is an automatic exposure camera only (you set the aperture and the camera selects a shutter speed), the Olympus could be set manually. I didn't say it was easy, but it could be done.

You had to figure the exposure, either with a hand-held meter or using the built in meter, then turn the camera off automatic and set the aperture. But it was perfect for a young boy, just learning the ins and outs of photography and, more importantly, learning what all those exotic numbers meant and what happened if you changed them.

The last camera in the set is the Minolta Hi-Matic 7s. It's one of the many flea market finds in my collection of antique and vintage cameras and, until I started this project, I wasn't even sure it worked. I did know the meter was dead, which I found out was due to a broken connection in the battery compartment, which I can't figure out how to fix.

But a couple of rolls of out-of-date black-and-white film and a hand-held light meter and I knew I had a working camera. And, fortunately, the Minolta can be set to operate fully manually.

There are quite a few advantages to rangefinder cameras, which is probably why Leica and Voigtlander/Cosina still make so many of them.

RIGHT: Train cars sit coupled on a siding near downtown in December 2013 through the lens of the Minolta Hi-Matic 7s camera. The Minolta rangefinders of the 1970s featured both automatic and manual operation which allowed the photographer to set both shutter speed and lens aperture independent of each other, important in this case, due to a non-functional light meter in this particular example of the camera.

For one thing, not needing the massive prism housing necessary in the single-lens reflex camera, rangefinder cameras can be smaller and, in some cases, lighter. These aren't, of course, but that's because they were built in the 1960s and 1970s before the advent of light-weight metals and super-strong plastics. And they were built like tanks!

But, today, I don't mind the weight of the cameras. In fact, it helps me hold them steady when I'm shooting. So many modern cameras feel like nothing in my hands. That's not knocking the companies which make them. It's just an observation.

I like to feel like I've got something in my hands when I'm making images. They aren't as heavy as the digital SLR cameras I use every day. But the weight they do have is comforting.

Another advantage to the rangefinders is they are quiet. Particularly compared to the electronic, built-in-motor, big mirror to move DSLR and even analog SLR cameras. That's particularly important when you're trying to be sneaky discrete while making images.

And, most importantly, all these cameras make great images. They were always popular with both amateur and professional photographers in their day and they remain popular with analog photography enthusiasts today.

Some of the most iconic images of all time were made with rangefinder cameras, including the infamous photograph of Lee Harvey Oswald being shot by Jack Ruby in the basement of the Dallas police station, captured using a Nikon S model. (No, I don't have one of those. I wish!)

A train sits at idle on a siding in south Nacogdoches on Aug. 17. Some rangefinder cameras, including the Olympus 35 RC used to make this image, have the light meter window adjacent to the taking lens which allows for ease of use with effect filters like the yellow filter used to bring out the clouds against the blue sky.

And we haven't even talked about the lenses which, on my rangefinders, are fixed. They are arguably some of the best lenses made in their day. All are still very sharp and contrasty, which is good. The Olympus, due to its small size, is a little difficult to focus. But it's still a joy to use.

As I said before, my father used the heck out of that little camera. One of his projects was portraits of all the farmers who bought feed from us for their livestock. I can still remember all those 5x7 black and white photographs, which covered one full wall and part of another behind the counter at the store. Most of them were shot with the Olympus he carried with him almost every day, the same one I carry with me now.

Analog Interlude - Not my father's camera, anymore

The General Mercantile/Old Time String Shop in downtown Nacogdoches.

"It is alive!"

Okay, maybe that's a bit over the top. But that's sort of the way I felt last week when I received my beloved Yashica Mat 124G medium-format twin-lens reflex camera back from the shop.

Getting this camera refurbished has been something I've been threatening to do toying with for several months. Every time I though I had the money saved up or set aside to get it done, something came up (food, rent, gasoline, all that boring stuff).

Finally, though, I decided it was just time to bite the bullet and get it done. I'd made contact with Mr. Mark Hama in Georgia, who specializes in camera repair, particularly the Yashica Mat 124G. For those of you who don't know Mr. Hama, he used to work at the Yashica company in Japan, in the department which built and assembled, wait for it, the Yashica Mat 124G camera.

So you can probably see why I was excited at the prospect of having him work on the camera which had originally belonged to my late father. When I started The Analog East Texas project — even before it was The Analog East Texas project — I started shooting with one of my father's cameras, a Nikkormat EL 35mm camera which had been his pride and joy.

Vintage Stearman biplane on display July 26, 2014 during the annual Nacogdoches Aero Modelers Fly-In at A.L. Mangham Regional Airport in Nacogdoches, Texas.

As I've probably explained before, and will probably explain again, I believed my photography was getting stale, formulaic, in a word, boring. I was tired of the instant nature of digital photography. I longed for the uncertainty, the discovery, I'd found years ago in analog film photography.

After a couple of rolls with the Nikkormat, I dug out the Yashica. I hadn't touched it in probably 10 years, never mind putting film through it. It was just sitting on a shelf, which really isn't good for a camera, or any mechanical device.

This particular camera has a great deal of emotional meaning for me. I can remember when my father bought it. It was his first venture back into medium format photography in several years, perhaps decades.

I can also remember going out with him on shooting expeditions when he would use the Yashica Mat, or hanging out with him in the darkroom as he developed and printed images from the camera. I was amazed at the quality of the images coming out in the developer. With a negative several times larger than the 35mm film I was pretty much working with exclusively at the time, the sharpness and clarity of the photos really caught my eye.

Abandoned shoes along the Angelina River Bottom under the Highway 59 bridge June 29, 2014, south of Nacogdoches, Texas.  One of the last pre-refurb images made with the Yashica Mat 124G.
 
To say the Yashica Mat was in poor condition when I returned to it would be an understatement. A decade on a shelf had pretty much gummed up the works. Dust had settled on it (and in it) and it just wasn't up to what I wanted to do with it for the project.

Then, one day, I was cruising the Rangefinder Forum website. Someone in one of the forums was talking about buying a Yashica Mat that listed as one of its selling points a recent service by Mr. Hama. I figured out what I needed to do.

To make a long story short (I know, too late!), I sent the camera off and, about two weeks of anxious waiting later, I received a package postmarked Georgia. I quickly, but carefully, ripped the package open and feasted my eyes on my shiny renewed camera.

I think my dad would be happy with the way his old camera came out. I know I am. Before, the lenses were dirty, the images that came out of the camera had a kind of glow to them (cool, but not what I was looking for) and shutter firing was intermittent.

Now, the camera is really as good as new. Heck, the light meter even works again! And the images coming out of the camera in the handful of rolls I've shot in the past couple of weeks are just a sharp, just as crisp, just as beautiful as I remember them

Not to get too maudlin, but I could almost fancy my dad was watching me as I printed a couple of the images from those first, post-refurb rolls over the weekend. And I think he liked what he saw.

I know I do.

Ulybka, Tovarishch

Lyla Robison, 4, stands with her family and waves a small American flag as the annual Veterans Parade passes by in the background in downtown Nacogdoches. One of the first images I made with my very first FSU rangefinder, the FED-3.

Okay, so it might seem a bid odd to some to title a posting with a Russian phrase that starts with an image of a young girl holding an American flag at the Veterans Day Parade in downtown Nacogdoches.

But that's alright, since I'm talking this week about rangefinder cameras manufactured in the Former Soviet Union. And for any who are interested, loosely translated, Ulybka, Tovarishch means "Smile, Friend."

With the two cameras I have three lenses: A Helios 103 (53mm/f1.8), a Jupiter 12 (35mm/f2.8) for the Kiev and an Industar 61L (53mm/f2.8) for the FED. Both cameras were purchased off a popular internet auction site (still not going to say it) from buyers in Estonia and Ukraine and are in amazingly good condition, considering their age.

The stories behind these two cameras have been fun to research, almost as much fun as shooting with them has turned out to be over the past several months. They have some quirks, such as it's a bear focusing the Kiev with the 35mm lens on it and the all-metal rings around the viewfinder have scratched the heck out of my glasses. But, overall, I'm really enjoying them.

The FED camera line takes its name from Felix Edmundovich Dzerjinski, statesman and director of the Russian secret police and contemporary of Lenin, often considered a hero of the Russian Revolution. The cameras started out as pretty faithful copies of the Leica I camera of the 1920s. In fact, just after I shot the image that leads off this post, another photographer in town stopped me and asked me where I got the Leica.

An unidentified flea market vendor in his booth with baby clothes Nov. 10, 2013, at Millard's Crossing Flea Market.

After the Leica made its splash on the world, the Russians wanted a home-grown camera of their own, and copying the basic design of an already-successful model probably seemed like a good idea. And face it, for what it is, the FED cameras are pretty darn good. So much so that some early models were patterned so closely after the Leica I, some FED I's are being sold today (by unscrupulous sellers) as genuine Leica cameras.

The Kiev story is somewhat more convoluted. The cameras are patterned directly from designs — and even actual cameras — from the Zeiss Ikon company of Dresden, Germany, which were taken by the Soviets as part of the war reparations at the close of World War II.

After being built for a few years in Germany, production was shipped to Kiev in Ukraine, the name of the camera was changed, and a new camera line was born.

The FSU cameras really aren't known, or at least weren't until recently, outside of the Former Soviet Union. But there's a growing fascination with, and appreciation of, the numerous different types of cameras produced there. A world-wide network of photographers, both amateur and professional, have rediscovered the cameras and are using them for everything from fun snaps to art photography shoots.

I can see, having worked with these two cameras for several months, what the attraction is. Like most of the cameras from that era, there's a satisfying weight to the devices. Unlike several of the modern cameras today, the FSU cameras I've worked with just feel more substantial.

Grass grows through the ties on an abandoned length of railroad track in late June, photographed with the Kiev IV camera and Jupiter 12 35mm f2.8 lens in Nacogdoches.

And the lenses are at least as good as their more expensive counterparts. That is said with a caveat:
Nothing beats the Leica or Contax optics, even today. But the lenses manufactured in the Former Soviet Union for these cameras are good.

Part of the attraction, I think, is these cameras can be real conversation starters. But, in the day of compact digital point-and-shoot cameras and smart phone images, pulling a silver and black metal machine off you hip and spending the time to focus and estimate or meter exposure and everything else that goes along with shooting a 60-plus year old analog camera tends to draw attention.

I've had a number of conversations with people which have led to impromptu photo sessions, not just with the FSUs, but with many of the analog cameras I'm using in this project. And the looks I get sometimes are pretty amazing, particularly from younger people, most of whom have probably never seen a camera that shoots film before unless it's a disposable camera.

Marion Upshaw performs Saturday, June 14, 2014, during the blueberry pancake breakfast downtown to help kick off the annual Texas Blueberry Festival in Nacogdoches, photographed with the FED-3 camera and Industar 61, 53mm/f2.8 lens

That's part of the reason I jumped into this Analog East Texas project at the beginning of the year. I wanted to introduce people to a little bit of the history of photography. The best way I could think of to do that was to dig out some of my old cameras and start showing people what they can do.

They may not be the latest technology but, with few exceptions, they were pretty much state-of-the-art when they were designed and built. And through the images I'm sharing here and other places, hopefully, my readers will get a peek at what photography used to be like.

Imaging making really hasn't changed that much since photography and the photographic processes were invented. But it's not really about the tools. It's all about the technique.

"I'm a grinner," says vendor Dorothy Brewer as she poses for a photo with a FED-3 rangefinder camera in front of her booth at Millard's Crossing Flea Market on Nov. 10, 2013, MIllard's Crossing Flea Market.

Analog East Texas is an ongoing photographic project by Andrew D. Brosig, photo editor for The Daily Sentinel. Each month, Analog East Texas will highlight an antique film camera from Brosig’s personal collection.
The idea behind the project is to explore the technology and technique that inspired both amateur and professional photographers in the pre-digital age. Analog East Texas also gives the photographer a chance to return to his roots in nondigital, film-based photography.
In addition to these pages, you may follow the project at http://www.flickr.com/photos/andrew_brosig

Analog Interlude: Blast from the Past

For this weeks Analog Interlude, I'm taking you all on a forced march down amnesia lane. What we'll be tiptoeing through won't be tulips, however. I'm going to lead you on a stroll through some of my favorite photos from my past.

And, I just have to say it: I love this photograph.

This was taken in the late 1980s, probably about 1987, while I was studying photojournalism and fine art photography at the University of Iowa in Iowa City. There was a campus-wide spring fling type celebration and music festival going on, which I attended with my then-trusty Canon T90, one of the best cameras of its day, shooting Kodak Tri-X.

Like many of us back in the day, Tri-X was the go-to film. Versatile, wide latitude, push-able and pull-able, you could shoot just about anything with Tri-X.

Back to the image, I honestly don't what these people were doing, but something in the back of my mind tells me I knew one or more of them, which is why I made this photo. I do remember they were dancing. I believe it was a traditional folk dance demonstration, perhaps eastern European folk dancing, given how close Iowa City is to the Amana Colonies, a historic German settlement.

But what I really love about this image is the woman in the background on the right. You see her, right? She's the one with the shopping bag and the "What the Hell?" expression on her face.

Looking through old photographs in connection with The Analog Project, I'm finding the roots of subject matter I'm still pursuing today.

Cemeteries, for example. I've talked before about my fascination with cemeteries. There's so much history and acres of amazing architecture and design in cemeteries, I try to visit them where ever I go.

Take this marker, for example, in one of the old German cemeteries which dot the landscape around the Amana Colonies in eastern Iowa. It marks the grave of two children, brothers aged 3 and 10 years, who died less than a year apart more than 150 years ago.

I can't help but wonder about the stories behind this grave. How did they die? More importantly, how did they live? Did they have siblings, are their descendants still around, those and dozens more questions.


The next image isn't an old photograph. It was taken today (July 4, 2014) at the Old North cemetery in Nacogdoches. I'm just throwing it in here to show that, almost 30 years later, I'm still photographing cemeteries.

I've called this one "Fallen Tombstone." Clever with titles, aren't I? With this image, I like the juxtaposition of the foreground stone which has surrendered to time or vandalism (don't get me started) with the still standing stones in the background.

Just a little bit of an inter-interlude-interlude.

Huh? Yeah, that got away from me.

But just so you don't think I spent all my spare time in cemeteries, cause that would just be slightly creepy, I'm going to share a few more images from my archive. Here's another one from my college days when AT (alternate transportation) was the rule of the day.

Some days it was my bicycle, whizzing through traffic and around coeds, fighting to get across campus between classes. Other days, when I was tired or just plain lazy and didn't feel like looking for a place to lock up my bike, it was Da' Bus.

Seriously, that's what they were called back then.

I didn't really love the bus, for much the same reason I don't like public laundromats, which I won't go in to here. It should be obvious to anyone who's ever used either public establishment just what I'm talking about.

But public transportation does have one redeeming feature: Fascinating photographic opportunities, particularly if you're sneaky.

There's nothing really controversial or earth-shattering about this particular shot made from the back of the bus. It's just kinda cool, to me, with everyone in his or her own little world yet sharing a tiny slice of my world.

That may be a decent description of photography: Sharing a minute slice of other people's world, sometimes without them knowing about it.

The last couple of images are post-education photographs I actually was paid to make early in my career. The first is pretty self explanatory:

Yeah, that's who you think it is: Mick Jagger. I was fortunate to cover US tours by both Pink Floyd and The Rolling Stones at Cyclone Stadium on the Iowa State University campus in Ames, Iowa, in 1994. Being a photojournalist is kinda cool, sometimes.

For this image, I deviated from my stand-by film to shot Fuji Neopan 400, pushed two stops, and developed probably in HC-110. That's what we were using at the newspaper at the time, so that's what I shot. It was probably my first real exposure to film stock other than Kodak Tri-X and, later, T-Max 400, a film I never really fell in love with.

This image was made with a Nikon FE2, which I still have, and still shoot with. And that's part of the beauty of analog cameras. Even the FE2, which did have an automatic exposure option, is basically a mechanical camera.

I bought my FE2 used almost 25 years ago and, gasp, it's only been in the shop once since I've owned it. I'm not knocking modern digital cameras, but I very much doubt there are too many folks out there who can say the same thing about today's cameras which are half that age.

This last image is relatively modern, compared to the other photos I've shared.

This is Carhenge, near Alliance in western Nebraska. I made this photograph in probably 1999, on Tri-X 120 film, using a Yashica Mat 124G I appropriated received from my father.

It's a very cool camera, a twin-lens reflex model. It's that tall camera with the two lenses on the front you see in movies sometimes. You look downward, through the top, focusing through the top lens using a built-in magnifying lens, but you use the bottom lens to make your image.

And the negatives are huge, compared to 35mm film. That means your photos appear much sharper with less film grain than the smaller 35mm.

Looking back through all these negatives for the project has definitely been a teachable moment, as they say. I've really learned a few things, which was sort of why I started on this journey in the first place.

I think my photographic skills have improved over the years. I've noticed I don't seem to make some of the stupid mistakes I used to make regularly when I was just starting out.

But, I've also noticed, I tended to take a few more chances back then. I don't know if I was more willing to experiment early in my career, or if everything was still new to me, so I didn't necessarily know what I was doing was pushing the envelope as much as it was.

(If I bring that last sentence in for a fitting, can I get it shortened by Tuesday? But you know what I mean, right?)

In the Zone - Voigtlander Vito B

Members of the Douglass Indians baseball team relax in the dugout at Driller Park in Kilgore on May 31, 2014, before their regional finals game. Photographed made with a Voigtlander Vito B 35mm camera.

It never ceases to amaze me, some of the stuff I find at thrift stores, garage sales and even, occasionally, antique marts for not a lot of money.

That was the way it went with this month's camera, a tough little viewfinder/scale focus camera, the Voigtlander Vito B. Manufactured by the Voigtlander Co. of West Germany sometime between the mid-1950s and 1960, my version of the camera was found about three years ago, languishing in a glass case next to an old hand-held light meter. (Wishing now I'd bought it, cause it was cool, too. And I think it worked.)

Researching the Vito B for this month's Analog East Texas Project story, I learned some interesting things I hadn't known before. For example, Voigtlander is probably one of the oldest optical companies in the world, founded in 1756 in Austria. It's also the oldest camera company, having started building metal cameras to match their optics shortly after the announcement of the discovery of photography, in 1840.

I acquired the Vito B, shown here in my studio with its slip-on lens hood, for the princely sum of $35. I recall distinctly when I bought it. I'd actually found the camera the weekend before, but didn't have any cash. I was just back in Deep East Texas and had spent all my extra money on boring stuff, like moving, buying food, getting water turned on. No money left for the truly essential things in life - buying a new/old camera.

So, after my first paycheck arrived, I made a quick dash to the antique mall and, wonder of wonders, it was still there. I had just enough to get the camera, sadly not so much for the light meter. I'd already discovered, when examining it before, the camera seemed to be working and it looked immaculate.

The Vito B is a tiny little thing, hardly much larger than my hand. (OK, yes. I've got really big hands, what can I say? I'd look silly with little doll hands. But the camera is still pretty small.)

Sorry, got sidetracked. Where was I?

Oh, yes. My version of the camera, according to my research is from the later years of the production run. How does he know that, you ask? The viewfinder. Early models of the camera had a smaller front viewfinder element. Only in the later models did Voigtlander add that big-honkin' extremely bright front element.

The Vito B, as should also be evident from the image above, doesn't have a rangefinder. I'd taken to calling it a scale-focus camera, based on what some people were saying on the world-wide inter-webs. I've also seen it, and others like it lacking the rangefinder, as a viewfinder camera.

All that aside, though, the camera has a couple of hyper-focus marks which do a pretty good job, depending on the aperture, for subjects 8 to 15 feet and 15-feet to infinity. That, and getting better at guess-timating distance, makes the Vito B a pretty easy camera to shoot.

RIGHT: Ashley Williams is reflected in the Ag Pond on the Stephen F. Austin State campus as she walks along the path June 6 in Nacogdoches.

And, somehow, all these older analog cameras I've been working with seem to be great ice-breakers with subjects. It's kind of hard to be too terribly threatening (even though I look like the person your mother warned you about) with a cute, shiny camera in your big hams hands. 

I'm not sure, really, how many times I've been out shooting and people will come up to me, asking about the camera. And an amazing number of them are pretty girls. And they're all fascinated by my cameras.  And people who would, under other circumstance, be nervous around the big DSLR I use for work (seen it happen) are a lot more relaxed around the smaller analog cameras.

LEFT: Douglass Indian players relax in the dugout on Thursday, May 29, at Driller Park in Kilgore, waiting out a rain-delay before their regional finals baseball game against Carlisle. Estimating focus with the Voigtlander Vito B is a learned skill, one which becomes easier with practice.

On the reverse, shooting with the smaller analog cameras, like the Vito B, there isn't as much for me to hide behind. It gets me out a bit more, interacting with people, and (gasp) talking to them.

All kidding aside, I do end up talking with most of my subjects quite a bit. First, I enjoy it and, second, it helps me figure out just why the heck I'm making their photo in the first place. Which is actually necessary more than one might think.

Actually, if I didn't enjoy meeting people, talking to them and getting to share a little bit of their story, I'd really be in the wrong line of work. 

 As I've said before, working with these analog cameras is helping me refocus myself on why I took up photography, first as a hobby and, later, as my chosen profession. I joke around with a friend of mine, Rich, another photojournalist. We often ask ourselves, after a particularly strange day or difficult subject, "Why did we go into this line of work?"

The truth of it is, I love what I do. I'm happiest when I have a camera in my hand, be it the latest, state-of-the-art digital camera or an antique film camera without any of the bells and whistles to be found on a modern machine. And there are definite advantages to both types of photography.

The modern digital camera can give instant gratification. When that image appears on the tiny display on the back of the camera, I immediately know if I've gotten my shot. I also know if I haven't and can usually figure out what I need to do to correct the problem.

RIGHT: Prospective students and parents make their way around the Stephen F. Austin State University campus during a Showcase Saturday event in 2013. Photographed from the top floor of the student center parking garage with a Voigtlander Vito B 35mm viewfinder or scale focus camera.

Not so with film. When shooting analog, there's that sense of anticipation, of not knowing, of wondering, "Was that the one?"

There's also something deeply satisfying, after all that waiting and wondering, in pulling that wet piece of film out of the water bath and holding it up to the light for the first time. So much can go wrong between the time you load the camera and your film is finally processed and permanent. 

It's almost like finding something for the first time, seeing those dripping reversed frames, searching for that one you had locked in your mind and realizing that, yes, that was the one.

A pile of broken concrete demolition debris is stacked in a storage yard under a cloudy sky in October in Nacogdoches in this image from the Voigtlander Vito B scale-focus cameras. Small and easy to use, the Vito B is a fun and sturdy piece of equipment, made in West Germany in the 1950s.

The End of an Era - Kodak Tourist II Folding Camera

One of the angels at Youree Cemetery in Scottsville. Several models of the Kodak Tourist II were manufactured during the 1950s, ranging from a basic model to the more advance model, used here, with multiple options for exposure combinations.

The era of the late 1940s and into the 1950s saw the birth of American car culture, with automobiles moving from the realm of utilitarian transportation into status symbol.
Recreational travel grew with the increase of cars on the road and with it photography reached a heyday for the American public as the words "tourist" and "tourism" began to beknown. It was into this environment the Eastman Kodak Company introduced what would become the last of its long line of folding roll film cameras, the Tourist and Tourist II.

I picked mine up off a popular internet auction site. (No, I ain't gonna say it! You can't make me!)

I'd first seen the Tourist camera in a post on the Rangefinder Forum website, one of the best sources of information on just about any type of rangefinder, scale focusing, analog or digital camera I've found. The RFF community is very knowledgeable on a wide range of topics. And most of the people I've communicated with haven't hesitated to address my questions, no matter how dumb I may think they are.

(I know some of you at RFF have been following this blog and the project for several months. But thanks for reading.)

One of the members had posted images of, and taken with, his camera. I was fascinated. I've got two or three old folding cameras in my collection, but they are more at the decorative, shelf-sitter stage. I picked them up for a song because they weren't in the greatest shape to begin with.

So I was excited at the idea of picking up a working folder and began trolling the inter-webs for a Kodak Tourist II at what I thought was a reasonable price. I almost had one a few months ago, but another bidder and I differed on our definitions of the phrase "reasonable price." He/she was willing to shell out more than twice what I was willing to pay so, needless to say, I didn't have a Kodak Tourist.

Undeterred, I continued my search until, in mid-April, I stumbled across one on that same auction site (still ain't gonna say it) that had a fair price to buy it outright. It took me all of about 30 seconds to decide and, suddenly, I was the proud owner of the camera I'd lusted after been looking for, for several months.

I already had the Kodak IV filters, including a full set of close-up lenses, and lens hood I'd inherited from my late father. It was a pleasant surprise, once the waiting for delivery was over and I had the camera in my hands, to find those filters and holders fit the Tourist II like a glove.

To my surprise, the camera had an unexposed roll of Verichrome Pan black-and-white film in it! It looked like someone had loaded the camera, then put it on a shelf and forgot about it.

I decided what the heck! I'll just go out and shoot this roll and see what, if anything, comes out. And, to add to the surprise, it worked. It was obvious it hadn't been stored properly, so it was fogged, but it didn't look as though the camera had been opened and I was able to scan several images from it into the computer, including this one of the support structures of the South Street Bridge in Nacogdoches.

I've mentioned before I find myself revisiting certain locations and subjects with each of the cameras in this ongoing project. And the South Street Bridge is one of those locations. But I've been photographing the bridge, with different cameras, different lighting and in different seasons, since about 12 minutes after I moved to Nacogdoches almost 15 years ago. So it seemed natural to make this image on the test roll with the new camera.

Fredonia Hill Baptist Church on a partly-cloudy day in April in Nacogdoches. Use of a red filter over the lens emphasizes the clouds and darkens the sky.

I quickly discovered a few issues. The leaf shutter, for example, seemed a little sticky at the slower speeds. In fact, the first few times I fired the shutter, it didn't close all the way until I recocked the camera, which is accomplished with a small lever on the side of the lens mount. A few hours sitting, cocking and releasing the shutter, solved this problem as it seemed to break loose and now works fine.

And that was another thing: Getting used to having to cock the shutter separately from advancing the film. I can't remember how many times in the first few days shooting with this camera I'd get everything lined up, focus estimated, exposure set and ready to shoot, only to depress the release and — nothing happened. Then I'd remember to cock the shutter, double check all my settings in case I'd knocked something cock-eyed, and make my image.

Researching the camera, I learned it was manufactured primarily during the late 1940s through the late 1950s.  It also was the last model in the long line of folding roll-film cameras manufactured by Kodak.

Stephen F. Austin State student Gabbie Fleming poses for a portrait in front of the Baker Pattillo Student Center on campus during Spring Fest on April 25, 2014, in Nacogdoches.

 There were two models, logically named the Tourist and the Tourist II. The camera I have is the Tourist II. Of each general model, there were several options, centered around the lens/shutter combo.

The Tourist II I purchased is one of the top-end versions, with an adjustable aperture and focus and variable shutter speeds. Other versions, apparently designed for the casual shooter, were limited to one or two shutter speeds and few if any aperture adjustments.

And using 620 film to produce a monster 2.25 x 3.25 inch negative, 8 to a roll, it produces amazingly crisp images. Most of my first shots were made on Fuji Acros 100 or Ilford FP-4 125 ISO black-and-white film rerolled onto extra 620 spools (which is really easier than it sounds once you get used to the process), which just enhanced the sharpness of the images.

It's a scale-focus camera, but I seem to be getting better at guess-tamating distance, so that's not really a problem. I'm sort of looking for an auxiliary rangefinder (I believe Kodak made a couple different models as did other companies) which would fit the top of the camrea. But I'm not looking too hard.

There were a few other things about the camera that took a bit of getting used to, including the shutter release, which is actually in the "door" of the camera, the part that swings out when unfolding it. It mates with the release lever on the lens mounting by a somewhat complicated series of levers which are supposed to engage automatically when you unfold the camera. I quickly learned it can miss engaging if you open the camera too quickly, a problem easily solved by closing the camera, then opening it again.

Overall, the Tourist II is a fun camera to shoot. It's another interesting stroll down memory lane and the history of photography. I'm still getting back to my roots and, seriously, I believe the experience I'm having with the analog cameras is helping me in my professional work.

Angel statues at the Youree Cemetery in Scottsville, Texas, near Marshall, photographed May 4, 2014, with the Kodak Tourist II folding camera. The weeping angel statue in the background, one of several angels in the cemetery, was purportedly designed by German immigrant Frank Teich, a stone cutter and sculptor who's work can be seen around the state, including in the capital building in Austin.

The digital cameras I use for the newspaper both have massive, multi-gigabite memory cards, capable of storing hundreds of images before needing to be downloaded. I still find myself using the "run-and-gun" technique sometimes, particularly with sports photography, just shooting anything that moves and sorting it out later.

But, with the analog cameras with a finite number of exposures on each roll of film, I'm finding myself being much more contemplative of the images I make. I usually only carry one or two rolls of film with me at a time, on purpose, to force myself to look carefully at potential image opportunities. I'm getting back to the look through the viewfinder, adjust the camera position, look through the viewfinder, adjust, look, adjust, until I have precisely the composition I want. And, since I typically print full-frame, I'm being even more particular about the images that wind up in the camera.

 Analog East Texas is an ongoing photographic project by Andrew D. Brosig, photo editor for The Daily Sentinel, in Nacogdoches, Texas. Each month, Analog East Texas will highlight an antique film camera from Brosig’s personal collection.
The idea behind the project is to explore the technology and technique that inspired both amateur and professional photographers in the pre-digital age. Analog East Texas also gives the photographer a chance to return to his roots in non-digital, film-based photography.
You may follow the project on Flickr.

Analog Interlude - Oak Grove Cemetery

For those of you who know me, I'll make no bones about it. For those of you who don't, here's a confession: I like cemeteries. Not in a morbid, grave-robber, wish-I-was-dead kind of way. I'm fascinated by the art and architecture of tombstones.

A cloudy sky over Oak Grove Cemetery on May 11, 2014, in Nacogdoches with the grave marker of John H. Ham (1872-1910) in the foreground. The marker shows the characteristic design provided by the organization Woodmen of the World for its members before 1930. (All photos: Nikon FM2/Ilford FP4 1/125 sec. @ F11.

I'm changing up the format for this weeks Analog East Texas blog post just a bit. Instead of focusing on a specific camera — or only on one camera, since all these images were made with my old workhorse, the Nikon FM2 — I'll be focusing on a location as well. And this location is the historic Oak Grove Cemetery in Nacogdoches.

This particular camera has, for the last 18 months or so, been in the hands of my now former part-time photographer, Gabrielle Rambo. I say former because Rambo has now graduated from Stephen F. Austin State University here in Nacogdoches and gone on to, hopefully, bigger and better things. (Miss you already, Kiddo!)

I was hoping to teach her more about the roots of photography through this completely mechanical camera. If, as I've claimed in past entries in this blog, a camera is really nothing more than a light-tight box holding a piece of light-sensitive material with a way of letting the light enter in a controlled manner, the FM2 is the epitome of that description in modern cameras. The only concession to modern electronic technology is a built-in light meter.

(LEFT) Stone filigree decorates the corner of a tombstone at Oak Grove Cemetery in Nacogdoches. Elaborately-carved tombstones became popular during the Victorian Era of the latter 19th Century, with decorations denoting everything from occupation and social status to religious beliefs.

Working with the FM2 is vastly different from capturing images on the advance digital cameras we use at the newspaper. The meter, for example, is very simple: A "+" indicates over-exposure, a "-" for under-exposure and a "o" symbol for when the light is 'Just Right!'

The FM2 has been a workhorse for photojournalist, nature photographers and hobbyists from 1982 until it was discontinued in 2001. The thing is virtually indestructible. (I knew a guy who dropped one about 25-30 feet down a cliff. When we retrieved it, there were a couple of small dings, but the camera continued to function perfectly for years.) You could almost pound nails with it!

(RIGHT) The dove of peace, grasping an olive branch, is another common Woodmen of the World emblem added to member's tombstones throughout history, seen here on the John H. Ham (1872-1910) stone, at Oak Grove Cemetery in Nacogdoches. Time and weather has effaced much of the fine detail of the marker but has done nothing to detract from the beauty of its design.

Oak Grove Cemetery is the final resting place of several key figures in the history of Texas, most notably Thomas Jefferson Rusk, Sam Houston's secretary of war and a signer of the Texas Declaration of Independence in March 1836.

For these images, with the exception of the first image, I coupled my Nikkor 55mm F3.5 macro lens to the FM2. The opening image in this post was made using a modern, auto-focus Nikkor 17-35mm F2.8 lens with a red filter to increase the contrast and emphasize the clouds. That's the beauty of the Nikon system: With few exceptions, almost every older Nikkor lens ever made will work on modern cameras, with only the loss of some automatic functionality.

The 55-3.5 macro is arguably one of the sharpest lenses Nikon ever produced. And, matched with the FM2's bright viewfinder, focusing is a dream. It does suffer from the bane of every macro lens, and close-up photography, in general: The depth-of-field at the close focusing distances is often measured in millimeters.

(LEFT) The hammer, axe and maul are common symbols on Woodmen of the World tombstones, including the John H. Ham (1872-1910) monument at Oak Grove Cemetery in Nacogdoches. The monuments were an early benefit for membership in the fraternal organization which continued through about 1930 replaced in modern times with a WOW emblem to be attached to a member's marker.

I've always loved macro photography. I did a project several years ago, for example, I called "The Small World." I spent most of three years making digital images of everything from flower buds to fire ants. There's just something about the attention to detail and precision necessary, particularly with a manual-focus lens, that fed something deep in my soul.

My interest in cemeteries is a somewhat newer phenomenon. I've only been shooting cemeteries and graveyards for about 25 years or so, ever since I was in college. It used to be a running joke among my classmates in a course on documentary style titled Depth Photography. Whenever we'd go anywhere, to small Eastern Iowa towns around Iowa City and the University of Iowa, I'd always head first to the cemetery to scout around for interesting grave markers.

I think it relates to a Sociology course I took my sophomore year. The professor, who's name I honestly can't remember, discoursed at some length on the importance of how a society deals with its dead as a marker of the roots of that society. That got me interested in how cemetery markers and monuments have evolved over the centuries.

According to the International Southern Cemetery Gravestones Association (iscga.org), the earliest grave markers were simple, made of stones or wood, thought to keep the dead from rising. Burial in church yards came about in the mid-1600s, with public cemeteries finally making an appearance in the 19th Century.

(RIGHT) Lichen grown on the raised letter "M" in the family name on a tombstone in the historic Oak Grove Cemetery on May 11, 2014, in Nacogdoches, Texas. Tombstones have evolved from simple stone or wood markers to sometimes elaborately-carved monuments but are still susceptible to the passage, and ravages, of time.

The so-called Victorian Era (1837-1901) saw cemeteries becoming more like parks, where the living could visit the dearly-departed in comfort. Hand in hand with that movement, grave markers grew more elaborate, with carvings decorating the markers with everything from Angels of Death and the Star of David to the Egyptian Ankh, horseshoes and willow trees. The symbols told a story of the person's life, religious beliefs and even social class and occupation.

As you can imagine, I've only scratched the surface here, focusing as I am on the photography. But it's a fascinating topic, at least to me.

Analog East Texas is an ongoing photographic project by Andrew D. Brosig, photo editor for The Daily Sentinel. Each month, Analog East Texas will highlight an antique film camera from Brosig’s personal collection. The idea behind the project is to explore the technology and technique that inspired both amateur and professional photographers in the pre-digital age. Analog East Texas also gives the photographer a chance to return to his roots in nondigital, film-based photography.
In addition to these pages, you may follow the project on Flickr.