But for new and would-be medium format photographers, the ever-shifting landscape of the hobby can be a bit daunting. Of the hundreds of available medium format cameras, how can we possible know which is the one to buy?

We answered this very question in a pair of articles, the first published way back in 2016 and another in 2019. Five years on, they could do for an update. So, here’s the update.

I’ve meticulously selected five of the best medium format cameras that one can buy today, each with its own unique reason for being. Since we’re just starting out, the cameras are arranged by type, which will help would-be users who may not know what they want. I’ve also tried to keep the cameras on this list limited to those with reasonable prices. (I break this rule only once.)

Enjoy!

For old school sophistication, buy a Minolta TLR

Twin Lens Reflex (TLR) cameras; one glance and we know we’re holding an old world piece of machinery. They’re as much jewelry as they are highly functional photographic tools, and I mean that in the best way possible — TLRs are gorgeous, and can make gorgeous photos.

TLRs have two major features which differentiate them from most other cameras. First, they shoot square images. Second, they have two lenses, one which acts as a focusing screen viewfinder through which the photographer looks to frame the shot, and a second lens which is used to actually expose the film.

The viewfinder of a TLR is typically located on the top of the camera. The photographer peers down into it while holding the camera at waist-level. Since there’s no penta-prism as we find in most SLR cameras, the image in the viewfinder can be a bit disorienting for new shooters. But stick with it and we’re able to enjoy a unique and engaging perspective.

The most popular TLRs in the world are the famed Rolleiflex and Rolleicord TLRs. However, these camera are quite expensive today, loved for their extremely high build quality and classic characterful lenses. For new shooters looking to try a TLR, I have two recommendations.

If you’re looking for a classic TLR with a capable lens, high build quality, bright and accurate focusing screen, and easy-to-learn all-manual controls, buy the Minolta Autocord. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, Minolta made about a dozen different Autocord models, some with light meters and some without.

Avoid buying the Autocord L and the Autocord LMX, since these models used a selenium light meter (which in modern times will almost certainly be dead). If you require a camera with a built-in light meter, seek out the Autocord CDS II or CDS III, the only Autocords with built-in battery-powered CdS meters (these meters don’t die from age, like the selenium ones do).

An all-manual meter-less Autocord can be purchased today for under $250, and if we’re patient and careful, it’s possible to find one for under $100. I can’t overstate the value proposition of a camera this good at a price this low.

Read my full review of the Autocord here, and then shop for one on eBay.

Minolta Autocord for sale | eBay

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HONORABLE MENTION : Much of what I wrote about Minolta’s TLRs can be equally applied to Yashica’s TLRs. Yashica made a number of incredibly reliable, capable TLR cameras, some of which are all-manual and some of which come with light meters. Indeed, an article on this very site has gone into great detail to spotlight the Yashica TLR as a perfect first medium format film camera.

The most popular Yashica TLR is the Yashicamat 124 G, a truly gorgeous and capable camera. By the specs and the results, the Yashica and Minolta TLRs are essentially equal. I picked the Minolta because they’re less popular, and therefore less expensive today.

For those who love SLRs, Buy the Pentax 645

The Pentax 645 is quintessential Pentax. It’s affordable, easy to use and delivers quality images. It was marketed toward amateur photographers shooting their first weddings and those just breaking into the professional world. Which means it’ll be more than good enough for the brand new medium format photographer.

It offers center-weighted metering with full auto Program mode, plus semi-auto Aperture and Shutter Priority modes, as well as full manual mode. ISO ranges in 1/3 stops from 6 – 6,400 with shutter speeds of 15 seconds to 1/1,000th of a second, plus bulb mode for long exposures. Its motor drive is capable of 1.5 frames per second, which allows us to blow through a whole roll in just twenty seconds (kind of absurd).

The viewfinder has a lovely LED display. In manual mode it shows how many stops we are from a perfect exposure, which it indicates with an encouraging “Ok!” If we use the exposure compensation, a very tiny plus sign will light up when compensation is engaged. Nice touches.

It’s a relatively small and light camera, for medium format, and benefits from a truly astonishing line-up of interchangeable lenses.

All of these features combine to create a camera which, essentially, can do anything any new medium format film shooter could ever ask of a camera.

The Pentax 645 has undergone two facelifts over time: the 645N in 1996 and the 645NII in 2001. The 645N was a complete overhaul which added a more sophisticated interface, auto-focus, and matrix metering. The later 645NII added mirror-lock up. Both the N and NII are much more professional-oriented cameras, but that comes at a price. They cost double or triple the cost of an original 645.

For budget-conscious film photographers looking for a solid medium format SLR camera, the original Pentax 645 is it. Importantly, it also leaves enough money left over to buy the most important ingredient for growth – lots and lots of film.

Read all about the Pentax 645 in our article here, and then buy one on eBay here.

Pentax 645 for sale | eBay

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HONORABLE MENTION : The Mamiya 645 series of cameras can be very similar to the Pentax 645. The oldest version of the Mamiya is a full-manual camera, but later models offer various degrees of semi-auto and full-auto shooting modes. Prices on these start at the same level as the Pentax, but climb significantly with the spec sheet. The Mamiya was not my first choice because the Pentax is typically cheaper.

For effortless photography, buy the Fujifilm GA645

The Fujifilm GA645 is a very special, and very modern camera. Made in 1995, it is essentially a point-and-shoot medium format film camera that makes shooting medium format as easy as… well, pointing and shooting.

Focus is automatic. Film advance and rewind are automatic. Exposure is automatic, semi-automatic, or full manual. It’s compact and portable, making it a great choice for travelers or street photographers. It even has a built-in flash. Shooting this thing is like shooting the most capable point-and-shoot film camera ever made. It’s the Canon Sure Shot of medium format!

The 60mm f/4 Fujinon Super EBC lens creates stunning images. A variant called the GA645W is fitted with a wider 45mm f/5.6 lens, though this camera tends to be more expensive than the original GA645.

The only major issue with the Fuji is that it’s relatively expensive. Indeed, it’s the most expensive camera on this list. However, there really are no other alternatives for people seeking a fully-automated point-and-shoot medium format film camera, and this one is a true wonder of modern photographic engineering. As Aldo Gucci once said, quality is remembered long after price is forgotten.

Buy your own Fuji GA645 on eBay.

Fujifilm GA645 for sale | eBay

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For medium format on a budget, buy an old folder

Contrary to oft-repeated opinion, it is in fact possible to buy a compact, high quality medium format film camera with a stunning lens for under $150. And I don’t mean a Holga (don’t buy a Holga). We just need to know what to look for.

Medium format folding cameras are the best kept open secret in the medium format world. Collectors and “the olds” have known about them for decades, and we can often find these photographic saints spreading the good word of folding cameras as far as their Facebook groups’ organic reach will allow.

Medium format folding cameras are essentially simple, light tight machines with shutter and lens assemblies mounted to the front of a collapsible bellows. The lens, shutter, and bellows are typically protected by a folding door, which can fold open to extend the whole business into the position needed to make a photo.

When closed, they are incredibly compact (I once used one during a vacation in Disney World). When opened for use, they can make incredible images in a variety of image formats (6 x 6, 6 x 7, and 6 x 9 are most popular).

The downside to these cameras is that they’re all manual and often lacking in any sort of focusing aids. This means that we’ll need to understand light or carry a light meter, set our aperture and shutter speed manually, and even focus by eye using the scale focus method (estimate distance to subject, set that number on the lens, and hope for the best). For this reason alone, medium format folders are not necessarily a great choice for beginner photographers. But for those who know what they’re doing in the 35mm space, the price is low enough to justify the risk.

Medium format folding cameras were made by plenty of companies – Zeiss, Agfa, Kodak, and more. Which means that their are plenty to choose from. The big peril in buying a folding camera is that we need to make sure we’re buying one that’s fully functional.

As a result of their age and their rather delicate design, folding medium format camera can be a bit fragile. When looking to buy one, make sure that the bellows are free of leaks and pinholes, ensure that the lens elements are free of haze and fungus, and confirm that the shutter and aperture function as they should.

The models that I would seek out are the Agfa Isolette, Super Fujica 6, or the Zeiss Ikonta.

medium format folding camera for sale | eBay

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For the biggest possible negative, buy a Fuji Panorama G617

I admit, this final addition to my list is a bit tongue-in-cheek. Nobody should buy this camera as their first medium format camera, and it shouldn’t be on this list. But it’s been so long since I was able to write about the G617, and I really want to do so.

Because there’s simply no other camera like the Fuji Panorama G617.

The biggest selling point for the G617 is hinted at in the name; the enormous image area. Measuring a truly massive 6 x 17 centimeters (2.25 x 6.5 inches) in a 3:1 aspect ratio, the G617 is capable of exposing unbelievably large swathes of film. First produced in 1983, it was intended to be a specialty tool for landscape and architectural photographers who were looking to expose gigantic negatives in a relatively portable camera.

It features a fixed Fujinon 105mm F/8 lens providing a diagonal angle of view of 80.3º (the approximate equivalent angle of view of a 25.8mm lens in the 35mm format). The lens’ aperture spans from a maximum aperture of F/8 to a minimum of F/45, and this sits behind a Made-in-Japan Seiko No. 0 inter-lens leaf shutter capable of speeds from 1 second to as fast as 1/500th of a second, with additional Bulb mode for long exposures and flash sync at all speeds.

Focusing is handled via the scale focus system, film advance is achieved via a thumb-powered advance lever on the top plate, and aperture and shutter speed are all adjusted via rings or levers on the lens. Multiple exposures are possible by resetting the shutter with the lens-mounted lever and firing it again via the release on the lens without advancing the film between shots.

Essentially, that’s all there is to the Fuji G617. It’s just a gorgeous specialty camera made for creating super-wide, extremely massive images on medium format film. And if you want to see what it can do, check out my review here.

Fujifilm G617 for sale | eBay

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These were the words spoken to me by the barman of a hotel in Rye, East Sussex, when I mentioned that I was planning to visit the Dungeness on the last day of my holiday. I feel that these sort of vaguely negative generalizations about anywhere other than exactly where you live are an essential part of English culture. I wouldn’t normally reproduce such remarks, except said barman quickly backed it up with an assurance that he had lived there for nine years. Possibly he had a point.

Despite the warning, less than twelve hours later I was rattling along the edge of the Kent foreshore on one of England’s less comfortable regional bus rides. I was the only passenger to alight at the Pilot Inn on  the fringe of Dungeness.

I load the Yashica Mat with a roll of Ilford Ortho film. It’s a bright day on a giant beach and there’s such a richness of textures. It’s crying out for a low ISO film, and Ortho Plus is the only film of which I’m carrying more than one roll.

Regardless of whether or not Dungeness is bleak, it certainly is an oddity. One of Europe’s largest expanses of shingle (land, typically a beach, which is made up of pebbles rather than the more common sand) it’s often described as Britain’s only desert. The meteorological office denies this, and whilst Dungeness may not technically be a desert, to a casual passer-by it certainly has the feeling of one. Vast swathes of empty shingle with little conventional flora and fauna to break up the landscape.

It’s also home to two lighthouses and a giant nuclear power station, and these three battle for the title of Dungeness’ dominant feature. Fleets of fishing boats past and present litter the shingle beach, along with tens of rusted winches. Post apocalyptic is probably an unkind term to use. I think the people of Dungeness wouldn’t notice the apocalypse, maybe partly due to the existing look of the place, but mainly because I imagine they wouldn’t want to be bothered by such outside business. They’d rather just continue life amongst the shingle.

There is just one road through Dungeness. It’s a private estate. At the start of the road there’s a huge sign listing the estate rules including ‘no filming or professional photography.’ I muse over how I’d prove my amateur status if challenged. Show them a portfolio of distinctly average photos? Explain that a full understanding of the zone system eludes me? Point to the lack of a huge commercial market for sub-par black and white architectural photos?

Thankfully I remain unchallenged, and further research points to the fact that ban comes from a history of photographers who’ve turned up with tripods, lighting, models, and who offload and set all this up in gardens of homes, on the protected habitat of the shingle, and the boats. I resolve not to be this kind of photographer, partly because if you come to an area specifically to photograph it and care little about irritating the locals you’re probably a bad photographer. More precisely, you’re definitely a bad person.

For all the weird and wonderful things in Dungeness I end up drawn to the houses, the aforementioned sheds. There are very few substantial brick built buildings in Dungeness. I counted one cottage, the lifeboat station, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, the nuclear power station and lighthouses.

The remainder of the buildings are an eclectic mix of weather-boarded huts, small shacks built around a brick chimney, and old railway carriages converted into ramshackle dwellings. Given Dungeness is dead flat and suffers near constant buffeting by the fierce winds off the English Channel it’s something of a miracle that these houses manage to cling on to the Shingle.

It seems like many of Dungeness’ residents have made Dungeness home because it offers an escape from the pressures of the outside world. Residents range from artists, to the last defiant fishermen of the Dungeness fishing fleet. Certainly it’s unlike much of the outside world, and the bustle that creeps over much of South East England is distinctly absent.

But, like so many interesting places, Dungeness is changing. I briefly passed through seven years ago and since then there’s been a small influx of architecturally avant-garde takes on the Dungeness shack. Sturdier, bolder, unquestionably more expensive, they’re clearly tailored to a newer more bourgeois kind of resident. That feels a shame. Part of living somewhere like Dungeness means putting up with its privations, but then I suppose money lets you opt out of privations.

Photographing the houses is not without its challenges. I don’t want to be invasive and get too close, nor do I want every house to be a tiny speck. I’m also half expecting an estate manager to barrel along in a battered pickup and ask me just what I think I’m doing taking photographs. At which point I suppose I’ll have to flail and protest desperately that I’m an amateur. I must be. I don’t even have Squarespace website.

I make it to the foot of the old lighthouse and the approach to the nuclear power station and decide that lunch is in order. I nip into the Britannia Inn, the only pub in Dungeness proper, which happily has both a roaring fire and a rather excellent crab salad on the menu. It’s a sunny but cold early spring day and other patrons are a bit thin on the ground, but the experience is still a pleasant one.

After lunch I continue to amble round, photographing the power station and lighthouses, before heading back along Dungeness’ one and only road. I reach the Pilot Inn again, and wait fifteen minutes for the bus back to Rye. I’m still trying to work out my feelings on Dungeness. I can see why it seems to fascinate people. It’s quite unlike anywhere else I’ve been in Britain.

Perhaps my own thoughts on Dungeness are slightly academic. For the people who call the shingle home, it certainly holds a special charm. Whatever my own thoughts might be, I hope that those who live there can continue their existence in their shacks. It might be a bold choice, but I’ve got a small window into why they’ve made it. Will I be moving? I doubt I could afford it these days anyway.

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Today’s Guest Post was submitted by…

Jacob Downey, an amateur photographer living in South West England. After re-discovering both photography and film in early 2019 he’s been working his way through a steady stream of rolls since then, usually filled with architecture, industrial heritage and seaside towns.

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Imagine, in 2020, how bare-bones a camera must be if it was the benchwarmer of the Yashica TLRs in 1956. Make no mistake, the Yashica A is as unassuming as a medium format camera can get, but with patience it can produce some incredible images, and its general lack of special features counter-intuitively brings its own set of advantages.

I purchased my Yashica A for $35 from a local-seller on OfferUp, and almost passed on it due to its condition and missing nameplate. The leaf shutter blades were slow and sticky but seemed to loosen themselves up after a few shutter fires. Somewhat uneasily, I paid for the camera and got online to see what could be done to fix it up. Fortunately, these cameras are still very repairable, so I sent it off to Mark Hama, after which it’s been working like a dream for the past three years.

Specs and Controls of the Yashica A

The Yashica A shoots 6x6cm images on 120 film. This film is advanced manually and is uncoupled from the shutter mechanism, which means many things. For one, infinite exposures are possible on any individual frame, simply by cocking and firing the shutter without advancing the film. It also means that we must peer through a close-able, red framed counter window for advancing the film to the correct spot.

The very quiet, five-bladed leaf shutter is completely vibration free within the solid body of the camera. As the camera has no meter, only full-manual exposure is possible, with shutter speed and aperture controls arrayed around the taking-lens. The only shutter speeds offered are the non-standard 1/25, 1/50, 1/100 and 1/300 plus Bulb. There is no self-timer, and none of the exposure settings are viewable from the finder. Focusing is smooth and precise with the pop-up focus assist lens in the finder, and the focus knob conveniently has depth of field and distance indicators on it.

While earlier examples have the 80mm f/3.5 Yashimar lens, mine has a Yashikor of the same specifications and a similar triplet design. The Copal leaf shutter has five curved blades, and can flash sync at all speeds with the PC-sync port. The aperture is steplessly controlled via a lever that circles the side of the lens, with full-stop markings along its travel. A flash shoe on the side of the camera holds flashes, triggers or accessories.

Speaking of accessories, there are a few that are must-haves given that this is a very minimal camera. First is a cable release adapter, commonly known as a “Leica Nipple.” Because this camera is so slow to shoot with, I almost exclusively use it with a tripod, and having a cable release is mandatory for getting rock-solid long exposures. Your local camera shop should have a bunch of these adaptors in a drawer somewhere.

Since there are no batteries needed to hold the shutter open and no heat being generated by a digital sensor, the Yashica A is perfectly suited for hours-long exposures with none of the drawbacks (barring reciprocity failure – but that’s the film’s fault). Using filters for long exposures is a little finicky, as the lens only accepts 32mm push-on filters. I’ve gotten around this limiting factor by adding some tape to a 37mm-52mm step ring, allowing the use of modern, threaded filters. The 37mm end of the step ring fits snugly enough around the taking lens, but I wouldn’t leave it on between shots.

You’ll also want to carry the light meter of your choice, but it should be noted that the Yashica’s non-standard shutter speeds won’t align perfectly with what your meter suggests. In my experience, I’ve had good results just rounding down (slower) with color negative and black and white films, and rounding up (faster) for slide films.

The Lens and Image Quality

Importantly, the best part of the camera is the Yashikor 80mm f/3.5 taking lens, which is an absolute stunner at this price. When stopped down, it’s one of the sharpest lenses I’ve ever used, even when looking at 4760×4760 resolution scans. At wider apertures, it has loads of character, with swirly bokeh, a little vignetting and some edge softness. It’s great for unique portraits in addition to tack-sharp landscapes, which is one of the reasons I carry it along on all of my adventures.

At f/3.5, pretty much only the focused point is sharp, and only perfectly sharp if it’s in the middle of the frame. The bokeh intensifies in a circular radius from the center, which can be used to draw extra attention to the middle of the frame. At around f/5.6, slight corner softness is still detectable if focused close to infinity, but there’s no noticeable softness to speak of above f/11.

Shooting with the Yashica A is slow and methodical at best, and tedious and cumbersome at worst. Unless you’re a seasoned photographer with TLRs, this is not the camera to help you “get the shot.” The Yashica A is much better suited for landscape work and portraits where the photographer has more time to set the exposure and focus. It’s a camera which rewards precision.

A small gripe with my example is the bottom dial’s tendency to loosen on its own, potentially causing the camera’s film compartment to open accidentally. This disaster hasn’t actually happened to me because I applied some gaffer tape to prevent slippage. As this is on the bottom plate, thankfully this modification doesn’t alter the camera’s otherwise gorgeous curb appeal. This point isn’t so of much relevance to a “camera review,” but it does well describe shooting decades old film cameras in 2021 – be prepared for imperfections. 

Composing from the waist-level finder is as easy or difficult as it is with any other TLR. The lateral axis is reversed, making quick, intuitive composing impossible for those not used to this. Three years later, I still cannot easily compose my shots, which is one reason I almost always shoot with a tripod. I find myself tilting off axis very easily when shooting handheld. Thankfully, the pop-up focus assist helps as much with composing as it does with focusing, especially considering the dimness of the finder.

Noticeably absent from the finder are any kind of exposure indicators whatsoever. Because you need to look at the front of the camera to set the shutter speed and aperture, you’ll want to set exposure before you compose your shot. This is the biggest fault of the camera that I can find, as it really interrupts the whole process. Many times I have found myself frustrated that I finally found the perfect angle to click the shutter from, but then realized I had to turn the camera toward my face to set exposure. I carry a tripod because it allows me to lock my framing and set exposure afterwards, because I always forget to set it first.

The complete lack of electronics provides a few benefits to offset the shortcomings. I imagine if the camera got wet in a rainstorm it would have no problem continuing its service with just a bit of drying time. Cold weather would also likely have no negative effect on the operation of the camera. As I often bring the Yashica A on multi-day hikes in the backcountry, I am extra appreciative that I don’t have to baby it. It’s an extremely reliable piece of kit that isn’t fussy.

Additionally, the shutter doesn’t need batteries to stay open and it can be cocked an infinite amount of times without moving the film plane. Since the film advance is independent of the shutter, your imagination is the limit when it comes to multiple exposures.

While it’s worth mentioning the benefits of slowing down your process, it’s hard to justify all the extra reminders that are necessary with the Yashica A. The simple fact that there are twelve 6×6 shots per roll of 120 film is enough of a nagging reminder to make every shot count, especially with manual film advance.

The Yashica A as a First Medium Format Camera

I think that the Yashica A serves as the perfect entry point on one’s journey into medium format. When I got it, I was most excited to reap the benefits of exposing a larger negative than the 35mm frames which I was coming from, and the camera certainly provides that at an extremely approachable price. I’m glad I chose it as my first medium format camera instead of jumping straight into getting a Bronica or Hasselblad, because now the luxuries of those systems will feel so much sweeter when I make the investment.

The Yashica A taught me to appreciate all of the simple photographic conveniences I had taken for granted. Aperture priority, exposure information in the finder, auto advance, etc. And yes, its slowness has made my photography more intentional. Most, if not all of my favorite photographs I’ve shot in the past few years were taken with it, and it’s solidified in my mind what I want in my next medium format camera. It has also made me fall in love with the square format after almost exclusively shooting in 3:2 for years. Instead of cropping out of square, as Ansel Adams sometimes did, I challenge myself to compose shots using the whole frame. The square isn’t a cropped rectangle to me, but rather an expanded one.

If you’re thinking of taking the leap to medium format, the Yashica A serves as a great tip of the iceberg for a very modest initial investment. It’s a reliable, consistent, approachable and eye-catching piece of gear. Mine has turned many heads and sparked more than a few conversations on hiking trails. If you know its quirks, it will faithfully serve you for as long as you need it to. There is beauty in things of great utility, and I liken the Yashica A to your old, singlespeed beater bicycle that gets you to the grocery store and back.

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Say I owned a camera company in 1987. And say an employee approached me with the idea to combine the features of a point and shoot, an SLR, and the (even by then long-abandoned) half-frame format into one 35mm camera. I’d have a lot of questions. Questions like “Why?” and “Who is that for?” And then I’d say “No.” But when this very scenario happened at Kyocera, the decision-makers there asked only one question (presumably). “Can we fit it inside a taco shell?” And the Yashica Samurai was born.

After using the camera for a few months, I understand why the concept and the camera failed to catch on. The Yashica Samurai in all of its forms is defined by its camcorder-like shape. Intended for one-handed shooting, my hand fits snugly around the side and rests in a grippy alcove, with my pointer finger resting naturally on the shutter button. This is helped by the included “action grip,” a piece of rigid plastic that makes carrying the camera much easier, especially when not shooting. There’s even a notch on the opposite side of the camera where the shooting hand’s thumb is supposed to rest, although I more often found myself wrapping my thumb around the back of the camera onto the film back. There’s a nice little depression where the film window is that my thumb fit into perfectly.

One interesting quirk of the taco design is that the film runs vertically through the camera. This actually makes the Samurai shoot in landscape by default, something that’s uncommon with half-frames.

But is it fun to shoot? Simply, yes. If you grew up using camcorders (sorry Gen Z) you’ll feel right at home with the Samurai. As long as your hand reaches the shutter comfortably, you really can use this camera one-handed. Combined with its point and shoot sensibilities, the Samurai provides a noticeably liberating shooting experience for a camera of its size.

Liberating, that is, when people aren’t asking you what you’re filming. I’ve never been asked about a camera more than when carrying the Yashica Samurai. I think the ubiquity of camcorders throughout the 1990s and 2000s means that everyone has fond memories of capturing family vacations, birthdays, and the like on small tape cassettes. They see the Samurai and remember the moments from their past, frozen on magnetic tape. Upon explaining that, no, this isn’t a Sony Handycam, it’s actually a stills camera, I had more than one person balk and ask “Why?”.

That would be the first question I’d ask about the Samurai too, though as mentioned, I have more. Why is it an SLR? Why is it half-frame? Why is it so big? Thankfully nobody asked me these questions, because I wouldn’t know what to tell them.

The size, I suppose, could be chalked up to the lens. The 25-75mm f/3.5-4.3 Yashica lens is considerably larger than anything on other point and shoots, and is sharper as well. The 35-105mm equivalent focal length covers general shooting, and the aperture is faster than many point and shoots. The lens makes nice pictures, when the Autofocus isn’t getting in the way.

Though my expectations were low, informed by years of shooting point and shoot cameras from the same era as the Yashica, I was still surprised at just how bad this camera’s autofocus operates. Even in bright light, the Samurai hunted for focus for two to four seconds while screaming at me for having the nerve to try to focus on anything but a static, contrasty background. Loud, slow, and inaccurate, the Yashica Samurai’s autofocus is all of the things a real Samurai isn’t!

The nice lens and terrible autofocus system is stuffed into a body that, while strangely designed, is made of solid plastics that leave the entire thing feeling sturdy. The camera feels premium, and far outclasses most other point and shoots coming out at the time, aside from things like the original Contax T, released in 1984.

But was the Contax even the Samurai’s target? That question gets to the heart of the matter. What is the Yashica Samurai trying to do, trying to be? Who is it for?

The Yashica Samurai is a lot of things, and none of them fit perfectly with the others. It’s a premium-feeling point and shoot for discerning photographers. And it’s a half-frame camera for people who care more about stretching a dollar than making a nice image. And it’s an advanced SLR with a better-than-average lens, but it has no manual controls. And it’s meant to be used with one hand but it’s heavier and harder to travel with than any point and shoot. It’s only marginally lighter than the much better focusing autofocus SLRs of the time. Are you confused? I am.

In my opinion, adding even the most basic manual controls would have made it a more attractive option to the then-burgeoning market for high-end point and shoots. Something like the Ricoh GR1’s aperture selector dial, or even a full SLR style mode dial would have been possible on the Samurai’s left side, which is completely devoid of controls aside from the power switch. Without any control, the Samurai has the size and weight of an SLR with the features of a basic point and shoot, all combined with the lower image quality of half-frame. It’s hard to argue that that this isn’t the worst of all worlds.

Like I said, though, using the Yashica Samurai was really quite nice. I assumed the larger, premium lens would compensate for any half-frame loss of quality, and even if it didn’t fit in a bag as well as a Nikon OneTouch or any other point and shoot, carrying it around was just as easy because of the ergonomic shape and grip. I’ve carried tacos around before, I’ve even driven a car while eating them. I know how to hold this camera. Ideally, the half-frame Samurai would produce twice as many images as a comparable point and shoot without losing quality, which is an attractive elevator pitch.

By fitting two shots onto what would be one frame on a normal camera, the Samurai, and other half-frames, create diptychs. These pairs of photos enable the photographer to tell a story with two images rather than just one while simultaneously annoying the poor sap who has to do the film scanning at the local photo lab.

Thinking in terms of diptychs is an entirely new process for me, and something I would recommend everyone try, even if you don’t have a half-frame. If a picture is worth a thousand words, what are two pictures worth?

The Samurai was my trusty companion for a few weeks before I got any film developed, and despite its flaws I was ready to make it a permanent resident of my camera bag. I have an ongoing search for the perfect “bring-everywhere” camera for me, and the Samurai was fun, interesting, and felt premium. I even grew to love the cacophony of whirs and buzzes that come with using any older autofocus camera but seemed to be just a bit louder with the Samurai. Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, but the Samurai really is charming in its own bizarre, backwards way.

Unfortunately, this individual camera has an issue I’ve seen in other reviews where there is a dark patch on the bottom of the frame. From what I can tell, the shutter timing is off somehow, and the mirror is blocking part of the frame on higher shutter speeds. It’s something I’ve seen before in other cameras, and is fixable in most, but the tiny half-frame mirror box and complex electronic nature of the Samurai make it something I would be hesitant to try to repair or even send to a technician.

The shots I got back, although marred by the darkened section, show that the Samurai is a camera worth using if you can find one that works. It makes better images than comparable point and shoots on half as much film. The lens is capable of producing out-of-focus areas and flattening backgrounds, especially at 75mm, where I was most impressed with it. I don’t normally use zooms, preferring to leave them as wide as possible, but I found myself consistently (albeit slowly) zooming in to the 100mm equivalent long end of the lens.

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The Yashica-mat from Japan was introduced in 1957 as Yashica’s premium TLR entry, and was closely modeled after the contemporary Rolleicord. While not the company’s first camera in the twin lens format, the Yashica-Mat included such features as an improved Tessar taking lens (four elements in three groups, vs. the three elements in three groups triplet found in Yashica’s earlier cameras), a ten-blade continuously adjustable aperture, discrete control wheels for f-stop and shutter speed, and the namesake: a sturdy, foldaway film-advance lever that automatically cocks the shutter when turning over to the next frame. The ‘Mat would directly compete with Minolta’s Autocord released a few years prior, but would retain the Rollei-style focusing knob that Minolta had replaced with a unique front-mounted focus lever positioned below the lens assembly.

My World Through the Yashica-mat

By 2019 I’d already been considering my first medium format camera when my composition teacher reached out to me, letting me know that she was selling her grandfather’s gear. It felt like fate that the person I had studied with and worked for during all of my graduate studies would happen to have a Yashica-Mat for sale. I wanted a break from my SLR, and desired something that would let me concentrate on the slow and deliberate capture of Autumn colors. Fortunately for me, the previous owner kept all of his equipment in immaculate condition, but I suspect that if he were more careless it might not have mattered: the premium old-school TLRs of the 1950s and onward are wonderfully engineered regardless of where they were manufactured, and can certainly withstand a bit of abuse in the field. 

In researching this article, I was surprised to find that my example was most likely produced among the very first run in 1957, as evidenced by its 80mm “Lumaxar” labelled taking and viewing lenses. It’s a contentious debate over whether or not Yashica sourced a different manufacturer when the ‘Mats of 1958 were released with “Yashinon” branded lenses, but the argument is moot except to camera historians. By all accounts there’s little discernible difference in image quality between them.

Having shot a few rolls of color negative film through September and October, I decided to challenge myself as a landscape photographer. This meant subjecting the Yashica-Mat to the hard handling that it was spared by its former owner. As a temporary escape from deep circumstantial depression, I left Northwest Ohio in the middle of November for the already-frigid Upper Peninsula of Michigan, with a five-pack of Fuji Velvia 50 slide film, hammock shelter, and a borrowed sleeping bag. 

The first night was spent camping alone in Hiawatha National Forest, where I struggled to start an adequate fire and froze all night, suspended between trees, swaying in the frigid wind in my poorly insulated hammock. I broke camp well before sunrise, with the only photo to document my site being a three minute long exposure illuminated by my car’s headlights, which might have benefitted from cooking a few more minutes longer. Not allowing the rough night to discourage me, I drove an hour to the bustling metropolis of Marquette, where I found redemption walking its streets and exploring the nearby Presque Isle Park just north of town.

For the duration of the trip, the combination of slow slide film and tripod-bound Yashica-Mat felt perfect. While slide film is uniquely challenging for landscapes due to its narrow exposure latitude, I felt that Velvia was ultimately in its element, as the perpetual overcast clouds did not blowout into nothingness, and its unique saturation introduced hale and hearty color into this quiet world. Had I brought the same combination during the peak tourist season, I would probably not be so happy with how the extreme contrast and saturation of blue skies and foliage rendered. 

Should you pick up a Yashica-Mat, or any vintage TLR for that matter? Well, if any part of the narrative “person gets sad, takes pictures of gloomy lake-scapes” appeals to you, then certainly! The typical 6x6cm frame caught on a TLR will yield a ton of detail for landscapes, and the workflow on these cameras lends itself to the slow work of framing, adjusting depth of field, and long-exposure (ideally with a shutter release cable – make sure to search for a Leica nipple adapter for your conventional screw-in cable release). 

The square aspect ratio isn’t just useful for your inevitable upload to Instagram. It will make you more sensitive to composing shots that take advantage of layering fore-/middle-/background elements. It will force us to adhere to or break the rule of thirds. It will punish us for off-level horizons. Many generations of Yashica-Mat were produced until the mid 1980s, and while some models will have light meters (with varying accuracy in 2020), all of them should offer similar picture quality.

While this review is largely informed by keeping my TLR atop a tripod, those who are interested in portraiture and street photography should not be dissuaded from the experience. The typical 75-80mm focal length of 6x6cm medium format cameras approximates the 41-44mm range for 35mm cameras, allowing your TLR to capture with a field of view that is similar to the trendiest of rangefinders. Portrait subjects will be framed within a perspective that isn’t much wider than your bargain bin nifty-fifty, but will further benefit from the narrower depth of field and higher resolution that only a larger negative can offer. While there is a heightened aesthetic factor to these larger, ornate machines, the leaf shutter used in a TLR is far more quiet than a SLR’s swinging mirror, permitting stealthy captures in a street or gallery shooting context.

Final Thoughts

Photographers today have it easy. Whether one prefers digital or analog imaging, it’s hard to imagine that anyone remotely serious about their picture taking won’t get by with the purchase of a single camera body that accepts a range of lenses to cover a majority of photographic genres. In 2020, every digital camera is excellent, and 35mm roll film remains an incredibly versatile format. I can only speculate what it must have been like to start out decades ago, when comparison shopping meant unpacking the pros and cons of 135, 120/220, 127, and other film formats, all without the help of the internet to assist (or confuse) our decision making.

With the standardization of sensors and camera architectures, creating an image that stands out in an Instagram feed of full frame digital and film shooters requires the artistic sensitivity that can only come from practiced familiarity with one’s tools, along with careful curation of subject matter. With most expressive media, it’s common to fall into artistic ruts. Photography is a rare practice in that it’s so dependent on its tools that changing up our equipment entirely can prove a shortcut to a richer personal expression. While an extreme reaction to the SLR and rangefinder experience might be to take up large format (with the Intrepid Camera bringing this option within reach of the budget-conscious shooter), an intermediate step could be to experiment with the compact medium format cameras of the mid-20th century. And the most invigorating of these is the TLR.

TLRs change the way we see the world, and change our photography in as universal a way. The mirrored image, the thoughtful process, the contemplative compositional gymnastics that they require, all stimulate our art. Above all, the TLR is perfect for those seeking a slower process in their picture taking. For all of its relative convenience compared to larger field cameras, a Yashica-Mat simply takes longer to position and adjust its parameters than the popular automation-assisted film cameras of the 1970s and 1980s. This requires effort. But the effort is rewarded with an unusual rendering and a high resolution image achieved at an absolute bargain of a price.

My Yashica isn’t a camera that I reach for often, but its ability to resolve fine details within a wide contextual area makes it a tool that I’m grateful to have, even when compared against my capable digital outfit. When I know the shot is worth it, I’m assured when I have the Yashica-Mat on hand, and the lessons on landscape photography that I’ve learned since swinging in the forest have carried into my everyday captures with SLRs and the Sony A7III.

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I had taken the day off for a couple of reasons, one of which was my twelve-year-old daughter was coming home from a wilderness camp up north and needed to be picked up at the airport. Another reason was that I had decided to document this day in photographs. You know the old adage; a photograph is worth a thousand words, and by carrying a camera in a concerted effort to completely photograph the day, these few photographs would amount to a lot of words.

This is something I’ve occasionally done before; collecting photographs from dawn until dusk on any given day in an effort to tell a story of a moment in time, my time, with images captured for posterity, or for a self-indulgent moment in the future when reflecting back on some long lost day. 

Like many photographers, I almost always have a camera on me in one form or another, not including the one on my phone. Also like many photographers, it’s easy to sometimes burn out on taking photographs. How many sunsets and pictures of my kid can I really have? It’s also easy to get caught up in the nihilism of modern life; nothing matters so why do anything? What’s the point of taking photographs of anything, ever? And yet like many photographers there is a drive to take pictures regularly for… whatever reason, and most of those reasons are usually founded on the basic belief that we are producing proof of… something. 

The photographs, good or bad, become an affirmation of an event or time and a reminder of an experience. Memories are unreliable and much that we have experienced becomes the fictions of fading recounts of past events. In discussions on the theory of History we are introduced to an idea that the present doesn’t exist and that the past is always a fiction of the future. In contrast, photographs become a document of a time and place, and despite my being affected by nihilistic tendencies sometimes, it was once explained to me that “when nothing matters, everything matters.” So for better or for worse, I take photographs. 

Preparation for the day began the night before with the loading of a fresh roll of Kodak’s TMAX 100 into a Yashica 35 MF, which was then placed on my nightstand to allow for an easy capture of a waking moment. And then I went to sleep.

First pictures come easy enough with the morning rituals of feet hitting the floor, of morning light, making coffee, and finding some inspiration for the day. The Yashica tasked with documenting this day is a pretty basic camera released in 1976. It’s styled like a rangefinder but it’s a fixed 38mm f/2.8 lens and it’s a zone focusing camera with four zones conveniently marked on the lens. It’s not good for anything closer than three feet, but due to the focal length it’s pretty forgiving if you focus one zone off. It has a flash that works well for filling in daylight scenes, but isn’t so good at being the only light source in a darkened room. It’s a simple camera and I’m a simple man, so it seems well matched to my task. 

Before I got out of bed, a moment strongly protested by my bladder, I picked up the camera and pointed it at my ceiling and released the shutter. The morning light had pushed past the dusty blinds forcing dawn into the space previously occupied by my peaceful slumber. On the ceiling above the bed is a bare light bulb whose replacement with an appropriate light fixture or shade is often considered. But every time I look at it I’m reminded of an Eggleston photograph of a bare lightbulb in a ceiling, and also some design commentary in a book from my University days made by Modernist architect Le Corbusier about functional form. My bare bulb is an homage to Eggleston’s honest representation of the human condition and to Corbusier’s idea that simple and pure form has a legitimate aesthetic. I’m also a bit lazy sometimes, so the light fixture I bought over a year ago has never found its way from the closet to the bedroom ceiling.

Sitting on the edge of my bed I mentally calculated how close I could get to my feet before taking a photograph and then struggled with the parallax and vague framing lines in the Yashica 35 MF view finder to guess if my feet would even be in the picture. Some photographers find this looseness of method to be part of the romantic nature of using a simpler, older film camera. I’ve become very used to the 100% view finder of my SLR cameras and as a person who is driven to compose nearly always entirely in-camera, not knowing exactly what’s to be imprinted on the negative is a bit frustrating. The Yashica has me framing subject matter a bit closer to the center of the frame and stepping back a bit farther to ensure I get the photographs I want. 

When it came to my feet, it turns out I should have been less worried about composition and focus and more worried about the 1/60^th at f/2.8 slowest exposure the camera is capable of. My feet were ghosts in the dark of what wasn’t a pitch black room. The resulting photograph took some rescuing in Photoshop but in its muddiness, and poor exposure, it somehow still captures that moment in the morning when one is half asleep and resisting the day ahead, making an effort to find a footing. Looking at the photograph now I am reminded of the feel of the cool wood floor beneath my feet. It’s a bad photograph, but a good picture. 

Breakfast is often simply a good, strong coffee and some reading; nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes there’s home-made sourdough toast or some more spectacular breakfast ordeal inspired by my daughter. Without the kid to motivate a concerted culinary effort on this particular day, just the coffee and a Greg Girard photo book called City of Darkness Revisited is all I consumed. 

The Yashica handles the relatively low light coming through the window with ease, and it’s surprisingly good at finding just the right exposure in all types of reasonable light which is impressive for an older automatic exposure film camera. When I took the photograph of my feet I had a pretty good idea it would be too dark, but other than that one photograph, the Yashica 35 MF proved thoroughly accurate in choosing what it thought was a good exposure across a broad range of contexts, from my breakfast table to brightly sun lit landscapes. 

Making the decision to document a day through photography can be a self-indulgent activity that results in a bunch of rather banal photographs, but for me it results in a narrative about a day in my life, a document that rarely exists in such a way in most peoples’ worlds. And even now, a short couple of weeks after this particular day, my understanding of how I was and how the world was on that day is changed. While each photograph may not mean much standing alone, as a collection of photographs there is a story being told. 

When my kid was two or three years old I spent a few days photographing each step of our day; breakfast, tooth brushing, a trip to the park, a picnic lunch, reading a book, making dinner, a bath, and then bedtime stories. These things happened and it’s easy to recall in some way the activities we filled our days with, but the collection of photographs from those specific days makes them magical and I can revisit those moments in a way that normally isn’t possible. Memories are pretty good, but can be unreliable. Where a photograph can tell a story, and a day’s worth of photographs tells a longer story. 

While the ideas remain, the specifics our pasts are lost to life and softening memories. With photographs a document can be created and with the photographic cues of July 26^th, 2019, I’m reminded of an itinerary that included getting my kid from the airport, and a last minute meeting that took me into work on my day off, and a lecture at the Polygon Art Gallery in North Vancouver where photographer Alec Soth was going to talk about his photographs. My girlfriend would come with me to the lecture and I would only have one chance to take a picture of her as she walked into my apartment and I love that I have a photograph of that smile of hers, genuine and unposed. “What’s with the camera?” she asked. “I’m taking pictures of today.” She didn’t need any further explanation.

As I was riding a bicycle to the work meeting I recalled something Fred Herzog said in a lecture once. He said, “take pictures of old things, because people seem to like pictures of old things.” So I took a picture of an old thing.

And pictures were taken of things that are regular fixtures in my life that I sometimes forget about, like an art installation by Ken Lum demarcating the transitional point from Vancouver to East Van, and the train staging area under a bridge I ride my bike across five days a week. There’s also the proof of a housing crisis in this city represented by camper van neighborhoods on industrial park side streets. These are things I’ve photographed before, but they are also so commonplace in my world that it’s easy to forget the role they play in my life. Being reminded to pay attention prompts a quick stop during a bike ride and the extraction of an old Yashica from a shoulder bag and now I have photographs of these things too. Many of them aren’t old yet, but one day they will be.

When I’ve done these exercises in the past, a digital camera was used, or sometimes even two digital cameras, but this time I was trusting a single roll of Kodak film and a forty-three-year-old camera bought off Craigslist. Thirty-two frames were shot with the Yashica and there are twenty-or-so photographs accompanying this article. It’s soulful that film makes you consider every single shutter actuation. I like that the Yashica 35 MF reduces this consideration to a guess at focus, and hoping there’s enough light. 

Every day is different, and they often blend together into a soft focus idea about how things were, but every so often it’s good to find the poetry in a collection of photographs that create a narrative with meaning about a day, any given day. The photographs don’t have to be perfect, and using a camera like the Yashica 35 MF with its limited functionality makes it easier to let go of an idea about perfect photographs. That being said, the Yashica made the perfect document of my day; Friday July 26^th, 2019.

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