Enter the Zeiss Ikon Nettar. This long-running series of medium format folding cameras encompasses twelve models, and all of them seem to end up in the outlet. I think a combination of poor care, irregular shutter speeds, and dirty lenses are the reason, but low sale prices also can’t be ignored. If it takes hours of work to salvage a camera that only sells for $50, it’s better to hand the technician a Leica rather than a Nettar. Even if the Nettar is a beautiful piece of camera history, which it is.

Starting with the lowercase “nettar” script on the front to the simple, utilitarian top plate, the Nettar is a beautiful camera. The spring-loaded folding mechanism shoots open with authority to display a Novar-Anastigmat 75mm f4.5 nestled inside a Vario shutter that has three (three!) shutter speeds. It’s made of the kind of shiny metal that Zeiss Ikon was famous for, and it’s the kind of camera that gets plenty of people to look a bit closer when you’re shooting it.

After putting maybe fifteen Nettars into boxes, I stumbled upon one in particularly good condition. The bellows, viewfinder, lens, everything seemed at least acceptable. The shutter fired, and the aperture stopped down normally as well. I’m sure I’d be horrified by the results if I used the fancy testing machines we have, but this Nettar received the prestigious “good enough” visual test.

I had been told that I was welcome to take any camera home to test, but I wasn’t going to start with a Leica or Hasselblad. A nice, cheap, simple folder was exactly what I needed. After double checking that the lens was clean, I slipped the Nettar into my bag.

Of course, this Zeiss Ikon Nettar is a viewfinder camera with no focus aid, so there’s absolutely no way to know if your shots are in focus unless you carry a tape measure around with you or measure by eye. Despite having lived in Europe for two whole weeks at that point, I was still not 100% comfortable measuring things by eye in meters. So I needed to find a solution.

My first solution was a truly dismal German-made extinction meter. No, I don’t know how the meter part of it works. I don’t think anyone does. If you do, don’t tell me. I’d rather leave it a mystery. The reason I reached for this meter was that it had a rangefinder built in. And boy, it was terrible. Dark, small, and nearly-impossible to use even on bright days.

But I persevered, and found the experience of shooting this camera absolutely cathartic. It’s a truly manual experience. You have to wind the camera while looking through a red window on the back, making sure not to wind too far or risk losing a shot. I cover my window with black tape because it doesn’t close on its own. (Maybe that’s why it was in the outlet.) Then you have to cock the shutter manually, focus through the rangefinder, set the focus on the distance scale, frame through the viewfinder, and fire. It’s a process, plain and simple, and I didn’t even mention metering. That’s a whole other step.

The photos, though, justify the entire experience. I didn’t expect much from a bargain bin camera, but that Novar-Anastigmat is incredible, even “wide open” at f/4.5. Bit of an oxymoron if you’re used to the “f/1.4 or nothing” crowd, but sometimes it’s nice to have more than one inch in focus. You can still get some nice depth-of-field at f/4.5, and the bokeh here is nice, even a bit swirly.

Overall, I was floored by the results from the Nettar. What started as a fun, quirky camera to play with gave me professional-looking results. The colors are great, contrast is punchy, and there’s basically no distortion in the 41mm equivalent lens.

Yes, it is a limiting camera, especially compared to some of the plasticky, automatic cameras I’ve reviewed for Casual Photophile. No, I wouldn’t shoot sports with it. The shutter doesn’t even go up to 1/250th, which I would say is the bare minimum for capturing motion. These limitations, though have given me a chance to breathe, appreciate the scenery, and really be sure about what I want to photograph. After all those steps, firing the shutter and hearing that click is more satisfying than the whirs of some plastic point and shoot that does it all for you.

“Ah, yes,” it says, “I’ve finished taking your photo for you, sir.” Looking at you, Samsung ECX-1 and Yashica Samurai.

A real upgrade came when my Russian coworker presented me a plastic box and said “this is for your Nettar.” I opened it to reveal… what looked like another plastic box. After a bit of fiddling, it became clear that this plastic box was a rangefinder. Not just any rangefinder, though, but one originally designed for the equally-plastic Smena 8 cameras.  My Russian coworker told me he had realigned it just for me. How sweet – a Soviet gift for my German folder.

It had a much longer base length than my previous rangefinder, so I could trust it to be more accurate, and oh BOY was it contrasty. Like Petri’s bright green reverse-contrast rangefinders, Soviet engineers thought it would be fun and cool to use purple outside the rangefinder patch. And you know what? It is cool. And it just works.

Yellow and purple are complementary colors, so viewing the yellow ghost image over the purple background is really, really easy, even in low light. Knowing that this rangefinder was adjusted by my friend and coworker, though, is the icing on the cake. My bargain bin Nettar had just received quite an upgrade indeed.

So the Nettar became an everyday carry for me. I’m used to my big, beefy Fujica GM670 for medium format. It’s a truly wonderful camera, but being able to fit a 120 camera into my pocket is a revelation. I can even carry around a little camera like my Konica Auto S3 as a light meter and it’s still smaller and lighter than my GM670. Sorry baby, there’s a second medium format camera in my life now.

With the new rangefinder, I’m able to focus more quickly and more precisely in all kinds of situations. The Zeiss Ikon Nettar accompanied me on multiple trips to Helsinki, and allowed me to carry far more stuff with me than my other medium format options. That’s nice when you’re out all day walking around with a camera bag around your back.

I also shot it at night and had a blast doing it. The simple leaf shutter makes camera shake a virtual non-factor, and the already-arduous nature of the camera pairs naturally with the similarly-slow process of long exposures.

The only real issue I’ve had with the Nettar has been how it handles Fujifilm film. Shooting Kodak film through it, I’ve had no issues. But with Fuji, particularly Pro 400H, the Nettar doesn’t seem to wind the film tight enough. I’ve had light leaks that make half of the roll unusable, which is annoying. Maybe that’s why it was in the outlet.

Regardless of little issues, the Nettar will remain in my camera collection. I’ve grown quite fond of it and its photographic process over my two months using it, and I feel responsible for its continued use after plucking it from the spare parts bin. The camera reminds me of those early days at my new job, and of the brighter days of summer. The rangefinder reminds me of my friends and coworkers, and how lucky I am. The exceptional photos are almost a bonus.

If you’re looking for a great entry into medium format, the Zeiss Ikon Nettar, or a similar folding camera, is a great place to start. It’ll force you to learn the basics of photography and camera history as well.

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It had to have sharp glass and a coupled rangefinder, and I had to have complete control. The Rollei 35 came close, but zone focusing was an issue again, and the models with the best lenses were expensive. The Olympus XA was perfect, with everything I needed, but if I wanted something in good condition within my price range, I’d need to move away from such a zeitgeisty camera. I considered the beautiful-but-elusive Voigtländer Vito BR, but it was too hard to find, and lacking a light meter. And then it appeared: the Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR.

I’d found a rangefinder with a top shutter speed of 1/1000, a Carl Zeiss Tessar 42mm f/2.8 lens, and CdS exposure metering, in fully working condition for €40 on eBay. Strangely square and unusually shiny, with a snub nose and sharp corners, it leapt from the cluttered page of auction search results – a modernist incongruity in a sea of classics. Across the top in clean sans serif, two of the most respected names in photography sat side by side: Zeiss Ikon Voigtländer. It looked compact enough for street photography and had all the features I needed. I didn’t have to consider it for very long before I paid the bill.

What is the Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR

The Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR belongs to the Vitessa 500 series, an update of the more-famous models of the same name from the 1950s. Both versions of the Vitessa are defined by their rapid film-advance features – the original had the iconic plunger, the 1960s version favors a lever on the bottom left of the camera body, leaving the right hand free to shoot. The 1000 SR is the ultimate model in the 500 family: avoiding aperture priority, swapping the Color-Lanthar lens for the Tessar, and graduating from 1/500 to a top shutter speed of 1/1000. 

In production between 1966 and 1970, the Zeiss Ikon Voigtländer Vitessa is a product of that unwieldy period when the two photography giants briefly merged, before the company dissolved and the Voigtländer factory closed down. As far as I can tell from combing through decades-old forums and Google-translated blogs, the Vitessa 1000 SR is quite rare, with only 18,500 units ever made. 

First impressions

My first impression out of the box was how unusual the camera looks. It’s unmistakably mid-century. Some have disparaged the Vitessa’s boxy shape, its dated ‘60s lines, and there’s no question that it feels ‘of its time’ aesthetically. But if you’re a fan of brutalism and modernist design, as I am, then the old-fashioned angles start to feel special. The Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR has the quality of something conceptual and deliberate – almost like a piece of designer furniture rather than a tool, in the same way an Eames Lounge Chair is more art than seat. The Vitessa 500 series even came in imitation rosewood, resembling the Eames, which adds to the impression that these cameras might have been designed with fashion in mind.

The Vitessa 1000 SR isn’t a light camera. It’s surprisingly dense and solid. For its size, its inordinately heavy, but it’s a reassuring weight in the hands – the kind of weight that speaks to the toughness. There are plastic components on the Vitessa, it’s true, but from the feel of it these are limited and never found where strength is required. Like the robust and rectangular buildings constructed in the modernist period, this brick of a camera seems like it would be hard to demolish.

It was time to test it out. I live in Bath, UK, a beautiful and beige 18th-century UNESCO World Heritage Site. I had recently finished a photography project focused on Bath’s landmarks and Georgian architecture, and I wanted to take the camera somewhere new. 

Generally, there’s not much modern architecture in Bath but, lucky for us, our windows look onto a ‘brutalist eyesore’ over the road – one of only a handful of post-war housing developments in the city. For one reason or another, I’d never got around to exploring the concrete complex, and I liked the idea of taking a camera from the late ‘60s to a development built in the same style and at the same time, possibly even the same year. If I was shooting something gritty, I needed a gritty film, and one that could enliven the grey English weather: JCH Streetpan 400.

Design and function

My first challenge was inserting a battery. The camera was designed for the PX625 mercury cell, but as these are now banned, I sourced a Wein Cell zinc-air MRB625. The Wein Cell is the recommended replacement for the Vitessa 1000 SR, with the correct voltage of 1.35, but either due to a slight variation in size or an issue with this particular model’s battery compartment, the exposure needle refused to register. A carefully folded bit of aluminum foil soon fixed the issue and the needle leapt to life. Indelicate DIY repairs like this usually irritate me, but as issues go it was a small one, and it seemed to add flavor to my brutalist photowalk through a smudged and scarred environment.

There’s a mysterious green button on the side of the camera, which the manual lists as a ‘battery testing key’. I initially assumed mine didn’t work, as pressing it had no apparent effect. After re-visiting the online forums for the umpteenth time, I found it odd that not a single person’s battery testing key seemed to be working. Upon reading the confusingly worded couple of lines in the relevant section of the manual, it became clear that the button functions by lowering the exposure needle when pressed, if the battery needs replacing. Though there are many aspects I like about the camera, this fiddly feature was the first in a series of counter-intuitive design choices that I discovered as I tested the Vitessa.

First, the positives, as this camera does have some nice touches. It’s a pleasingly compact size. Not much bigger than my Olympus Trip 35, it could theoretically fit in a coat pocket if one doesn’t mind the weight. The shutter speed and aperture rings around the lens are distinct enough to the touch that they can be operated blind. And though I was initially suspicious of the triangular plastic shutter release, in practice it’s a joy to use, ergonomic and wide. Combined with the soft, staccato snap of the impressive Prontor 1000 LK leaf shutter, the act of taking a photograph is satisfying, a welcome combination of comfort, speed and silence. 

The viewfinder is bright, and there’s a large red square to indicate aperture (though, there’s nothing to indicate shutter speed selection). The rangefinder patch is perhaps a little faint, but I found it more than adequate. The light meter is quick and simple to use, being made of a match-needle system with a single central notch on the right-hand side of the viewfinder to indicate exposure. The ISO tops out at 400, which isn’t an issue for me as I don’t often shoot anything faster. 

The Tessar lens is one of the main reasons I took a chance on the Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR, and it didn’t disappoint. Despite my unfamiliarity with the camera, the high contrast film, and the challenging lighting conditions of a bright and overcast day, there are a number of images I’m pleased with from the roll. The lens seems satisfyingly sharp, clearly picking out the texture and clean lines of the concrete. Craving a bit of greenery after mapping the grey development, I wandered to a nearby park, where I photographed an ornate bandstand column at f/2.8. The detail on the column is crisp, framed by a subtle swirl of bokeh. There’s a touch of vignetting, but I quite like how this adds to the feeling of spiraling movement in the shot.

Drawbacks

Despite its strengths, the Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR has a number of quirks that prevent it from being a true sleeper success. The placement of the CdS cell is inconvenient. It being placed so far to the side and underneath the shutter release (combined with the squat, square shape of the camera) meant that every time I went to shoot in portrait, the needle dropped as my hand obscured the meter. At this point, I’d have to juggle the camera, gripping with my fingertips until the needle sprang to life again. This is something that probably just comes with practice, but it’s another of the Vitessa’s bewildering design choices, which could have been avoided by placing the meter above the lens. 

Similarly, having the film advance on the bottom of the camera is fine in theory, but in practice it means moving the camera away from your face after every shot unless you want the lever to jab into your cheek. It’s also very loud, the clockwork clatter making the camera feel a bit like a wind-up toy at times.

My final and chief quibble with the Vitessa is the focusing. Because the lens is fairly flat and completely covered in ISO, shutter speed and aperture controls, there’s only room underneath the focus ring for a small black bar. A touch too shallow to grip with two fingers, I had to awkwardly adjust this with only the index finger of my left hand. A number of times, I almost touched the lens by mistake, or placed my finger on the self-timer lever, which happens to be in a similar place and of a similar size. Frequently, I had to lower the camera to reorient myself, which inevitably slowed down the shot, a frustrating setback for a camera named for its rapidity.

Final Thoughts on the Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR

Is the Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR a brutalist eyesore or modernist masterpiece? I’m not quite sure – perhaps neither. It falls somewhere in the middle. It’s a capable rangefinder and an intriguing oddity. The more I consider it, the more I understand why it isn’t revered, remaining a bit of a mystery today while other cameras with similar specs gain popularity and clout amongst a new generation of film nerds. Its lens and range of features are impressive, but it has a tendency to get in its own way. It’s weighty, unclear, awkward. Though its relative anonymity means it can pack a punch for the price (if you can find one), the Voigtländer Vitessa’s cumbersome nature means it isn’t the quick answer to street photography I was hoping for.

I am pleased with the images produced by the camera, but ultimately this isn’t why I’ll forgive it for its shortcomings. I appreciate the camera for its character. Plain yet playful, stubborn but charismatic. Perhaps the Voigtländer Vitessa 1000 SR is quite like the Eames chair after all – more icon than instrument, a notable moment in history and design.

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Give a look to the amazing machines which are our writers’ Holy Grail cameras. And let us know yours in the comments below. Enjoy.

James – Zeiss Ikon Hologon Ultrawide

I’ve mentioned the Zeiss Ikon Hologon Ultrawide to lots of photo geeks in casual conversation over the past five years. Just one of them has known what I’m talking about. Most people think I’m talking about the Zeiss Hologon 16mm lens for the Contax G series cameras, or an old (and rare) Zeiss 15mm Leica M mount lens. But I’m not talking about a lens. The original Hologon lens was fixed to a Hologon camera. My Holy Grail camera, in fact.

The Zeiss Ikon Hologon Ultrawide was first produced in 1969. A mechanical 35mm film camera, it was fitted with the lens from which it derives its name, a Zeiss Hologon 15mm F/8 (fixed aperture, fixed focus). This lens provides a 110º field of view. The camera has a viewfinder, a bubble level, a pistol grip accessory, a graduated neutral density filter to kill vignetting, a tripod socket, thumb-powered film advance, and a shutter with speeds from 1/500th of a second down to Bulb and T.

It is essentially a finely made metal clockwork camera with an enormously wide lens. Okay, 15mm by 2020 standards isn’t too wild. But back when this camera was made, 15mm was pretty wild. So wild, in fact, that Zeiss Ikon, the company who made it, barely sold any units. Despite making great cameras, Zeiss Ikon folded in the 1970s, after which their parent company Carl Zeiss took over. For the next few years, Carl Zeiss would produce small batches of Hologon cameras per year. In addition, they converted a number of the 15mm Hologon lenses to M mount (less than 1,000 units). Decades later in 1996, the famed Hologon was recomputed and reborn in Contax G mount, becoming a legendary lens in its own right.

The Zeiss Ikon Hologon Ultrawide was and remains an expensive camera. When new, it retailed for $825. That’s more than $5,500 in today’s money. And $5,500 is just about what a nice, fully functional example will cost today. The high price alone puts the Hologon fairly out of reach for most buyers. And then its rarity makes it hard to find even if one has the money (there are a handful of imperfect ones on eBay, usually, but who wants to spend $3,500 on a camera with a hazy lens?).

But beyond the high cost, what really makes the Zeiss Ikon Hologon Ultrawide a Holy Grail camera is that it’s just so impractical. A fixed 15mm lens that can’t focus or change aperture on a camera that costs five grand? How does one possibly justify that? I guess if one owns a camera shop and a camera blog whereby the entirety of the business operations consists of buying and selling cameras, and writing articles about special cameras for other photo geeks to enjoy, one might be able to justify the purchase. It is, after all, a business expense. Yes… Yes.

What say you, dear reader? Should I buy a Hologon?

Jeb – Hasselblad XPan II

Call me a sucker for weird formats; Polaroids, square 120, and even 110. I love shooting them all because they offer unique compositional challenges. Technically the Hasselblad XPan is a 35mm camera and you can use it to shoot 24x36mm negatives. But the whole point of the camera is the switch that allows it to shoot panoramic 24x72mm negatives. Panorama photography is a small niche in the field, but wide composition is something that has long appealed to me and is not a little influenced by films like The Master and Kenneth Branaugh’s Hamlet. 

There are a few options for panorama cameras, but none reach the quality of the XPan. Designed by Hasselblad and produced by Fuji, who released it in Japan as the [arguably prettier] TX-1, it was released in 1998 along with three new manual-focus lenses (30mm, 45mm and 90mm) specially built for the camera. It had automatic exposure, a silent shutter, exposure compensation and a motor drive. The XPan 2 was released in 2003 with modest improvements, such as an expanded bulb mode allowing for exposures up to nine minutes long, a self timer, and in-viewfinder exposure information. One cool function is that the film is completely unwound and then rewound frame-by-frame each time a photo is taken so that each exposure is protected as it’s taken, and so that the format can be changed mid roll.

But what you really want with the XPan is that wide negative. It gives photographers a cinematic perspective on whatever subject they choose, and while many people consider the XPan limited in its practicality, I say the only limitation is the photographer. Unfortunately the niche-ness of, and high-demand for, the XPan has seen prices skyrocket – well beyond the reach of most of us, including myself. XPans regularly cost a minimum of $3,500, and that’s with only one of the three lenses. If I were to take the time to average the price of the eleven XPan II’s currently listed on eBay (which I did), I’d find that the average the average price of an XPan II on eBay is an astonishing $5,886.

Still, if there’s one camera out there that I’ve never used but still salivate over, it’s the XPan. At the very least it would save me time cropping to my favorite aspect ratio.

Connor – Zeiss Ikon ZM

Being abandoned with nothing but one camera would be difficult for me regardless of my fictional budget. I’m just as much a collector as I am a photographer, and using/learning to handle different cameras is just part of the fun to me. That being said, I think I would go with the Zeiss Ikon ZM 35mm rangefinder. With a suite of Zeiss lenses, of course.

I prefer rangefinders for my style of shooting, and the ZM’s utilitarian feature set and access to some amazing lenses make it hard to ignore. With a shutter that’s just one step faster than the comparable Leica M7, and a metering system that’s very similar as well, aside from aperture priority, it’s clear who Zeiss had in their crosshairs when designing the ZM. It’s lighter, faster, and, at least in theory, more accurate to focus than the Leica due to its longer rangefinder base.

I can’t write any more about the ZM without talking about the lenses that come with it. The M Mount Zeiss lenses come with a powerful and deserved reputation (check out this review by Dustin to see for yourself) as the cream of the crop in terms of optical sharpness and design. I know the M mount has a huge variety of lenses and manufacturers, but there’s something about putting a non-Zeiss lens on a Zeiss body that feels… unholy. I’d rather have Planars and Distagons and Biogons on my Zeiss camera than Summicrons or Skopars. I will fully accept my contrarian badge and wear it with pride, as long as my desert island has enough batteries to keep the ZM working forever.

Cory – Nikon F2 Titan

I’ve had far too many cameras pass through my fingers since I tumbled into the rabbit hole of film photography. Some of them have been average and forgettable, others surrounded by hype and storied reputations. At a certain point you realize that gear doesn’t really matter all that much. Some features are useful or even necessary to be sure, but at the end of the day it all comes down to what camera speaks to you on a deeper, emotional level. Which one begs to be used? To be passed down to your kids or grandkids? Which camera is as much of an heirloom as it is a trusted companion to your life?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. James went through this same journey when he decided to purchase his Nikon SP 2005 Special Edition. Like him, I wanted something fully mechanical, rare, and beautiful. Preferring SLR to rangefinder and already possessing a decent collection of F-mount glass led me to my own personal grail – the Nikon F2 Titan.

The traditional Nikon F2 is a standout camera in its own right, being hand-assembled from over 1500 individual parts. Its all mechanical body capable of continuously varying shutters speeds from 1/125-1/2000th of a second is a marvel of mechanical engineering. 

The F2 Titan is ostensibly a standard F2 wrapped in a titanium shell, but its history and rarity are what make it truly special. In 1977 the famous Japanese adventurer, Naomi Uemura asked Nikon to make him a camera that could survive his solo dog sled trip to the North Pole. Nikon created a titanium bodied F2 using special lubricants intended to function at -50c, and tested the camera’s durability by hurling it down flights of stairs in the factory. Nikon produced three F2 Titanium Uemura Special cameras in total (the first Titanium cameras ever made, in fact). Uemura took two of the cameras with him and shot 180 rolls of film during his six month journey. 

In 1978 Nikon produced and marketed an extremely small number of bare-metal titanium F2’s. Professionals complained the titanium finish was too reflective so Nikon painted the future models with a thick, textured black epoxy.

The F2P (P for press), was released in 1978 and distributed to two thousand members of the media that year. The F2P can be identified by a serial number starting with 920xxxx and a plain front plate (it is commonly referred to as a ‘no name’ F2 Titan). In 1979, Nikon released the F2 Titan, which had ‘Titan’ engraved on the front plate and serial numbers started with F2T 79xxxx. It was essentially an F2P that the general public could buy. The final and rarest (only 300 made) titanium F2 was designated the F2H. It sported a non-moving semi-transparent pellicle mirror and a huge MD-100 motor drive and MB-100 battery pack. It achieved a blistering 10 frames per second.

I’ve lusted after one of these special cameras for years, ever since I first learned of their existence. Recently the opportunity presented itself via the friend of a friend for me to purchase an F2P in near-mint condition and it’s on its way to me now. I can’t wait to own, and more importantly, shoot such an important and unique piece of Nikon history. I know that Grails aren’t supposed to be attainable. I’m cheating a little by picking this one. Chalk it up to excitement.

Aidan – Mamiya 7

I currently own and frequently use the Mamiya m645, or as I like to call it “the beast.” It’s beautiful. However, if I had to choose a camera that I would consider my “holy grail,” or a piece of equipment that I want so badly but is so financially out of reach that it can’t be justified, would be a another camera from Mamiya. The Mamiya 7 is my holy grail, desert island camera, dream setup, or whatever we want to call it! I crave its lightweight square-like design that’s able to capture sharp 6x7cm medium format memories. 

I surprised myself when I considered a rangefinder to be my holy grail camera; but this specific beauty is too handsome to keep off of the top of my dream list. If I had the Mamiya 7 I feel like I could step up my landscape and street photography tremendously with its versatility for any situation. It’s just unique enough, and it has a concise lineup of lenses that would allow me to be ready for any situation. 

The unfortunate $3,000 to $4,000 that this camera costs does not seem justifiable, especially when my significantly heavie, “beast” camera is by my side wherever I go. One day, even if it costs me an arm and a leg, the beautiful, lightweight, medium format Mamiya 7 rangefinder will be mine to create a new lifetime of cliché film shots.

Drew – Rolleiflex Hy6 Mod 2

In the world of autofocus medium format cameras, there are just a handful of players. I’m lucky enough to own the Fujifilm GA645, which is awesome because of how compact it is, and the Pentax 645N, which is a thoroughly modern workhorse. When I think about all of the cameras I don’t own but would like to own and yet probably never will own, one stands out – the Rolleiflex Hy6 Mod 2.

Despite having an appreciation for manual cameras, I’m still a sucker for the adornments and conveniences of modern photography. And on top of that, I really love the fewer shots and larger negatives of 120 film. The various 645 autofocus cameras are good, maybe great, but they’re 6×4.5 and ultimately do not boast the best autofocus or internal metering, which are the hallmarks of modern photographic equipment. The Contax 645 could be my holy grail camera, because I adore Zeiss lenses, but at the end of the day the storied shoddy autofocus and wonky electronics make me hesitant about ever purchasing one.

A far better option is the exorbitantly pricey (for me) Rolleiflex Hy6 Mod 2. This beast is a further development of Rollei’s 6008AF but developed to use Sinar digital backs. The Hy6 has a long history of development with multiple companies involved in its production, only to then become insolvent. It is currently produced by DW-Photo GmbH, a reincarnation of DHW Fototechnik itself a vestige of Rollei/Franke & Heidecke.

In any case, the Hy6 Mod 2 can shoot using 6×4.5 or 6×6 film backs, or medium format digital backs made by Leaf or Sinar (we’re talking sensors in the 50+ MP range). With a waist level finder but blisteringly good AF, you can compose shots organically and never miss focus or have to use a loupe/magnifier. On top of this, the 80mm f/2.8 Schneider-Kreuznach Xenotar, the Hy6’s standard lens, produces stunners. Painterly bokeh and razor-sharp. Luckily, not only are there many Schenider lenses made for the Hy6, the camera also accepts the earlier Rollei 6000 lenses made by Zeiss, Rollei, and Schneider. The cherry on top is that the camera’s three TTL metering modes (center-weighted zone, average zone, and precise spot) work as well as any in-camera meter could, making slide film a breeze to shoot.

Put simply, who wouldn’t want a camera that makes effortless 6×6 images that look gorgeous every single time? For that, all you’ll need is 5,000 – 8,000 USD!

Josh – Plaubel Makina 67

Among photo geeks, I suppose I can count myself rather fortunate. Over the decade-plus that I’ve been shooting film seriously, I’ve finally narrowed my collection down only to things I actually need. I have a pro-spec 35mm SLR system, a classic German rangefinder, an underwater camera, and an antiquated-but-capable TLR if I ever need to shoot medium format. Frankly, not much else outside of that excites me. Luxury point-and-shoots? Don’t care for them. Large format? No time for that. Wacko vintage curiosities masquerading as cameras? No patience. I’ve tried nearly all of these and even geeked out hard over them, but I really don’t think I need any of them. Bummer.

But there is one camera that has piqued my interest for years, yet has completely eluded me – the Plaubel Makina 67. It’s a slick German medium format rangefinder that shoots huge 6×7 negatives out of an incredibly thin body. The compact, bellows-based design is concise and devilishly pretty, a nice contrast to the boat anchors in this category, the Pentax 67 and the Mamiya RB67. The Makina 67 even sports a quick 80mm f/2.8 Nikkor lens, a spec that surpasses the 80mm lenses on the Fujica GM670 and even the legendary Mamiya 7. It seems to solve the weight and size issue I have with most 67 cameras, and does it in style. I might not need it per se, but I’ll be keeping a Makina-sized space on my shelf. You know, just in case.

Some nice cameras in there. Do you have a Grail camera? Let us know what it is in the comments below. Happy hunting.

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Zeiss Super Ikonta B 532/16 (6 x 6 folder)

All film cameras are anachronistic, but some are more anachronistic than others. Folding cameras belong squarely in the latter camp. Even though some are still capable cameras, their archaic designs and counter-intuitive controls often turn away most casual or beginner shooters. Fortunately for those willing to brave the jungle of ripped bellows, hazy rangefinders, and indecipherable shutter mechanisms, there’s a whole world of surprisingly affordable and usable folding medium format cameras with truly amazing lenses. Our pick from this particular family of medium format cameras is the 6 x 6 Zeiss Super Ikonta B 532/16, though bear in mind that it’s probably only well-suited to a photographer who knows their stuff in 35mm already and is looking to step up to a bigger negative. There will be no metering here, so be prepared.

The Zeiss Super Ikonta B 532/16 hails from the Zeiss Ikonta line of medium format cameras, a premium line of compact folding cameras which dates back to the heyday of the type – 1929. Over time, the Ikonta line evolved, eventually leading to the much-improved Super Ikonta line. 1937’s Zeiss Super Ikonta B 532/16 in particular featured a speedy Carl Zeiss Tessar 8cm (80mm) f/2.8 along with a combined rangefinder/viewfinder, and automatic frame spacing, which is about as much as one can ask from a folder.

The great thing about the Super Ikonta is that, unlike a lot of vintage folders, you can actually use this one without pulling your hair out. There aren’t an inordinate amount of steps needed to take a picture, and the Zeiss Tessar lens, though uncoated in prewar versions, makes the experience worth it. The Super Ikonta is especially suited for shooters looking for a slower, more deliberate shooting style characteristic of medium format.

The kicker? This little experiment won’t cost much. A good example of a Super Ikonta B won’t run over $200 and some of the other Ikontas can be bought for about $75. That’s cheaper than almost any other medium format camera, and you get a genuine prewar Zeiss lens that spits out huge, beautiful 6 x 6cm negatives. Doesn’t get much better than that.

Mamiya M645 First Gen (6 x 4.5 SLR)

For those who are perpetually freaked out by old-world folding cameras and would prefer a more familiar introduction to shooting medium format film, there’s the Mamiya M645. The Mamiya M645 can be considered the little brother to the legendary RB67, but for my money it’s the more practical and useful camera, especially for those looking to dip their toes into the medium format pool.

The Mamiya M645 is a medium format SLR from 1975 that shoots a more compact 6 x 4.5cm negative, which means a couple of things. One, it makes the entire camera smaller, which puts it at a distinct advantage over larger formats. And two, it gives the shooter fifteen exposures instead of the twelve of 6 x 6 camera, or the ten of one that shoots 6 x 7 format. This makes the camera significantly more forgiving compared to most other medium format cameras without much compromise.

It’s also important to note that the M645 is a system camera, which means it offers interchangeable lenses and viewfinders. The Mamiya-Sekor C series of lenses are affordable and have been roundly applauded for decades for their sharpness and resolution, as well as for their gentle color rendition and fine micro-contrast. The interchangeable finders of the M645 also give the shooter a ton of flexibility, with optional eye-level, waist-level, metered, and even aperture priority autoexposure finders.

The Mamiya M645 might not be the least expensive camera on this list, but in terms of cameras that a new shooter can learn and grow with, it certainly beats out the rest. It’s one of the only medium format cameras suited both for the street and the studio, its lenses are some of the best in the genre, and it can be customized to any shooter’s taste. Not many cameras can lay claim to that, past or present.

Check out Mike Eckman’s review here.

Mamiyaflex C2 (6 x 6 TLR)

A more affordable entry to the medium format system camera category is yet another Mamiya, this time with two lenses instead of one. It’s the Mamiyaflex C2, from the well-known and well-loved Mamiya C-series of interchangeable lens TLRs.

In the history of pro-spec medium format cameras, the Mamiya C-series can be seen as a stopgap between the big transition from TLR to SLR. But instead of looking and operating like a weird middle Animorph, the C-series performed incredibly well. The series was well regarded among professionals for their ruggedness, versatility, and no-frills design, and remains a cult favorite among medium format aficionados today. Our pick from this series is one of the elder statesmen of the series, the Mamiyaflex C2 Professional.

The Mamiyaflex C2 Professional was the second in the Mamiya C-series, a refinement of the original Mamiyaflex C. It shared the same features that made the Mamiya C-series special – the interchangeable lenses, viewfinders (including the delightfully angular Porroflex metered viewfinder), and built in macro bellows. A few refinements were made as well; the C2 added focusing knobs on both sides of the camera, a longer, more stable base, and a redesigned lens mounting switch.

Are there technically better Mamiya C-series cameras? Yes, the C220 and C330. But those cameras have gone up in price in the last few years as more folks have fallen for the charm of the C-series. The C2 is, on average, much more affordable, mounts the same family of Mamiya-Sekor lenses, and does pretty much everything those two cameras can do. If you can do without the clout, the Mamiyaflex C2 will do the job.

Bronica SQ-A (6 x 6 SLR)

For aspiring medium format shooters, there’s one name that stands far above the rest – Hasselblad. We get it – it’s a pretty, compact, well-built, and widely revered camera that mounts some of the best lenses ever made for medium format. But for those that want something a little less expensive and a little less old-school, there’s the Bronica SQ-A, a 6 x 6 studio legend in its own right.

The Bronica SQ-A looks and operates mostly along the same lines as a Hasselblad 500C/M. It’s a 6 x 6 medium format SLR system camera featuring interchangeable viewfinders, lenses, and film backs (!). The biggest difference between this and a Hassy is that the Bronica is an electromechanical camera which, with the right finder, supports aperture-priority autoexposure, a welcome feature.

In use, SQ-A is the very definition of a workhorse. Its looks are a bit industrial, but thankfully its operation is too. The camera just goes. Flash-sync is available at all speeds owing to the leaf shutter, the autoexposure works wonderfully for outdoor on-the-go work, and if you need anything extra, the system probably has an accessory for it. It’s a professional’s camera through and through, and (one of the more affordable to boot).

Pentacon Six (6 x 6 SLR)

Last on our list is a camera Jeb reviewed very recently, the East German Pentacon Six. While not a traditional studio workhorse or a shining example of old-world build quality, the Pentacon Six is an example of the hidden pleasures of the cameras produced in the Eastern bloc, as well as an incredibly affordable and interesting system camera.

The Pentacon Six at first glance looks like an oversized 35mm SLR, and that’s pretty much what it is. It’s a medium format 6 x 6 SLR with a built-in waist level finder and a bayonet mount that enables mounting of lenses from manufacturers like Carl Zeiss Jena and even Schneider Kreuznach (if you’re willing to hunt). It’s built well, is simple to operate, and is surprisingly compact and portable for its class.

While the Pentacon Six may lack the modularity of the other cameras on the list, it absolutely makes the most out of what it’s got. For my money it’s got the most interesting story out of any camera on the list, the images it creates are gorgeous, and it’s quite affordable considering the current prices of medium format system cameras. It might not be an out-and-out professional’s camera, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun to shoot, and will serve any beginner well.

And those are our recommendations for starter medium format cameras in 2019. If these don’t strike a chord, try one from our original list. And if you know of a perfect low-price/high-quality medium format camera that we’ve not included, let us know in the comments.

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It was on June 3rd, 1965 that White became the First American to walk in space, and it was this first spacewalk that set the stage for future work in the vacuum of space, on the Moon, and during later NASA missions. White’s mission, and the larger Gemini program, paved the way for Apollo missions to the Moon, and had four main goals – to test an astronaut’s ability to fly long-duration missions (up to two weeks in space); to understand how spacecraft could rendezvous and dock in orbit around the Earth and the Moon; to perfect re-entry and landing methods; and to further understand the effects of longer space flights on astronauts.

The Zeiss Ikon Contarex Special 35mm camera featured a 50mm Planar lens and was mounted on Astronaut Ed White’s Hand-Held Maneuvering Unit (HHMU). The entire contraption was attached to the astronaut by a surprisingly thin wrist tether. Compressed oxygen in two bottles, one forward-facing jet and two rear-facing jets, allowed the astronaut to make small movements in outer space.

The actual camera that Ed White took into space is held in the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum – Udvar-Hazy Center. The 50mm f/2 lens Nr. 2375476 that he used is held in the collection of the National Museum of the United States Air Force in Dayton, Ohio.

Along with the Zeiss Ikon Contarex that White used on the spacewalk, the mission also carried a 16mm camera, and a Hasselblad 500 C camera with a Planar 80mm f/2.8 lens onboard. The images of White in space were shot by Jim McDivitt on Kodak Ektachrome MS (S.O. -217) specially manufactured for NASA missions by Kodak.

The spacewalk started at 3:45 p.m. EDT on the third orbit, when White opened the hatch and used the hand-held maneuvering oxygen gun to push himself out of the capsule. Initially, White propelled himself to the end of the eight-meters-long tether and back to the spacecraft three times using the hand-held gun. He quickly found that the hand-held maneuvering gun responded crisply, squirting bursts to propel himself to the base of Gemini IV and then to its nose. He then went fifteen feet (five meters) out, and began to experiment with maneuvering, but within minutes the gun’s gas supply was exhausted. White spent the remainder of his twenty-one minutes outside (twice the planned time) twirling, twisting, and hand-pulling himself backwards and forward along his tether. White was tethered to the Gemini IV while moving at speeds upwards of 17,500 mph. He said he felt suspended as he looked down on the beauty of the Earth.

“I thought, ‘What do you say to 194 million people when you’re looking down at them from space?’” White said in Newsweek in 1965.“Then the solution became very obvious to me. They don’t want me to talk to them. They want to hear what we’re doing up here. So what you heard were two test pilots conducting their mission in the best manner possible.”

White’s spacewalk, at a time when space fight was in its infancy, captured the attention of the world, with millions following it on television and radio and newspapers publishing verbatim highlights of the conversations between ground controllers and the two astronauts, with White outside the spacecraft and James A. McDivitt inside. 

McDivitt was taking pictures, although he admitted that “they’re not very good.” Ironically, those images of White tumbling in space turned out to be among the most iconic of the entire space program. A 16mm movie camera also captured White tumbling in space, backdropped by a cloud-studded, blue-and-white Earth.

Ed White exits the Gemini IV capsule. On the right, the capsule door and the twenty-five foot umbilical cord connecting White to the capsule are visible. This photograph was taken by Gemini IV Commander James McDivitt, still inside the spacecraft.

To allow White to use the camera in space while wearing bulky gloves, it was modified by increasing the size of the film wind lever and shutter release button. The viewfinder was removed, as White was unable to use it while wearing a helmet. ANSCO D-200 colour transparency film was chosen to allow higher shutter speed, with a “nominal” exposure of f/11 at 1/500 of a second.

White managed to make twelve images in space, an unsurprisingly small number considering his hindered movement and the difficulty of operating a camera in a space suit. White had to hold the “Zip Gun” as they called it, in his right hand as close as possible to his center of gravity. To depress the shutter he had to use his left hand. The restrictions of movement, his gloves and limited vision from his EVA visor made taking images very difficult, and most were of poor quality. White found maneuvering with the device easy, especially the pitch and yaw, although he thought the roll would use too much gas. He maneuvered around the spacecraft while McDivitt took photographs. White had far exceeded his suit’s cooling capacity, producing severe condensation in his helmet and sweat streaming into his eyes. Imagine floating in the vacuum of space, your heart racing, covered in sweat and being yanked around on the end of a tether; it was amazing he managed any shots at all. 

During a January 2005 interview featured in his book, Gemini 4: An Astronaut Steps Into the Void, Australian author Colin Burgess mentioned to McDivett that the photographs he had taken of his colleague Ed White on EVA forty years earlier were still some of the most iconic and recognizable from the space program. 

“Fantastic, aren’t they,” the astronaut agreed. “My wife and I were having our picture taken over at the Country Club (recently) for a book they were putting together, and I was asking the photographer about his cameras and stuff, and he said ‘Gee, you really know about cameras. You seem to be interested in them.’ I said ‘Yeah, you know …’ and so he was telling me all his credits, and stuff like that, and I said, ‘Yeah, well I’ve got a couple of LIFE magazine covers.’ He looked at me like I was nuts and my wife said to him, ‘Yeah, he really does! But you know, they’re sort of special.’ So he was really impressed.”

“I’m coming back in… and it’s the saddest moment of my life.” Ed White

“This was a picture taken by my teammate, James A. McDivitt, on the third revolution of Gemini IV. I had a specially designed spacesuit which had twenty-one layers of thermal and micrometeoroid protection. My face was protected by a double gold-plated visor which provided protection from the unfiltered rays of the Sun. In my hand I held a small self-maneuvering unit which gave me control of my movements in space. On my chest was an oxygen chestpack that regulated the flow of oxygen to my suit and provided an eight-minute supply of emergency oxygen. I was secured to the spacecraft by a twenty-five-foot umbilical line and a twenty-three-foot tether line, which were secured together and wrapped with a golden tape for thermal insulation. On the top of the hand-held self-maneuvering unit was mounted a 35mm camera to record the event from outside the spacecraft.“ – Ed White

Throughout the mission White couldn’t help but express his joy. He said “I’m very thankful in having the experience to be first. This is fun!” At one point in the mission White shifted his focus to capturing the beauty in front of him. “I’m going to work on getting some pictures. I can sit out here and see the whole California coast.”

All too quickly the journey came to a close but White didn’t want it to end and was hesitant to return to the spacecraft. According to his wife, Patricia White, some believed that White suffered from euphoria or narcosis of the deep. But White said he was just sorry to see it end. Here are the final moments as transcribed by Time magazine.

Each time McDivitt or White spoke, the Gemini’s voice-activated system cut off messages from Mission Control, and since they spoke a lot during those exhilarating minutes, Grissom had a hard time trying to contact them. At length, with some urgency in his voice, he made himself heard.

“Got any messages for us?” asked McDivitt.

“Ed! Come in here!” yelled Grissom. “Gemini IV, get back in!”

McDivitt: “They want you to get back in now.”

White (laughing): “I’m not coming in… this is fun.”

McDivitt: “Come on.”

White: “Hate to come back to you, but I’m coming.”

McDivitt: “Okay, come in, then.”

White: “Aren’t you going to hold my hand?”

McDivitt: “Ed, come on in here. Come on. Let’s get back in here before it gets dark.”

White: “I’m coming back in… and it’s the saddest moment of my life.”

Ed White’s Legacy

The official end time of the first American EVA was 3:10 p.m., which spanned thirty-six minutes between hatch opening and closure. White had “walked” across most of the Pacific Ocean and the United States in twenty-one minutes, his last view being the Caribbean where he could see the entire southern portion of Florida, parts of Puerto Rico, and Cuba. White’s spacewalk had riveted the entire world, millions of people had tuned in on television and radio, and he became an international symbol of the American space program. The photos of White shot by McDivitt were featured on the cover, and a sixteen page spread, in LIFE magazine on June 18, 1965. 

Edward Higgins “Ed” White II, Lt Col, USAF, aeronautical engineer, U.S. Air Force officer, test pilot, and NASA astronaut was tragically killed on January 27, 1967, at age thirty-six. He died alongside Virgil I. Grissom and Roger B. Chafee during pre-launch testing for the first manned Apollo mission at Cape Canaveral. He was awarded the NASA Distinguished Service Medal for his flight in Gemini IV and awarded the Congressional Space Medal of Honor posthumously. His son Ed White III has a website dedicated to his father. 

If you’d like to add a Contarex to your collection, you can find them on eBay

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Brand loyalty doesn’t stop at Guns N’ Roses. Ask me today and I’ll defend Prince’s work in the 1990s because of what he released in the 1980s, and I’ve seen all the Transformers movies multiple times (though I won’t defend those in public). This preamble is here to illustrate the ways we sometimes embrace no-good things because of an emotional attachment to a brand. For me, that once extended to cameras too. 

I’m a well documented enjoyer of optical equipment from the eastern side of the former Iron Curtain. There’s something about the staying power in the face of bad reputation and anecdotal data that endears me to camera brands like Kiev, Praktica and Pentacon. Camera after camera, these much-maligned machines proved to be more reliable and optically proficient than the propaganda against them would have us believe. 

But I started getting cocky with old Soviet cameras, thinking that they were always going to punch above their weight. Until another Chinese Democracy happened. This time, my chagrin comes bearing the name Werra, and it’s brought an end to my brand loyalty blindness.

The Werra is a minimalist design camera whose body sacrifices obvious controls in order to maintain a clean, Bauhaus/Art Decco design. Almost every control for taking photos is on the camera’s lens. Calling the Werra unique is an understatement, and while it’s often beloved for its bold design, it’s equally disliked. Opinions vary in the wider world of camera collectors and users, this includes the ranks of the CP staff. We’ve spent hours over the course of months jousting over the Werra’s capability, styling, and importance in 2019.

Unfortunately, those who don’t like Werra on grounds of its styling may be onto something. In my time with the camera, it’s ripped apart as many rolls of film as it successfully exposed, it constantly created problems during use, and it ground my hands to a pulp in the process. I’ve never used a more frustrating camera and felt more underwhelmed by the results. It’s also the first camera that I wouldn’t bother using even if it produced outstanding images (which it didn’t). The experience just isn’t worth it.

Strong words, I know. Bear with me and I’ll walk through why this uniquely designed camera deserves to be placed on a shelf, and never removed from it. 

After World War Two, Carl Zeiss (then based in Jena) found itself in the Soviet occupation sector. Almost immediately after the war the Red Army began disassembling the factories in its sector and shipping their valuable equipment back to Russia. Seeing this, Zeiss decided to seek greener pastures and moved to Oberkochen in the American sector. The move created a split in the company with the Oberkochen Zeiss continuing as the “original’ and the Eastern group forming Carl Zeiss Jena. 

Zeiss was and remains synonymous with excellent lenses, and names like Planar, Sonnar and Tessar remain watchwords for world-class optics. After losing the rights to those names, Zeiss Jena offered Flektogons, Distagons and Pancolars, and their export products were badged with aus Jena (from Jena) to differentiate them from the western-made products. While the eastern-made products aren’t as highly regarded as the ones made in the western sector, they’re undoubtably the best lenses to come from behind the Iron Curtain.

Carl Zeiss Jena was eager to prove that it could hold its own against its capitalist sibling and set out to manufacture a rangefinder camera. Named after the river that runs near the factory in which it was made, the Werra was advertised as the “Volkskamera” or people’s camera. Most of the people working at Zeiss Jena had previously worked for the unified company and the Werra was to benefit from their institutional knowledge. 

For the Werra, Zeiss Jena leaned into the fact that it was a lens manufacturer. Almost every important function of the camera is housed on its Tessar 50mm f/2.8 lens. It’s not unusual to have focusing, aperture and shutter speed settings on a lens, especially from the era that birthed the Werra. But it is unique to have the film advance placed there. It takes a bit of sleuthing to realize that the ring between the lens and body both simultaneously advances the film and engages the shutter.  

The shutter clicks through a button on the top of the camera, the only control found on the top of the housing. On the bottom is an uncoupled frame counter, a film rewind dial, and a center dial that allows for the camera to be opened for loading film. All Werras were made with solid, sturdy aluminum, with early versions having green leatherette and later versions having black leatherette or rubber coating. Lens covers also double as lens hoods when removed. 

The Werra series would eventually span thirty iterations from 1954 to 1968, with 560,000 copies produced in total. 

Later versions of the camera would include combinations of a coupled rangefinder, interchangeable lenses, selenium light meters, a reflex version, and a leaf-shutter allowing for flash sync across the speed spectrum up to its maximum speed of 1/750 of a second.

Unfortunately, I have the Werra that lacks all of those features. 

The Werra 1 has a flat-glass viewfinder without any lines. Its Tessar offers an aperture range from f/16 to f/2.8 and a shutter speed range from 1 second to 1/250 of a second, plus bulb mode. It also has a highly specific focusing range, so it’s important to know the difference between 0.9, 1, and 1.1 meters.

I’m not ashamed to say that I bought my Werra exclusively for its appearance. I love its minimal sparseness and vintage futurism. It’s equal parts Gatsby and Metropolis. While I was disappointed to see that my copy didn’t have the olive leatherette around the shutter wheel, it still looked wildly unique. 

I used a trip to Germany’s Münsterland to see how wonderful my Werra was. I quickly remembered just how deceiving looks can be.

FIlm loading is fairly typical. Unwind the middle dial on the bottom of the body to disengage the lock and separate the camera. Put in the film, stretch it across to the unattached reel on the other side, slide the camera back together and lock the wheel. It’s slightly more difficult in practice. The film reel being unattached slows down the process and can be annoying. Sliding the camera back together took me a number of attempts no matter how many rolls I loaded. 

Then I removed the lens cap, the top of which must be unscrewed so the rest of the cap can be screwed in as a hood. It’s a small, circular piece that I’m amazed I never lost, even when I didn’t use the cover/hood as intended. For me, the cover/hood has pros and cons. Not using means the uncoated lens is guaranteed to encounter problems, but using it doubles the length of the lens and makes the Werra look like a portable cloudbuster. It’s much easier to know not to rely on the exposure counter, which doesn’t stop at 36, and doesn’t reset after film is removed. Its marking stretches across the wheel, indicating either frame 7 or 22. 

With film finally loaded, I set out with my Werra and handheld light meter capturing the historic college town of Münster. Actually taking photos isn’t much of a problem. Advance the film, read the light and transfer the data to the respective dials. There’s a bit of guesstimating with shutter speed controls, as they increase in the following order: 1, 2, 5, 10, 25, 50, 100 and 250. The small prongs that move the stepless wheel aren’t always eager to cooperate and can gum up in cold temperatures. 

The aperture ring has the opposite problem. Resting on the very front of the lens, it’s happy to move with or without the photographer’s help. If the front of the lens brushes your pants, f/11 becomes f/4. Setting aperture becomes much more difficult with the hood attached to the lens as its nearly flush with the dial. I know what you’re thinking: Just turn the hood and you’ll turn the aperture. But turning the hood only unscrews it with aperture unaffected leaving those with small hands the chore of digging in to make adjustments and those with large hands completely at a loss with the hood attached. 

There’s nothing unique about the Werra’s scale-focusing system. As I said before, the lower measurements are quite precise, especially for someone who, like me, still doesn’t know what a meter is. I aimed for as many shots as possible with which I could use infinity focus, and knowing I’m 1.8 meters tall, measured all others with how many of me could lie down between my feet and the subject. This system worked less often than it didn’t. 

All of this might be enough of a nudge to just relax and use what the camera says are the general-use settings for most photos. The settings for f/8 and 1/50th of a second and six meters are labelled in red, which I assume are meant for 100 or 400 ASA rated film or their eastern GOST equivalents. 

I had just taken the final exposure of my first roll when I saw a fleet of kayakers coming down the Aasee, or Lake Aa. Eager to capture the scene, I flipped the camera over to rewind my roll and load a new one. So begins the absolute worst part of the Werra experience. 

I don’t know why rewinding film in a Werra is such a painful and laborious process. Maybe the designers were masochists eager to show in design how they felt about working in a factory that only had eight percent of its original equipment left in place by the Red Army. 

To rewind the film in a Werra, you have to hold down the rewind button while twisting the green wheel labeled with an arrow. A few problems plague this process. For one, the green wheel was made as thin as possible to keep the bottom of the camera as flush as possible. Because it’s so thin, it’s hard to get a really good grip and the grip you do get is rough on the hands. There are also three small rivets around the wheel that your fingers will be moving over as you rewind. The tension of said wheel builds as more film is rewound, which means if you let it go, some of the film will unspool and you’ll have to wind film all over again.

By the time I’d finally finished rewinding the film, every kayaker had passed. Disappointed, I continued swapping the old film for a fresh roll. Imagine my surprise when I opened the camera only to see the majority of the film get splashed by the blinding light of a summer day. Upset that I had just wasted three hours, I loaded a second roll of film and retraced my route in reverse. During my second rewind attempt there was no torque on the rewind dial, and after rewinding for twice the length of time that I’d spent the first time, I opened the camera to see that film perforations had torn and my second roll was ruined as well. 

After that, I went home and benched the Werra for a few months. It wasn’t until last month that the wounds had sufficiently healed and I was willing to bring it for a weekend in Barcelona. This time, the three rolls I put through the camera came out relatively unscathed, though I can’t say the images were too impressive. That’s not necessarily the camera’s fault. The shooting conditions weren’t beautiful, with bad lighting and weather that alternated with volatility between haze, sun, and rain. I also clearly haven’t mastered the scale-focusing method and a number of close shots miss the mark entirely. 

But even the photos that came out properly exposed and in focus didn’t blow me away. The Werra’s Tessar lens does offer great contrast and interesting color rendition, but I could get any number of lenses for any number of cameras that give the same images without the hassle of using a Werra. 

I can overlook a lot of flaws if a piece of gear produces images that I admire, with consistency. But the Werra just isn’t up to that task. When I think about the camera now, I think of finicky film loading and insanely frustrating rewind; guesswork composition, and an inflexible set of shutter speeds; a focus system that speaks a different language. Add all of that up with the so-so photographs, and it’s safe to say that my Werra will forever be relegated to display status. 

Since I began to write this review I’ve gone back and revisited Chinese Democracy. I’m only mildly embarrassed to admit that there are some decent songs on the album. It may be a running joke and a testament to one man’s hubris, but it’s comforting to know that I wasn’t totally blinded by my love of Guns N’ Roses’ past hits when I first heard the newer album ten years ago. 

But I probably wont be saying the same thing about the Werra in 2029. The Werra may have been successful in its day, but it’s a swing and a miss in 2019. It’s a rare example of a German company choosing form over function, and it could be a warning to those thinking of making that same choice today. 

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