Digital photography has many advantages. It is faster, allows immediate assessment to the results, is usually quieter, and – above all – is significantly cheaper in the long run. Yet it also has one major drawback: it is too perfect and predictable.
What draws me to analog photography is its slowness – the deliberate process, the anticipation of developing, and later of enlarging or scanning. I rarely take more than one, at most two, shots of the same situation. Either it works, or it doesn’t, or it works completely different of what I expected. There are missed opportunities.
I don’t feel the need to capture everything. Trying to capture too much devalues the moment. A moment thrives on transience; it derives its meaning precisely from that impermanence.
The truly important things are remembered even without a photograph. Being present matters more. For me, analog photography is a special, conscious form of presence. I capture what resonates with me, instead of searching for meaning afterward in 1.500 digital photos from a single day. „Just take 20 or 30 shots at once, one will be fine in the end“ – for me, this attitude diminishes the artistic process of making a photograph.
That’s one side of it.
The other side is the tactile, technical, and acoustic experience of holding an old camera – 50, 80, sometimes 120 years of history in my hands.
When a camera comes to me, it usually requires inspection, cleaning, and repair. That´s the first oportunity to become friends – or not. Most of the cameras in my cabinet show clear signs of age. That’s not a disadvantage. A well-worn camera has been used, loved, and cherished. A camera that still looks like new after 90 years lacks a history. Frequently, it had some kind of defect or inherent weakness that prevented it from being used extensively, that´s why it still appears untouched.
An old camera needs patina.
Cameras can speak. And sometimes they speak to me. Some become an extension of my hand, turning into a tool that disappears between me and the subject. Others I never truly connect with – I fumble with the settings, my fingers can’t find the shutter release, taking photographs ceases to be an experience, and I’m simply released when the roll of film is finished.
One key criterion for a favorite camera of mine is the ability to create intentional double exposures. Up until the 1930s, most bellows cameras with leaf shutters offer this feature – Balda, Certo, Zeiss Ikon. Even the first Rolleiflex cameras do. More details can be found in the individual camera reviews that will follow.
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