Favorite Film Cameras: The Zeiss Ikon Contina IIa 527/24 (1954-56)

The stylish 1950s Contina

A postwar-classic little gem. From the glory days of West German camera production. Great ergonomics, shutter sound and smooth film advance. A sharp lens. Inexpensive. The Contina IIa hits all the buttons. It’s remarkable how quickly after the devastation of the war the fractured Zeiss company was able to regroup and offer quality products to the world. This camera was produced in Stuttgart, West Germany, during the period of the postwar Wirtschaftswunder, the economic miracle. At this time, manufacturing was still semi-artisanal and involved many expert eyes and hands.

Industrial landscape (Kodak Ultramax 400)
Castle closed: the Wasserschloss Bedburg-Paffendorf (Kodak Gold 200)

One caveat: The Contina series is confusing since the company used the name for different types and models, so you need to carefully inspect your copy and locate it in the Contina family tree. Maybe the designers and marketers liked the Italian flavor of the name too much…

Icicles have formed overnight (Kodak Ultramax 400)

Designed by Hubert Nerwin, the Contina started out as a folder but soon (1954) became rigid. It is not spectacular – a fixed lens and a leaf shutter. But like many well designed objects you grow accustomed to using it very quickly. A bit of a throwback to the days of craftsmanship and long assembly lines of quality control employees, the Zeiss Ikon Contina reminds us of the good times of the 1950s. While out of reach of the normal wage earner, it was something you aspired to, if you got a promotion, if you could afford the next little luxury. In a way, the camera embodies the promise of upward mobility. The Contina fits perfectly in your hand and has elegant controls. And a very bright viewfinder. But the proof is in the photos. Even the cheapest lens, the Novonar, is very good.

Evening mood (Kodak Gold 200)
A small bog in the Eifel. (Fuji 200)

The light meter on my copy still works ok. It is fun to work with the LV scale and check it against my lightmeter app. At the time of production, the camera cost 215 DM which amounts to about 500 Euro today, quite a sum. Families would have to save for months to afford it. That makes the pretty shiny object into a status symbol as well.

Rapeseed field in the Eifel near Euskirchen (Fuji 200)

Even after 50 years, you can sense the precision and care that went into the manufacturing process. The pride of everybody involved. The meticulous quality control. The care that went into storing it into the case and keeping it in a cool dark space in your home. The leather case protected it from the wear and tear. No earthquake or flood could harm the precious family heirloom. The Contina was made for weddings and birthday parties, for anniversaries and New Year’s Eve. Maybe someone captured the 1954 World Cup triumph of the German Nationalmannschaft with a Contina.

The Wahner Heide (heath) on the outskirts of Cologne (Kodak Gold 200)

It’s practical, handsome, versatile. You cannot go wrong with the Contina as a sweet little beauty to carry on a walk through town. It works like the finely tuned mechanical object it is. A satisfying shutter sound, and the film advance ratchets smoothly.

Kronenburg, the little gem, where inhabitants decorate the city (Fuji 200)
Wasserschloss Bedburg-Paffendorf (Kodak Gold 200)
A boardwalk leads visitors over the bog in Dahlem, Eifel (Fuji 200)

Links:

Manual:

https://www.butkus.org/chinon/zeiss_ikon/zeiss_ikon_contina_ii/zeiss_ikon_contina_ii.htm

Info including the Contina “family tree”:

https://camerapedia.fandom.com/wiki/Zeiss_Ikon_Contina_series

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Hydrangeas in bloom

Popular in many garden, hydrangeas provide a splash of color and texture. You can add cool colors to your green space. Pink, purple, white, light blue. Also known as hortensia, the bushes bloom for a very long time. I like how you can monitor the growth of the flower, from the seed capsules to the full show. Apparently the color of some cultivars is determined by the presence of aluminum ions in the soil, and therefore the hydrangea has earned the nickname of “change rose” because you can manipulate the color. These plants were photographed at the Forstbotanischer Garten in Cologne.

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Grotesque Faces in Mainz

Although the ancient bishopric of Mainz was destroyed in the air raids of the Second World War, the old town has been restored, including some interesting features from the early modern era. Before someone came up with numbering houses, they carried names. In the Augustinerstrasse, one of the half-timbered houses displays a row of faces – they frown, look at you in disgust or laugh eerily. Provoking a smile from any passer-by, the grotesque contortions seem to suggest they are a mirror -“see, this is what you look like when you are angry”. We may wonder who was the model for this row of faces, and if they are proud to have been immortalized in this fashion!

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Favorite Film Cameras: The Carl Zeiss Werra (1954-66)

An olive gem from behind the Iron Curtain
Not the Werra but the Rhine river. A shot that would have pleased the East German government during the Cold War – a paved tank crossing. (Fuji 200)

The Werra, named after a small river in Central Germany, has gone from an ugly duckling to a cult camera. It has several unique features: It was made by a company renowned for lenses, but not for camera bodies. The Werra originated behind the Iron Curtain, where the Communist government considered consumer products a bourgeois luxury. The design and ergonomics remained largely untouched by modern tendencies to entice a customer to purchase the product. Time, however, has made the “made in GDR” product a classic. Today, the Museum of Modern Art has a Werra in their collection. ( I am deeply indebted to Yves Strobelt and Marco Kroeger and their fabulous website www.zeissikonveb.de)

The East side: Towers of the Remagen railroad bridge. (Fuji 200)

The Werra would not garner much attention in a 1960 or 1970s photography shop. It is small, distinctly NOT shiny, and offers few spectacular specs. If you place it next to, say, the Kodak Retina range, the Werra would place a distant second. Even the most affordable Retinette model offered more capabilities. But customers rarely saw these cameras side by side in the showcase. The Kodak Retina was created and designed in West Germany, the Werra was the brainchild of engineers in East Germany. During the Cold War, few copies of these cameras made the journey to the other side. Most likely, there were more Werras in the West than Kodaks in Communism.

The peaceful Ahr river. In July 2021, a massive rainstorm created havoc in this valley.

Carl Zeiss Jena ( the “Jena” is pronounced YEH-nah) is a storied company, surviving mergers, wars, dictatorships and overseas competition. Optical glass was and still is where Carl Zeiss rules supreme. At the height of the East-West divide, diplomats negotiated trademark violations as the company had been split in half by the division of Germany. It remains a distinction that for a period of time, the company just put the name of the town on their lenses as a makeshift trademark. “Aus Jena” (“from Jena”) was enough to convince the prospective buyer that the cut glass inside the lens was of the highest quality. Soviet kosmonauts relied on the optical glass from the German Democratic Republic (GDR).

Vinyards along the Ahr river. (Fuji 200)

The Werra originated as a quirk of camera production in East Germany. With the establishment of VEB Zeiss Ikon (1955) and later VEB Pentacon (1964), East Germany had created a mammoth conglomerate to supply much of the Eastern world with photographic equipment. Dresden and its environs, with its long tradition of fine mechanical engineering, now produced a range of products from medical-scientific cameras to space observation telescopes. Most Westerners got to see a by-product, the Praktica range of cameras. The export models were sold abroad to gain valuable hard currency. They emulated the Soviet Zenits, unremarkable but solid, sturdy, unkaputtbar.

The Werra coolly displaying its reversible hood system
Cologne in Covid times. (Fuji 200)

By contrast, the Werra was designed by VEB Carl Zeiss Jena. The lensmaker started from scratch: what would they want in a consumer camera? It is ironic that their expertise resulted in a camera which literally revolved around the lens: Famously, the Werra film advance is not by lever on the top plate, but by a twist of the lens which advances the film and tensions the shutter. It also advances the film counter. Play a trick on your friends and let them take a picture with the Werra and have them look for the film advance lever.

Bridge at Remagen: Now a museum of peace and understanding (Fuji 200)

Bare bones it is. No electronics, no battery. No self-timer. The color scheme: olive, like a military uniform. Then the next iteration: black, as trendy then as now. Of course, the lens is the magical component: Zeiss Tessar 50mm f.2.8. Sharp as a whistle. Beware of the aperture ring which can move very easily during handling. My example, on the other hand, has a very tight focus ring. Your fingers will get plenty of muscle exercise. Once you get the film advance move right (it’s the “Werra twist”), you can fire away.

Classic Vista: The Rhine river at Remagen. Notice the basalt lava rocks of the Erpeler Lay. (Fuji 200)

Holding the Werra means holding a piece of history. The small consumer camera originated as a result of the death of a dictator. Stalin had always preferred tanks to butter. People did not need any fancy luxuries if the Soviet camp needed weapons to defend itself against capitalism. His death in March 1953 sparked unease and revolt across the Soviet orbit. In June 1953, Soviet tanks crushed the demand for more freedoms in East Germany. Subsequently, the Soviet leaders would pay more attention to the needs and wants of the population. Private consumption would alleviate widespread dissatisfaction. The “Little Brother” GDR soon followed suit with the declaration of the “New Course”.

Japanese Garden in Bonn (Kodak 200)

Top-down: The East German Ministerrat (Council of Ministers) suggested the dedication of resources to a range of consumer items, even private automobiles. Carl Zeiss was ordered to produce a simple camera for the masses. Ideally, the camera could also be exported and earn hard Deutschmarks across the barbed wire in West Germany. The later Werra I (1955) was offered for 128 DM in West Germany, about 300 Euro in 2021. Photographic items such as ORWO paper and film, and cameras were among the few products “made in GDR” which could find customers in the West.

Covid times around the Cathedral. (Fuji 200)

The first models proudly sported the “Tessar” lens design name. But the officials quickly realized that in order to compete on the Western markets, you had to abide by the rules, and that included copyright law. The West German Zeiss company owned the “Tessar” brand name for lenses. To avoid costly lawsuits, VEB CZ Jena replaced the “Tessar” designation with a simple “T” on their lens ring. Advertisements in West-Berlin praised the “Ernst -Abbe Jena” origin to indicate the long tradition. Of course, the design had its origin in the prewar “Tessar”, before the company split. East German legal worries also explain that you will not find any mention of the manufacturer “VEB Carl Zeiss” anywhere on the Werra’s outside.

Ready for the picknick. (Fuji 200)

In typical Socialist style, the order to build the camera came from (East) Berlin. A completely new factory was established in Eisfeld in Thuringia, on the Werra river. VEB Carl Zeiss Jena had never produced a camera. They had to start from scratch. Eisfeld itself had no significant photography tradition, and no engineering university nearby.

Living underneath the towers. (Fuji 200)

This allowed a fresh look at all parts and resulted in a few novel solutions. No wonder the marketing campaign (yes, there was a marketing campaign in the GDR) praised the “camera with a new face”. However, as the VEB Carl Zeiss had to answer to ministries, not the market, the Werra suffered from bureaucratic intervention and the overall disadvantaged position of East Germany in global trade. Because of scarce resources, the GDR was unwilling to purchase parts abroad, for example by paying licensing fees to West German or Japanese companies. Everything had to be developed in-house, so to speak.

Springtime among the wealthy. (Kodak 200)

Unfortunately, a clever undercover maneuver from prewar times now came to haunt the East German engineers. In the 1920s and 1930s, Carl Zeiss secretly bought up companies like Alfred Gauthier and Friedrich Deckel, securing a controlling interest in the manufacturing of camera shutters. But the Iron Curtain had severed the ties between Jena and these manufacturers located in West Germany. Now the GDR had to produce its own shutter which became a long and complicated struggle. The Werra therefore came with a new but instantly outdated shutter, the VEBUR. The lack of sophisticated features made sales in the West nearly impossible, and Carl Zeiss had to request additional funds to purchase the Synchro-Compur shutter in Munich for later models.

Protestant church (Kodak 200)

A vicious cycle had started: the product, intended to gain Western currency, was a flop. Any upgrades involved purchasing parts from the West, further reducing the original intention as a money-maker. No wonder the East Berlin bureaucrats started to become fiscally conservative.

Summertime along the linden trees (Fuji 200)

When the Werra hit the market, photographers had started using color slide film and demanded sophisticated light meters. The Werra I had none, of course.

The Rheinaue park in Bonn (Kodak 200)

As the photographic industry hit major milestones of innovation in the 1960s, the Werra designers haplessly carried on, with several models incorporating light meters and flash synchronization which were also outdated by the time they hit the shelves. Frustrated designers tried to re-invent complicated mechanisms already incorporated into Japanese models. Fortunately, the main customer base inside the German Democratic Republic remained unable to purchase “capitalist” cameras. A captive audience indeed which also hampered the innovative spirit of the (very capable) engineers. They hit the wall. Money was allocated by the central government, and the officials did not want to hear costly proposals for improvements.

A swan finds his way along the riverbank. (Fuji 200)

While the Werra seems to have been exported to the United Kingdom, the United States remained “Werra”-free. Maybe there is an explanation for today’s interest in the model. Certainly, the East German government eventually understood the limited appeal of the outdated specs: shutter, light meter, handling: Japanese makers were winning the battle in the marketplace against the West German camera industry, and East Germany could not compete. In 1965 the company decided not to continue the Werra beyond the year 1968 “due to the unfavorable returns in hard currency”.

The Werra captures capitalism: Stately home (Fuji 200 expired)

The vulcanized appearance with the trademark green color apparently originated with the preferred color of Zeiss binoculars, and managers also referred to the green of the Thuringian forest as an inspiration. The Werra invites categorization as one of the few admired GDR products. Some call the overall design “spartan”. other compare it to “Bauhaus-style”.

Mission Impossible: The Werra captures the Villa Hammerschmidt, the residence of the Federal President in Bonn (Kodak 200)

Another unique design feature is the lenscap – it is shaped like an upside down shot glass. If you unscrew it, you can re-attach it the other way round to have it serve as a lens shade. It provides the Werra with a very futuristic appearance. Taking pictures with the Werra, regardless of the model, gives you a fascinating insight into the Cold War, industrial history, marketing, the flaws of Socialist production, and the remarkable achievements of designers, engineers, craftsmen, and assembly line workers behind the Iron Curtain. It is therefore a great example of a camera with a history. About 500,000 copies were made during the production period. As Mike Elek has concluded, there are few cameras like it!

Links:

https://zeissikonveb.de/start/kameras/werra.html

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https://filmphotographyproject.com/content/reviews/2014/08/werra-film-camera/

Mike Elek’s review of the Werra 3:

http://elekm.net/zeiss-ikon/werra3/

http://www.cjs-classic-cameras.co.uk/zeiss/werra.html

https://www.moma.org/collection/works/174806

The modest Werra made it to the Museum of Modern Art.

Southwestern Skies

Traveling through the Southwestern United States in monsoon season means discovering the many shapes of clouds. While not all of the rain accumulated in the sky will reach the ground – some will evaporate beforehand – the voluminous forms up above are simply astounding. Pictures cover the Rio Grande in northern New Mexico, the town of Espanola, NM, the Los Alamos “hill”, and Goodwater in Arizona.

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Favorite Film Cameras: Leicaflex SL2 (1974-76)

Classic camera, classic view: The Cologne cathedral with the Leicaflex SL 2 (Kodak Gold 200)

The camera that nearly broke a company. The Leicaflex SL2 is heavy, solid, clunky. But combined with Leica glass, it’s a marvel of German engineering. The attempt to capture the SLR market might have failed, and Leica might have gone belly-up with this product. Clearly, the Japanese camera companies had gained the edge by this time, producing acceptable quality at a lower price. Leica designers and engineers did not want to compromise and lost the bet. Fortunately for film aficionados nowadays, a Leicaflex SL2 is not out of reach. It still represents a happy marriage between German ingenuity and wonderful sharp lenses.

Kilkenny, Ireland (Kodak Gold 200)

This was my first foray into the Leica universe. Imagine my surprise when I found out that the body was cheaper than the lens! Any Leica-lover will know what I mean. The 50mm Summicron is simply fantastic. Try it out, and you will be amazed at the crisp sharpness. It is as if you were seeing the world in a new light.

Cologne Central Station, detail. 135mm Elmarit-R (Kodak Ektar 100)

This is another solid camera, made to last. The workmanship is supreme, no plastic here. The controls are where they should be. Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate but simply designed to appeal and to convince. Fully manual, all-mechanical. The Leicaflex SL2 is heavier than the Japanese competition. It is a brick. But what a pleasure to attach one of these magical lenses and lug this brick around.

Evening sunflare on the banks of the Rhine river (Kodak Ektar 100)

The shutter sound is loud and comprehensive. It is impossible to accidentally expose a frame. The film advance is long and significant. You can sense that the designers cared for their customer. No simple solutions, but mechanical pleasure. Metal-based satisfaction.

The Dom in Aachen as seen through the Summicron lens. (Kodak Portra 400)

This camera conveys a sense of seriousness. You go out and feel you need to capture the world, fix a moment in time on the emulsion of choice. Funnily I never think of loading expired film in the Leicaflex. It seems like blasphemy, as if the camera would be offended. Leica demands the freshest and best available for your budget. What might be next for this gem?

Slightly too much sun: the moat around Schloss Augustusburg in Bruehl (Kodak Potra 400)

No, the Leicaflex SL2 so far has not been my go-to camera for experimental shots. It is the elegant grande dame of my collection. The one you spoil with extravagant outings and exotic locales. Not for her the nitty-gritty of street-art and multiple exposures. Take it with you for the stately homes and the cathedrals of the world. Use it for portraits of your loved ones. It will repay you with the cleanest, sharpest vistas imaginable.

My home is my Schloss: Leicaflex SL2 in Augustusburg. (Kodak Portra 400)

I also have a 135mmElmarit-R lens for the SL2. Yet another superb piece of glass. Sometime I think what if I sell a bunch of other cameras and invest in Leica glass? Then I calculate and find out that even if I sold all of my cameras, my car, and plenty of other possessions, my ability to afford Leica glass would be slim. Ok. Moving on. Maybe adapters.

Even in a democratic republic, some names bear witness to the imperial age: The Hohenzollern railway bridge in Cologne (Kodak Portra 400)

Anytime I venture out with the Leicaflex SL2, I am proud of the hard work that went into producing an artifact like this. I am conscious of the history that went into the development, the research, the craftsmanship, and even the marketing. Sometime I think of Oskar Barnack, the pioneer of camera design, and the Wetzlar employees today continuing a long tradition. IN retrospect, the Leicaflex SL2 might not have been the epitome of photographic innovation. But it sure feels good in your hands.

Rain and rust will not destroy our love (Kodak Portra 400)
Fishing nets on the Heider Bergsee. (Kodak Ektar 100)
The 135mm Elmarit-R at work: Detail of the Cologne Cathedral (Kodak Ektar 100)

Links:

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On a daily excursion. The photographer Friedrich Seidenstücker (1882-1966)

Friedrich Seidenstücker: Snapping celebrities, Berlin zoo, 1930.
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

He called himself an “Ausflugsmensch“, a human being going on excursions. And the nonchalant way in which he captured street life is characteristic of this self-definition. Ladies jumping over puddles, exhausted workers, mischievous children. Friedrich Seidenstücker went on walks through the city with his camera and snapped away. He also became one of the earliest official zoo photographers and displayed lots of patience in portraying the antics of captured animals.

Friedrich Seidenstücker: Family tandem bike, 1947.
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

Located in Cologne, the Käthe-Kollwitz Museum is offering a glimpse into the treasure trove of this slightly forgotten artist. “Life in the City” is the title of the exhibition, running currently (21 May-15 August 2021). The vintage prints are held today in Munich at the Bavarian painting collection as a bequest of the foundation of Ann and Jürgen Wilde. The images include his famous zoo portraits but also several series on laborers, children, and families enjoying the weekend. They tell the story of everyday events, the hardship and the pleasure.

Friedrich Seidenstücker : Zebras (1920s/30s)
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

Born in Unna in 1882, young Friedrich came from a middle-class family. Like many male and female photographers of the 1920s and 1930s, Seidenstücker was self-taught. Originally, he trained to be an engineer and then a sculptor in Berlin. The war saw him work in the Zeppelin factory before returning to classes in art school. But he struggled to find his own path. An avid lover of animals, Seidenstücker spent much of his time in the Berlin zoo, happily snapping away. Eventually, he obtained an official license to operate as the zoo photographer. He had found his calling.

Friedrich Seidenstücker: Dog painter, 1928.
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, Seidenstücker sold his animal portraits to the large number of illustrated magazines that had become the hallmark of German society in the interwar years. Photography offered a rapid reality check – everything was photogenic, and the picture editors clamored for funny stories, captions, and situational comedy on the streets. Seidenstücker fit right in with his unfailing eye for the hilarious, the ridiculous, the stunning and the unusual. While he scouted out funny poses in the zoo, he invariably came across similar subjects beyond the fence. Berlin became his canvas. The human being in all its shapes and sizes, in all kinds of emotional states: despair, vanity, anger, joy, exhaustion. Seidenstücker amassed over 14,000 negatives capturing the reality of the Weimar Republic.

Friedrich Seidenstücker : Self-Portrait with camera, c. 1925.
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

Notice the Compur shutter: Camera aficionados might be interested to learn that he ignored Leica and Contax, the standard instruments of the day. Instead, he believed in folders: Zeiss Ikon 9×12 and 9×9.

Friedrich Seidenstücker: Potsdamer Platz, after 1931.
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

A mirror reflecting reality – that could not go down well with the Nazis, in charge of Germany since 1933. Popular magazines were banned, hundreds of writers emigrated, and all artists had to become members of the official Nazi cultural organizations like the Reichskulturkammer. Seidenstücker’s commissions dried up. On top of that, he was expelled from the Reichskulturkammer since he was no longer a working sculptor. He needed support from family members to survive.

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Friedrich Seidenstücker: Stettiner Bahnhof, Berlin 1930
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

In 1945, another blow struck. During an air raid, his archive was destroyed. Fortunately, he had stored negatives and prints separately so he was able to recover much of his work. In postwar Germany, Seidenstücker tried to capture the renewed life among ruins, and some of his most striking shots are from this era. However, although he resumed his career as a press photographer, he never managed to pick up speed again. In the mid-1960s, he became a member of the prestigious Deutsche Gesellschaft für Photographie. But he fell ill soon after. Yet another sad occurrence: While Seidenstücker was confined to a reconvalescent home, his property was sold off, including his cameras and many prints. After his death in 1966, not even his beloved zoo wanted his images. In piecemeal fashion, galleries came across Seidenstückers work and presented it now and then in the 1970s.

Friedrich Seidenstücker: Children in the city, 1928. (Poster states: Store for rent)
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

Yet, through chance and a few illustrious intermediaries, Seidenstückers prints were displayed at documenta 6 in 1977, where they joined the works of the Bechers, Henri-Cartier-Bresson, and Karl Blossfeldt. Still, his status as the great unknown of interwar photography did not change. It took another thirty years for museum curators to collect and preserve his remaining photographic legacy.

These were the images he could easily sell to magazines: Friedrich Seidenstücker: Puddle jumpers, 1925
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

Seidenstücker was not an extremely innovative artist. In his images, we see a solid “snapshot” – a clear message. Different from, let’s say August Sander, Seidenstücker is interested in the unique situations of people in the street, not the archetype of a craftsman. He leaves the upward-downward perspectives to Rodchenko. He is a steady observer of everyday life. His images could still sell today as amusing birthday cards. But what is clear from the pictures is his sense of humor, his lightheartedness, and his inability to harshly critique the failings of his compatriots. There is always a twinkle in his eye.

Friedrich Seidenstücker: Hotel valet, 1930.
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

It might have been this fleeting “moment” that deterred the art critics. Too clean, too obvious, too comical, too popular: Seidenstücker was a man to make people laugh, not (over-)think. This might have been the consideration of the gatekeepers.

Friedrich Seidenstücker: In the pants of his (deceased) father. C. 1950.
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

Especially the zoo shots have a timeless quality. Of course, today’s society might think his gaze too anthropomorphic. Visitors can enjoy the pleasant snapshots without having to dig deep for analysis. With his eye for the telling detail, Seidenstücker gives us a glimpse of what daily life was like.

Friedrich Seidenstücker: Encounters at the zoo, 1926.
© Stiftung Ann und Jürgen Wilde, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, München

Favorite Film Cameras: The Canon AE-1 (1976-1984)

The Cologne Cathedral is usually adorned by scaffolding, indicating ongoing preservation work (Kodak Gold 200)

This is the first instalment of a series on extraordinary cameras. The Canon AE-1 is not only a classic milestone in the history of film cameras, it also occupies a special place since it was the first modern SLR in our home. Beforehand, photography was rather challenging – you had to calculate distance and focus. Family photos were time-consuming, and the subjects quickly got tired of posing awkwardly, unless you had a landscape or flowers in front of you. In those days, finishing a 36-frame film took months. It was expensive to develop the prints. On the other hand, you would sit down and share the photos, trying to remember together where this frame was shot. Purchasing the Canon AE-1 was a game-changer. It was faster, it offered a system of interchangeable lenses, and it turned photography from a documentary practice to fun. Mind you, it was not cheap: the cost was between 600 and 700 DM, which amounts to approximately 800-900 Euro in today’s age.


This demonstrator in front of the cathedral reminds us that “weniger” – “less” is more (Kodak Gold 200)

We took pictures when family gathered for birthdays and holidays, or when we traveled on vacation once a year. Subsequently, the stack of negatives and prints of a family archive neatly fits into a couple of shoeboxes and a few albums. By comparison, shooting digitally means amassing tens of thousands of images, storing them on hard drives and computers, and possibly forgetting them.

Nighttime under a railway bridge (Kodak Ektar 100). Photo meetup event.

Picking up the Canon AE-1 is a joy. The ergonomics are brilliant, the weight is perfect with 750g, the shutter noise and the film advance are smooth and crisp after all these years. Great Japanese engineering. It is not complicated to handle, since it was designed for the enthusiast. As in the 1980s, the camera fulfills the mission: to improve the photographic quality of your images, to allow people to learn the craft, and to make lasting memories.

Open pit mining in Garzweiler (Kodak Gold200, 28mm)

The Canon AE-1 can be the workhorse for analog images, or it can be the Sunday treat. In my kit, the standard 50mm and a 28mm get the most traction. I am not a big fan of the old zoom lenses, so I try to stick to the primes. It is ideal for your photo walk around town, picking up some details or the occasional wider angle, here at use in the local industrial mining area.

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The Zeppelin on its way to the city center. (Kodak Ektar 100)

You cannot go wrong if you stash the Canon AE-1 in the bag for a stroll around. The camera does what the best sports referees attempt to do: It stays out of the way, allowing you to focus on the composition. There is a reason Canon sold millions of copies. It put a sophisticated electronic device into the hands of the consumer.

Maybe the most popular SLR: The Canon AE-1.

Links:

https://casualphotophile.com/2015/09/17/canon-ae-1-program-vs-ae-1-camera-review/

Manual: https://www.butkus.org/chinon/canon/canon_ae-1/canon_ae-1.htm

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