So I was downtown, running errands and I came back across the tracks into the old city. I had to slow down, not because of the tracks (my suspension is piss-poor to begin with) but because there’s a defunct gas station where the cops hide out just on this side of the tracks, as if we’d think they were getting gas at what’s left of a 1970’s pump. As if cops ever leave the pump when they’re getting gas.

There was a woman and a man on the side-walk right across from the Sack’s store next to the station, and as I passed I saw that the woman had struck a pose that I recognized, like a saint in an icon. She was looking down into the viewfinder of a TLR, one hand on the knob and the other cupped under the base to steady it and pull the trigger. In the absolute moment that I passed, the gold number caught the light: “124G.”

I had to talk to her, seeing as I had just bought (or practically been given, at the price) a Yashica 124G myself. I pulled in to the Sack’s parking lot and walked up to her. I introduced myself, told her I had one just like it, and we talked for five minutes, about how tough the little bastards are, mainly. She told me where she got hers repaired, which told me she had money, because who can sink a hundred dollars into a film camera and have money left to put 120 in it? I told her that I’ve heard one of the assembly workers from Yashica does (or did) repairs too, but I couldn’t remember his name. Mark Hama? Did I just make that up?

Well, I looked close at her camera and I felt even more like she was a kindred soul, because like the one my mother’s friend had sold me, it looked like it had been dropped a story onto concrete, all worn edges and dents, like a camera you might see around the neck of a man who has lived ten years among the Masai, or just come back from Mars with it.* The only difference I could see, the way she was holding it, was that hers still had the little leatherette circles on the shutter and aperture wheels.

(*But we all know that astronauts carry multi-thousand-dollar custom Hasselblads.)

And let me pause here for a second: the Yashica 124G is no Rollei. It feels heavier than a Rolleiflex (the only one I ever held) and yet somehow it feels a lot flimsier too. The lenses are said to be no match for Rollei glass. And Yashica forums are full of threads asking how to fix the advance mechanism, which seems to stop catching or start seizing up after a few decades of light use. But it has all the same shutter speeds, a coupled meter that can take modern batteries, and even if it stops catching when you turn the crank, you can still usually figure out a way to use it anyway. I doubt you can find a cheaper true Rollei-type TLR (except from Seagull, and I’ll tell you about Seagull later on on this blog) and especially not one that can take 220. In a way, it’s the Canon AE-1 of TLR’s, the same way my dear old Argoflex EF is the Argus C3 of TLR’s. I felt better about mine, seeing a seasoned old photographer use one in the same condition like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That brings me to the title of this blog: one of the great news photographers of the last century was an Austrian immigrant named Arthur (or “Usher” or “Ascher”) Fellig. He was famous in New York for seeming to show up at every crime scene, day or night, in the Lower East Side to snap a picture with his Speed Graphic and sell it to the AP. They called him Weegee, under the assumption that he used a Ouija board to predict killings and robberies. Actually, I was disappointed to find out, he used a police scanner. But here was a professional photographer who, by his memorable personality and his vast portfolio earned fame even outside of photographic circles. What was his advice? Have the best camera? Spend years learning to use it? No. He was a simple ex-lab rat who taught himself on the basic press camera of the day. His focal distance stayed set to 10 feet and he never changed apertures either. His advice to the budding photographer was “F/8 and be there.”

To me, Weegee was right. A nice camera helps, but no camera will bring the moment to you: if you’re there in the moment, one camera is as good as another. Well, back to the story:

I told her I had an advance problem on mine, and her husband said, “well, look at this.”

She took her hand off the crank to show that there was none. There was an improvised knob made out of a thin nail, some wire and a big fold-over clip (the kind you hold together a paper file with.)

She offered me a roll of film as I went to leave; I was a little shocked. Who just has film to throw away? But I realized that they were retirees, Joe and Julia, and that they were as delighted as I was to have met. I accepted, and she pulled out not one but two rolls of Ultrafine Max 400, which I had never heard of. I thanked her heartily and we went our separate ways, I back to Purvis, and she and her husband to New Orleans to continue whatever adventure they were on. I feel like they were perpetual wanderers, the sort of people who are always heading “furthur,” as it were, like sailors on a tramp ship. I don’t know, I just got that impression.

I felt bad for having accepted the film. I still do, in fact, writing this three days later. If you’re ever reading this, Julia, thank you. If you’re ever in Hattiesburg again, I usually have chemicals and I know someone with a scanner, if you want a few rolls done. It’d be the least I could do. I owe you one, for the film, for introducing me to a good brand of film, for the story, and for a moment of your time.

As for what I did with the film, well, tune in next time…

(Sorry, no pictures this week because I’m away from my good computer.)