Not impossible: re-covering a vintage SX-70

A few years ago, engulfed in a wave of mania for instant photography whipped up by the Impossible Project going live, I purchased a classic SX-70 Polaroid camera (ok, actually I purchased two, but let's not talk about that.)

This second camera worked great -- the Alpha 1 model 2 has some fantastic upgrades over the original model that make it much nicer to work with.  (Things like a strap, tripod socket, and a split prism for focusing -- really essential stuff.)  Since then, I've run more than a dozen 8-exposure packs of Impossible film through it with great results.  

There was one problem, however: the vintage leatherette covering was pretty decrepit, so the camera was not too good aesthetically.

But, all was not lost.  I wasn't the only person who had this issue, and I found a few places around the web that manufacture replacement coverings for the camera.  There were a range, including some very nice real leather coverings.  Eventually, however, I chose one of skinslove's offerings, a self-adhesive die-cut vinyl called "Black Rainbow," based on classic Polaroid branding.  Awesome!

One problem did remain: actually putting it on.  The research I did was a bit discouraging.  After the packet showed up, I sat on it for a few months, but eventually I worked up the courage to get started.

Removal.  

Two of the techniques discussed on the web seemed promising.  One suggested leaving the camera soaking in isopropyl alcohol overnight, wrapped in a plastic bag.  The idea here was to dissolve some of the old adhesive, and also to thoroughly wet the old covering to fight crumbling.  Some people did worry about the alcohol seeping into the camera's workings, however.

The other suggestion was the heat gun -- this is the way I went, since a heat gun can be applied a bit more precisely.  I heated each panel gently to soften the ancient adhesive, then used a painter's knife to slowly peel and scrape away the covering. 

As you can see, it was a messy process -- the old leatherette simply shredded as I removed it.  The mini Dyson came in very handy managing this.  However, I was able to get most of the panels off in large pieces.

The amazing thing about this was that the old adhesive was somehow still tacky after 35 years or so of service -- which meant that its removal was a second painstaking process, depending on Goo-gone, paper towels, and ton of cotton swabs.

I applied blue painter's tape in a few places where it seemed like there were holes underneath the panels, to keep any detritus from entering.  It seemed to do the trick.

Application.

Once everything was clean, applying the decals was fairly simple - I just put them on, one at a time, very carefully.  Self-adhesive vinyl tends to be pretty tolerant of adjustments, and a few panels did require some fine-tuning, but eventually went on just fine.  One small complaint was that the bottom-front panel seemed to be just a tiny bit small -- one edge of the metal plate you can see in the photo above is still visible after installation.

 However, the camera is much more presentable than it was previously, and all it took was about $30 for a new decal, 2-3 hours of time, and a few of the old standbys from the toolbox.  I've run a couple of packs of Impossible through it since with no ill effects, and it's really nice to do so without the covering flaking off.

Design Love for the SX-70

An ebay SX-70.

If you're not familiar, the SX-70 was Edin Land's crowning achievement. As this ad (by the Eames) tells us, it is "a compact, folding, electronically-controlled, motor-driven single lens reflex camera, capable of focusing from infinity down to 10 inches to exploit integral self-processing film units." An amazing bit of technical jargon masquerading as marketing that could never be unleashed on the public today. Or, in other words, the first modern Polaroid camera and film.

The SX-70 is a far cry from the plastic instant Polaroids those of my generation are familiar with. It's a beautiful piece of 1970s design. Folded down, one might mistake it for an oversized cigarette case. Popped up, it is, in fact, a fully-functional SLR camera with automatic exposure. SLR cameras are fairly complex things; I don't know of any other camera of this complexity which collapses as fully as the SX-70.

That's right...a Polaroid that focuses. Instead of a "fixed focus" lens, where a tiny aperture is used for large depth of field and the photographer just hopes that it comes out OK (in reality everything comes out a bit blurry) the SX-70 allows for proper focus. Many models even had an old-school split focusing circle to make manual focus easier.

Manual focus, but automatic exposure, adjustable by two stops in either direction. It's a photographer's Polaroid, and I'm dying to take pictures with it, using the new films from the Impossible Project.

Unfortunately, it doesn't quite work. The camera ejects the darkslide perfectly, with the motor running smoothly, but hitting the shutter button results in...nothing. And, as you might imagine, fitting a real camera into a package that folds makes working on them a bit fiddly. A brief look underneath the housing didn't show anything promising...I am afraid that I might need to go deeper. Sigh.

Heights #2

Another image from the Brooklyn Heights rooftop. The heights has such a spectacular view of lower Manhattan...

Lower Manhattan from Brooklyn Heights

Last night from a rooftop in Brooklyn Heights -- nice clouds because of the impending storm. Not a terrible thing to see every night and every morning.

Grand Army Take #2

Here's another attempt at Grand Army Plaza, this time a foggy night with fairly long exposures. The fog really seemed to bring out the colors in addition to diffusing the light. The only thing I'm not totally happy about is how the light-trails end abruptly as they cross the image boundaries. Not quite sure how to deal with this but I'm fairly sure I can fix it in the gimp.

Grand Army Plaza

Today I did a quick panoramic of Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn; the light wasn't ideal for what I wanted, and I did it a bit too quickly: as you can see, a few features that I would have liked to preserve are cut off here, so I think I'm going to go back and try it again. The walk light also blocks the modern Richard Meier building, so I think I'm going to have to change my position a little bit; stay tuned.

Pano of my new home

This is a quickie 3-shot panorama I made of the intersection just outside my new home in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn. It's the intersection of Washington Ave & Sterling Place, and Tom's Restaurant is visible at the corner there. I haven't been yet, but it's on the horizon.

I made a run to B&H this morning and got a new tripod head, so be on the lookout for more panoramic images of Brooklyn, and (this is exciting) night shots!

With the grain

I was wandering around Manhattan and Brooklyn snapping a few pictures today and I found myself musing on why I've taken a liking to photography recently. (If you haven't been paying attention, it's my latest obsession.)

I realized that I like taking pictures that are at the limits of a camera's capabilities; I've always liked low-light photography, and I also like images with extreme dynamic range. The phenomenon is similar to "euphony" in the sound world, which is when a sound reproduction technology fails to reproduce the source realistically, but does so in a way that is pleasing to the ear. The canonical example is electric guitar amplifier distortion: the amplifiers which created the sound of rock couldn't reproduce the electric guitar signal cleanly at the volumes guitarists needed, but the distortion added harmonic content to the signal and actually made it sound better. Today it's hard to imagine electric guitar without it.

Cameras do something similar. In fact, they capture images far less transparently than today's audio recorders do; they have trouble dealing with light levels in which our eyes function near-perfectly, and even in the best of conditions, transform the captured image. Film grain (or digital noise and artifacts, as in the picture above) can be pleasing or ugly, and of course I prefer it to be pleasing. But I think there's something a bit deeper than that at work: while audio pretends at perfection, the camera makes no attempt to hide the fact that it cannot make perfect copies of reality. As its image loses its focus or softens to noise, it allows a veil of modesty to be drawn between the viewer and reality.

Our perceptions are far from perfect, and the camera does not hide this but actually accentuates it. It tells us not that we are all-knowing (and by extension all-powerful) but reminds us that we have limitations. It advises us not to grip too tightly to our ideas, because there is some knowledge that will always be beyond our grasp. And perhaps best of all, it tells us to know our limitations, and use them to our advantage.

Windows on the world & new leaves

I bought a camera. These days, a digital camera is, just as Steve Jobs decreed a few years ago, part of the digital lifestyle. Obviously I like to take pictures of things, self-document, try to capture the beauty, wrestle it to the ground and stuff it in a bottle, lest it flits away on butterfly wings.

So with the new camera (which just means room, after all, sort of a room of one's own, where one can collect light and fix it down, just as one can do with thoughts) I've composed a paean to the amplifier, the early silverface Deluxe Reverb which a kind fellow sold to me for the princely sum of $50 when he'd decided to move on entirely to solid-state. To be sure, I've spent a few more dollars on repairs, and I even had it open myself a little while ago (I managed to escape without a jolt) but, without a doubt, this is one of the finest sources of sound I have ever known.

The image is a tricky one to capture: it's low light, and the jewel, as you can see, is overexposed: it has a huge dynamic range. One day I'd like to be able to capture the facets of the pilot light's jewel very sharply, with just a hint of the surroundings...

Morning coffee

As I was making my coffee this morning the sun caught the bottom of my hand-grinder, which at some point last year sat in water just long enough to begin to oxidize; the sun brought out the hint of green copper. I composed this before I lost the light.

(Photo info: Olympus SP-565UZ, Super Macro, F3.5, 1/400, ISO 64, massaged a bit in the GIMP)

The Zassenhaus is in heavy use these days; I sold my grinder out in California but kept my espresso machine. Luckily, my schedule these days allows me ample time to grind coffee by hand and self-document.