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Photographs for Tim

Photographs for Tim

It’s now over a year since Tim’s passing. There is this story I need to tell:

On a cold, grey Saturday in December 2022, I took the metro to the other side of Paris to meet Tim’s friend, Jorge. Tim and Jorge met when Tim was studying in Paris. When Tim’s cancer returned, Jorge went to North Carolina to see Tim and his family. When he was there, Tim gave Jorge several rolls of bulk film to bring to back to Paris for me.

Jorge and I met up in a tiny café near where he worked. Soon after meeting, I realised that I had already seen his photographs: Tim had published them in Leicaphilia. You remember them, I am sure, in particular the guy with the mask on his head with two round eye-holes. Fantastic and mysterious and funny. On the cold winter morning, Jorge and I talked for maybe an hour or two about photography and many other things. I showed him a few of my own photographs on my telephone. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I think you need to get closer”. Looking at my photographs, I would have to agree. At the end, it was almost lunchtime, we parted company and Jorge handed me over three black bags on which were written ‘TMAX’ and ‘Kentmere’ on yellowing masking tape. Tim had said to me a few months previously: “This should keep you in film for a while” and indeed it seemed to be a lot. A quick calculation suggested that it was around 60 rolls of 36 exposures each. But it was bulk film, not already rolled into cartridges. I had never rolled bulk film into cassettes before.

Back on the other side of Paris, I went searching on the internet for a bulk roller and film cartridges, although I knew that at first I could just re-use a few of the old cassettes from film I was currently shooting. After developing and printing my own films for almost ten years now, bulk rolling was the ”final frontier”: something I had yet to try (there is still one thing left, I guess: mixing your own film developer from scratch. Not ready to go there yet). It was almost impossible to find good-quality metal cassettes: eventually, I tracked down an ebayer in … Kyiv, Ukraine. At one point many cameras were made there, and I supppose there must be mountains of film cassettes still lying around. The cartridges arrived early in the new year, and I couldn’t imagine the environment they must have come from. I did try loading one cassette without the bulk loader, in the darkroom at the Observatory. In the darkness, I spooled out what (I thought) was the right amount of film and prepared to put into the cassette. At that moment, the whole darkroom lit up. A notification on my telephone. Luckily, the light from the screen was partially blocked by my body and the film was undamaged.

By the end of December, I had rolled my first cassettes of Tim’s film. I did what I always do: I went for a walk around town and took photographs in the grey, shadowless winter light. This flat light is perfect for photography: no need to change any settings on the camera. But when I developed and scanned the first rolls them, I was disappointed to see the streets and buildings of Paris under a heavy curtain of grain. But I soon realised: this was obviously a message from Tim. On Leicaphilia he wrote (I am sure) thousands of words about the nature of film grain and how it was (mostly) different from electronic noise captured by digital detectors. Tim loved grain, and his images were bathed in it. Some of it real, some of it cooked up with software. I was not expecting TMAX (known to be a fine-grained film) to look like this, but perhaps the rolls had been too long in Tim’s freezer. I tried a few different developers (including one Tim sent me just before he died), but the grain remained. Obviously, this was Tim’s plan. It’s a message, it’s a message, I repeated to myself.

Soon, walking around with those rolls of film in my camera, I felt different. To start with, I knew that perhaps I shouldn’t care too much about getting the exposure or focus exactly right: with so much more grain, such considerations were secondary. I felt I had essentially a limitless amount of film, so perhaps I could take more photographs and be less careful? Because being careful doesn’t always lead to good photographs. Over the past few years, I’d see something, stop walking, take a photograph, then walk on. Time to try something different. I took off the 50mm lens and put on the small compact skopar 35mm lens, actually the first lens I bought with my M6 in 2015, and (I knew) a favourite of Tim’s. I decided to take this film with me on a few of my 2023 trips. The risk was that the images be lost to waves of grain didn’t bother me. When I came back from a trip to North America, on the scans I saw the Niagra Falls through a curtain of static and mist. It was fine.

I went to Ireland and the green hills dissolved under a grainy torrent. Looking at the scans, I realised it didn’t look so bad.

Euclid launched in July, and I was in Paris almost all of July and August. There are quite a few stories to tell about the first images from Euclid and how not everything worked out exactly as we expected immediately. Everyone working on the project in those days was under enormous pressure to understand the satellite and what was happening out in space. But on the weekends I was happy to take my camera filled with rolls of Tim’s film and walk for miles around town in the baking heat, taking many pictures. Shutter set to 1/250, don’t stop, click. I got close enough. I saw some weird stuff.

I had my zones of predilection. In the Marais you could see all sorts of things if you walked around enough. It is hard taking pictures in Paris: everything here has been worn down, photographed millions of times.

Soon enough, it was winter again, and the gray days were back. Before I knew it, I had my last roll of film in the camera. I was walking across the street. There was some kind of weird glitch. 70 years slipped away. And then it was the last exposure in the roll.

By the end of the year, I had around 30 or so interesting photographs that maybe I wouldn’t have taken if Tim hadn’t sent me that film. They are here. Thanks, Tim!

A post for Tim

A post for Tim

Tim Vanderweert, author of the Leicaphilia.com blog, left us last week. I couldn’t let Tim’s passing go without comment: like many people, I owe him a lot.

About a decade ago, just after the death of my father (I am sure these events were linked), I started taking photographs and photography more seriously. More intentionally, at least. Some mysterious path led me to film and Leica rangefinder cameras. The first time I held a Leica rangefinder was in a second-hand shop on the boulevard Beaumarchais, and that camera is still the camera I have with me almost every day. But what was going on? Like we do today I searched the internet to understand, and soon enough I came across Leicaphilia.

A revelation! Leicaphilia was easily the most lucid, funny and opinionated website about film, Leica cameras and photography on the internet. The mysterious site administrator was well aware of all the contradictions of using such cameras today. A relief: most photography web-sites take themselves much too seriously. Soon after (January 2016), I wrote an email to Leicaphilia and sent through an article that I though might fit into the Leicaphilia ethos. I was surprised and happy when I received an almost immediate response from the admin (whom I learned was called Tim V) telling me that he’d be happy to run my article in a few weeks.

When I learned later that year that Tim was coming to Paris, I invited him to visit our institute and to come for espresso in my office. In person, Tim turned out to be like you’d expect from reading Leicaphila: immensely knowledgable, opinionated and cultured. But also very generous and encouraging. I showed him around where I work, and we visited the old Observatory buildings. We even got into the normally-closed museum of astronomical instruments after I told the observatory staff that Tim was a visiting specialist of rare optical instruments (which is true!).

Tim photographing at the observatory

Tim met my colleagues and at the end we had espressos once again this time on the IAP terrace. It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. When I told him about my film-developing technique, he arranged for a pack of Diafine developer to be hand-delivered to my office by relatives who were visiting Paris. They came for coffee too, and coincidentally it was a day that we had birthday cake in the office. A big party ! It was a revelation seeing what my rolls of Tri-X looked like in Diafine. In emails since then, Tim promised to keep my in Diafine indefinitely.

Coffee on the terrace at the IAP

Over the next years, I followed Leicaphilia closely. There was no place on the internet you could find such abstruse, challenging and funny content. Tim was trying to work out what all this stuff meant, where photography was going, or not, and it was great to follow along on his journey. Then there were the excellent take-downs of crooks and charlatans like that time he found the mugshots and police records of a couple of scammers who were selling ”black paint” Leica cameras. I was amazed he was able to write so much given that many of the articles seemed to be so deeply researched and knowledgable. Somewhere in there, Tim activated commenting on the site, and those comments were a revelation: it turned out that there was a community of civilised, intelligent people following the site who could have a meaningful conversation without descending into polemic and outrage; very uncommon on today’s internet.

A few times, Leicaphilia went dark or offline: Once Tim was (perhaps) hacked by Scientologist friends of Thorsten O. (frequently a subject of ridicule on Leicaphilia). But often the silences were simply Tim’s centres of interests changing. They made us all realise how much we valued Leicaphilia and how eagerly we awaited Tim’s next idiosyncratic update.

But then, around two years ago after a longer pause, Tim announced he had cancer. I was shocked. It sounded hopeless but after surgery and treatment he recovered and in summer 2021 we met once again in Paris. First at a cafe in the Marais, and then for a meal at our small Parisian apartment. Tim and his wife came as well as two exchange students that they had been hosting at their house. It was a lovely evening. Tim was in great form. He had brought copies of his books for me and we would have talked late into the night if the evening hadn’t been cut short by the results of a faulty COVID test.

Tim and Donna, Summer 2021

For most of the next 12 months, the only update on Leicaphilia was a brief message announcing that Tim was selling his digital Leica. I expected that Tim had been once again zooming around the back roads of North Carolina on his motorcycle. So I was unprepared for the message from Tim in August 2022 telling me that his cancer had returned and this time it didn’t look like there would be an easy escape. I remember around five years ago when I told him I was being treated for a ”minor” cancer (which is now thankfully under control). Tim mentioned that if something like that ever happened to him, he would be frightened. But talking to him after he sent me that message, he seemed more annoyed than frightened. Annoyed that this would happen to him now.

Readers of Leicaphilia know the rest of the story: Tim confounded the doctors by not dying then and there, but living for another four months. And during those four months Leicaphilia was a torrent of posts, often several every day. There was much new material, together with old posts that had been on the shelves. All of them in Tim’s trenchant funny style. He gave so much of the little energy he had left to us, the readers of Leicaphila. He was generous in other ways too: I travelled to the other side of Paris and picked up almost a hundred metres of film that Tim had sent to me via a friend who had been to Tim’s premature ”going-away-party’;.

Leicaphilia was inspirational. In person, Tim was an exceptional character. You don’t meet so many people like Tim in a lifetime. Returning to my apartment the evening after the day Tim died, I found a parcel waiting for me. It was a packet of Diafine that Tim had sent me only a few days before his death. Hail and farewell, Tim, and thanks!

Images in the 21st century: some thoughts on Andre Rouillé’s: “La photo numerique, une force neo-libérale”

Images in the 21st century: some thoughts on Andre Rouillé’s: “La photo numerique, une force neo-libérale”

I recently read an excellent book about photography in the 21st century, Andre Rouillé’s ”La photo numerique, une force neo-libérale”, published by editions “L’échappée” (who are publishing many interesting books about society and technology). It is probably the most lucid text about modern images I’ve read so far: to me, it describes accurately the current state of affairs. Most classic texts about photographic theory (Sontag, Barthes) have been hopelessly outdated by the arrival of the internet and the profusion of digital images. But this one is right up-to-date (published last year) and is the clearest look so far at the role of images in our modern world. The scope of the book is large: not only does it describe how new technology has changed image-making, but how digital images have become essential to the modern economy.

Let’s start by considering a definition of terms. In English, to describe the two ways we have of making images there is ”analogue” and ”digital” but Rouillé prefers the terms photo-argentique (”argentique” is silver) and photo-digital. This emphasizes that they are really different in kind and nature. Analogue images are fixed and immutable, digital images are constantly changing and are defined by computer code and digits. And most, importantly of all, they can be transmitted instantly anywhere around the world and effortlessly duplicated.

This is about where we are now.

Now, consider how images are captured using with film photography (I’m paraphrasing Rouillé here; he is obviously thinking about rangefinder cameras): one looks through a viewfinder and one decides where to put the frame around an object in the physical world. Now think about capturing digital images with a smartphone, because that is how most digital images are created: one looks at a screen on a rectangular object held at arm’s length. The whole body is involved, not just the eye. The notion of the frame enclosing the physical world has disappeared, and in deciding to frame the photograph one moves the arm and not the head. In the first case, you see the world and not the image; in the second, you see the image and not the world. With a smartphone, it is easy to take multiple images, but you can’t always see the screen in bright light. The result, in the second case, is a profusion of images which do not conform to the conventional idea of photography as a document and an accurate representation of the world. This leads, naturally, to a new aesthetic, one in which crucially images are not at all intended to be a faithful reproduction of reality. The usage of photography today is clearly very different from it was in the 20th century, and by way of example he cites the examples of certain 21st century Magnum photographers whose images turned out to be a less than faithful representation of reality.

So the point to be understood is not at all simply a response to the tired ”film versus digital” question, which after reading the book really seems to me to be missing the point. One can certainly use a digital camera (and here I mean I camera, not a smartphone) in the same way as a film camera, carefully setting the shutter speed, aperture, framing the subject, just as you can also use a film camera like a digital camera — he cites Gary Winogrand as someone who did just that, who took film photographs ”in a digital way”. But today, almost all images are created with smartphones, and these multitudes of images are destined to be shared and distributed on social networks. The way in which these images are captured, and the malleable nature of the object used to take them (a smartphone is no more a camera than it is a telephone, a notebook or a record-player) lead to this radically new aesthetic. I think this is quite different from ”snapshot photography” from the start of the 20th century when the first small portable film cameras appeared; those images were never generated in such large quantities and neither were they circulated so widely around the world.

In the second part of his book, he underlines how important digital images have become for the enormous corporations that have become an integral part of our lives. These digital images created in such great quantities have become an enormous source of wealth for these industries — but not, of course, for those who create the images. These images contain all the attributes of the neoliberal world: instantaneous, constantly changing form and present everywhere. Digital images have become crucial in maintaining the economy of surveillance capitalism.

Budapest, winter (8-13 February 2017)

Budapest, winter (8-13 February 2017)

I made a short trip with ML to Budapest a few weeks ago. Budapest is one of those cities I visited when I first ‘discovered’ Europe in the early 90s before leaving for Canada for two years. Quite a few of those cities I have never returned to since then: Budapest, Prague, Vienna. You see, back then, I was attracted to this part of the world. For me Europe was above all Mitteleuropa, it was not the Mediterranean Europe of France, Spain and Italy. In fact, during those first few visits to Europe, I didn’t even visit Italy. Coming from the North, for me Italy seemed to be chaotic and noisy. Today, of course, I feel differently. But meanwhile, in my mind, Budapest rests frozen in the summer of 1991. What it would be like today?

After a short flight from Orly, we arrived at night:

it was bitterly cold, but I had my heavy coat for the mountains.

There is certainly a particular atmosphere in this city at night,

and at the same time there is no question that things have changed,

and the city is not as it was before. Although Budapest, as I learned, was always even in the depths of communism, a city known for its cosmopolitan lifestyle. But now some strange choices are being proposed:

Are you sure?

However, some things do not change, people still swim outside in at Széchenyi in winter when the temperature is barely above freezing:

You must swim fast

There are still a few mysterious things to see,

Many buildings have been restored, but not all of them,

there are still a few traces left from before the arrival of modern-day plate-glass windows,

Certainly food is important,

and during our stay we went to some wonderful bars and restaurants,

and outside in streets, you certainly need to wrap up warm:

And suddenly it was time to leave. Waiting at Budapest airport to board the plane in the depths of winter is a unique experience:

… and we were back in Paris once again. I enjoyed immensely our short visit, and hope to return soon…