Tuesday, April 23, 2013

On a camera


It obviously has a colourful history. You can tell just by looking at it. The Lens barrel has aluminum flaking out on the edges. The worker who worked at the Ansco plant back on the east coast obviously was lax with the sanding and the electroplating. I don't fault him. The camera was a simple and cheap product. Almost a throw away. The only thing comparable today to it would be one of those disposable cameras you can buy from Walmart, except they are a lot more high-tech.

On the inside, there is rust on the hinges, and the light proofing foam has all but rotten away. You can tell that the camera has seen some serious use. There is salt deposition and water damage on the innards. The family that owned it took it to the beach, probably in Oregon, or Washington. It took black and white photos of their family vacations.

It was there when the son of the family went abroad, for the Great War. It took a photo of the proud son, in a stiff military uniform, standing in front of the stars and stripes, proud to serve his country. Or was he making a stoic expression to hide his fear that he was leaving his home for some godforsaken trench in Europe, in Dunkirk or Somme, to fight for some abstract idea, and maybe never return, except as a telegram delivered by a brother officer to the family, informing them of how he served the country and made them proud, and died in military action in an European field, killed by gas, dulce decorum est, pro patria mori.

The camera took pictures of the young daughter, dressed in a flapper costume, with short hair, going to a dance at Pengilly's. She held on to the camera as she boarded the Interurban, excited for an evening out with her friends, chaperoned by her father and mother. They danced to Cole Porter, and Irving Berlin on record that night. Then as the sun started getting lower, they stood in front of a wall, and their father took a photo of all the girls with the Ansco Clipper.

The camera was there during the Depression. It was not used, because film was too expensive. It sat near the mantle, as the pater-familias worked all day in the farm, assisted by the only son, while the mother took in washing and worked hard to make ends meet.

It was there when Tojo bombed Pearl Harbor. It took another picture, of a son. He looked the same as his uncle who never came back from the Great War, or the Grand Aunt who had died from the Spanish flu. The newest photo was added to the mantle piece alongside photos of the Uncle, the Great Aunt, a photo of the family on the beach, and a photo of an Aunt standing in front of a wall, with her friends in Boise.

It took a photo of the son's triumphant return from the Pacific, with a uniform full of medals, in a second hand Oldsmobile Phaeton, which he had bought in California after the long voyage back from Bataan, for $500. His proud mother had taken the photo, and it was put on the mantle next to all those other photos. It took photos of his family as it grew. It was there when he got married, brandished by a proud father. It was there when a son come into the family. A proud Grandfather took a photo. All these photos went to the mantlepiece.

The grandson left for college. His father disapproved of his long hair, and his general lackadaisical attitude, but his son was going to college, and that was something to be proud of. A photo was taken in front of Sterry Hall. The first child in the family to go to college. His bell bottomed pants and hair flared in the wind, captured by the Ansco Clipper.

That was the last picture the camera took. There was no more film that would fit in the camera. Father decided that it was time to buy a new camera. So a newfangled Nikon was purchased. He grumbled about buying something Japanese, but it was cheap and took decent photos, so it didn't matter. The Ansco was put in a box with other nick knacks, and put up in the attic. It sat there until the proud veteran of the war died in the late 2000's. Finding no use for it, the family gave it to the Youth Ranch. It was put in a glass shelf in the back. Who would buy such a thing?

In October 2010, an Indian boy came to the thrift store to buy warm clothes for the coming winter. He wasn't prepared for the Idaho winter. He saw the Ansco Clipper in a shelf. He brought it, and put it in a shelf. It has seen no use for nearly 70 years. It just sits on the window still, a relic of days gone by.

History of Ansco
Ansco has had one of the most colourful history in the photography. Predating Kodak, It was called E. Anthony and Co. At the turn of the century, it was merged with Scoville Manufacturing, and became Anthony and Scoville Co. and shifted its base of operations from Chicago to New York. Involved in a trademark infringement case with Kodak, it suffered huge losses because of Kodak's market dominance, even though it won the case, the company merged with the German conglomerate AGFA to form AGFA-Ansco. AGFA-Ansco was renamed IG-Chemie, a subsidiary of IG-Farben, the German chemical giant.
Renamed General Aniline and Film in 1928, it continued producing film and cameras. It was the official film of Disneyland, and had Henry Fonda as its spokesperson, and offered Jodie Foster her first acting role. As of now, it is the largest Roofing Manufacturer in America, and has not produced any film or cameras for decades. It offers lifetime warranty on its laminated roofing shingles.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

There is beauty in memory - of brother, sister, nephew, son, daughter; of war, or death in trenches and cold hospital beds with warm bodies- warm life replaced by cooling decay; there is beauty in forgetting, in the dust collected behind glass shelves, in cold memoirs of a dead man once warm, now sold in a garage sale; in a young man child from cold plains of a hot country who seeks warmth in this cold cold sea of humanity. There is beauty abundant in this memory of yours - real and imagine, Child! You read too much Leopold. Leave the facts for those cold HTML tags in the fiery chaps whose passions burns pixels in the dungeons of a wiki edit. Let lose your memory and let lose your imagined bubble. There is warmth enough for a cooooold drunk Dravidian.