I have just become the proud owner of an old Rolleiflex medium-format camera — you know, the ones in an oblong box shape, with two lenses in the front. I am in danger of becoming a bit of a geek.
I have never been the type whose idea of fun is stripping down a bike and putting it back together; I never really paid much attention when my dad explained the workings of our Cortina when I was 12, something I now regret.
But I now know that there is pleasure to be had appreciating the workings of a beautifully engineered machine. The Rolleiflex — we enthusiasts call them Rolleis — is a wonder of precision engineering.
Mine was made in 1965, an F-type Model 3 with a f3.5 75mm Zeiss Planar, factory code K4F1. You know, the one that dispensed with the 1958 version’s differential Synchro-Compur shutter coupling to the exposure meter’s match needle.
If your eyes glazed over there, I feel your pain. Usually when confronted with such technical specifications — for a stereo, a car or a boiler — I tune out entirely.
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This is different. This time I am devouring the detail. I have two books chronicling the history of the Rolleiflex, detailing every model going back to 1929.
One attraction is the complete lack of electronics or batteries. That’s right, this is a gadget that never needs to be charged. There are no cables. How refreshing is that?
Even the light meter is analogue — it uses selenium, a natural element that produces a tiny amount of electricity in proportion to the amount of light that falls on it.
The minute gears and levers that translate this voltage into the movement of a needle in a light meter are close to miraculous.
Needless to say, the camera takes great pictures. They come in the square shape recently rediscovered by the Instagram generation. Framing and composition require a whole new approach to anyone used to a 4:3 ratio.
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The main pleasure, however, lies in the machinery, the metallic clunks and clicks as the dials and cranks move into place, as clean and smooth as the day the Rollei rolled off the German production line half a century ago.
My late father was a time-served toolmaker who worked a lathe in the tool room of the Timex factory in Dundee. His work needed to be accurate to tolerances of a thousandth of an inch.
I think he would have approved of the Rolleiflex, and his son’s late conversion to the joy of machinery.
House of wonder
T his year’s Royal Scottish Academy exhibition is a departure from the norm, being dominated by the work of architects. This caused something of a stir in the art establishment but it is a triumph.
Scottish architecture has been neglected and undervalued in recent years, and this goes some way to redressing the balance.
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Fantastic new work is on show, as well as retrospectives on 1960s’ architects such as Morris & Steedman, who are now being reassessed with a more generous eye than has been the case in the past 30 or 40 years.
For me, though, the highlight is the house built by Richard Murphy on Hart Street in Edinburgh’s New Town, which was completed in December 2014.
He built it for himself, to be his home, and its quirks and curiosities — the pulleys that open roof panels, the ladders that slide across stairwell bookcases, the bits of wall that swing open to the world outside — reveal it to be a thing of wonder.
The bin wins my vote
W ith the Holyrood election approaching its climax, here is my report of canvassing on my doorstep:
• Candidates who have chapped my door: just the one — the SNP’s Alison Dickie, who seems like a very nice person.
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• Other activists who have chapped my door: one pleasant young man from the Greens.
• Leaflets received: too many to count, but I have moved the recycling bin next to the front door, for convenience.