One of the challenging aspects of collecting and maintaining vintage cameras is the sheer lack of detailed historical technical information available for the vast majority of them. Many of the companies who made all this camera gear are long since gone, and virtually all of them who are still around have shifted their business models, often quite dramatically. That can make it a big challenge to figure-out how to solve weird problems that just shouldn’t be happening to start with. And such as it was for me recently.
For anyone regularly reading this web site, it’ll come as no surprise that I’m a bit of a Kodak Retina fan. It started with a somewhat worse-for-wear Retina IIc (Type 020) from 1954, and has rather mushroomed from there to include an example of the very first Retina camera (a Nr. 117 from 1934), as well as twenty-eight other examples of the line-up. It may sound like I’m bragging, which is not my intent. Honestly, I think it’s more of a statement about the questionable state of my mental health; being trapped at home during a pandemic, I’ve turned to retail therapy for comfort. But I digress…
One of the more recent Retina acquisitions was a Retina IIC (Type 029) from about 1958, with the somewhat unusual Rodenstock lens — “unusual” only from the perspective of the US; the IIC was not sold here, and of the Retinas that were, none were sold with Rodenstock lenses.
The IIc (Type 020), IIIc (Type 021), IIC (Type 029) and IIIC (Type 028) all have a shared system of interchangeable lenses — of a sort. The front element unscrews from the camera, while the back group of the lens remains deeply embedded inside the camera body, on the opposite side of the shutter assembly. You can see the set-up here:
The front element is then replaced with either an 80mm long auxiliary lens, or a 35mm wide auxiliary lens.
Those lenses must be matched to the camera. The four Retina models were produced with either Schneider-Kreuznach or Rodenstock lenses, and if your camera has a Schneider-Kreuznach lens system from the factory, then you have to use the Schneider auxiliary lenses as well. Ditto the Rodenstock.
Imagine my surprise (and excitement) when National Camera in Minnesota suddenly featured a pair of Rodenstock Retina-Heligon C auxiliary lenses (one 80mm, one 35mm) for a terrific price — a price point far lower than I see these lenses on eBay. Both were rated as “very good” condition, and given that Rodenstock lenses for these cameras were not sold here, I was really surprised to see them. In short, it was a no-brainer to pick them up.
Now for the record, all these lenses (and the cameras) are referred to as having a Retina “C” lens mount. The bayonet is basically identical among all of them; what varies is a small tab, a keying method; the tab is in one place along the diameter for Schneider, and in another place for Rodenstock, preventing the wrong lens from being placed on the wrong camera.
When it came time to attach either of the two correct, Rodenstock lenses to my Rodenstock-equipped IIC, however, neither would go on. The key tab was in the right place. The name on the lens was right. But no matter how hard I tried, the lens simply would not drop in-place, or screw-on. Notice the gap:
Getting the camera and the two lenses on my workbench for a closer examination, I still couldn’t determine initially what the problem could possibly be. I decided to try a partial disassembly of the lens to better study the problem, whatever it was.
Using a round rubber friction ring — a common camera repair tool — I attempted to remove a small black threaded metal bezel from the inside portion of the lens.
It unscrewed easily. But nothing came off with the bezel; the rear lens elements or groups were intact and secure, which was unexpected. I decided to try to fit the lens to the camera again, with the bezel removed.
It worked. It’s nice and tight, as you can see here:
What Was Going On?
I consulted my Retina repairman, Paul Barden, while I was still trying to figure this out, and once I found a solution, I did again. But in truth, we were (and are) both flummoxed.
Were there different generations of the mount specifications? Did some of the cameras have a deeper or wider cavity that would accommodate the bezel I removed? Why did the Schneider-Kreuznach versions of these lenses not have the same (or a similar) bezel?
Bottom line: Who knows.
So Where Does This Lead Us?
All of this brings us back to the introduction: one of the challenges for the film community is a lack of historical technical details about vintage cameras and accessories to benefit today’s users, be they photographers, collectors, repair people — and/or the merely painfully curious.
Nothing I saw in any owner’s manuals, and nothing I was able to find with any set of web search criteria I could think of unearthed anything at all about this. Even the photographs of the Retina-Heligon C aux lenses I was able to find online that showed the rear portion of the lens showed them with the little black threaded bezel intact. And yet, there’s no way any of these lenses was going into my camera with that bezel attached.
To be honest, I don’t really know what to do at this point, apart from getting another IIc, IIC, IIIc, or IIIC that has a Rodenstock standard lens — and seeing if, by chance, the results with my aux lenses are any different with or without the little black threaded metal bezel. And if the lenses go on with the bezels on, study the differences.
Anyone who knew much about these cameras when they were made is very likely approaching their 100th birthday. And if they’re still with us, I’m guessing that the issue of a little black metal threaded thingie for aux lenses is probably not the sort of minutia they’d be holding onto after 70 years or so. I surely wouldn’t.
While this particular issue is pretty esoteric, honestly, it’s hardly the only example. Whether exactly what the range of options were for Kodak Series filters in the 1950s, or exactly what accessories were available for a Rolleiflex in the late 1940s, or which specific modifications were made over the three or so years of manufacturing of the Graflex Graphic 35, or any number of other little tidbits, some things about vintage film cameras are going to remain enigmatic. They are, collectively, things we’re only going to figure-out empirically — not authoritatively from people who were there to witness everything, nor from documents that somehow survived for seven decades intact.
It may be sad, it may be frustrating. But, I suppose, it’s part of the film photography experience.
