Since well before the COVID-19 pandemic, I’ve been learning (slowly and carefully) how to repair and restore certain types of film cameras. As time has gone on, I’ve tackled increasingly bigger challenges, and one of them recently was resurrecting a Yashica-D twin-lens reflex (TLR) camera that its previous owner apparently dropped, face down. What follows is a narrative on bringing that camera back — with a subtext for all of us on how not to handle your cameras, since drops onto hard surfaces are not generally reparable. And when they are, as I discovered, it can be quite challenging.
The Back Story
On and off, I’ve been perusing various websites for months, looking for possible victims subject cameras at dirt cheap prices to try and rescue, figuring that if I was unsuccessful, I’d not have spent too much money. It was on one of my searches that I found the Yashica-D that’s the subject of this article, listed for US$40. That was, quite honestly, more than I thought the camera was worth, but the cosmetics were quite good, and I assumed (wrongly) that it may not need anything more than a shutter overhaul; had I examined the photos closely and carefully, I’d have noticed something fairly important, but in my excitement, I didn’t catch it. Since I was familiar with the design and construction of the Yashica TLRs as a whole, I knew that a shutter service was well within my capabilities, as I was getting pretty comfortable with the Copal leaf shutters that Yashica used; they’re quite similar to the Prontor shutters I’d previously gotten to be quite intimately familiar with. So, I ended-up ordering the camera.
Once it arrived and I excitedly opened the box, I discovered something that made my heart sink pretty much immediately: The camera had clearly taken a nasty fall, face planting from what had to have been a pretty significant height to get the damage I was staring at with complete incredulity. Since the camera was purchased “as-is,” no returns were permitted, and I was stuck with a camera that looked great — apart from being smashed-in at the front.
Understanding the Camera Design
To understand the impact (bad pun) of the damage, you have to understand a bit about how the Yashica TLRs are built. In an attempt to make this more clear (hopefully), I’ll annotate a few so-called exploded parts views of a Yashica-D. First, some scribbled-up images; then I’ll follow them with the explanation.
The majority of what goes on inside a Yashica TLR is right up front, in and around the front standard, which moves forward and backward to focus the camera. There are also geared works inside that provide smooth, stable in-and-out movement of that standard. All the cameras also have some sort of advance mechanisms on the side as well; the crank models (Yashica-Mat series) have a pretty complex set of additional mechanical “stuff” to make it all work (e.g., cocking the shutter when you wind the crank), while the knob advance models like the Yashica-D are somewhat simpler.
This camera took its impact on the lower bayonet frame around the taking lens, marked as 2A in the diagram above. There’s a separate one for the upper, viewing lens, and they mount through a “decorating plate” (as the service manual labels it) and the shutter cover (a stamped metal cover), labeled 2B, through a series of geared pieces that include the visible aperture and shutter speed dials you see from the top (labeled 2C), and finally are held in-place by retaining rings — one for the viewing lens, one for the taking lens. The fall didn’t damage the bayonet, but it crushed the shutter cover (2B) inward, and in turn affected everything labeled 2C. But the damage didn’t end there.
The lens mounting plate (labeled 4) was bent, and the focusing arms, one of each side (6), were bent as well. In short, whoever dropped it did a great job of it. The only plus is that because of the design of the camera, the lenses weren’t affected in any way; the bayonet frames float around them.
I’ve numbered the diagrams the way I did because it’s the order in which it gets disassembled. The leatherette panel (1) comes off, then then the shutter cover (2B, but at this point, 2A, 2B, and 2C are all connected together as a single assembly), then the outer cover (3), then the entire lens and shutter assembly (4). To service a shutter on these cameras, that’s all the disassembly that needs to be done (apart from removing the shutter itself to work on it). With this camera, however, I also removed the inside cover (5) so that I could inspect everything (including the focusing arms, 6) adequately.
One regret is that I didn’t take enough pictures of this camera before work began and during the effort, primarily because I thought it was pointless; there’d be no saving this camera. But I nevertheless put it on my workbench and got to work.
The Resurrection
One of the things about these cameras is that sharp focus across the entire film frame requires correct planarity — basically, whether the optical axis of the lens is perfectly perpendicular to the film plane — as well as correct adjustment of the focus itself; in short, is the camera actually focused at infinity when the focus scale dial says so? Planarity is adjusted with shims, while focus is adjusted by setting the focusing dial correctly, and then adjusting the viewing lens to match. With this camera, the impact knocked-out both focus and planarity.
The first step was to correct the bent parts. As near as I could tell, the focusing arms (6) themselves, as such, were not bent; that would take quite an impact force to accomplish. But, the tabs — where the screws fasten — were indeed bent inward. Correcting that was easy enough to do by sight, I simply bent them flat (parallel to the front of the camera).
The real concern was correcting the inner cover (2B), which was severely dented inward. I disassembled all of the parts you can see in the diagram completely, and set about very carefully tapping the bent metal back into shape. The trick was to work slowly; my tool of choice was a long piece of soft wood (about 1.5cm square in cross section, with rounded edges), and a small hammer, tapping from the back while the cover sat face down against a thick layer of soft microfiber. Bit by bit, I gradually got it back into what appeared to be its original shape, with almost no evidence that it had ever been impacted. Both the cover, and the decorating plate attached to it, looked pretty good once again.
Reassembling the cover and all the related parts underneath it (which as I said earlier drives the aperture and shutter speed settings as well as the numbers you see on the top) was a bit tricky, since the toothed parts need to meet-up correctly to ensure that the aperture and shutter speed numbers show through the window in the top of the cover properly, and move freely. The bayonet frames also have small pins and tiny springs which have to be carefully set into place; these provide a resilient grip to filters when attached to the bayonet(s).
Lastly, the shutter frame (4) had to have some correction too, as its corners had been bent out of shape.
A reassembly allowed me to verify that everything was operating properly. With the bent parts corrected, the shutter would fire correctly, and both the aperture and shutter speed could be set easily. So where’d we land with focus and planarity?
I use a small, homemade ground glass to check focus, and to the extent I really can, planarity. Without specialized gear, it’s really impossible to set planarity with complete accuracy. While a set of precision calipers would allow distance checks from the film plane to the focusing arms (I still intend to invest in a set), for now, it’s purely by eye, and it’s tough to see in the corners of the ground glass. Correcting it requires very thin material, usually very thin brass washers, but I’ve also used very thin plastic carefully cut to shape with an X-acto knife.
For focus, removing the cap on the focus knob reveals an 8mm metric fastener that can be used to loosen the knob. Essentially, set the focus and the knob to match, tighten, and confirm — then repeat as needed. My practice is to set it properly at infinity, then validate closer distances (typically 10 feet, and then at or near closest focus), adjust, and then confirm at all the distances.
There are a couple of well known “Mikes” on the internet who swear by a complicated, home brew technique that leverages a second (digital) camera to calibrate focus, and quite frankly, after attempting to follow the instructions to the letter multiple times, I can’t figure out how to get that approach to work, nor do I even claim to understand the principles of why it should. If it works for them, great. I prefer to do it by eye with a ground glass and loupe at various distances, cross-checking them as I said, and when I can get it to a point where the sharpest focus precisely matches between the focus scale on the camera and the measured distance between a subject and the film plane for all the various distances I’m checking, I feel I’ve done as good a job as more scientific methods. And bluntly, the results from the cameras I’ve adjusted in this manner have proven it works quite well.
With the taking lens focus established, the next step was adjusting the viewing lens to match. With the covers still off the front, a set screw is accessible from the side of the viewing lens. Once loosened, the lens can simply be rotated (it’s threaded) to adjust focus. The idea is the same as the taking lens, really: Make sure it’s correct at infinity, a precisely known middle distance, and a precise short distance that’s at or near the camera’s closest focus. Once it’s good across the board, tighten the set screw to lock it down.
With the camera looking good, in focus, and working good, the resurrection was basically complete. I reattached the covers, and set the front leatherette panel back in-place with a very light coat of Pliobond adhesive — pretty much the industry standard for that job among camera techs.
One final piece: A complete cleaning. For that, you can refer to my recent article on the topic.
The Proof of the Pudding is in the Eating
Most Americans mangle that saying; the proof is not “in the pudding” it’s in the eating of the pudding, meaning you have to try something to know whether it’s good or not, and such as it is with a newly-restored camera. Unless you put film inside, and take some pictures, how do you truly know whether it works?
That was the next step with the newly-restored Yashica-D, and I did it with a great deal of trepidation. There was a lot of tinkering with this camera, a lot of work indeed, and a lot had been changed. I knew how Yashica TLRs performed in general (quite well), but how would this do? I was hopeful; this particular example has less-common tan leatherette coverings, and the other two in my collection (one of which I also resurrected from a terrible state) both have black leatherette.
In the field, the camera operated flawlessly, which was encouraging. I’d chosen Fomapan 100 Classic for testing, and here are a couple of example images:
I’m pleased with the results, and examining the entire roll carefully, it appears that planarity is fine, and the focus adjustment has been successful.
Final Thoughts
It’s satisfying beyond words to take a camera like this one, in the state it was in, and restore it to a usable condition. That it looks so beautiful when I was done with it makes it all feel even more worthwhile.
While it was possible to bring this one back, I think the real lesson here is just how important it is to handle our vintage film cameras with care. Had this camera been dropped on a corner of the body, bringing it back might not even have been possible. The very last Yashica TLR was made decades ago, and there simply won’t be any more of them made; parts are hard to come by, and mostly get harvested from other cameras parted-out for that purpose.
True, they’re not that expensive even when in perfect condition, but it nevertheless feels to me like decent, working film cameras are a resource that’s worth protecting if for no other reason than the number of people capable of maintaining them continues to shrink. I’m not quite ready to put-up a shingle and start accepting Yashica TLRs from the masses for repair, but as I finish-up this article, I’ve repaired and/or restored at least half a dozen of them, so maybe in some small way, I’m doing my part to keep these amazing little cameras chugging along for years to come.
