Blog – Jim Sollows Photography

The Scene Beneath the Colour

Black and white image of Golden Ears on Mount Blanshard with the peaks illuminated in early morning light.

I’ve been shooting a lot of colour lately, but my heart always comes back to black and white. In landscapes, colour can be beautiful, yet at times it feels like noise, pulling attention away from shape, form, and contrast.

What held me here was the light catching the twin peaks known as the Golden Ears on Mount Blanshard. Light and shadow revealing structure, giving the massif its weight. When I first saw the scene, it felt almost complete, but something was missing. Through the viewfinder, stripped of colour, the image finally settled into the version I’d been waiting for.

This image was captured at Pitt Lake in British Columbia, Canada

on my new Fujifilm X-E5 using Fuji Acros simulation.

I hope you will consider visiting my website at www.sollows.ca for galleries of my past images and posts related to a range of subjects especially restoration of vintage cameras rescue of long lost films and photographic plates.

Escape from Adobe!

For a decade, Adobe Lightroom and Photoshop were simply part of my photographic life. I didn’t choose them so much as end up with them. When Apple ended Aperture in 2014, I had no real alternative. Adobe was really the only option and they made the transition easy, even offering a smooth import path from Aperture. I followed the crowd and settled into the Adobe ecosystem.

Over time, though, that ecosystem began to feel less like a choice and more like something I was stuck with.

The Slow Squeeze

As the years went by, Adobe’s subscription costs crept upward. New AI features kept appearing, but they weren’t things I personally needed or asked for. I’m a hobbyist. My needs are modest. What I wanted was stability, affordability, and tools that supported the way I work.

Instead, I found myself paying more each year for features I didn’t use.

Support also became increasingly frustrating for me. Whenever I needed help, I ended up in long queues, bouncing between automated systems and support tiers. The people I eventually reached were polite, but often unable to resolve the issue without escalating it further. Days or weeks would pass before anything was sorted out. It left me feeling like I was on my own.

When the Catalogue Crashed

At some point, I also learned just how fragile the Lightroom catalogue can be. It’s essentially a database, and like any database, it can become corrupted. In my case, it did. My entire library suddenly became inaccessible.

I reached out to Adobe support, but in my experience, the process didn’t lead to a solution. If I hadn’t kept good backups, I would have lost decades of work. That incident shook my confidence in relying on Lightroom as the central hub for my photographic history.

For me, that was the moment I realized I needed to look for a way out.

Looking for the Exit

When I started exploring alternatives, Capture One was the name that came up most often. But the last thing I wanted was to move from one expensive system to an even more expensive one. I wasn’t looking for a professional studio solution with a price tag to match. I just wanted something practical and affordable. That ruled Capture One out for me.

Then I tried ON1 Photo RAW.

Discovering ON1

ON1 immediately stood out because I could buy it outright. A subscription is available if you want cloud storage or extra features, but the core application is a one‑time purchase at a reasonable price. I downloaded the demo and quickly realized that most of what I did in Lightroom translated directly into ON1.

The big question, of course, was my Lightroom library—forty years of photography, edits, metadata, and organization. Losing that wasn’t an option.

To my relief, ON1 had already thought about this.

How the Migration Worked for Me

Adobe and ON1 interpret RAW files differently, so ON1 takes a clever approach. It links to Lightroom and instructs it to export each RAW file as a JPEG with all edits baked in. Then ON1 imports both the RAW and the JPEG. If the RAW looks different in ON1, the JPEG serves as a faithful reference to the original edit.

It took a while, but it worked.

Two years later, I haven’t run into a single situation where the migration caused a problem for me.

What I Gained

One Application Instead of Two

Everything I used to do across Lightroom and Photoshop now happens inside a single application. No more switching back and forth.

A Simpler Workflow

I found ON1 easier to use. Anything I used to do in Adobe, I can now do in ON1 with less effort.

A Sense of Control Again

No subscriptions. No creeping price increases. No feeling of being locked into a system that wasn’t working for me anymore.

A More Stable Environment

With Lightroom, manipulating the file structure outside the application could cause serious problems. The catalogue always felt like a house of cards — one wrong move and everything could collapse. Not so with ON1. If I want to move files or entire folders outside of ON1, even to a new drive, I can. ON1 doesn’t even blink.

Any Problems?

When I migrated, I enabled ON1’s Keyword AI, which automatically assigns keywords based on what it sees in your photos. In my case, it generated hundreds of irrelevant keywords—man, woman, wheel, foot, arm—cluttering my library. I eventually turned it off and began the long process of deleting the junk keywords. If I could do it again, I’d leave that feature disabled from the start.

I initially found that ON1 is very processor‑ and memory‑intensive in catalogue mode, as it’s running indexing and other background tasks. If you run it in browse mode it turns off most of that backend processing which is much less demanding. In fact I don’t really see a difference aside from the fact that Keyword AI requires catalogue mode but as I said above, I’ve turned that off.

Not Sponsored — Just My Experience

Before I wrap up, I want to be clear that this post isn’t sponsored by anyone. I’m not affiliated with ON1 or any other company. I’m simply sharing my own experience after feeling stuck in a system that no longer worked for me.

ON1 has been a great fit for my needs, but that doesn’t mean it’s the right choice for everyone. If you’re feeling boxed in by Lightroom, there are several alternatives worth exploring. Each has its own strengths, pricing models, and workflows.

Lightroom Alternatives to Explore

ON1 Photo RAW – My personal choice; one‑time purchase available. This ticked all the boxes for me, but be aware of its system requirements.

Capture One – Powerful, professional‑grade tool; excellent product, but even more expensive than Adobe and with no cloud functionality.

Affinity – Now completely free; a strong Photoshop‑style editor, though not a catalog system — you would need another app for that. It works nicely with Photomator, which does have a catalogue.

Pixelmator / Photomator – Now owned by Apple; modern, fast, inexpensive, and tightly integrated with macOS and iOS. Nice catalogue and editing, but oddly no keywording functionality.

DxO PhotoLab – Excellent RAW processing and noise reduction.

Luminar Neo – AI‑driven editing with a simpler interface.

Darktable – Open‑source and free; more technical but very capable.

RawTherapee – Another free, open‑source RAW editor with deep controls.

If you’re feeling trapped, it’s worth trying a few demos. The right tool is the one that supports your workflow, your budget, and your creative goals.

Oskar Barnack:

A Tribute from the Workbench

Oscar Barnack Workbench with Leica 0 Still Life

In the early years of photography, cameras were heavy, slow, and difficult to carry into the real world. For Oskar Barnack, an avid traveler whose health made carrying massive gear increasingly difficult, there had to be a better way.

As a precision engineer at Ernst Leitz in Wetzlar, Barnack spent his days perfecting microscopes, but his side project was far more radical. He looked at 35mm movie film and had a stroke of genius: he turned the film on its side. By running it horizontally, he doubled the frame size to 24×36mm, creating the still-photo frame size that remains a standard to this day.

Barnack approached photography with the mind of a problem solver and the hands of a craftsman. In 1913, he built his first working prototype. He nicknamed it “Lilliput,” a nod to the tiny people of Gulliver’s Travels, because compared to the giant plate cameras of the era, his invention seemed impossibly small. He worked closely with Max Berek, Leitz’s lens expert, to ensure that the tiny negatives could be enlarged into sharp prints. This was the birth of modern handheld photography.

The true test came not in a laboratory, but in disaster. In 1913, severe flooding struck Wetzlar, and Barnack used his small prototype to document the devastation. While others struggled with bulky equipment, he was able to move freely through the streets, capturing scenes that would have been nearly impossible with the cameras of the day. Those images proved that his little camera was not just clever engineering, but a practical tool for real life.

Flood in Wetzlar teaser 1200x800 1 1024x681 — Wetzlar floods 1913 captured by Barnack with his early prototype

However, an invention needs a champion. His boss, Ernst Leitz, was a visionary who recognized the potential of the “Lilliput” and even took a prototype to New York in 1914 to test it himself, photographing the city’s skyscraper canyons.

The First World War delayed production for a decade, and by 1924, Germany was in economic ruin. Most of Leitz’s advisors told him to kill the project, fearing it was too risky to launch a new camera format during a depression. But Leitz saw a way to keep his factory workers employed and change the world. In a legendary board meeting, he ended the debate with one sentence:

“Ich entscheide hiermit: Es wird riskiert.”
(“I hereby decide: the risk will be taken.”)

With the decision made to go to market, the “Lilliput” needed a professional name. They combined the first three letters of the owner’s name (Leitz) with the first two letters of the word camera. And just like that, the Leica was born.

When the Leica I finally reached the public in 1925, it changed the direction of photography forever. Photojournalists and everyday storytellers finally had the freedom Barnack had imagined at his workbench.

The image above is my tribute to that moment. The Leica 0 sits on a blueprint that echoes the engineering sketches of the prototype camera design. The tools surrounding it reflect the world Barnack and Leitz inhabited—a world where precision and imagination worked side by side.

Barnack didn’t just design a camera, and Leitz wasn’t merely a businessman. Together, they created a tool that sparked a revolution in photography. Every shutter click carries a trace of their original vision.

In the beginning

… the Leica 0

1923 Leica 0 a surprise Christmas gift from Shari

In the early 1920s, photography was slow and cumbersome. Most cameras were big, heavy wooden boxes mounted on tripods. Film handling was awkward, exposures were deliberate, and spontaneity was rare. Making a photograph required planning and patience.

DSCF9797 — Watson & Sons is an example of a camera prior to the Leica 0

Then in 1923 a small experimental camera quietly changed everything. The Leica 0 began as a personal solution. Oskar Barnack was an engineer at the optical instruments company owned by Ernst Leitz. He struggled with asthma and found the heavy cameras of the day difficult to carry. A traveler and outdoorsman, he wanted a camera that could move with him rather than slow him down. His idea was radical for its time: use 35mm motion picture film horizontally to create a 24×36mm negative with excellent image quality in a compact body. Leitz supported the concept by helping finance the research and development of both the camera and a new type of film and canister to support it. That is the same 35mm film format and canister still in use today.

Many doubted that photographers would accept such a small negative. Large formats were considered essential for quality. But Ernst Leitz trusted Barnack’s engineering instincts and supported years of testing and refinement. The Leica 0 was built to answer a simple question: could this new approach work outside the workshop?

The answer reshaped photography. The Leica was born, cameras became portable, photographers became mobile, and images became more immediate. Candid moments, street work, travel photography, and modern visual storytelling all grew from this shift.

Look at the camera you use today, film or digital. Its lineage traces back to this quiet experiment — the Leica 0, where modern photography truly began.

The Leica 0 in this photo was an unexpected gift from my wife this Christmas. It’s far more than a collector’s piece. It’s a piece of photographic history that changed how we see the world. My Leica 0 won’t be sitting on a shelf; it’s loaded with 35mm film. I’ve included a couple of the first frames I made in my eagerness to get out and shoot with this lovely, and very challenging, piece of history.

Test roll through the new Leica 0 with Ilford HP5 — In the Village – Leica 0 on Ilford HP5

Sample photo shot with the Leica 0 on Ilford HP5 — Bike rack on a wet day – Leica 0 on Ilford HP5

DSCF5765.RAF Export — Pedestrian bridge in the fog – Leica 0 on Ilford HP5

DSCF5769.RAF Export — Foggy Morning Bedford Channel – Leica 0 with Ilford HP5

Leica re‑issued this Leica 0 in 2000 as a fully functional tribute to the 1923 prototypes, marking the 75th anniversary of the company’s first production camera. Limited to just 2,000 units, the camera was hand built from the original design to faithfully recreate the look and operation of the original Leica 0, of which only 25 were ever built and just a handful survive today. Those surviving originals routinely sell for many million dollars at auction, underscoring their status as some of the rarest and most historically important cameras ever made. The 2000 re‑issue offered photographers and collectors a way to experience Oskar Barnack’s pioneering history making design.

The CLA

“Clean, Lubricate, Adjust” Should Actually Mean Something

Written By: Jim Sollows
Date: October 17 2025

In the world of vintage cameras, three little letters, C-L-A, get tossed around more than a film canister at a camera swap. “Clean, Lubricate, Adjust” refers to a full mechanical and optical service meant to bring a camera back to near factory-spec performance. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, the term has started to lose its meaning and become a marketing buzzword.

Scroll through any online marketplace and you’ll see it everywhere: “Recently CLA’d!” or “Just CLA’d and ready to shoot!” But more often than not, that so-called CLA is little more than a wiped-down exterior and a few shutter clicks to show it still makes noise. That is not a real CLA, and the kind of work that actually counts is not cheap, so you will not find it on bargain-bin cameras.

Screenshot 2025 10 17 at 11.32.39 pm — Fresh CLA !!! Canon Film Camera $20.00

Not long ago, I opened a camera belonging to one of my students. He had purchased it after being told it was “recently CLA’d,”. He contacted me because he was having trouble with a rough film advance. The exterior looked clean, but once I removed the top plate, I found dust, grime, and even a spider web. It was very clear evidence that the camera had not been opened in decades, if ever.

A true CLA is a meticulous process. It means fully disassembling the camera to clean away old, hardened lubricants and applying the correct modern equivalents in just the right places and nowhere else. It also involves calibrating shutter speeds, replacing light seals, aligning rangefinders, and ensuring every moving part behaves the way the original engineers intended. It’s not a five-minute job; it’s a skilled task that takes experience, knowledge, and often specialized tools.

When sending a camera or lens for a CLA, it’s essential to choose a reputable professional who specializes in vintage cameras. The best technicians document their work, sometimes providing test data, photos of the process, or calibration notes. Just as importantly, they stand behind their work, offering a warranty or follow-up support if something isn’t quite right. This all comes at a price, a CLA is an investment, giving new life to your vintage gear.

LensMedicYYC servicing a 90 yr old lens — Photo provided by LensMedicYYC showing his progress servicing my 90 yr old lens

People often ask me to do a CLA on their camera. I can handle some basic service work, but I don’t have the skills needed for a full CLA. Many of my own cameras have been professionally serviced by my go-to technician, Gary at LensMedic YYC in Calgary. Gary has the skills, tools, and experience to do it right, and he’s never let me down. He recently CLA’d a very rare Kalimar Six Sixty medium-format camera. Even Gary admitted he had never seen one in person, yet his work was impeccable.

One of my most prized cameras, a 75-year-old Leica IIIF, recently went for a CLA. When it came back, it included a list of work that filled more than three pages. Every gear, spring, and screw had been inspected, cleaned, and adjusted. The shutter curtains were replaced, and all components that were out of spec were either restored to factory standards or replaced entirely. Because of the extent of the work and the need for camera-specific parts, I chose to have it serviced directly through Leica. The result was remarkable. The camera now looks and performs exactly as it did when it left the factory 75 years ago. Holding it, winding it, seeing the crisp clear viewfinder and rangefinder plus hearing that shutter snap feels like stepping back in time.

When a camera truly receives a proper CLA, it shows. The shutter feels crisp, the advance is smooth, and the meter (if it has one) is accurate. Everything works as it should, often better than it has in decades.

The next time you see someone proudly claim their camera has been CLA’d, take it with a grain of salt unless there’s proof. In the world of vintage mechanical cameras, a true CLA isn’t just a marketing phrase. It is a way to roll back the clock, restoring a fine camera’s performance, preserving its craftsmanship, and keeping it shooting beautifully for decades to come.

Restoring San Lorenzo 1900

Embarking on an extraordinary journey, I find myself entrusted with a unique mission – the restoration of a small collection of photographic glass plates capturing life in the quaint village of San Lorenzo, Italy, around 1900. Discovered in Vancouver, Canada, these delicate artifacts hold within them the untold stories of a bygone era. The owners of this visual time capsule, have entrusted them temporarily to my care. My task is to delicately recover the images held on each fragile plate.

Preserving Fragile History:

Handling these delicate glass plates becomes a dance between caution and passion. Each plate, adorned with scratches and missing emulsion, demands the utmost care. Dusting off the layers of time, I feel the weight of responsibility as I transport these fragile pieces into the present, preparing them for a journey through restoration.

Each plate was delicately cleaned

Next they were digitally scanned and processed

Plates were badly damaged and faded after more than a century. Each had to be laboriously restored one at a time.

Stereoscopic Wonders:

The uniqueness of this collection lies in its stereoscopic design, capturing dual images simultaneously. Armed with the necessary technology and a deep appreciation for the historical significance of each frame, I meticulously photograph both the left and right images from every plate. In the quiet solitude of my studio, these images become digital puzzle pieces waiting to be artfully overlaid, merging seamlessly. When the two images are merged, I am able to make the scratches and damage go away, telling the tale of San Lorenzo.

Before and After

The first image shows the scratches, dirt and missing chunks of emulsion. Once the pair of images are blended together, that damage can be removed leaving the undamaged image as shown on the right. If you would like to actually see this being done, I’ve created this short video clip.

Before retouching. Notice the scratches, discolouration, fading

After retouching all the damage. It’s still not perfect but we don’t want it to be. It was shot in 1900 after all.

A Glimpse into San Lorenzo’s Past:

As the merged images come to life on my computer screen, the streets of San Lorenzo awaken with a vibrancy long forgotten. The smiles of children and adults, the horse-drawn wagons navigating dirt roads, and the absence of modern vehicles transport me to a simpler time. In every scratched surface and missing chunk of emulsion, I discover the marks of a community that once thrived in simplicity.

These images are from glass plate positives of San Lorenzo Italy around 1900

Simple Pleasures:

One photograph, in particular, draws me into the daily life of San Lorenzo. A woman, adorned in a long dress, guides her ox cart along the street, with her husband enjoying the leisurely ride on atop the wagon. The absence of motorized vehicles underscores a time when the rhythmic clattering of hooves and the patient plodding of oxen defined the pace of life.

A Glimpse of Pre-War Life:

The presence of Italian soldiers scattered throughout the images hints at the imminent upheaval of World War I. Each soldier frozen in time becomes a silent witness to the community on the brink of historical transformation. These photographs not only capture smiles and simple pleasures but also foreshadow the challenges that lie ahead.

Notice the armed soldiers in this plate. WW1 is approaching.

Conclusion:

Restoring this collection of photographic glass plates has become a personal odyssey, an intimate exploration of a village frozen in time. With each scratch repaired and every missing piece delicately reconstructed, I feel a profound connection to the past. Through my lens and the digital canvas, San Lorenzo’s story unfolds, inviting us to appreciate the beauty of life in a small Italian village and the resilience of memories preserved through the art of restoration. The restored images are being returned to a historian for the village of San Lorenzo. More than a century later, they are going home.

Escape from East Berlin

In the looming presence of the Berlin Wall, Helmut and Erika Straus navigated the intricate dance of Cold War politics in 1971. Their hunger for freedom ignited a daring escape plan, capitalizing on Helmut’s stature as a successful businessman with sporadic West-bound privileges granted by East German authorities.

As night settled over their humble East Berlin home, Erika clutched forged identity papers, the lifeline connecting them to a potential new life. Identified as Helmut’s secretary, these papers aimed to deceive the Stasi, securing Erika’s spot on the westward journey. The Stasi’s watchful eye demanded the illusion that Helmut’s wife remained at home, transforming she and all they possessed into stark assurances of Helmut’s return.

Anxiously, Erika carefully placed a handful of clothes into a worn suitcase, skillfully upholding the facade of a short absence. Simultaneously, Helmut chose items for his leather satchel, among them this special camera—a possession that, if uncovered, would undoubtedly jeopardize their lives. Erika had long pondered the purpose of this perilous device, yet every inquiry yielded Helmut’s terse reply: “It’s better for you not to know.”

As time pressed on, a tapestry of anticipation woven with threads of fear unfolded. Tomorrow, armed with forged papers and hope, they would approach the checkpoint. Sleep eluded them, the impending escape demanding they leave everything behind. Erika, well aware of the dire fate awaiting escapees, shuddered at the prospect of capture.

In the hushed pre-dawn moments, Helmut and Erika prepared to venture into the unknown, each step carrying the weight of freedom and the looming specter of danger.

Fast forward to 2023, and Erika, now in her 80s, weaves a captivating narrative with her German accent. She holds Helmuts’ tiny Minox spy camera delicately in one hand, while cradling a cup of tea in the other. Our backdrop is their stunning home, perched above the ocean in White Rock, Canada. Since Helmut’s passing several years ago, Erika, now living alone, graciously welcomes the opportunity to serve me tea. With a tender smile, she passes the camera to me, remarking, “Helmut would want it to find a home with someone who truly understands its significance.”

Today’s photograph serves as a poignant tribute to the enduring story of Helmut, Erika, and the unassuming camera that silently carried unknown secrets to the West.

This image photographed with Hasselblad 500cm and Ilford HP5 film

Finn Slough

Nestled on the banks of the Fraser River in Steveston, British Columbia Canada, there is a very unique and picturesque little fishing village known as Finn Slough. Its story is one of history, resilience, and community spirit that has defined the area for over a century.

I ventured out there this week, to document this most fascinating community. Most of the photos below were taken with a Hasselblad 500 cm on Ilford HP5 medium format film. The residents are very private but I managed to talk with one fellow who has lived in the Slough for “many years”. Unfortunately he declined to be named or have his photo taken but the time he spent with me was invaluable as there is little documentation about the Slough.

Finn Slough traces its origins back to the late 1800’s when Scandinavian and Irish settlers arrived in Steveston, seeking opportunities in the growing fishing industry. The village became a hub of activity, with its wooden houses perched on stilts above the muddy inter-tidal marshland.

The name “Finn Slough” originates from the Finnish settlers who called this place home. They were primarily fishermen, drawn to the abundant salmon runs in the Fraser River. The Finnish community grew, and soon, other European immigrants joined them. Together, they built a tight-knit community bound by their shared passion for fishing and the river.

In those early years, Finn Slough thrived, with fishing boats dotting the river and the sound of seagulls filling the air. Families would gather on the docks, repairing nets and preparing for the next catch. Life revolved around the tides, the seasons, and the unpredictable nature of the river.

However, as time passed, the modern world began to encroach upon the quiet haven of Finn Slough. Industrialization, urban development, and changes in the fishing industry brought challenges to the community. The once-bustling fishing village found itself facing a decline in fish stocks, stricter regulations, and pressure from land developers eager to claim the waterfront area.

Despite these challenges, the residents of Finn Slough refuse to let their beloved village fade into obscurity. They banded together, forming the Finn Slough Heritage and Wetland Society in the 1980’s, to preserve their unique way of life and protect the marshland that serves as home for both residents and wildlife alike.

Over the years, Finn Slough has become a symbol of resistance and a haven for artists, environmentalists, and nature lovers. Its ramshackle buildings, weathered and worn, exude a rustic charm that continues to draw visitors from far and wide. The village has served as an inspiration for painters, photographers, and writers, capturing its timeless beauty and celebrating its historical significance.

Today, Finn Slough stands as a living testament to the resilience of its community. Its wooden structures, held together by the collective efforts of its residents, continues to defy the passage of time.

Finn Slough tends to be very private, and no trespassing signs abound. However, visitors can freely stroll the road adjacent to the village to admire the unique architecture, and appreciate the peaceful serenity of the marshland. On occasion, I’ve encountered residents who are more than willing to share stories of the community past and present.

Finn Slough is a reminder that even in the face of change, some places hold steadfast to their roots. It’s a special place where the past and the present harmoniously coexist. As the sun sets over the Fraser River, casting a warm glow upon the village, the story of Finn Slough continues to unfold, inviting future generations to write their own chapters in its remarkable history.

Donovan

I’ve spent a bit part of my life working and teaching in the field of emergency health care. This day I was teaching a particular course that has a well earned reputation for being very intense. The subjects are complex, time is short and patients lives are at stake. I had a student in the class who was younger than most, but very quiet and reserved. Each day students would scatter like ants when I released them for lunch. One day I saw Donovan sitting alone in an unoccupied classroom with the lights off. He was hunched over an old leather bound book by the light of a window. He appeared to be writing or drawing. I quietly entered and asked if everything was ok. He looked up and smiled, offering to show me what he was working on. The old book with its well worn pages, was a collection of varied and beautiful pencil sketches. He explained that in times of stress or pressure, he likes to sketch. He explained that his art helps him to focus and clear his mind for the demands ahead.

The circumstances that paramedics, ER nurses and physicians face each day, take their toll, and for many the cumulative effect over time becomes too much. There are so many in this field that have walked away from their career or been driven to self destruction and even suicide due to the effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’ve somehow escaped that same fate, due in no small part to my own “art”. There were many times when I would come home from work, numb from the stress and long hours demanding everything I have till there was nothing left. I would often grab my camera (my art) and just go shoot photos .. any photos …the subject didn’t matter. Looking through the viewfinder and composing my shot, gave me a brief respite from the stresses of my work. In short order I returned back to the real world and put my camera back in its closet. Nothing had really changed, but that brief interlude gave me a much needed break. It calmed my thoughts and helped me to focus and clear my mind to face another day.

As I watched Donavan sketch, I put my hand on his shoulder and told him “Never let that go! It’s your life preserver that will keep you afloat through the rough times”. I asked if he would mind if I shot a quick portrait to remember that moment. He said “sure” and quietly returned to his book. I shot this single frame and left him to his peace.

Leica Freedom Train

This is a photo of a camera but not just any camera. It’s one that is very special to me. Not just because it’s gorgeous and takes beautiful photos. Not just because Leica was the pioneer in 35mm photography, but much more than that. This camera saved lives, so many lives! It’s not just a camera it’s symbol of freedom from tyranny!

Let’s go back in time to 1933. Adolph Hitler has been named chancellor of Germany and Ernst Leitz headed a German company, Leitz Inc, that was an internationally recognized brand that reflected credit on Germany. The company produced very high quality cameras, range-finders and other optical systems used by so many around the world, including the German military. In addition, the cash hungry Nazi government desperately needed income from abroad and Leitz’s single biggest market for their optical equipment was the cash rich United States. Leitz was a powerful man, and Leitz Inc (Leica) was a company that was essential to the German economy and military.

As Hitler ramped up his reign of terror, Leitz began to receive calls for help from Jewish employees and associates. They were asking Leitz to help get them, and their families, out of Hitlers reach. Leitz despised the Nazi’s and feared what was happening to his country. He knew he had to help, but how? Leitz soon established a system to covertly get Jews out of Germany under the pretence of being Leica employees that were being assigned to Leitz offices in France, Britain, Hong Kong, Canada and the United States.

To add credibility to their story, each employee was given a Leica III much like the one in the photo above. These cameras were considered to be the best in the world and as such they were very expensive! Anyone carrying one had to either be very wealthy, or an official representative of Leica. These families had to leave everything behind, so they left Germany with only what could fit in a suitcase. Leitz directed that once relocated, they could sell the camera to provide them with financial resources to rebuild their lives in their new home. In addition they were paid a stipend by Leica until they became established and could support themselves. Many continued to actually work for Leica in their new country, working as repair technicians, sales representatives and management.

This rescue effort wasn’t without cost. Members of the Leitz family and firm suffered for their good works. A top executive, Alfred Turk, was jailed for working to help Jews, and freed only after Leitz paid a substantial bribe. Leitz’s daughter Elsie, was imprisoned by the Gestapo after she was caught at the border, helping Jewish women cross into Switzerland . She eventually was freed but endured torture in the course of questioning. She also fell under suspicion when she attempted to improve the living conditions of 700 to 800 Ukrainian slave labourers during the 1940s.

The story of the Leica Freedom Train was kept quiet as the Leitz family wanted no reward or acknowledgement. Leitz felt they simply did what was necessary and that so many sacrificed so much more.

Every time I use my Leica III, I think of the other photographers that have used this camera over the many decades. Who were they? What were their stories? I’m only one photographer in a long chain and one day it will move to its next caretaker.