A Different View

I tell people I've gotten old enough to require a "room with a view."  And all that it represents.  It is a luxury we should afford the aged, I think, and something for youth to look forward to.  There must be some compensation for not being able to run a ten flat one hundred yards.  Or even to climb stairs comfortably.  Alright, alright, without whining like a baby.  The bed here is lovely, too, with cloud-like pillows piled high.  Here is the morning view at 26 degrees.  Terrible.

After the conference ended yesterday afternoon, I went to see John Minnicks, the man making what I've been referring to as "Frankencamera."  It is actually called the "Aero-Liberator."  After seeing how it is made, I must show deference.

I called John in the afternoon to see if he would be around his shop.  Sure, he said, drop by.  Turn right at the Fudruckers and I'll be on your left.  It is an old motor court.  I have the office.

It was something out of a David Lynch movie, like the place Sailor and Lula get stuck when they meet Bobby Peru.  The hotel had been closed for some time and converted into apartments, but the Americana Court sign still dimly flashed a red "No" as I saw later on that night.  John came out to greet me as I stepped out of my car.  We made small talk for a bit, then he took me inside to look at "the works."

I'd been thinking for all this time that once he had the process of adapting the camera to the lens, it would just be a matter of assembling them over and over again.  But it was not so.  John showed me boxes of parts he had machined, each looking the same, each slightly different.  He had parts for everything, cloth for bellows, cloth for shutters, brass rails and knobs and screws, pieces he had chromed at a metal shop he would show me later.  Graflexes sat all about.

"You want to pick out a body?" he asked me.

"Sure.  How?  I'll take your advice.  You know them."

He'd pick them up and mumble something about this one or that one, something good and bad about each.  It could have gone on for a long time, so I said, "I want the one with the flash synch."

"Well. . . that one's in good shape.  Look at the shutter cloth."  He set and released it.  "This one is already pretty accurate."

Good, I thought.  I made a good choice.  Maybe.

"Which cloth do you want for the bellows?"

I looked at his camera, the one he used.  "Make it like yours," I said.

He looked at me.  "You want that viewfinder?"

I looked at him as if he had just spoken Polish and he began showing me different finders.  He showed me some glass.

"Look at that," he said with a smile handing a frosty piece over to me.  I held it up.  What quality was I to comment on?

"Sure is something," I said.

I could tell by the look in his eyes he thought I was probably a moron.

We went through fittings--brass, chrome, black.  He had me pick out a wood front from a box.  I chose a bright cherry wood of which he approved.  I had chosen it because that was what his own camera had.  The choices went on and on.

"What are the chances you would come today?" he grinned.  "You get to see your camera, to make it like you want it.  Look.  Here's a box.  Put your name on it.  It is your box.  We're going to put all the pieces you've chosen into it.  Let's see.  You chose this body, right?  Oh, I wouldn't have given you that one," he said with a wry grin.  I squirmed.  "And here's your bellows, and you wanted these fittings, and here's your wooden faceplate.  Which viewfinder did you decide on?"

"I don't know."

"Well, it doesn't matter."

Then her reached behind him and pulled down a brass plate.  He had written some things on it with a Sharpie.  He showed me the one from the camera he was shipping out that day.  It was beautifully inscribed with "Aero-Liberator #12."  It had the owner's name on it and under that "made by John Minnicks" and the date.

"David Burnett was here and I told him I was making you this camera, #13, and he said we should put a cat and a hat on it instead of a number.  You can pick out any design you want and send it to me and I will take this plate to the tattoo parlor and they will inscribe it on here."

When we finished up, he began showing me other cameras he was working on, beautiful cameras that he stripped down to the original wood boxes and epoxied and lacquered so that they looked like art objects.

He showed me some other cameras he made for himself, crazy things like one that was two 35mm halves put together to make a panavision camera and a Hasselblad that shot 180 degrees.

The afternoon was waning and I wanted to see the town before the light was gone, so John jumped in the car to show me around.  We stopped here and there, a gallery, a machine shop, a coffee shop, a restaurant, and John chatted with the people there.  John was a good guide pointing out structures and materials that I would not have noticed.  The light was falling yellow and gold.

"It's good to see the town in this light.  Good light," he said.

And then it had fallen and I was hungry.  "You like sushi?"

We went to a place called "Wasabe" and had spectacular food.  We ordered plate after plate until we were full.

"Well," John said, "that's it for me.  I'm done.  I want to go to bed early tonight."

"Sure," I said and drove him back to the motor court with its red "No" light flickering dimly in the darkness.

I dropped him off with the idea of seeing him before I left and headed downtown.  I wanted to walk about on my own to get the flavor of the streets.  But man had it grown cold.  It wasn't just the cold, but  the wind which funneled through the buildings and cut right through my sweater and shirt.  Everywhere people were dressed in hats and scarves and heavy, wind-proofed jackets.  Before long, I began to shiver.  It was impossible.  I had warmer clothing at the hotel and it had a giant fireplace and drinks.  It wasn't late, but that is what I would do.  Tomorrow will be warmer I told myself with resignation.  I can do it all then.