The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
in the ranks of death you will find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
and his wild harp slung behind him.
'Land of song!' said the warrior bard,
'Tho all the world betrays thee,
One sword at least thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee.
Walk, walk. Portland's thrice annual Palmer/Wirf antique show, better known in these parts as 'Expo' because of its location at the Multnomah County Fairgrounds' Expo Center, is a gigantic affair. For our non-resident readers, these are indoor shows held in a huge complex of adjoining buildings. This past show on the weekend of March 5th is not the largest of these affairs, but still numbers 1,280 dealers according to the promo material. I've had a terrific run of luck at these shows, and although it's bad policy, I'm almost always optimistic when I go. Turn, look. Turn, look.
I always go as an 'early admit' ($30) during dealer setup on Friday. The show opens to the general public at 8:00 AM Saturday ($5), but as all seasoned pros know, the good stuff is long gone by then. Consequently, the serious competition shows up a couple of hours before the doors even open to the dealers, and we rummage around in the parking lots, pestering people to unpack, or at least to let us take a peek. The really hard-core among us even volunteer to unload and help carry in likely looking stuff. That's going a bit too far for me. I find it undignified and shameless behavior, and I've pretty much stopped doing it. Walk, walk.
It takes about an hour or two of frenetic activity before things start to fall in place and a semblance of order begins to take shape. Tables are rearranged, aisles are cleared, stuff starts getting sorted out and displayed, and meanwhile, you make the rounds. Each of us has some sort of pattern that we follow, some ritual that we observe. I tend to work the aisles starting in South Hall, then go through the Arena, then Main starting in East Hall, then Main itself, then West Hall. When I'm done, I go back to my starting point in South Hall and do it again, but this time I work the aisles from the other direction. Turn, look.
Walk, walk. The pace is different during setup. You've got to move with deliberate speed, examine the the foreground, and scan the middle distances. There's a lot of ground to cover, and things are splotchy. The aisles are crowded with unpacked stuff, and setup moves in fits and starts. I generally hum, or sing, quietly to myself, as I walk. It helps me set a pace. Invariably, I find myself humming The Minstrel Boy. It's a Irish ballad, and has a certain resonant quality that when hummed helps screen out distractions. Sean Connery and Micheal Caine whistle it in The Man Who Would Be King. It's more than a walk, but slower than a march. And so, there I was, humming along when I literally stumbled upon fellow CPHS member Jack Kelly in Main Hall about 3:30 Friday afternoon.
Jack had come upon a #0 Graphic just up the aisle, and asked if I had looked at it. Well, I had seen it earlier, noticed that it was $225 and therefore of no real interest to me, but I hadn't really looked at it. With that, I walked back up the aisle with Jack just to take a look.
It was OK, but it had enough problems that you couldn't really justify buying it at that price. It was in the act of handing it back to Jack that I was jolted to attention. I guess it had been there the first time I went by, and I may have noticed it, but it's been a long time since I paid much attention to Folding Pocket Kodaks. Even with the red bellows, it was one of the most common FPKs ever made--a #3-A, but this particular one, for me, was special.
Have you ever gone somewhere, a reunion perhaps, when unexpectedly someone from a former life reappears, and you are deeply rattled, and almost overwhelmed. For most guys, it's an old flame who may have been forgotten for a time, and for whom it seems, somewhere in the ashes, there is still a glowing ember. I found myself recalling an old Roy Orbison tune, and for the rest of the day, I couldn't shake it. It was much harder to walk to. Do you remember the words?
I thought that I was over you,
but it's true, oh so true,
I love you even more than I did before,
but darling what can I do?
I started out as a junky junkie, buying wrecks and has-beens and wannabes. Oh, I meant well and wanted the do 'the right thing,' but eventually I realized that all I had was good intentions and a pile of scrap.
It was in June of '78 that I took my first step down the road that brought me here today. It was in Canton, Texas during First Monday Trade Days--one of the most notorious dens of antiquity in Texas--where I got my start. It was hot. It was always hot--well, except for December, January and February when it was cold--but you probably guessed that already. I hadn't turned pro yet, but I could recognize the symptoms, and on that day I met the temptress who would eventually push me over the edge.
She was a 3-A, one of the Eastman 3-A's, and she was stunning. Even then I could tell she was a model and from the curve up front, I guessed about a 'C.' She was dressed in leather that clung to every curve, that covered everything, but didn't hide much. Her red bellows and flashy chrome stirred up a desire that had simmered before, but now churned with lust. I was doomed.
Whoa, hold on there, big fella. Get a grip. Anyway, I was smitten, and on that day, that particular camera became my first really nice acquisition. It cost me $35, about $100 in today's terms, and it changed the way I thought about cameras, my collecting habits, and my collection in general.
What I found that day was my first Folding Pocket Kodak--a #3-A, Model C. This was a transitional camera in the 3-A series. Earlier models all had red bellows, and the leading edge on the front door was straight. The early versions of this model had red bellows while later variations were black, and at some point in the red bellows phase, the edge of the door became curved.
That camera started me on a saga that lasted ten years, involved dozens of people, generated a bunch of good stories, introduced me to a couple of now old friends, and changed my life. Eventually, it also caused me endless grief, forced me to rethink a lot of things, and to take certain vows.
That old 3-A at Expo that brought back a lot of memories, but it wasn't a Model C like the one in this column. It was a 3-A, Model A--the last Folding Pocket Kodak I ever looked for seriously. Years later, I still haven't gotten over it. I'll tell you the story of a quest.
One day in the early 80s, I got it into my head to take some photographs of the collection for record keeping purposes, and while grouping cameras for their shots, it occurred to me that within my collection I had certain clusters that made up neat little sets. One of the larger and more interesting sets was the FPK series, and with a little bit of research, I discovered that I already had about half of the more interesting variations, and within them, I also had about half of the 'A' models. Something about completing the 'A' model set really appealed to me, and later I added significant variations to the list as well.
Eastman introduced the FPK series in 1897 with 'The Folding Pocket Kodak.' This continued Eastman's tradition of designating a milestone camera (of what eventually was to become a series) by a simple name such as 'The Kodak' and 'The Pocket Kodak.' Series numbers and model designations came later. Eventually the FPK series of cameras would comprise at least 7, and possibly up to 12 different cameras, depending on which ones you included in your list. I'll explain more about the technical distinctions later. Here's my list:
Basic Ballpark Folding Pocket Kodak Information
I don't want to list huge quantities of data or detail--actually I do, but I'm trying to control it--so if you feel the need to follow along in depth, you'll want the three books that I reference at the end of this article. Remember, my goal was to collect all the 'A' models and the most significant variations of each camera. You'll figure it out as we go.
The 0's only came in two models, both very similar twin strut cameras. Neither is common, both are hard to find.
#1 FPK
The original model had no number, just 'The Folding Pocket Kodak.' I never found the original first version--in fact after 18 years, I've still never seen one. I did find the second brass strut variation. This is still sort of an 'A' model, since technically there were no 'A' models--numbers and models started with the #1 FPK, Model B. Kodak did that a lot. These were pull-out, twin strut cameras. The early brass versions are rare and extremely hard to find. I've owned the only brass version I have ever seen.
I also looked for the double-finder dome door, single-finder dome door, the first model RR Lens Type, and the Special. Some folks also go for the single-finder dome door, wood lens board and metal lens board variations. Some also want an 'E' model with a black bellows. All of the original designs and the single finder dome door versions are hard to find.
#1-A FPK
Again, the twin-strut first model of this camera was just the #1-A FPK with no 'A' model designation. Several minor variations later there was a 'B' model, but it was the double-finder dome door. The single-finder dome door also came first with wood, then metal lens boards, and the late 'D' model may have come with black bellows. The original model and the single finder dome door versions are hard to find.
#2 FPK
Only came in two significant variations. The 'A' could be a long search. The 'B' is very similar and also tough to find. The 'C' is significantly different and hard to find. For display, the 'A' and 'C' are all you need unless you're a fanatic about completeness. These are all uncommon, and are real treats to find.
#3 FPK
Again the very first model was just a #3 FPK with no model designation. Oddly enough, after a couple of minor changes, there actually was a #3 FPK, Model A. There are an unbelievable number of variations and models to this camera, but only three are needed to cover the lot for display purposes: an early original, or a later actual 'A' model with built-in shutter; a later model with a fixed metal lens board and standard; and later still, a model with a rising lens board. In addition, there was a Deluxe model of this camera that I have heard rumors of, but have never seen at all in 18 years. While I never found one, I never really looked either.
There were 21 models of this camera--22 if you count named and unnamed 'A's--and dozens of mechanical variations. It would be an interesting challenge to collect all the various models of the #3 FPK. Except for the Deluxe, none are very hard to find unless you're looking for some specific feature. It would give you something to do at camera shows.
#3-A FPK
This camera also came in a great many models and variations. The earliest versions may have been just the #3-A FPK with no model designation. Later versions of the original model had the model designation in parentheses. I've seen two '#3-A Folding Pocket Kodak, Model (A)' cameras. The implication seems to be that at least one other model may have already been introduced at that time. I've never known if different models were offered for sale at the same time, or whether these were manufacturing designations. Readers?
Anyway, there are countless thousands of these cameras out there, and except for the A models, all the models and variations are fairly easy to find. I've only seen two 'A' models, and I've owned them both--eight years apart. When I was putting together my first set of FPK cameras, I had just about everything that I was looking for within 3-4 years. I spent the next 4-5 years refining and upgrading the collection, and actively looking for a #3-A FPK, Model A to complete the set. For last half of the time that I was trying to complete this series, the #3-A Model A was the hole in my collection.
#4 FPK
As far as I can tell the 'A' model was the only model of this camera. There were mechanical variations, and there was a black bellows version, but all were model A's. This camera is fairly easy to find.
#4-A Folding Kodak
Technically, this is not a FPK It is just a Folding Kodak. With its 4 1/4 x 6 1/2 format, it's way too big for any pocket. It closely resembles the others in the series however, and most collectors include it in their FPK collections.
There were only two significant variations and for some reason, although this camera was made in very small numbers, neither seems very hard to find.
There you have it. There were only 21 cameras on my original list, and when I decided to go after the set, I already owned some of the tough ones and about half the rest. Next time, actual stories and tales of the hunt, but before I close let me reflect on a comment I made earlier, and which we'll come back too, time and again, in the next article.
While talking about the #3 FPK Deluxe, I mentioned that I never found one and admitted that I never really looked. In many ways, I merely took what I stumbled on. Yet, in the past four years that I've lived in Oregon, I've had an incredible run of 'luck.' In spite of an ever diminishing market, and a wasteland of choices, I've done well. Yet, the only thing that has changed has been my attitude. Over the years, I've come to believe, truly and deep in my heart, that at all levels of life you find what you look for, and if you try hard enough, the universe somehow moves in your favor.
Reference materials:
McKeown's Price Guide to Antique & Classic Cameras, by Jim & Joan McKeown
Collector's Guide to Kodak Cameras, by Jim & Joan McKeown
Kodak Cameras: The First Hundred Years, by Brian Coe
By the end of 1982 or early 83, I already owned just about all of the FPKs that I had set out to find. In fact, at that point, all I was doing was upgrading the collection with better examples as they came along--and searching for that accursed 3-A, model A. I had become disillusioned with the process and I was well on the way to becoming a disgruntled collector.
Still, I had to admit that having a focus and seriously searching were both beneficial and enlightening. I learned a great deal about myself and my interests, and in the process I had a number of memorable experiences that I treasured even though the cameras themselves had become a pain and are now long gone. I thought I'd share some of the more interesting stories with you.
Tales of the Hunt
One day in early 1978, I was at the Fair Park Flea Market in Dallas, Texas. Near the front door I found a fairly common German folder, an open Ica Halloh 505, just like the one that I already had in my collection. Mine had been modified with a couple of spacers to take type 118 film. I opened the back and looked--sure enough, it too had been modified to take 118. As I closed the back, a guy who had just arrived in the booth came over and asked, 'What'cha got there?' I explained that I had a similar camera at home that had been modified, and that this one had the same modification. He asked if I was interested in it, and when I said no, he asked if he could see it. I handed him the camera and as he began to open it, I looked up at the shelf directly in front of the two of us.
There, at eye-level, closed and lying on its back, was an immaculate 4-A Folding Kodak that neither of us had noticed because of the obvious Ica 505. I reached out, picked it up and unfolded the camera. It was a gorgeous, red bellows 4-A, model C, with a $75 price tag. The other guy, now holding the Ica, watched the process and said something like 'Well, look at that' along with some more colorful comments while speculating about my ancestry. A little haggling reduced the price to $60.
The 'guy' was Geary Hufstedler, now one of my closest friends and a fellow CPHS member, and that's how we met. Geary eventually got that 4-A from me, and still has it in his collection, but to this day, he swears that I deliberately distracted him with the Ica while making my play for the 4-A. His version is somewhat more graphic and considerably more embellished than mine, but it's a good story, and I always enjoy hearing him tell it.
Later that year, I began to realize that a few of my cameras were more interesting and satisfying to own than others. In fact, I didn't have good feelings about much of my collection, and I began to wonder why I hung onto those at all, but I couldn't figure out what to do about it. Then at one of the First Monday Trade Days in Canton, Texas, I met Curt Buer for the first time. Curt is a long time dealer from Canby, Minnesota, whom I still see occasionally. When I saw him at Canton, it was his first time in Texas and he had brought a spectacular selection of goodies with him. I told him that I was a collector and I asked if he would consider trading for some cameras. He said he'd consider it and I promised to return the next day with my gear.
I spent that evening frantically going through my collection, trying to decide what I really wanted to keep and what I could spare, or would be willing to part with if something better came along. The next day I returned with three boxes loaded with about 60 of my 100 or so cameras that I decided I could live without. Curt came out to my car, examined cameras and shuffled things between boxes. I tried not to look. Eventually he had a small pile of 5 or 6 miscellaneous cameras, and he said that we should go back to his booth and that he'd be happy to trade.
I was a little disappointed that he had only chosen so few, but I gathered up the cameras in the pile and was beginning to close the trunk when he stopped me. Those were the only cameras he was not interested in. He had gone through the three boxes and removed the ones he didn't want. I was stunned. He was actually willing to take just about everything that I had brought with me, more than half of my collection, off my hands in one shot. Could I really part with all of them? Up to that moment, I had never turned over a single camera.
Well, it was an interesting and educational afternoon. For the better part of three hours, Curt and I walked around making little piles of my stuff next to little piles of his stuff--sweating, swearing and haggling like men possessed. A small bemused crowd began to gather, and we had to fend off the kibitzers who kept messing up our arrangements by picking things up and moving them. We often had to snatch cameras back from the hands of potentially interested buyers while trying to complete our deal. I liked it, and my life changed forever on that day.
When the dust finally settled, he had 54 of my cameras and I had 22 of his. To this day, it is by far the single largest deal I was ever part of. We both secretly believed that we each had robbed the other blind, but I know it did wonders for my collection--a Screen Focus Kodak, a Quick Focus Kodak, a #1 Panoram, a Pocket Kodak, a Cartridge Kodak, a couple of Premos, a stereo something--and for this column, several hard to find FPKs. As part of that trade, I picked up a #2 model A, a #2 model C, a #3 original, a #3 model B-2, and a #4 model A. Not bad, but as it turned out, it wasn't over.
Earlier I mentioned that 'a small bemused crowd' had been watching us. One of the people in the crowd that day was a gentleman named Marvin Kreiger who was attracted by the commotion in cameras. After Curt and I were done trading and had begun to pack up our stuff, Marvin asked me if perhaps I could identify a camera that he had back home in Dallas. I agreed to call him and we exchanged phone numbers.
The next day when I called Marvin, I was able to identify his camera, an early Gelto, over the phone from his description. Marvin thanked me and we chatted for a while. It turned out that we had several other common interests and Marvin invited me to lunch the next week. I accepted. Well, one thing led to another and we quickly became friends. About two months later, Marvin invited me to his house for dinner, and I brought a small gift for him, a couple of old stereo cards of zeppelins. Marvin collects 'lighter-than-air' material.
Marvin was delighted and, in return, went to a closet to see if he could find an old camera that he bought at a church bazaar some time ago, but which he had forgotten about until that moment. As luck would have, there it was--would I like to have it? It was a #0 FPK, model A. I was stunned and told him that it was much too valuable for me just to accept. He asked what I paid for the stereo cards--$1.00 for each, $2.00 altogether. Marvin had only paid $0.50 for the camera and insisted that it was a fair trade. Marvin is that kind of guy, still a dear friend, and one of the few things I miss about Texas.
Back in those days, the TV show 'Dallas' was very popular, and eventually the real ranch that played the role of the mythical 'Southfork' became a major tourist attraction. One of those tourists was my mom, a devoted fan from New Jersey, who honestly believed that all Texans behaved and lived like that. The only time she ever visited us in Texas, she insisted that we drive out to the ranch. While driving back (no sign of JR), she asked me to stop at a tiny roadside flea market to look at--no kidding--a goat that she had seen from the car as we passed by. Don't ask me why, my mom doesn't have to explain.
Anyway, while she and my dad looked at goats, I walked around looking at the standard flea market fare; cheap sunglasses, tube socks, tee-shirts and rusty tools. Then, for no reason at all, there it was, in the midst of a pile of masking tape, plastic dishes and miscellaneous electrical switches and outlets--a #1-A FPK, the original model, in mint condition in the original box--$5.00. I paid cash, the dealer threw in a free roll of masking tape for not haggling. My mom and dad did not buy a goat. It was a good day.
Finally, the last of the 'a little luck and be there' stories. My brother George has a pretty good eye and finely tuned intuition. Over the years, he's found some pretty neat stuff for me even though he doesn't have any particular interest in cameras. At a nice sized flea market in Norton, Massachusetts, he came upon a scene with a dealer and a couple of camera buyers in a spirited discussion over a large box of 'junque' cameras--consisting mostly of the odd, ugly and all-too-common.
As various items churned to the surface, George stood by and watched over the shoulders of the two know-alls as they rummaged through the debris and gave a running commentary and criticism on the stuff they saw, but apparently no offers on anything. Then, with exquisite timing, he reached between the two and snagged the only thing in the box that he sensed was interesting.
The dealer was delighted to take the $5.00 he offered and the two collectors watched in disbelief as he pocketed his prize and walked off. George had landed the most valuable and rarest piece in my collection of FPKs, an early brass-strut transition model of the original Folding Pocket Kodak. Later, he missed an opportunity to buy a Nodark for $75, but, hey, that's life.
And there you have it. By the end of 1983, my search had narrowed down to the one camera that still eluded me--a #3-A FPK, model A, that would complete the set. It took another four years before I found it in a KEH ad in Shutterbug. $45 and I was done. Literally. About two months later, I placed an ad in CameraShopper, Photique in those days, offering to sell the entire FPK collection as a package.
There was one final irony, one last story. I only got two phone calls on the set of FPKs. I was mowing the lawn, and had taken a break to cool off and get a drink of water. The phone rang. It was Jay Tepper, a nationally prominent east coast dealer, and he was interested. Five minutes later, it was a done deal, but as I hung up the phone, I noticed that the answering machine had recorded one message. I played it back.
The message was from Gary Chapman, an old friend from Missouri. He had called 20 minutes earlier while I was outside mowing. He wanted the collection that I had just sold to Jay. Gary and I are still friends, but I notice that when Gary wants something from me that story always comes up, along with great wailing and gnashing of teeth. The statute of limitations for my guilt and shame apparently hasn't run out yet, but a 20% discount usually helps cover it.