The Value of Valuable
A number of years ago I was in conversation with someone who knew quite a bit about photography. He had great knowledge about the various types of cameras used then and in the past. Back then 35mm film was available almost everywhere. You could wander into a drug store and there would be displays of Kodak film for sale. Larger format film like 120mm were easy to come by at camera shops. Then there were specialty films for black and white or color film. Or film made for slides. He know about body styles, lenses, lighting. He was sort of a wellspring of camera information.
During our talk I made mention that I now owned one of my father’s cameras. He asked the type and brand. When I told him it was a Yashica dual lens he made a slight scoffing noise and said that it wasn’t worth much. I remember stating that I hadn’t acquired the camera as an investment nor did I have any intention of selling it. The conversation ended when he said, “Good because you’d be lucky to get anything for it.”
This camera has far more value to me than money. The camera now sits on the lowest shelf of a bookcase in our living room. I see it everyday. Sometimes when it catches my eye I go back in time. To a time when Dad would be working as an illustrator in Detroit.
He’d wake in the morning, shower, dress, and grab a quick cup of coffee. Sometimes a bite of toast that he’d slice from his favorite German style bread. Then he’d head to the garage, lift up the heavy wooden garage door, and get in and start his black, 1960 Renault Dauphine. Then he’d drive the little rear-engine roller skate from our house in Franklin Village to the studio in downtown Detroit. The studio was located inside the Fisher Building on West Grand Blvd exit off the John Lodge Freeway.
During summer vacations I’d often go with Dad to that studio. I’d hang out during the day and watch as artist after artist came in to ask Dad questions about how to do this, or how to do that. Or ask specific questions of technique. Or to watch him work. He never seemed to mind. And did he ever work. He worked non-stop. It is hard for me to remember a time when he wasn’t at the drawing board downtown or in his studio at our home in Franklin. He was an in-demand illustrator. One of the best in the country. He had so much work that he’d work from morning until late at night. All the time. Breaking only to grab a bite to eat or get home and have dinner with the family.
The studio was less than a mile from Hitsville USA; the home of Motown records. The Supremes, Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, The Four Tops, Martha and the Vandella’s. If you grew up in Detroit or the Detroit ‘burbs then you know that was our soundtrack. It was homegrown. It was pride. As much pride as Detroit being home to all the major US auto manufacturers.
I remember a few times I’d walk from the studio down to Hitsville U.S.A. I’d hang out in front to see who would be walking in to record that day. I was too young back then to appreciate who I’d seen walking up the front sidewalk, instruments in hand. Members of the Funk Brothers ready to record for the Motown label. Members of the rhythm sections would show up along with horn players, vocalists — all crammed into that tiny room. A room with a recorder that only had a few of tracks, a bunch of mic’s plugged into an ancient mixer. What they did with what they had is a lesson in creativity. Less is more.
Every time I’d hang out in front of Hitsville U.S.A. someone would open the door and say, “Hey boy. You can’t be hangin’ round here all day. Go on home now.” So, I’d head back to Dad’s studio and spend the rest of the day with him. Sometimes watching, sometimes drawing, sometimes reading.
That camera was always sitting on a shelf near a window the overlooked West Grand Blvd. I remember Dad showing me how to use the camera — how to set the ASA/ISO controls. Some advice on lighting. Unfortunately, none of those lessons stuck. Especially after we entered the age of digital and those point-and-shoot auto settings. But those lessons provide a great memory.
When he’d bring the camera home from the studio the family knew he was going to use one of us as a model for some project for a client. I have dozens of images of my Mom, my brother and me that my Dad took with that camera. We would pose for a particular job. My brother with his clarinet, or holding a fishing rod or a baseball bat. My mom in various poses holding objects. Me with a civil war hat holding something resembling the shape of a gun (never owned a gun, never will).
I see my Dad mounting the camera on a tripod. I see him adjusting lighting in his studio. When I was the subject I remember how impatient I was as he took his time to get the lighting right. Then spend what seemed like hours making sure I was posed in just the right way. Head turned just so. Arms holding props at the right angles. Then he’d take a roll of film. All 120mm and have it developed — sometimes in color, often in b&w. And if he needed a lot of depth he’d have slides made.
Over time he used those photo’s to create illustrations for adverts in magazines and newspapers. His work showed up in hundreds, probably thousands, of ads all over the country. After my brother died in 2018, I was cleaning out the house and I came across drawers full of Dad’s illustration work. I saved dozens upon dozens of examples. I remember him working on some of those. As I looked over all those illustrations memories of him came flooding back. He’d work late into the night. Lights over the drawing board positioned the right way. A pipe clenched in his teeth, smoke drifting out of the pipe and around the room. The aroma finding it’s way all over the house. When I think of what work ethic looks like that image of him is what I see in my mind.
I remember using that camera while I was in high school. I’d use it to take pictures of friends, or on our trips to the Detroit Zoo, and of houses and buildings in Detroit, or Franklin, or Birmingham. One time I took it with me to the Grande Ballroom to get some shots of guitarist and singer Terry Reid, but it was confiscated at the door. I remember after the concert having to argue with the guy to get it back. He was quite lucky that he relented — in my youth I was, shall we say, ox like in my strength with somewhat of a temper to match. The strength is gone. The temper not so much.
Now when I look at that camera and its worn leather case I am reminded of the way things were. I am reminded of what it looks like to love your work and having the courage and stamina to pursue your life’s calling. That camera may be worth only a few dollars. But to me it is priceless.
