Paradoxical Horizons

“So I went to tea with Roland Haye on the following Sunday. He arrived to call for me, and we walked, in embarrassed silence, along misty muddy Essex lanes and along by the wooden fence of the Claybury asylum, through a bluebell wood, and so back into suburbia and privet hedges to the Hayes’ house; 210 Cranbrook Road; a house in the ‘better’, and older, part of Ilford, a house with some rudiments of refinement, and a maid in cap and apron to open the front door.”

Kathleen Raine, Farewell Happy Fields

In the film 'The Seasons In Quincy: Four Portraits of John Berger' there’s a scene in which Tilda Swinton is making a dessert with apples (a crumble?–although it looks more like cobbler, or perhaps Eve’s pudding); as Swinton peels and cuts numerous apples, Berger begins to talk to Swinton about his father, and how he would cut an apple: Tilda Swinton changes how she has been cutting the apples, and begins to cut them in the way Berger describes as he talks. Somehow this distills a number of things that the film (or four films–one for each season) is about: a connection with the land, with the seasons (of course), repetition, reenactment, cycles, memory and time.

Having not contributed anything for this blog for many months, having a film shot on film being shown abroad for the first time has prompted me to write. 'Orchard/Asylum', a nine-minute black and white 16mm film, is being shown at the Sluice Film Festival in Seyðisfjörður, Iceland–at the time of writing–today. As the film is debuting there, I am not currently showing it online at the moment (in an ideal world, I would be there with a 16mm exhibition print, but it will be shown digitally). I have eschewed a voiceover for the film, which could explain it to the viewer as it unfolds, but if it could be reduced to a linguistic utterance, it wouldn’t need to be a film. However, its coming together in fits and starts, out of the pandemic, has echoes with other things I’ve written about recently, like the retracing of the M11 Link Road photographs, and, as such, I naturally had the desire to place the film.

Around the time I first shot some 16mm film, in the autumn of the first year of the Covid-19 pandemic, I had been making sure that I took advantage of the permitted exercise by making regular cycle rides that explored ever-wider circles around north-east London where I live. This was an opportunity to find places that I might otherwise have overlooked, or never have had a reason to be, to find different routes through the suburbs, particularly where it begins to peter out, to lose its density, along the Lea Valley, the Ching Brook, places like Larkswood, the Roding Valley Park, Aldborough Hatch. From some of these places one can see an ornate tower on a hill, a landmark on this particular edge of London. When I was at school, in the room that I studied maths for a few years, I could see this tower from the window, and I drew it on my maths folder sometime in the Autumn of 1990. We all knew its reputation, perhaps mistakenly so: this tower marked the Claybury Hospital, once the Claybury Mental Hospital, originally the Claybury Lunatic Asylum.

“Today these great 'museums of the mad', once such a familiar sight on the outskirts of cities and towns across the UK, have either vanished or metamorphosed into business parks, leisure centres or - as in the case of Friern - up-market housing developments. Their former residents are back with their families, or living in group homes or social housing; or they have vanished into the netherworld of the urban homeless.”

Barbara Taylor, ‘The Demise of the Asylum in late Twentieth-Century Britain: A personal History’

When I was growing up in those suburbs, there weren’t that many tall buildings around. There were a couple at Gants Hill, such as Wentworth House; other points of orientation would have been the narrow spire on the church on the Drive or a tall towerblock by the Green Man roundabout, demolished years ago; there was a day walking to school I realised I could see One Canada Square at Canary Wharf through a gap between houses towards Wanstead Park. The tower of Claybury Hospital was a fulcrum, one of the highest points for miles around, looming over a bend in the M11 coming into London, often blue-grey in the distance (it shows up in one of the views in the M11 Link Road photographs taken in 1994/2014, the last picture at the end of the post ‘SQUIBB’). Subsequently, in recent years, quite a few tall buildings have sprung up around central Ilford, diluting the impact these points once made.

In the second year of the pandemic, I cycled to Claybury for the first time. It was one of those places that one might otherwise have needed a reason to go to, certainly while it still operated as a hospital; Claybury finally closed in 1997, the era of ‘care in the community’. It appears as the phonetic ‘Clayberry’ in Rachel Lichtenstein and Iain Sinclair’s Rodinsky’s Room, the misspelling a quote from a letter (David Rodinsky’s sister was a patient there). Rodinsky’s Room was published in 1999, the year I moved back to London after my degree; I had read Sinclair’s Lights Out for the Territory the year before, which was both part of but also a spur to the psychogeography which was then becoming prevalent and had visited the Princelet Street Synagogue that year during London Open House, which features in both books, being built behind the house where David Rodinisky lived. The publication of Rodinsky’s Room was accompanied by various events (I went to a talk by the authors at Toynbee Hall) and a couple of small chap-book-like publications:  Rachel Lichtenstein's Rodinsky's Whitechapel and Iain Sinclair’s Dark Lanthorns, both of which had walks that the reader could follow (the primary means of becoming a psychogeographer). Dark Lanthorns took the form of a series of walks Sinclair had made following lines traced in pen in David Rodinsky’s copy of the London A to Z, reproduced so that the reader could follow them. One of these was a route from South Woodford station to Claybury. In Sinclair’s narrative, he reaches the end of the walk to be met by the scene of Claybury Hospital being converted into the gated community it is today.

“As a tangible commodity, Dark Lanthorns asserts a powerful aura; it both palpably recalls those other A-Zs that the reader is presumed to have handled and evokes the unique singularity of a hallowed holy relic. This strange doubling makes the book’s facsimile maps feel like something of a challenge. Rodinsky’s drawings are generally more complex than the linear routes documented within Sinclair’s essays. It is hard, therefore, not to scrutinise his marks for some deeper significance, plotting out alternative routes that Sinclair might have taken, or which, by haptic invitation, one might now go out and walk oneself.”

Richard Hornsey,‘The cultural uses of the A-Z London street atlas’

I didn’t do any of these walks at the time. Possibly I felt that I was familiar with the walk traced around Whitechapel by Lichtenstein in Rodinsky's Whitechapel (and I had recently done Janet Cardiff’s 'The Missing Voice (Case Study B)', both Artangel commissions, contemporary to the publication of Rodinsky’s Room). I had also spent a year at college there five years earlier, then happened to be living with someone selling clothes at Spitalfields market on Sundays, so I naturally spent a lot of time in the area; the walks in Dark Lanthorns I think I possibly felt could be experienced sufficiently through the text and perhaps the walk from South Woodford to Claybury felt close to home or old ground–but ultimately, looking back twenty-six years, I’m unclear why I didn’t walk these. I finally followed the walk to Claybury in the spring of 2023.

Setting out by bicycle without a smartphone, once one begins to get close, the tower of Claybury is frequently hidden as the hill it sits so prominently on rises up around it. The route I took there the first time was not entirely unfamiliar, on the edge of my world growing up, with some friends in Snaresbrook, South Woodford, Hermon Hill, with the occasional school event in some odd venue around there. It was the last weekend of summer before the start of term, the rhythms of the academic year still dictating my seasons, with concurrent teaching and studying part-time. The initial spur to go there was nothing to do with Kathleen Raine or David Rodinsky: I wanted to investigate the community orchard there; the hospital’s grounds are now open to the public as Claybury Park which include the orchard. The oldest apple trees are believed to have been planted in the 1920s, possibly by the inmates themselves as part of what was then seen as the hospital’s progressive therapeutic regime; on the marked page from Rodinsky’s A to Z reproduced in Dark Lanthorns this area has the legend ‘Asylum Farm’. After years of neglect, most of the orchard has been restituted by The Orchard Project (some of the veteran apple trees are still surrounded by impenetrable undergrowth); the brief passage from Farewell Happy Fields that mentions the fence around the asylum was a felicitous coincidence. I arrived to discover signs prohibiting picking (it was no doubt far too early for almost every variety of apple , needing a couple more weeks to ripen then at least); my interest in the community orchard was as a result of wanting to discover where I could forage apples in the wider local area, something that had grown out of my cycle rides from early in the pandemic. With heavy overcast August weather, I took a few underexposed photographs as a record then.

Reading Lights Out for the Territory and Rodinsky’s Room at the time of moving back to London at the end of the 1990s (as well as Peter Ackroyd, Clarence Rook, Blanchard Jerrold, Emmanuel Litvinoff, George Gissing, among others) was almost a conscious project of building a particular world in which the present, contemporary everyday was overlaid with a mythology of a certain vision of London. I have written before about my first real contact with the city of Paris early in in my degree, already-mythologised in comparison to my growing up in the suburbs (see ‘A Fragmentary Snapshot’). Kathleen Raine declared that there was ‘no poetry in Ilford’, seeing it as the epitome of lower middle class philistinism a hundred years ago; making art as a student in the 1990s I think I had an unspoken feeling as though nothing good came of the suburbs–very much a young artist’s cry–echoing Raine: ‘things’ happened elsewhere. Had I known about, or read Farewell, Happy Fields perhaps I might have felt differently about my suburban upbringing then; Raine went to the same infant school as I did, when it was new (she was born the year after it had been built), while it still looked out onto scrubland to the north where the march of bricks and mortar stopped for a time: coincidentally, Raine even mentions the road on which we lived by name. I felt there was a lack of mythology: there were hardly any buildings in Ilford older than a hundred years when I was growing up then, which I think contributed. There were intimations of course, bits of buried history, most of which had left very little trace, nothing to really grasp onto. London was something that happened after one got on the tube: Ilford had no distinct character of its own (or at least that was how it seemed to me then), apart from its paradoxical London/not-London identity, becoming part of Greater London with the formation of the London Borough of Redbridge in 1965 but retaining an Essex postcode. (I only really felt like I came from London when I went away to do my degree, being made to feel so). During my PhD, and particularly during the pandemic, I began to make work about where I was now, and making work about where I grew up in some form: photographs of cinemas or sites of cinemas where I would once have watched films (Gants Hill), traces of cattlegrids in South Woodford, a still unfinished film around Newbury Park, a project retracing the photographs I took along the destruction of the M11 Link Road, revisiting sketchbooks from what was twenty-five and then thirty years ago, rebuilding a world that had formed me (art school had made me disavow that particular way of working–simply drawing by observation from the motif–which I internalised, then, after my education, it became something located in the past, demonstrating a lack of sophistication in my thinking in my teenage years about what an artwork was or could be–despite having a father who was an artist, being brought up with art around me, I still had a narrow view of art to accompany my narrow horizons of the suburbs: I would have agreed with Raine then; as much as the particularity of Farewell Happy Fields makes it valuable, I don’t think I would like Raine as a person if I met her now).

After my first visit to Claybury, I thought I would to like to go back to film there, and planned to do so soon. At this point I had been thinking that it was a hundred years since the walk described in Farewell Happy Fields, and this seemed like enough of an excuse to expose some 16mm film (I had no thought then of making a it a record of this location through the seasons). However, leaving work during the first week back, the handlebars on my bicycle inexplicably snapped, and taking it to a local shop, there were a number of other issues which needed addressing, with the result that was simply not economical to repair. I had to wait for my first full month’s pay of the academic year before I could get a replacement. I finally returned with a new bicycle in October, carrying my Ciné Kodak BB Junior and fifty feet of Ilford film; the signs from my first visit were gone, and very few apples remained. I picked up a windfall cooker only. (This appears in the 16mm 'Three Colour Process' film in the post on the Ciné Kodak Model K.) Nothing quite cohered as neatly as I would have liked: perhaps I had retraced Kathleen Raine’s steps one hundred years on; the orchard is believed to have been planted in the 1920s, although this is not certain; the 16mm format was created by Kodak a couple of years later; the camera I was using came onto the market at the end of the 1920s; the Ilford film stock I was using, made in Ilford itself, dated to the 1960s. This first attempt at a film was not enough on its own: I had bought enough of this long-discontinued Ilford stock to film four seasons, and there was thus a certain logic in doing so.

Over the next two years I went back at intervals to film during winter, spring and summer to make a portrait of a place. Each section of film was edited in camera, with the exception of autumn, where there were a couple of false starts from forgetting to make sure the camera’s motor was fully wound (autumn being still relatively early in my use of a spring motor camera); the spring section I cut short at a shot of clouds in the sky: there were a few shots after this but it seemed to lend itself to the transition to summer. The shots weren’t planned as a result, but the general movement in each section is from details to wider views, with autumn, filmed first, showing a panning of London on the far horizon, travelling out of the park, and along the road that Kathleen Raine and Roland Haye might have walked along, where the boundary of the hospital’s grounds once, with a look back at the tower disappearing into the bleached-out light leak at the end of the roll (I did remove the film from the camera in a dark bag, so this should not have been affected by light; however before developing, I stored this in a film can before that was clearly not light tight–developing the roll in two halves, there’s the same light leak near the middle of the autumn section where the film was cut to fit in my developing tank which only takes 33 not 50 feet).

The stock, Ilford Fast Pan Film, came in cans with ‘date of test’ printed on the labels with dates of January and September. The reason for using this film was that it was double-perforated, so I could use it in the Ciné-Kodak BB Junior, I’d acquired it cheaply and the fact that it was branded Ilford did seem to fit; I kept the full overscan so that the name Ilford would periodically appear in the rebate, as well as emphasising the materiality of the film, although this can be a bit too seductive. Despite being well over fifty years old, I exposed the film at an exposure index of 80 and, with no information to go on other than a hunch from having used Ilford Mark V film in the past, I developed it as if it was FP4 Plus. Some of the spring and summer shots used a couple of different strength yellow filters too, highlighting dried grass and deepening skies just a little too. I neglected to keep records but I think most of the film was developed in HC110, possibly with a section in Ilfotec DDX. For titles I took sections directly from Farewell Happy Fields, in the text of which each season is mentioned at least once, and some seasons many times. The words orchard and asylum also appear, and were used for a title. I experimented with a couple of different ways of making the titles: I enlarged passages with a photocopier and filmed them taped to a wall, an played around with different overlays, but it all got a bit arch; the titles in the film were copied from the book, then filmed with the Kodak Ciné Titler, a vintage device made for just that purpose. The title roll does appear to be slipping in the gate, leading to a slight blurring, but I accepted that as a contingent effect in trying to make it all in camera. Finally, I added sound. The first section, winter seemed to fit no sound at all, so I left it silent. Spring is accompanied by sound recorded in the orchard at Claybury at the same time of year, but not at the time of filming; summer does have sound recorded concurrently with filming, although I frequently left the recording device in the same place as I filmed a few different shots around it, which is why the sound of the camera running varies in intensity. For autumn, filmed first, without sound, I thought I would overlay it with the sound of the camera running on its own; there seemed to be a logic to the sound progressing in this way for each section. Retrospectively, possibly I would have been more rigorous in how it was put together, the sound and visuals, choosing the shots and shot length more judiciously, with the idea from the outset that it would be a portrait of a place through the seasons, but the impressionistic qualities that its making effected feel apt.

References
Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller, 'The Missing Voice (Case Study B)', https://www.artangel.org.uk/project/the-missing-voice-case-study-b/
D. Fulton, 'Heaven of hell: Representations of Ilford in the writings of Denise Levertov and Kathleen Raine', 2010
'Repton Park formerly Claybury Hospital', Historic Hospitals: https://historic-hospitals.com/2015/06/21/repton-park-formerly-claybury-hospital/
Richard Hornsey, ‘The cultural uses of the A-Z London street atlas’, Cultural Geographies, Vol. 23, No. 2, April 2016, pp. 265-280
Rachel Lichtenstein and Iain Sinclair, Rodinsky’s Room, Granta Books, London 1999
Rachel Lichtenstein, Rodinsky’s Whitechapel, Artangel, London 1999 https://www.artangel.org.uk/project/rodinskys-whitechapel/
Kathleen Raine, Farewell Happy Fields, Hamish Hamilton, London 1973
Iain Sinclair, Dark Lanthorns, Goldmark Uppingham, Rutland 1999
Iain Sinclair, London Orbital, Granta Books, London 2002
Tilda Swinton, Colin MacCabe, Christopher Roth, 'The Seasons In Quincy: Four Portraits of John Berger' https://seasonsinquincy.com/
Barbara Taylor, ‘The Demise of the Asylum in late Twentieth-Century Britain: A personal History’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 2011, Sixth Series, Vol. 21, pp. 193-215
The Orchard Project:
https://www.theorchardproject.org.uk/blog/claybury-orchard-a-sanctuary-for-wildlife-and-the-mind/

Ciné-"Kodak" Model BB Junior

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior with f1.9 lens

Before Kodak introduced the 16mm film format in 1923, there had been a number of other attempts to use smaller-gauge formats–for reasons of economy–to create an amateur market for moving pictures, but with Kodak's weight behind it, 16mm film was widely adopted and has persisted, in all its iterations, for a century (and, just like 35mm, beginning as a movie film format, it was also then recognised for its size, convenience and availability, and used for still cameras). Kodak's new amateur format was dependent on two essential innovations, aside from its smaller gauge: the cellulose acetate base–otherwise known as safety film (a phrase that persisted for decades, imprinted on film rebates), at the time when flammable 35mm nitrate film was the norm. Among the short-lived small-gauge formats prior to 16mm, 35mm film had been used, split in half to make 17.5mm film, with some systems using the existing perforations on one side, but one can imagine that Kodak deliberately chose the 16mm width with much smaller perforations–on both sides–so as to prevent any simple attempt to use cut-down nitrate stock. The other innovation was reversal processing, meaning that, instead of processing the film to a negative and then needing to make a separate positive print for projection, the same film could be processed–with extra steps–to create a positive, cutting material film costs in half. The reversal process also results in a finer-grained image, in comparison to a negative, beneficial to the smaller frame size in 16mm when compared to 35mm.

The first 16mm Ciné-Kodak camera of 1923 was hand-cranked, as were almost all 35mm cameras at the time: this only changed with the necessity of synchronising sound to image, which happened in the professional field a few short years after the appearance of the first 16mm camera. Constantly turning a handle to advance the film through the camera made hand-holding an impracticality, and a tripod was a necessity (initially, Kodak only sold the Ciné-Kodak as a complete package with tripod, projector, screen and splicer; although aimed at the amateur market, in 1923 this sold for the same price as a Model T Ford). Kodak introduced the Ciné-Kodak Model B two years later (with the first camera being retrospectively renamed the Model A); this featured a wind-up clockwork motor, allowing for the possibility of being used hand-held (the Model A was provided with an optional battery-driven motor, but this was only available for a short time, suggesting that, given the battery technology of the 1920s, this was not a great improvement: battery driven amateur ciné cameras only really dominated with the introduction of Super-8 in the mid-1960s). The design of the camera was also greatly changed to make it much more compact, notably by having the two daylight loading 100ft spools sitting parallel to each other inside the camera body, rather than one above the other as in the original Ciné-Kodak; the viewfinder was also placed atop the front and back of the body, consisting of an reverse-Gallilean type of finder and reciprocal eyepiece which fold down when not in use. It also had a waist level viewfinder not unlike the contemporary Brownie cameras: Kodak's own literature likens using the next version, the Ciné-Kodak Model BB to the simplicity of the Brownie.

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior: winding key and exposure lever side

The Ciné-Kodak Model BB followed in 1929, a further evolution towards a more compact camera. By keeping the same general layout of the Model B, but using smaller 50ft daylight loading spools (which had been available to the previous two cameras, along with the 100ft spools), the Model BB was also more economical with the space inside the camera body (as Douglas A. Kerr writes, the layout was “tightened up”). The Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior is a distinct derivation of the Model BB, and dates to 1930. There does not appear to be much on the Model BB Junior specifically online–or at least there appears to be a not uncommon failure to differentiate these two models. Possibly the Model BB Junior originated with Kodak Ltd in the UK (where both my versions of the camera were made) as a simplified production variant of the Model BB. That the BB Junior originates from Kodak Ltd might explain why its name plate has "Kodak" in double-inverted commas, presumably to indicate that the word Kodak is an invented word or trademark, and used like a title, designated as such in British English rather than allowed to go unadorned in American English: the manual uses "Kodak" throughout, with single commas for the manual's title page (the illustration of the footage counter on page 15 does not have "Kodak" but also one cannot see the word 'Junior': this appears to be a photograph of the footage counter on the Model BB not the BB Junior). 

There are two key distinguishing features to separate the Model BB Junior from the BB: it does not have the slow speed button which reduced the frame rate to 8 frames-per-second (found just above the shutter release lever on the side of the body on the BB; it exposes at 16 frames per second, meaning its shutter speed is effectively around 1/30th), nor does it have the waist-level viewfinder. The Model BB Junior was available with either a fixed-focus f3.5 lens, or a focussing 25mm f1.9 Kodak Anastigmat. There were changes during the production runs of all Kodak's early ciné cameras, which can complicate identification: many initially were provided with slower, non-interchangeable fixed-focus lenses, and then gained faster, focussing lenses, and interchangeable ones. When I started researching the Model BB Junior, I did think that having non-interchangeable lenses was one of its distinguishing features, but, subsequently, I've seen examples online which do have interchangeable lenses. The move to faster lenses seems to be driven in part by the introduction of Kodak's first colour film from 1928, Kodacolor (not to be confused with or the later colour negative film of the same name), a lenticular film exposed through its base–like Dufaycolor–and needing a special filter. As a result, it required much more light to register an image; Kodacolor was on the market for a limited period, but one which coincided with advances in Kodak's ciné cameras.

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior: cover side with catch

I bought my first BB Junior on something of a whim: having used 2x8mm film for a few projects (and having bought a developing tank for 2x8mm, which would therefore take 16mm-wide film), and also having some 16mm film stock for use in 16mm still cameras, I was looking for a cheap 16mm camera, rather than investing in something more sophisticated which I might not use with any regularity. The Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior is relatively common, and I bought my first camera for less than £30 online. There are two main considerations against choosing to use the Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior (or the BB itself) in the present day: firstly, the camera uses double perforated (otherwise known as 2R) film; secondly, the camera takes 50ft daylight loading spools. With regards to the issue of double-perforation, there is some limited availability at the time of writing: Foma makes its R100 film in 16mm double perforation, and a number of double perforated film stocks are available from the Film Photography Project in the US; there is also the possibility of using old double-perforated film stock–which, at the time of writing, I've done exclusively. Less problematic is the 50ft daylight-loading spools: 16mm film hasn't been sold on 50ft daylight loading spools for many years, as far as I am aware (possibly since the 1960s), but although respooling from 100ft lengths (or longer) in the dark may be tedious, it's not difficult. One needs two spools of course, one for supply, and another in the camera for take up. My first camera arrived without any spools, and I spent nearly as much on two 50ft spools as on the camera itself, although, had I waited, no doubt I could have found cheaper spools–or a camera with spools. 50ft spools have a diameter of 7cm, compared to the mode common 9cm 100ft spools.

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior with cover removed

To load the camera, there is a catch on one side which simply slides from LOCK to OPEN, allowing the cover to then be entirely removed. As already mentioned, the side-by-side spool layout was first established in the Model B: inside the camera body, the take-up spool is uppermost. The supply spool is exactly parallel to this, located behind a hinged door. If there is a spool in the take-up position, this needs to be removed to open the door, which has a small catch at its lower right, seen just below the spool in the image above. 

Detail of pull-down claw held in the open position with the spring clip

Before loading, the manual recommends opening the pull-down claw, which has a metal spring clip to secure it in the open position (it has a semi-circular tab for handling), and opening the sprocket clamps, ensuring that the whole film path is now free for threading the film from the fresh or supply spool, around the sprocket, through the film gate, back around the sprocket again to the empty or take-up spool. The manual also recommends winding the motor a small amount to create tension for the pull down claw when loading. The sprocket clamps have a knurled grip on their pin heads: these pull up, allowing the clamps to pivot away from the sprocket itself, leaving space for the film to be threaded through either side of the sprocket.

Detail of sprocket with clamps in the closed position

Detail of sprocket with clamps opened

With the film path clear for threading, the door to load the new spool of film is opened, revealing the spindle inside. The 50ft spools are designed to fit in one orientation only: one side has a round hole for the top of the spindle, the other square, which fits the bottom of the spindle shaft. This would appear to be designed to prevent an exposed roll of film being accidentally double-exposed: once shot, the film is in the wrong direction on the spool to then be loaded into the supply position. There is also a thin sprung metal finger which is connected to the internal door's opening mechanism: when shut, this rests with some tension on the supply spool and is connected to the footage indicator on top of the camera underneath the handle.  

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior opened to show spindle for the new, unexposed film spool

The film peels off the spool 'backwards': it should be emulsion side in on the spool, then passes over the angled roller, emulsion side out for this side to be facing the lens. If the spool is correctly positioned on the spindle, the door will close and latch. The camera is provided with white lines for the correct size of the loops either side on the film gate: the film is threaded through the upper sprocket clamp and then through the film gate. The film gate is sprung against the square aperture behind the lens: the film threads between this and a plate behind, and then loops through the lower sprocket clamp. The upper and lower clamps should be closed in that order, ensuring that the perforations on the film are located on the sprocket teeth, with the right size of loops formed, but sometimes on loading, I've found that this does need adjusting, finding the right pair of perforations on which to close the clamps to get the loops the right size. Once through the film gate and both sides of the sprocket, the camera can be very briefly run and the pull-down claw will automatically disengage from the spring clip; the free end of the film then needs to be threaded through to the slot in the centre of the take-up spool in the direction of the curved arrow printed around the take-up spindle.

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior loaded with film

Once fully threaded, it's advisable to very briefly run the camera for a second just to make sure the film is running freely from supply to take-up, through both sides of the sprocket and through the film gate. The exposure lever pushes down to run the camera; pushing this further locks it into in the running position. Replacing the cover, there's a shallow semi-circular cut-out for the lens side for correct orientation, and the catch slides back to the Lock position. The cover will only lock if the film spools are properly seated on both spindles and the sprocket clamps properly closed. On both cameras that I currently have, the serial number, located on the camera's winding key, is also written in pencil inside the cover, partially hidden by its internal catch when in the OPEN position.

Serial number in pencil inside camera cover

As described above, the fact that the BB Junior takes double-perforated film is a consideration against using it today: there are other considerations, concerning the ease of use, in choosing such an early 16mm camera. It is entirely manual, without any later innovations–such as a reflex viewfinder for accurate focus and framing, or metering for exposure–as would assist the amateur user. The viewfinder is a relatively simple reverse-Gallilean type, consisting of a small eye piece at the back of the camera and a corresponding viewfinder at the front, both of which fold down to the body when not in use. 

Front and rear viewfinder, raised for use

Front viewfinder with parallax marks for 6ft and 2ft

The viewfinder has parallax marks for the top of the frame at 6ft and another at 2ft. As the viewfinder is directly above the lens, parallax is only a problem vertically, not horizontally. Focus on the 25mm f1.9 Kodak Anastigmat is manual, estimated, with marks in feet only, around the lens down to a close focus of 2 feet. The 25ft mark is picked out in red as a hyperfocal setting: the manual states that when set at this distance, with an aperture of f5.6 or smaller (the lens stops down to f16), everything from 8 feet to infinity will be in focus.

Kodak Anastigmat lens with focal distances in feet

For exposure, until 1940 Ciné-Kodak cameras were provided with a guide plate matching aperture settings to lighting and subject conditions, which align to a pointer on the aperture ring. When the first Ciné-Kodak appeared, this had a logic to it as there was only one single 16mm film available, so the descriptions of lighting and subject conditions were not complicated by different film speeds; very quickly however, Kodak introduced a Ciné-Kodak Panchromatic film (the original Ciné-Kodak safety film was orthochromatic), then Kodacolor film (soon discontinued), Super-sensitive Pan film, and Kodachrome, all of which required different exposure settings.

 

Ciné-Kodak BB Junior aperture guide plate

At the time the Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior was introduced, the films available were Ciné-Kodak Panchromatic film, Super-sensitive Panchromatic film, and Kodachrome: the directions on the aperture plate are for the Panchromatic film; the manual advises with Super-sensitive Panchromatic film to use the next smaller aperture for the conditions described, while Kodachrome had its own exposure guide provided with the film. Kodak abandoned the aperture plate guides in 1940, announced in the March-April issue of Cine Kodak News: new cameras had a 'Universal Guide' on the side of the camera, a plate into which the user could insert a card, included with each roll of film, which could then be read against a dial aligning subject conditions to aperture setting. Owners of cameras produced before this point could have one of these new guides fitted, and at the same time the aperture plate would be removed and replaced with a plate usually featuring a name or logotype. Both of my BB Juniors have the original aperture plates however, possibly suggesting that they may not have been used much after this date–or simply that the original owners did not want the cameras altered.

For a first test, I shot a short roll of Eastman 4-X through the camera. Originally 500 ISO in daylight,  the film is more than three decades old as 4-X was discontinued in 1990. The film has lost a lot of sensitivity with age, and there is a lot of base fog, particularly along one edge. I nominally rated the Eastman 4-X film at 25, although I didn't meter for the exposure, which was simply light projected on a wall. This was developed in Ilfotec LC29, diluted 1+19 for 8 minutes at 18ºC. The results were pretty uninstructive, but the camera did appear to work.

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior first test

I then shot some double-perforated Kodak Plus-X. As described in 'Workers Not Leaving The Factory (Once More)', when fully wound, the clockwork motor runs for just over 30 seconds, although it does audibly begin to sound as though it is running slow after about 25 seconds, notably with film (when not loaded with film, there's less drag on the mechanism, so it runs more freely). I had planned a film with four uninterrupted shots of 30 seconds each to use a whole 50ft roll. This was filmed on the A104 Woodford New Road, showing the northbound and southbound lanes of the road both north and south of the junction with the A406 North Circular known as the Waterworks roundabout. I framed a narrow band of the road which used to feature a cattle grid, relatively recently removed, but discernible in the concrete edges of the shallow trench which formed the base of the grid. The cattle grids had been necessary due to a herd of cattle which had grazed freely on nearby Wanstead Flats, but also roamed between other grazing spots, sometimes along suburban streets. The cattle were removed around the time that the M11 Link Road was opened in the late 1990s. After filming the four scenes of 30 seconds each, there was still some film left from respooling. When the footage counter reaches the zero mark, the manual instructs the user to run the camera until a circular mark after zero is indicated, as provision for a trailer on the roll of film, ensuring that no footage is spoiled on unloading. Without the need to reload immediately, I could do this in complete darkness and use all the film on the roll, so filmed a few short scenes at the same location. I did try loading the camera in the dark, especially with short lengths of film for testing, but this makes it difficult to achieve the right-sized loops: too small and the loops are too tight, creating a 'jumpy' gate as the film pulls against it; too large, and the film can drag against the interior of the camera body.

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior Plus-X test

Before developing this film, I shot a very short test on the same Plus-X stock (from the roll as used on Expired Film Day in 2020, dating to 1992) to check my exposure and developing times were right. This was loaded in the camera in the dark with some difficulties, exposed at 40, and developed in Ilfotec LC29, diluted 1+19 for 5m30s at 20ºC. Although short, this looked good enough to develop the 50ft roll of Plus-X with the same time and dilution. I had this roll of 16mm Plus-X professionally scanned, and when the scan was returned, it was immediately clear that there were problems with focus: in the middle of the frame, focus was clearly off, although towards the edges, the images looked sharp enough.

    

For what I had intended to film, the four framings of the no-longer-extant cattle grid, this wasn't too intrusive, and I imagined if this were even to be shown, that these four scenes could be played on four screens, simultaneously. However, with any more detailed or static scenes, this lack of focus was distracting. One of the curiosities of the design of Kodak's 16mm cameras around this period is their curving film path through the gate–and that this curves away from the lens. With cheap still film cameras, many have a film plane curved towards the lens to make up for distortion inherent in cheap lens designs. In the Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior, possibly the curve away from the lens may be in part to have a smoother film path from the upper loop to lower loop, but I did wonder if this itself was part of the problem with focus, in particular that the lens-to-film plane distance was just too short in the centre of the frame to achieve infinity focus. I removed the lens to investigate–it comes off fairly easily with undoing the two screws. I had thought that a solution might be to add a shim, fractionally increasing the lens-to-film plane distance, which I did with a thin sheet of metal cut from a drinks can. 

Lens shim cut from thin aluminium placed behind lens mount

Having removed the lens, I could also see that this was very dirty internally, so took this apart, unscrewing the front and rear groups, and cleaning all surfaces before reassembling and fixing the lens back to the camera body.

Ciné-Kodak Anastigmat lens disassembled for cleaning

As can be seen in the image above, the f1.9 Ciné-Kodak Anastigmat lens was provided a lens hood (seen upper right) which slots into the lens housing itself with a pin to orient it correctly (the slot for the pin can be seen inside the lens housing in the image above; with the hood better seen in the image below). This lens hood could be replaced with filters attached to a similar hood, designated by Kodak as 'W' mount, and were also colour-coded with a painted rim: I subsequently acquired a couple of yellow filters, which, naturally enough, have a yellow rim. This came in cases either made from brass or Bakelite. The filters themselves are of the push-fit variety, and simply slip on the inside end of the W-mount hood.

Lens hood removed showing orientation pin

W-mount filter and cases

I also cleaned the film gate, which I should have done before first using the camera, with accumulated dust and dirt being visible along the top edge of the frame in the scanned film. There is a long metal post with a slotted head and knurled grip at the top of its shaft which unscrews, allowing the film gate, consisting of the gate itself and back plate which slot together, and then can be taken apart for cleaning. There is an arrangement of holes–three round holes, with two linked–on one edge of the gate which appear to be some form of identifying edge mark: this can be seen very clearly in the full scan Plus-X test below.

Film gate removed for cleaning

I made a couple of further tests once I'd cleaned the gate (which should probably be done after every roll of film as good practice) and replaced the lens, and this was the camera which I used to film 'Workers Not Leaving The Factory (Once More)'. The tests looked promising, although it's hard to know whether adding the shim or cleaning the lens internally had made more difference.

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior test after cleaning & shimming lens

After cleaning the lens, replacing it with the shim, and then filming 'Workers Not Leaving The Factory (Once More)', I bought a second Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior. I had an idea that I could modify the sprocket and pull-down claw in order to use single-perforated 16mm film in the camera, which would be useful in terms of being able to use a wider range of new film stocks; I also thought that it might be possible to modify the film gate to the Ultra-16 format, especially given how the holes on the left hand side show that the image formed by the lens covers a wider frame. I found a Model BB Junior for £5 online: if either of these modifications made the camera unusable, I hadn't wasted much money (this also came with two 50ft spools inside). However, when the second camera arrived, it was in better condition, cosmetically at least, than the first one, so that was earmarked for modifications instead–which I have yet to attempt. The photographs illustrating this post are a mostly of the newer Model BB Junior; the older camera has paint losses, especially on the winding key, as can be seen in a couple of images, but this was the camera used for all the moving images.

The second Model BB Junior is in such good condition despite being around 90 years old (although introduced in 1930, I've found no date for the Model BB Junior's discontinuation) that I imagine it can never have been used that much (or its owner kept incredibly good care of it). As an amateur movie format, 16mm was soon superseded by the more economic 2x8mm, then the easier-to-use Super-8, before home movies became electronic with video cameras in the 1980s. 16mm drifted from being the format for the home or amateur use which Kodak designed it to be, to that favoured for educational, industrial, and experimental or independent avant-garde uses. The Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior has many reasons to dissuade its use today, as outlined earlier in this post; in addition, it isn't the most ergonomic of cameras to use hand held, essentially a rectangular box with a lens on the front; without access to home-developing, as well as being able to respool 50ft lengths of film, it is generally an impractical camera. However, as with many of the still cameras I've written about–indeed, much of this blog–there's a sense, partly a form of social history, in gaining an understanding of these technologies of image-making through their use–often, importantly, their limitations–which is a connection, historically, to both how and why images look the way they do.

Sources/further reading

Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior manual (PDF)

Alan D. Kattle, 'The Evolution of Amateur Motion Picture Equipment 1895-1965', Journal of Film and Video, Summer-Fall 1986, Vol. 38, No. 3/4, pp. 47-57 https://www.jstor.org/stable/20687736

Douglas A. Kerr, The Kodak Ciné-Kodak line of motion picture cameras  (PDF)

Dwight Swanson, 'Inventing Amateur Film: Marion Norris Gleason, Eastman Kodak and the Rochester Scene, 1921-1932', Film History, 2003, Vol. 15, No. 2, Small-Gauge and Amateur Film (2003), pp. 126-136 https://www.jstor.org/stable/3815505 

Monroe County New York also has an excellent collection of historical records from Kodak, including many issues of Cine-Kodak News

Workers Not Leaving The Factory (Once More)

Two years ago, I made a very short film called 'Workers Not Leaving the Factory'. The rationale for this was to record moving images onto Ilford film of the sites of the Ilford’s Britannia Works factory in the town of the same name, identifying two locations that would have been exits from the site at the time that the Lumière brothers filmed La Sortie de l'Usine Lumière à Lyon, its title variously translated into English as Workers Leaving The Lumière Factory in Lyon, Employees Leaving the Lumière Factory, or Exiting the Factory, the first film to be projected in front of an audience, at the Société d'Encouragement de l'Industrie Nationale, on 22nd March 1895. Last year I had the desire to revisit this, 125 years to the day on which the Lumières’ films were first shown to a paying audience in London, but did not do so due to the pandemic restrictions in force on that date. Instead, I made a rather imperfect contact print of the first film to project it at home, alongside a digital projection from a webcam that provided the nearest possible view to those which I had filmed, a visual representation of how the moving image and its dissemination has fundamentally changed the experience of time and space, echoing Patrick Keiller’s desire to make a film of “distant landscapes […] without leaving home.” This was 'ADDITIONAL POURTRAYALS [sic]', the name derived from a phrase in the original programme for the Lumières’ first exhibition of the cinématographe in England, in which I speculated, that, although La Sortie de l'Usine Lumière à Lyon was not named as one of the films shown, it could have appeared as one of these ‘ADDITIONAL POURTRAYALS’.

ADDITIONAL POURTRAYALS [sic]

The original Lumière programme appears in reproduction in a souvenir booklet produced for an event in 1936 to mark forty years since the first public exhibition of the Lumières' Cinématographe in London at the Polytechnic on Regent Street. As well as recreating the Lumières' original programme of short films in the same institution (which now boasted a School of Kinematography), there was also an exhibition showcasing the history and development of the technology of moving pictures, with a number of manufacturers keen to display the very latest advances. Among these were Ilford and Kodak Ltd: Kodak Ltd had a number of Ciné-Kodak cameras and projectors “Showing how Cine Kodak has advanced since introduction in 1923” with dates: the last camera listed is the “Cine Kodak “BB” Junr. f3/5” from 1930. Subsequent to 'Workers Not Leaving the Factory', I’d acquired a Ciné-Kodak Model BB Junior, but that with the faster f1.9 lens. In the exhibition, Ilford showed Dufaycolor, frame enlargements from 9.5mm Selo film and also the “ILFORD CINE SERVICE. Showing processing and control of 16 mm. and 9.5 mm. Ilford Cine Films”. Ilford stopped manufacturing ciné film many years ago, and when making 'Workers Not Leaving the Factory', specifically to shoot this on an Ilford emulsion, I cut FP4 Plus film down to 16mm, unperforated of course, but was able to use this–not without problems–in a Bolex 8mm camera. 

Ilford Fast Pan 16mm Film

For an Ilford motion picture film stock to use in the Ciné-Kodak BB Junior camera, I’d found a couple of 100ft rolls of 16mm Ilford Fast Pan film. On the labels of both there is a stamp "date of test 6.1.69", meaning that the film would almost certainly have been made at the Britannia Works site in Ilford before production there stopped in the mid-1970s. This is very reminiscent to the Ilford Mark V film I used a few years ago, presumably being an emulsion test; when researching that particular film stock, I found a suggestion that this lead to the fifth iteration of Ilford’s HP film, currently HP5 Plus today. It’s possible then that the Fast Pan film could be a version of the FP emulsion, although in the original FP film, the letters stood for Fine grain Panchromatic.

Roden Street, Ilford

Unable to revisit the Ilford sites in February 2021, enacting 'ADDITIONAL POURTRAYALS [sic]' to mark the date instead, I did then return last year as soon as the general 'stay at home' order was lifted on 29th March. I shot the Ilford Fast Pan film where it was originally manufactured in the Ciné-Kodak BB Junior–and subsequently did not develop the film for several months, until very recently, almost a year since the film was exposed. The Ilford Fast Pan film labels do not specify a film speed, and over fifty years since being made, I supposed that the film would have lost sensitivity regardless. My initial tests showed the film had a lot of fog, and I shot the film at an exposure index of 25. 

The Ciné-Kodak BB Junior takes 50ft daylight loading spools, which equates to around 2 minutes at the camera’s frame rate of 16 frames a second. When I filmed 'Workers Not Leaving the Factory', as the 2x8mm format requires the film to be passed through the camera twice, there was a logic to shooting two separate scenes, between which the film needed to be unloaded from the camera, the spools flipped over and then reloaded to shoot the second side of the film. In doing this, I chose the locations where two entrances to the Britannia Works site had been, having researched the site history in some detail in 2013. The first location was the entrance to Sainsbury's car park on Roden Street, the other a section of brick wall on Riverdene Road, which appears to align with what was once the entrance to an alley that led into Britannia Works. The Ciné-Kodak BB Junior runs for just over 30 seconds with its clockwork motor fully wound, this would determine the duration of each scene: I assumed that I would then get four different shots on the 50ft spool; in the event, there was enough film for five scenes, partly due to unloading the camera after shooting in the dark (the footage indicator on the camera suggests that there’s about five feet of film after the zero mark which would usually be exposed when removing the film from the camera). 

Riverdene Road, Ilford

I filmed the same two locations as in 'Workers Not Leaving the Factory' for the first two shots. The next two sites where those related to 'ADDITIONAL POURTRAYALS [sic]': the CCTV camera which records the scene that I had projected digitally, and then I pointed the BB Junior in the same direction as this CCTV camera, but from the ground level of course. This viewpoint was as close as I could get to the scene of the Britannia Works site remotely: at some point in the evolution of Ilford’s sprawling site, it might have been possible to see part of it from here, namely the skating rink which Ilford rented in the 1930s. Reading accounts of the history of early film in Britain in In the Kingdom of Shadows recently, I couldn't help noticing that the cinema was linked to skating in a couple of accounts, usually in the nature of popular fads or crazes:

“SEVERAL EXPLANATIONS have been given of the bad theatrical business in the provinces, reports of which daily reach the managers most concerned in sending out companies. […] Mr. George Dance, who has as much experience of the business side of the theatre as anyone in England, is inclined to think that the comparative effect of cinematograph shows and skating rinks has been exaggerated.”

The World’s Fair, 30 October 1909

“AT THE PRESENT MOMENT the popularity of picture palaces and the reason for it are directing a good deal of attention to the public mind. But these sudden crazes are not new: 30 years ago it was croquet, 15 years ago it [was] cycling, ten years ago it was roller skating…”

The Times, 9th April 1913

Site of Alfred Harman's house, Cranbrook Road

With the nominally-50ft roll not entirely used up, I went to the site of Alfred Harman’s house on Cranbrook Road, where Harman first coated glass plates in the basement, the very beginnings of what would become Ilford, Limited. When I developed the film, I used the developing times for Ilford FP4 Plus with Adox Adonal, an iteration of Rodinal. The developing tank I have been using for 16mm is really designed for 2x8mm: a normal 2x8mm camera roll is 25ft, but, with enough film for a leader and trailer, usually removed after processing, the actual length is closer to 33ft; this does still mean that a 50ft daylight spool has to be developed in two parts, if not strictly halves. The cut appears part way through the third scene shot, spliced together again after developing. 

Cut between two lengths of the film developed separately

The direction of the film through the camera means that the second half of the film was first to be developed first, for which I used a dilution of 1+50 for 15 minutes; the negative looked dense, so I reduced the time for the second half of the film to 12 minutes, which possibly could have been cut further (subsequently using the Ilford Fast Pan film, I’ve rated it at 40 or 50 rather than 25; in the image above it's just possible to discern that the image is brighter, thus the negative is denser, below the cut.). The nature of the film's age and overexposure and/or overdevelopment is that the images have quite pronounced grain as a result. Having developed the film by hand, the cleanness of the process itself could clearly be improved. In addition, by letting the camera’s motor run down entirely while exposing the film is that the frame rate slows close to the end, before the motor stops, with the result that the exposure time increases, the image getting brighter at the end of each scene. With the methodology determining the location and duration of each shot, anything happening in front of the camera was at the mercy of what Siegfried Kracauer would describe as ‘the contingency of the street’: the entrance to the supermarket car park and the road underneath the A406 flyover inevitably provided movement; the CCTV camera was shot hand-held, and a bird can be discerned flying through the shot at one point; the brick wall on Riverdene Road is only animated by subtle signs of the wind in the netting on the scaffolding which appears in the corner of the frame and the shadows from a tree on the right. Movement is also provided by the lack of stability of the frames and the vibrations the camera itself is subject to as the motor unwinds, rotating the shutter, pulling the film from supply to take up spool inside the camera, the intermittent motion briefly pausing its travel at the film gate for sixteen exposures every second.

'With Workers Not Leaving The Factory', showing the two individual frames next to each other had a logic thanks to the nature of the 2x8mm film format. In 16mm, there was a coherence to keeping the revisited scenes in juxtaposition; with the following shots as an angle-reverse angle pair, this had also had a reason to be placed together after the first two. The fifth shot I discarded.

Sources/Further reading:

Lumière Celebration programme (PDF)

Colin Harding and Simon Popple, In the Kingdom of Shadows, Cygnus Arts, London 1996

Patrick Keiller, 'The Robinson Institute', The View From the Train, Verso 2013

Siegfried Kracauer, Nature of Film: The Redemption of Physical Reality, Dobson Books, 1970