I had the occasion today to hit Central Camera, one of the great photo shops – not to be confused with Photoshop – that revels in remnants of a bygone era.

The employees are old and slightly curmudgeonly and they toil in narrow aisles crammed with what is rapidly feeling outdated merchandise – film, film cameras, SLRs (NOT, necessarily the digital variety) and, God forbid, darkroom chemistry and photo paper. Sure, there are digital cameras and equipment. In fact, I had only popped in to grab some outrageously overpriced toner cartridges – eight of them! – for my Epson R2400.

While chatting at the counter in my increasngly old man winge with the salesman about how my oldest son, who was with me, had no concept of what a darkroom is and that I was struggling to explain the concept to him, I noticed something beautiful and sad in the display case.

A Nikon F3HP. Two, actually. And not just in mint condition, but seemingly brand new. Both had the MD4 motor drive attached and both were marked at $449.

“Buy it,” was the salesman’s comment when I remarked on the pristine condition of the cameras. “The guy who brought them in bought them new and never, I mean NEVER used them.”

That much was clear. I mean these things were beautiful. Not a scratch. And for just a moment I wondered how easily I could part with $449.

This is where I meander down memory lane

But I should explain my lust for a camera that debuted in 1980 – and in part my fondness for Central in general. It’s where I got my start in photography and journalism. The darkroom is how I started in the newsroom, processing and printing the news of the day as see by unsung lensmen in Harrisonburg, Va. The F3 is how I first started to document the world around me in my own right, first as an aspiring artist, and eventually as a photojournalist intent on becoming the next Sebastiao Salgado.

And my first F3 came as a result of one of the best jobs of my life – slinging photo gear and advice behind the camera counter at Glenn’s Fair Price, a shop that made it’s money pushing trinkets, pet supplies and costumes, but that any self-respecting photographer within 100 miles knew as the pinnacle for photography equipment disguised as a junk shop. I’m pretty sure they made more money from me than they paid me as I stocked up on darkroom supplies, film, photo equipment and anything else I needed to fuel my addiction.

It’s also where I met and bonded with the photojournalists – shooters was the term they preferred – from the Daily News-Record. They came in for supplies and to talk about the newest equipment and technology with the owners and myself. They’d show off pictures – in magazines, no less! – and debate the merits of color vs. black and white. They’d give juicy details on stories they covered that didn’t make the paper. And, basically, they made their job seem like the best job in world. Enough so that I did finally get a gig doing their darkroom work and shooting weekend assignments and ambulance chasing at a paper that didn’t do anything particularly well, but always had good photos to show for it.

Back to the point

And it’s those weekend car crashed and high school football games where I learned to love my F3HP. First of all, it was a tank. A titanium-bodied beast that could kill a man at will. With the right battery combination, you could get about eight frames a second with the motor drive attached. The high eyepoint – the HP – viewfinder was bright and easy to focus through. Key, because these were the days when autofocus was there, but not worth a damn. So it was all manual focus. Not to mention manual exposure adjustment. Damn near living by the f/8 and be there mantra that had sustained photojournalists in a hurry for decades.

I went and dug out my old F3, hidden away in a padded case and unused for I don’t know how many years. To be sure, my model is not pristine like those beauties at Central Camera. Its covered in splotches and bits of brass showing through, war wounds that used to be badges of honor for photojournalists.

I’ve briefly thought through the years that I should sell the thing. I mean, I haven’t even looked at it in I can’t remember how long. But minimal price I’d get for it aside, I never will.

I don’t mean to come off like modern cameras don’t cut it. Far from it. I’d love a D5000 or the Canon 5MKII everyone raves about. The computer systems are top notch and the image quality unsurpassed. Both of which mean that a skilled shooter can produce more photos of more difficult subjects than ever before.

But seeing those crisp black F3 bodies of a camera I saved so long for and lived so much of my early years in the journalism trenches with did make me nostalgic to dust off my battered F3 and load up a roll of Tri-X. What, that’s been discontinued?

Sigh.

And don’t even get me started on my FM2. Did I mention it will work without batteries?

I had the occasion today to hit Central Camera, one of the great photo shops – not to be confused with Photoshop – that revels in remnants of a bygone era. The employees are old and slightly curmudgeonly and they toil in narrow aisles crammed with what is rapidly feeling outdated merchandise – film … http://craigmnewman.posterous.com/how-a-nikon-f3hp-for-cheap-at-central-camera email