Eastman Kodak has filed for bankruptcy protection,surprising no one really,given the fact that the photographic world today is ruled by the megapixel. Yes,we all ditched that yellow box in favor of memory cards faster than people escaping a burning building. In someways,Kodak is that burning building,clinging to the hope that it can rise from the ashes like a Phoenix to rule the world of imaging as it once did.
Ironically,Kodak was at the forefront of digital technology, it had,over 20 years ago partnered with Nikon to create one of the first digital cameras. At a cost approaching 30,000 dollars that camera was more of a curiosity than anything, a small dot on the photographic horizon. But as the years passed,that dot began to transform itself into a small hill,the hill into a mountain,and the mountain into an avalanche. That avalanche buried Kodak.
Did Kodak not see it coming? Back around 2002-2003 they released a study that found that to approach the quality of a 200 speed color negative film, a digital sensor would need to have around 22MP. At that time the absolute best sensors were approaching 6MP, almost 1/4 of the quality of film. So perhaps Kodak felt safe, believing technology could not produce such a large chip. Digital cameras,though expensive, were used mainly by well-heeled consumers and by pros who saw them as a kind of "scouting" camera....they would go to a promising location and shoot various angles and compositions,returning during the period of good light to record the final image on film.
Kodak themselves produced and marketed a line of point and shoot digital cameras,and continued to work with Nikon on high end pro level cameras,but their profitability still depended upon the sale of millions upon millions of those little yellow boxes together with supplying the worlds' darkrooms with chemicals and papers. They also ruled the AV world,their slide projectors were used in homes, businesses,and theaters world-wide. Sales from digital cameras were probably less than 1% of their business. Then it happened.
Almost overnight, technology improved to the point where photo journalists were able to capture usable images using a new breed of Digital SLR cameras from Canon and Nikon which used a different type of sensor that was less costly than the CCD chip used in the Kodak/Nikon camera. These journalists could shoot images and send them via phone line to their offices, where editing could be performed on the spot, eliminating the need to process film and prints. Darkrooms at newspapers disappeared quickly, as did Kodak's sales of the necessary supplies needed for those darkrooms.
As digital became more and more commonplace, film sales dropped as well. The old stand-by of pros worldwide, Kodachrome,was eventually discontinued. Paul Simon sang a love song about that film, but the verdict was in.....film was dying. The company that told us "You push the button, we do the rest" was now pushing buttons to stay afloat. I myself gave up film in 2009, later than others but still.....
Today, film cameras sit on closet shelves gathering dust. A few people shoot it for nostalgic reasons, to be "avant garde", or just because they like film. Film does have it's charm, much like driving an antique car. Fun,but not practical. Lots of things change, history is littered with products and fads (photography was once considered a fad!) that blossomed and died. Film will go on until it is just not practical to manufacture it any longer,and one day kids will see an old ad and ask "What was film,Daddy?"
I can only guess what will happen to Kodak. Will they, like Schwinn, sell their name to any company to put on inferior products in the hope that "Name sells"? Or will they give up film and chemical products completely,concentrating on cameras only? Perhaps they will market digital processors for high volume labs, I don't know. What I do know is that I miss the smell of a new roll of film, and the anticipation of seeing if what I shot was any good. The days of standing at a light box looking at slides and then projecting them are gone,and the smell of darkroom chemicals are a distant memory. I might of gone "digital", but I will not forget those memories, ever. And in a way,that was what Kodak was (and still is,I guess) all about....preserving memories, and in that respect they have succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams. God speed, Kodak.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
How A Sandwich Saved My Life....(Sort Of)
As a 14 year old,I became hooked on bicycle riding. The bicycle became an instrument of freedom,allowing me to see and explore places otherwise unreachable in those pre- drivers license days. On the bike,I was in charge of my own destiny, a sort of "go where you want to go,do what you want to do" mentality,and I loved that feeling.
Bicycle riding back then was not what you would call popular,certainly a far cry from today, where it is a socially acceptable and popular activity,and everyone (almost) has heard of Lance Armstrong and the Tour De France. In those days it was a major happening if I saw one other "serious" rider out on the roads.Information in the way of books and magazines was hard to come by, and mostly we riders had to rely on trial and error to discover what worked and what didn't.
I had a friend who also caught the bike "religion" and we would go off on Saturdays for 30 or 40 mile rides if the weather was good. Along the way we pretended we were famous European racers (Eddy Merckx,anyone?) fighting it out over the cobblestones of Belgium or France, and dreamed of actually doing it someday.
One such Saturday my friend informed me he couldn't go too far,as his Dad wanted him back home early to help with chores around the house. So after 10 miles he said he needed to turn around,telling me if I wanted to go further it was all right with him. It was a nice warm day,so I told him yes,I would like to go on alone. We said our good byes,and I pedaled off up the road. Ten minutes later a rider on an expensive bike came up alongside me, asking where I was headed. I told him I didn't really know, whereupon he said he was headed home to Aurora (about 34 miles from my home) and I was welcome to tag along. It sounded good to me and so off we went.
This rider was GOOD. He pedaled at a pace faster than I was accustomed to,but I hung in there while he explained about technique and training and diet and all those things one can easily read about today but were mysteries 35 years ago. So I listened and marveled to myself about my good fortune to be able to meet someone like him. Heck, for all I knew,he could of been a famous racer. What a day!
Aurora arrived,and my new buddy said he had to turn off the road we were on to get home. I said cool, since I felt I had gone far enough and thought I should head home too. I thanked him for all the advice, wished him well, and turned around for the ride back. Immediately I was greeted by what cyclists despise the most; a stiff wind blowing directly into my face.
Headwinds sap your strength, as you try to fight them you use more energy than normal,and if you don't replenish those energy stores,trouble ensues. The body depletes it's carbohydrate stores,thus running out of fuel, so to speak. The result is a weak,wobbly feeling that cyclists and runners call the "Bonk". That is why endurance athletes eat and drink frequently while training or racing. Common sense now, but back then I had no idea. I had not brought any food with me,since I was only planning to ride 30 miles or so. If I had known I would be riding 70 miles,I would of brought something. But I didn't,and I hadn't. Money? I had .75 for something to drink,which I promptly spent shortly after turning around,for I had already drank the contents of the water bottle carried on my bike.
Mile after mile I became steadily weaker to the point where I had to get off and walk up any hill that loomed ahead. I was becoming a bit concerned....how was I to get home in the state I was in? I had no money to make a phone call home, so I forced the pedals around with wobbly legs at no better than walking speed, agonizing over the fact that at that point I still had over 15 miles left to go. So I made a decision...I would ask a stranger for food.
By then I could barely walk. I hobbled up to a house and hatched my story,I would say I had lost my wallet,and was weak from hunger. If the person who answered the door looked kindly, I would then ask for a sandwich or some food of any sort. If the person looked questionable,I would move on. Story ready,I rang the doorbell.
Luckily for me,a middle aged woman answered the door,and I pleaded my case. She asked me to wait on the doorstep and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. I am sure she debated whether or not to help, but after 4 or 5 minutes the door opened and a paper plate with a sandwich appeared. She told me that it was all she could offer,and to help myself to water from the garden hose. I thanked her profusely and just about inhaled that sandwich. (bologna as I recall). I filled my water bottle,drank it all and refilled it for the ride home.
After inhaling the food I sat on the curb until I didn't feel so weak any longer,probably 30 minutes or so. I got back onto my bike and pedaled gingerly for a few hundred feet to see how I felt, and I felt pretty good. So I headed for home and a nice cool shower. I made it,and afterwards, as I flopped onto my bed I said a silent prayer of thanks for that good samaritan who,by the act of providing a simple sandwich and some water enabled me to get home on a hot Saturday afternoon.
Bicycle riding back then was not what you would call popular,certainly a far cry from today, where it is a socially acceptable and popular activity,and everyone (almost) has heard of Lance Armstrong and the Tour De France. In those days it was a major happening if I saw one other "serious" rider out on the roads.Information in the way of books and magazines was hard to come by, and mostly we riders had to rely on trial and error to discover what worked and what didn't.
I had a friend who also caught the bike "religion" and we would go off on Saturdays for 30 or 40 mile rides if the weather was good. Along the way we pretended we were famous European racers (Eddy Merckx,anyone?) fighting it out over the cobblestones of Belgium or France, and dreamed of actually doing it someday.
One such Saturday my friend informed me he couldn't go too far,as his Dad wanted him back home early to help with chores around the house. So after 10 miles he said he needed to turn around,telling me if I wanted to go further it was all right with him. It was a nice warm day,so I told him yes,I would like to go on alone. We said our good byes,and I pedaled off up the road. Ten minutes later a rider on an expensive bike came up alongside me, asking where I was headed. I told him I didn't really know, whereupon he said he was headed home to Aurora (about 34 miles from my home) and I was welcome to tag along. It sounded good to me and so off we went.
This rider was GOOD. He pedaled at a pace faster than I was accustomed to,but I hung in there while he explained about technique and training and diet and all those things one can easily read about today but were mysteries 35 years ago. So I listened and marveled to myself about my good fortune to be able to meet someone like him. Heck, for all I knew,he could of been a famous racer. What a day!
Aurora arrived,and my new buddy said he had to turn off the road we were on to get home. I said cool, since I felt I had gone far enough and thought I should head home too. I thanked him for all the advice, wished him well, and turned around for the ride back. Immediately I was greeted by what cyclists despise the most; a stiff wind blowing directly into my face.
Headwinds sap your strength, as you try to fight them you use more energy than normal,and if you don't replenish those energy stores,trouble ensues. The body depletes it's carbohydrate stores,thus running out of fuel, so to speak. The result is a weak,wobbly feeling that cyclists and runners call the "Bonk". That is why endurance athletes eat and drink frequently while training or racing. Common sense now, but back then I had no idea. I had not brought any food with me,since I was only planning to ride 30 miles or so. If I had known I would be riding 70 miles,I would of brought something. But I didn't,and I hadn't. Money? I had .75 for something to drink,which I promptly spent shortly after turning around,for I had already drank the contents of the water bottle carried on my bike.
Mile after mile I became steadily weaker to the point where I had to get off and walk up any hill that loomed ahead. I was becoming a bit concerned....how was I to get home in the state I was in? I had no money to make a phone call home, so I forced the pedals around with wobbly legs at no better than walking speed, agonizing over the fact that at that point I still had over 15 miles left to go. So I made a decision...I would ask a stranger for food.
By then I could barely walk. I hobbled up to a house and hatched my story,I would say I had lost my wallet,and was weak from hunger. If the person who answered the door looked kindly, I would then ask for a sandwich or some food of any sort. If the person looked questionable,I would move on. Story ready,I rang the doorbell.
Luckily for me,a middle aged woman answered the door,and I pleaded my case. She asked me to wait on the doorstep and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. I am sure she debated whether or not to help, but after 4 or 5 minutes the door opened and a paper plate with a sandwich appeared. She told me that it was all she could offer,and to help myself to water from the garden hose. I thanked her profusely and just about inhaled that sandwich. (bologna as I recall). I filled my water bottle,drank it all and refilled it for the ride home.
After inhaling the food I sat on the curb until I didn't feel so weak any longer,probably 30 minutes or so. I got back onto my bike and pedaled gingerly for a few hundred feet to see how I felt, and I felt pretty good. So I headed for home and a nice cool shower. I made it,and afterwards, as I flopped onto my bed I said a silent prayer of thanks for that good samaritan who,by the act of providing a simple sandwich and some water enabled me to get home on a hot Saturday afternoon.
Monday, January 9, 2012
"Bob Carlson,I Am Sorry"
As adolescents,we all do something that we later regret or are ashamed of. It is part of the process of growing up, and hopefully, we learn a valuable lesson from the experience.
Such was the case in my Freshman year at High School, a time filled with excitement and wonder as I left my childhood behind and began to make my way towards independence along with hundreds of other boys, all of us fueled by that wonderful hormone called Testosterone, which coursed through us with reckless abandon as it changed our minds and bodies.
Beneath all that burgeoning machismo lay healthy doses of insecurity,as we all wondered (privately,of course) if anyone else felt that way. So we boys did the "manly" thing, searching out others whom we perceived to be weaker than ourselves,thereby establishing a pecking order of sorts and so giving one a sense of superiority. Of course the need to fit in was (and still is) a strong one,so we tended to hang with the guys we believed were at the upper end of that pecking order,or if that wasn't possible, to at least agree with their way of seeing things so you were not thought of as weak; especially if you were,like me,a skinny 125 pounder. This is where Bob Carlson comes in.
Bob was one of those kids everyone made fun of,through no fault of his own. Probably he was as smart and witty as any of us thought we were,and perhaps even more so. Standing no more than 5 feet tall and weighing perhaps 80 pounds he had no defense against the onslaught of taunts and mockery directed his way. I don't recall him having any friends, and he rarely spoke. Mostly he withdrew into his world and tried to shut out the words hurled his way,counting the minutes until he could get out of High School hell and back to a gentler world at home,at least until the next day when he had to endure it all again.
Gym class can be a trying time for some people, as the less athletic are made fun of and shunned from teams picked by a coach hell-bent on favoring the best players. In that regard I was lucky. Though rather small,I was able to hold my own and garnered a few friends due to my skills. Hey,it felt good to be accepted and I looked forward to gym every day. Not so for Bob....in a class where everyone was supposed to be on a team,he was not picked ever and spent class off to the side with a couple other outcast boys, shooting baskets,tossing a ball or whatever.
Shunned from team sports,Bob probably felt ok since the others were too busy trying to impress the coaches or each other,but individual sports were another story. He had to participate in such disciplines as boxing and wrestling against kids way bigger and heavier,which led to a moment I still remember as if it was yesterday.
As I wrote in the above paragraph,we had such sports as boxing and wrestling in gym, and one afternoon at class we found ourselves gathered in the wrestling room for 2 weeks of sweaty fun trying to flip and pin an opponent. Fun if you were a bigger guy but misery if you were small. The coach tried to match opponents by weight,of course,but there was nobody who even came close to Bob's 80 pounds. Even I outweighed him by 45 pounds,and Bob knew he had no chance against anyone. We knew it too, and when the time came for his match against the next smallest kid (probably 110 pounds) excitement grew among the guys as they wanted to see Bob get beat badly. Even his opponent was excited,as this was his chance to feel "tough".
The chant "Cream him!" began slowly but increased as more kids picked it up,including me. The coach made no effort to shut us up,he only called the two boys to the circle on the mat and told them to assume the starting positions. By then,Bob was visually shaking, and as his opponent took position above him,Bob collapsed in tears. The coach berated Bob,yelling at him to "Stop being a wimp,get up and wrestle like a man". But Bob just lay there sobbing even more.
I felt bad for him,but joined anyway in the laughter that was now permeating the room. I wanted to yell out to the group to stop,but I was cowardly and thought that if I did, I would become a target for others to poke fun of, or even worse,to have some of the tougher boys gang up on me at a later time. So I laughed with the others as the coach picked Bob up and told him to go sit elsewhere and come back only when he stopped acting like a baby.
I don't know where Bob Carlson is today, I like to think he is a successful person in whatever he has chosen to do. Perhaps he has forgotten that day in 1974, I certainly hope so. As for me,I have not forgotten, so Bob,wherever you are today, I apologize. And I hope you accept it. If you do,you will have proven yourself to be a better person than anyone else was that day long ago,including me.
Such was the case in my Freshman year at High School, a time filled with excitement and wonder as I left my childhood behind and began to make my way towards independence along with hundreds of other boys, all of us fueled by that wonderful hormone called Testosterone, which coursed through us with reckless abandon as it changed our minds and bodies.
Beneath all that burgeoning machismo lay healthy doses of insecurity,as we all wondered (privately,of course) if anyone else felt that way. So we boys did the "manly" thing, searching out others whom we perceived to be weaker than ourselves,thereby establishing a pecking order of sorts and so giving one a sense of superiority. Of course the need to fit in was (and still is) a strong one,so we tended to hang with the guys we believed were at the upper end of that pecking order,or if that wasn't possible, to at least agree with their way of seeing things so you were not thought of as weak; especially if you were,like me,a skinny 125 pounder. This is where Bob Carlson comes in.
Bob was one of those kids everyone made fun of,through no fault of his own. Probably he was as smart and witty as any of us thought we were,and perhaps even more so. Standing no more than 5 feet tall and weighing perhaps 80 pounds he had no defense against the onslaught of taunts and mockery directed his way. I don't recall him having any friends, and he rarely spoke. Mostly he withdrew into his world and tried to shut out the words hurled his way,counting the minutes until he could get out of High School hell and back to a gentler world at home,at least until the next day when he had to endure it all again.
Gym class can be a trying time for some people, as the less athletic are made fun of and shunned from teams picked by a coach hell-bent on favoring the best players. In that regard I was lucky. Though rather small,I was able to hold my own and garnered a few friends due to my skills. Hey,it felt good to be accepted and I looked forward to gym every day. Not so for Bob....in a class where everyone was supposed to be on a team,he was not picked ever and spent class off to the side with a couple other outcast boys, shooting baskets,tossing a ball or whatever.
Shunned from team sports,Bob probably felt ok since the others were too busy trying to impress the coaches or each other,but individual sports were another story. He had to participate in such disciplines as boxing and wrestling against kids way bigger and heavier,which led to a moment I still remember as if it was yesterday.
As I wrote in the above paragraph,we had such sports as boxing and wrestling in gym, and one afternoon at class we found ourselves gathered in the wrestling room for 2 weeks of sweaty fun trying to flip and pin an opponent. Fun if you were a bigger guy but misery if you were small. The coach tried to match opponents by weight,of course,but there was nobody who even came close to Bob's 80 pounds. Even I outweighed him by 45 pounds,and Bob knew he had no chance against anyone. We knew it too, and when the time came for his match against the next smallest kid (probably 110 pounds) excitement grew among the guys as they wanted to see Bob get beat badly. Even his opponent was excited,as this was his chance to feel "tough".
The chant "Cream him!" began slowly but increased as more kids picked it up,including me. The coach made no effort to shut us up,he only called the two boys to the circle on the mat and told them to assume the starting positions. By then,Bob was visually shaking, and as his opponent took position above him,Bob collapsed in tears. The coach berated Bob,yelling at him to "Stop being a wimp,get up and wrestle like a man". But Bob just lay there sobbing even more.
I felt bad for him,but joined anyway in the laughter that was now permeating the room. I wanted to yell out to the group to stop,but I was cowardly and thought that if I did, I would become a target for others to poke fun of, or even worse,to have some of the tougher boys gang up on me at a later time. So I laughed with the others as the coach picked Bob up and told him to go sit elsewhere and come back only when he stopped acting like a baby.
I don't know where Bob Carlson is today, I like to think he is a successful person in whatever he has chosen to do. Perhaps he has forgotten that day in 1974, I certainly hope so. As for me,I have not forgotten, so Bob,wherever you are today, I apologize. And I hope you accept it. If you do,you will have proven yourself to be a better person than anyone else was that day long ago,including me.
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