Strasburg Vernacular

Five years ago, my wife and I helped relocate our daughter and her husband to Strasburg, Virginia. During that visit and on several subsequent visits I took the opportunity to walk the town with camera in hand. It was because of those walks I came to love Strasburg and the Shenandoah Valley. Two years later, Katharine and I relocated to a small home just around the corner from our daughter, and just a few minutes’ walk into the heart of downtown. Since our arrival I walk often into town; my barber, the Post Office, my favorite coffee shop, pub and restaurant, the bakery shop, the gift shop, all are just a few minutes from my home. Nearly every walk became a photo walk. Initially I carried a digital camera. A little later I began carrying film cameras, usually loaded with black and white film. It was during those walks and during the developing, scanning and editing of those images that the thought of “documenting” the various homes, businesses and streets I walk on and by nearly every day took hold. The idea was that the images I captured would form the basis of a photo book. 

While change occurs slowly, it is constant. Since moving to Strasburg, I have seen businesses open and close, homes bought and sold, roads damaged then repaved. My goal was to capture, over a short time, a snapshot of the town I have come to love and don’t plan to leave. 

By August 2026 I had accumulated several hundred images, digital and film, which I believed represented the town of Strasburg as I saw it in my daily walks. Culling images over several weeks whittled down the number to 69 which were captured between June 2023 and August 2026. All had been shot on black-and-white film (135, 120), across a variety of camera and lens combinations, film stocks (Tri-X, HP5, FP4, Kentmere 100/200/400), and developers (DD-X, HC-110, Rodinal), spanning different seasons and weather. Those 69 images were just published in a photo book titled, Strasburg Vernacular.

Starting in June 2026, and in parallel with the project, I reviewed a large portion of my Lightroom catalog’s 40,000 images. That review brought a few things to light. People are rarely the subject of my images. Certainly, there are people in many photos, but they are incidental. Instead, my focus (pun intended) is on landscapes, both natural and man-made. And within the man-made scenes I saw I shot a lot of building facades (straight on full frontal or 45-ish degree obliques), street art (murals, signs, graffiti) and shop windows. As I cogitated on my apparent fascination with those motifs, in a local used book shop I came across a photo book published by George Tice (1938-2025) in the late 1980s. Flipping through the pages I was stunned to see the same types of images I saw in my Lightroom catalog. The Tice images were much higher quality - they were all shot in black and white on 8”x10” large format cameras then printed in the darkroom on high-end photo paper - but the subject matter, the motifs, were strikingly similar. Further research into Tice revealed several of his primary photographic influences to be Eugene Atget (1857-1927) and Walker Evans (1903-1975). While I knew of both men and their respective influence on photographers to this day, I was not aware of the types of subjects they imaged. Much research later I learned that, as with Tice, the four of us shared similar tastes in some of the types of compositions at which we pointed our camera lenses. It was a revelation that I was shooting some of the same types of scenes Atget shot in Paris in the early 1900s, that Evans shot throughout the south in the 1930s and that Tice shot from the 1970s through the 1990s. And having just finished Geoff Dyer’s excellent book, The Ongoing Moment, I understood that over many decades certain motifs are repeated frequently by photographers. It turned out my ideas behind Strasburg Vernacular were not original. They were not new. They were another in an oft repeated cycle of the re-discovery of certain themes in photography discussed by Dyer. 

Rather than a disappointment, the revelation was exhilarating. Although well-trodden ground throughout the history of photography, the themes, the motifs were new to me. And I was shooting compositions of my own making. My time, thoughts, energy and creativity. To be sure, I am under no illusion that Strasburg Vernacular is at (or near) the same level as the works of Atget, Evans or Tice. Their works have inspired generations of photographers. Me photographing the same types of compositions, unknowing of the past masters, was exactly what Dyer had written about. Three months before sending my book to Blurb I had no idea what "deadpan vernacular" was. No idea art curators worldwide were aware of the long history of famous photographers who shot in and around the genre.

And that is okay with me. In the end I will continue to go out into the world, camera in hand and shoot images of whatever it is that captures my interest. Regardless of the fact that similar images have been captured many times throughout the history of photography.  

But now knowing what I do, I hope I’ve photographed the "deadpan vernacular" in a way that won't cause the masters, in whose path I unknowingly walked, to roll over in their graves. 

Mostly though, I hope Strasburg Vernacular reveals, to those who know the town and to those who live here, a true likeness of the place I now call home.

 

     

 

Iceland 2026 - Highway 614 to Raðasandur

On the third day we were in the Westfjords and had arrived at Hotel Flókalundur. The Westfjords are a rugged and remote part of Iceland that don’t see much tourist visitation. Part of the reason for that are the condition of the roads. While unpaved gravel roads make up 65% of Iceland overall, that percentage is much higher in the Westfjords. I knew ahead of time about the unpaved roads and determined to take them in stride. Slow down and pay close attention. One side of the road was up against the mountain the other was a drop off, sometimes gentle sometimes sheer. Total attention to driving safety was required.

Part of our usual dinner routine was to talk about upcoming events and locations. On this evening Nick and I discussed a visit to Rauðasandur (Red Beach) for midnight-sun photography. We checked the map and noted it was about 42 miles, one hour or so, to the west. The route included an unpaved gravel road into the beach area. I consulted umferdin.is, a website run by the Icelandic Road and Coastal Administration (IRCA), to learn conditions. It showed the road unpaved but listed it as “easily passable.” After dinner I stopped by the front desk and asked about the road to the beach. The clerk said she’d had been on the road the week before and that it was good to go. Armed with the intel, I gave the van keys to Nick, and we loaded up and left for Rauðasandur at about 2200. We were to travel along Highway 62, Highway 612 and Highway 614.

The drive along the coast to Rauðasandur was quite beautiful. As we had seen on Snæfellsnes, sheep were everywhere. In a tradition going back to Viking times, each year in May, 800,000ish sheep are set out to free range. They are everywhere! Private lands, public lands, standing in the middle of the street, in towns. They live off the land for about three or so months and then are collected. That process, called the Réttir, is in September. The entire country turns out to assist farmers and drive sheep to collection points where they are sorted back to their owners. It is a national-cultural event and a great excuse for a country-wide party. On my trip to Scotland two years ago I thought I had seen every sheep in the world. I was wrong.   

As Highway 62 road turned NW into the mountains, and as we gained altitude, we moved into the low clouds sitting on the mountains. Between the fog and the late hour, it was quite a bit darker than we’d experienced on previous evenings. Not so dark we needed headlights but with the low visibility we were driving slowly and cautiously as we gained the necessary altitude to summit the pass and descend the other side towards Òsafjörður.

When we were again at sea-level, we turned west onto Highway 612, drove a few miles and came across a ship on a beach! The ship was Garðar BA-64, and she is Iceland’s oldest steel ship. Built in a Norway in 1912, she first served as a whaling ship in Norway before being traded through several countries over the years. She ended up in Iceland in 1950 where she continued whaling until restrictions on that industry caused her to become a herring fishing boat. Garðar BA 64 was retired in 1981.

After the ship-on-a-beach we gained a bit of elevation along the remainder of the drive to Highway 614. From Highway 614 to Rauðasandur is a six-mile drive up and over a mountain pass. And it is the drive down the backside of that pass that Nick and I still talk about.

Highway 614 is an unpaved dirt road and not an unpaved gravel road. The IRCA will argue with me on that point, but I think I know a red clay road when I drive on one. And, though the IRCA labels the road as “easily passable,” that term is defined by them as, “Non-slippery road surface or at least one wheel track free of ice in each lane and so little snow and ice on other parts of the road that drivers are not in danger.” Per that definition, they were correct. There was no snow or ice, so the road was passable. However, it was red clay, and it had been drizzling off and on throughout the day and we were in and out of the mist from the clouds hanging just overhead. A muddy dirt road can be as dangerous as a snowy/icy road. Nick was driving carefully and we discussed how to get a feel for the condition of the road surface. We didn’t seem to be skidding or sliding on turns so traction on the straight and level seemed okay. And although at the hour of our travel we didn’t expect any oncoming vehicles, the road was just wide enough to support two-way traffic. That said, like many roads on which we had traveled, there were no shoulders. This road was carved into the side of the mountains so one side was up against the mountain; the other side was an edge straight to the bottom. Sometimes there was a gentle slope on the exposed side, sometimes it was a steep, fatal drop. More importantly, there were no guardrails anywhere. 

We topped the pass and started down a steep set of switchbacks. Each descent terminated in a 180-degree turn back in the other direction. The road wasn’t any wetter, but my head was flooded with thoughts of sliding off the end of the road into the nothingness. The lack of guardrails was as much a psychological terror as it was a very real danger. The view out the front windshield while descending was straight out into the sky. No land visible anywhere forward. Only visible to the side of the road against the mountain. One moment of inattentiveness would be disastrous. At one point I wanted to ask to turn around and quit the journey but there was no way to do that. I would never have attempted to turn around as there was not enough road to do so. And the road was much too steep and the turns to tight to back out. We were committed. The only bright thought I was able to muster was that folks drove this road all the time. At the bottom are a church, homes, vacation rentals. There were not a lot of people, but this was not the end of the world – although at nearly midnight, driving in and out of the clouds on a scary red clay road, it seemed like the end of the world. And to make matters worse, cell service was sketchy and I wasn’t sure Katharine had a real good idea exactly where we were. Certainly, she was still asleep for six hours or so more. It was a concerning place to be.

Eventually we reached the bottom of the mountain and the road leveled out. We followed the signs to the church, drove another mile or so, pulled over and stopped the car. We looked at each other and I said to Nick, “that was the scariest road I have ever been on.”  As I reflect from my home office while writing this post, I still believe that was a true statement. We took a few photos of the church and of the clouds devouring the mountain tops. The beach area Nick sought was not on this end of the road. When we’d come down to sea level we turned right to the church when the beach area was to the left – not sure how many miles further. We talked about checking out the beach area but given the hour and given the fact we had to drive up and out the same road we’d just descended I said I wanted to go back to the hotel and Nick agreed. 

The drive up and out was better only because the view out the front windshield showed the road and the mountain. It was just as steep, and the turns were just as tight, and I was just as concerned about traction and the lack of guardrails. We made small talk and just kept driving the six miles off that road. When we came to Highway 612 we both breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The worst was over, but we still had an hour of driving to return safely to Flókalundur. Small talk dominated the drive over mountain pass on Highway 62 as well as working our way through and by scores of sheep. Interestingly, most of the small talk was about sheep but it passed the time and we arrived safely back to the hotel about 0130. 

Unspoken between us was the thought that we wouldn’t be too free with the details of the drive. We’d not said much about our harrowing climb at Lóndragar either. Best for a bit of time to pass before revealing too much about how uneasy we felt with our evening’s adventure. The drive to Rauðasandur falls squarely into the, “it will make a great story later” category.

Gaðar BA 64

The church at Rauðasandur

Clouds devouring the mountains at Rauðasandur

Iceland 2026 - Arctic Fox

My hunt for arctic fox began in early 2024 when Nick (my adult son) and I were part of a small group of photographers driving Iceland’s Ring Road. During that tour our guide talked often of seeing arctic fox. Nick became obsessed. Alas, none were to be found that trip. In the intervening two years we talked often of returning with the rest of the family to Iceland to photograph arctic fox. At the urging of my daughter, Helen, I started planning a family trip to Iceland. As a professional geographer she had keen interest in the natural history of Iceland. And key among those interests were wildlife, the most important of which were puffins and the one mammal that is native to Iceland, the arctic fox.

On our second full day in Iceland, we were staying in the Hellnar area on the Snæfells Peninsula. Earlier in the day our family group had stopped at the gestastofa (visitor center) at Malarrif, centered within the Snæfellsjökull National Park, to learn about the geography and geology of the area. Walking into the visitor center I noticed a sign just outside the entrance which admonished people to not feed arctic foxes. When I asked the ranger at the desk about the sign she stated there was an arctic fox in the area who could be seen frequently in the vicinity of the Visitor Center. She stated that early mornings were best but that the fox had been seen at other times during the day.

We spent the day visiting several scenic locations around the Snæfells Peninsula. By late afternoon Nick and Helen were talking about re-visiting the Malarrif visitor center in hopes of sighting the arctic fox. I was skeptical and told them so. The odds of seeing such a wild creature in a parking lot of all places, and in the middle of the night just didn’t seem, contrary to the ranger’s comments, highly probable to me. In the end further conversation convinced me to give it a try so following dinner and a short nap we were on the road to Malarrif. Although they were very excited about the prospects of seeing the fox (me; not so much), they were at the same time trying to dial back those expectations given my pessimism. 

Malarrif Light was just a few miles from our hotel, and we pulled into an empty parking lot at the visitor center. Helen was armed with a Nikon Z6 with a 24-120mm lens while Nick was loaded with a Nikon Z8 and a 70-200mm lens. As usual I carried my Leica M10R onto which a 50mm lens was affixed. As we were standing in the lot, enjoying the extended golden hour lighting on a beautiful late evening (2200 or so) we discussed the game plan. Helen elected to walk a hundred yards or so into the grasses as she believed the fox was (1) probably denning somewhere in that area and (2) it was a better location for the fox to find small critters to chow on. It sounded like a good idea, and she walked into the field. Nick walked along the small access road to the left of where Helen was going while I remained in the parking lot. 

A few minutes later I spied Helen in the field, facing me, her arms waving frantically over her head. She was pointing off to her right as she had clearly spotted something. I called to Nick and as we looked to where she was pointing, I saw a small white mammal coming my way. Had Helen found an arctic fox? It was too far away for my 50mm lens, so I watched as it came closer. At first, I thought it a lamb. As it got closer, I realized it was too small to be a lamb. By then Helen and Nick had cameras to their faces and were busy clicking away. It was at that point I realized that the creature Helen had spotted and that was trotting my way was an arctic fox! I couldn’t believe it. I remember thinking the gait of the fox was unusual as it seemed to be bounding. It also appeared to be a scene directly out of Monty Python as the fox bounding directly towards me didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Lots of movement, not much closing distance. Before I knew it, the arctic fox, in transition from winter to summer coat, walked towards me out of the grasses. At that point I could see it clearly, raised my camera and began shooting images. Helen and Nick had also moved closer and were busy taking photographs. Three cameras were aimed at the fox, and the sound of multiple shutter activations was music to my ears. 

The fox walked across the small access road, walked up to the door of the visitor center, then began a slow circumnavigation of the parking lot. I don’t recall it ever looking at any of us. Clearly it felt no threat.  

At some point while it walked a large loop around me, I became quite emotional. The idea of seeing an arctic fox had been discussed at length for nearly two years and it was on the bucket list for this trip. I knew how much they both wanted to see this animal. To have that event materialize right in front of us, in this parking lot, on this midnight sun evening, with no one else around for miles, was too much for me. Tears began streaming down my face and I laughed out loud as I watched the fox and Helen and Nick as they photographed it. I was so happy for them.

In due course the fox completed his circumnavigation of the visitor center and parking lot and trotted back into the field in the direction from which it appeared. As we kept snapping pictures, we unconsciously closed ranks nearer the van. A few moments later the fox was out of view and as we lowered our cameras, we looked at each other. A moment of silence, then we erupted in excited conversation about what had just occurred. Our faces were buried in each other’s camera’s LCD, and we couldn’t believe what we were seeing in those images. The laughter and the excitement were palpable. And while Helen and Nick congratulated themselves on the well-planned expedition, I silently repeated my oft used Dad-ism, “better lucky than good!”

 

The Malarrif Gestastofa at Snæfellsjökull National Park

 

Helen can be seen on the horizon to the right of Malarrif Light

 

The  arctic fox emerges from the grass

 

My shadow seen in the grass, he’s close

 

Making the rounds at the gestastofa

 

Running in front of Nick and Helen (she’s crouched just behind Nick)

 

Back into the grass

 

The arctic fox is just to the left of Helen’s left shoulder

Nick's image (Nikon Z8 + Nikkor Z 70-200mm f/2.8S)

Iceland 2026 - Lóndrangar

Our first full day in Iceland, Nick (my adult son) and I were up at 0350 and out of the hotel on a beautiful, midnight-sun morning. We arrived at the Lóndrangar sea stacks just a few minutes afterwards, parked then hiked the short distance to the edge of the cliff face. It was near there that the first of two trails, and I use that term loosely, leading down to the sea level lava rock began. As seen from above I was hesitant and seriously considered backing out. The height of the cliff at that overlook is 190 feet over the water. Nick assured me it would be fine. 
This wasn’t Nick’s first trip down that climb. Two years earlier, he and I participated in a bespoke, two-week winter Ring Road photography tour. It was a small group which included one other paying photographer and Siggi, our professional photographer-workshop guide-driver-fixer. During that trip we spent a few days on the Snæfellsnes. One stopping point was the sea stack overlook at Lóndrangar. On that stop Nick and Siggi climbed down the high cliffs through snow and ice and onto the lava rock just at sea level to take photographs of the sea stacks and of waves splashing against the rocks. His photos were amazing and he’s recounted the harrowing adventure many times. 
Based on his experience and the fact that I wasn’t about to let him go down alone, he led and I followed. That first trail, though steep, was a relatively straight forward walk down a steep series of metal steps set into the side of a drop-off which led to a grassy bowl. I’d guess we consumed about 90 feet of the total height. My first thought was that this would be a piece of cake but as we walked to the corner of that grassy bowl nearer to the rocky cliff face, I again had second thoughts. The next “trail” was a steep, rocky ravine descending the remaining 100 feet to volcanic rock just at sea level. 
It was clear I’d need both hands to climb down so I strapped my smallish (and expensive) travel tripod onto my small camera bag and began the descent. That tripod is foundational to my waterfall/seascape photography kit. I typically shoot one to two second exposures using ND filters and the tripod is necessary to holding the camera perfectly still.
Nick had gone ahead and as I watched him carefully choose each step, each movement, I realized there was actual danger involved with getting the photographs we sought. Manageable danger, but there was risk of serious injury with an unthinking misstep. I turned to face the cliffside, suppressed my thoughts of insanity and began my descent. Although I was facing the ravine, I could hear the cacophonous cries of the multitude of sea birds which were nesting all around. The Arctic Terns were concerning as they are territorial about nesting areas and known to dive-bomb reckless humans. Concentrating on my movements and not wanting to fall, I didn’t need a pissed off bird complicating things. Adding to the bird noise was the sound of waves crashing onto the rocks below. It seemed that with each movement down the ravine that noise was louder. There were a few areas where I took a brief pause to look over the shoulder. Birds and the waves aside, the blue skies and pink tinged puffy clouds promised the potential for a beautiful morning’s photography opportunity. I just needed to reach safely the lava rock below. Slow and steady wins the race and in due course I was traversing level but loose rocky scree. A hundred yards to the west later I arrived at the best view of the Lóndrangar sea stacks. By then Nick was already setting up his tripod and ND filters kit for the photo op. I reached around for my tripod, and it was missing! I wasn’t sure where it had come undone but wasn’t about to turn back and climb out to find it. Instead, I elected to hand hold my images and deal with the tripod on the way back up the ravine. Nick had positioned himself on the edge of a small inlet between the rocks. The location provided a clear viewing of the sea stacks. It was also near the terminus end of a small inlet onto which incoming waves crashed and showered him with North Atlantic Sea spray. As he clicked away a series of slow shutter speed images, he became increasingly wet with each incoming wave. I stood a bit back and shot a series of my standard “picture of Nick taking a picture” images. In between shutter actuations I took in the sights and reflected on our situation. Once again, we were completely alone in a rugged wilderness quite a bit off the beaten path. Although Katharine knew generally our plan, she was a few miles to the east, still deep in slumber and I had the rental vehicle. At that point I wasn’t concerned about our safety but was instead taking it all in. 
Over the previous five years Nick and I had taken several high adventure photography trips. And while the images of those many landscapes are important to me, more precious was the time he and I spent together.  The “father-son” time is important for both of us, and we reminisce often on one or another event from a past trip. This location on this morning will be one such memory. 
After about three quarters of an hour, Nick was as wet as he wanted to be. In fact, when I saw saltwater dripping off the body of his expensive, borrowed Nikon Z8, a shiver ran through me. The camera had been lent by his uncle (and my brother-in-law) who was expecting it to be returned in pristine condition. As we packed up the gear to climb back out, we wiped the camera as best we could then we walked back to the base of the ravine. I recommended to him that perhaps we not mention the “sea-water-on-the-Z8” to his Uncle Ron. I also mentioned the loss of the tripod and asked that he keep a sharp eye out for it. Those words spoken we started our climb back up the ravine. Except for the sounds of our breathing, we climbed in silence. We were focused on finding safe hand and foot holds and there was no room for conversation. Although the waves were still crashing and the birds were still squawking our laser light focus on the next hand hold, the next foot placement, moved the other senses to the background.  We soon topped the ravine climb and again found ourselves in the grassy bowl. 
There, at the top of the ravine lay my tripod in the dewy grass. I let out loud “hooray!” as I reached down with tired arms and legs to retrieve it from the ground. Turning to Nick I said, “better lucky than good.” The loss of that tripod, at the beginning of a two-week Ring Road trip around Iceland, would have been painful. I was quite chuffed to have recovered it. 

We turned towards the ocean to take in the view and congratulated ourselves for getting 

through the hardest part of the hike. Then we turned our attention to the remaining stairs 

hammered into the steep incline and silently retraced our steps to the top of the cliff face. As 

we topped out, the sun, now a bit higher in the sky, shone full onto Lóndrangar and we spent a 

few minutes silently enjoying the view. I was feeling pretty good about the morning's events 

and very much looking forward to breakfast back at the hotel. And drying off Nick's camera kit 

Film Development in 2025: 50 Rolls, Fewer Choices, Better Negatives

In 2025 I shot, developed and scanned 50 rolls of film at home. Shooting both black and white and color there was a clear preference for moderate to fast film speeds and repeatable processes. This was not a year of experimentation. It was a year of refinement with enough repetition to confirm what worked and discard what didn’t.

What follows is a practical look at the films I relied on, the developers that shaped the negatives, and what a steady pace of home processing revealed over the course of the year.

The Year in Numbers

Total rolls: 50

• Black & white: 22
• Color: 28

By speed

• Black & white centered on ISO 400 (15 of 22 rolls)
• Color centered on ISO 200 (17 of 28 rolls)

At roughly one roll per week, the volume was steady enough to reward consistency and punish unnecessary complexity.

Black & White Film

Black & White made up a little less than half the rolls of film shot in 2025. The numbers show a clear preference to faster film speeds.

Black & White Film Usage

• Kodak Tri-X 400: 8 rolls
• Ilford HP5 Plus: 5 rolls
• Ilford FP4 Plus: 5 rolls
• Kentmere 400: 2 rolls
• Ilford P3200: 1 roll

In the second half of the year, and as prices of HP5 increased, I began shooting Tri-X. By the end of the year, it was my go-to film. It is tolerant of exposure error, predictable in development, and easy to scan. HP5 is a wonderful film, and it hasn’t left the lineup, but my fridge is filled with Tri-X, and my developing efforts are aimed at honing “my” look for those negatives. My use of FP4 was chosen deliberately for situations that suited a slower film. Kentmere 400 proved competent, economical and very easy on the scanner. The one roll of P3200 (exposed at ISO 3200) was used on a nighttime photo walk when speed mattered more than elegance.

In general, I wasn’t searching for a black-and-white look. I was reinforcing one.

Black & White Developers: HC-110 to DDX

Two developers handled all black-and-white processing.

• Kodak HC-110: first 14 rolls
• Ilford DDX: final 8 rolls

HC-110 was my go-to developer for the past three years. It is economical, reliable and produces excellent, repeatable results. However, as I often develop one roll at a time in a 250ml Nikor tank I find myself measuring small volumes of developer, usually at 1+31, where decimal points sometimes matter. And, developing times for HC110 being on the shorter side, small changes in timing and process can result in varying impacts on final negatives. While not a significant issue for me, I was interested in widening the aperture a bit and sought another developer. I ended up with DDX and have come to rely on the results it yields. It costs more per roll, but mixing the larger volumes at 1+4 is, for me, simpler, and the longer development times help average out minor variations in agitation or temperature. Those longer times reduce stress and reward consistency. To my eye, negatives developed in DDX were just a bit sharper, showed just a bit less grain, and provided just a bit more shadow detail. Subtle changes, but noticeable to me.  Going forward into 2026, DDX will be my primary black-and-white developer.

Color Film

Color made up 28 rolls of the 50 rolls and showed a strong bias toward moderate speeds.

Color Film Usage

• Kodak Gold 200: 14 rolls
• Kodak Portra 160: 2 rolls
• Harman Phoenix 200: 1 roll
• Ektar 100: 1 roll
• Kodak Portra 400: 5 rolls
• Kodak UltraMax 400: 4 rolls
• Kodak Portra 800: 1 roll

Seventeen rolls clustered around ISO 200, making it the practical center of my color work.

Gold 200 was my default: forgiving, easy to scan, and visually unobtrusive. Portra was used selectively — 160 in controlled light, 400 when flexibility mattered. 

UltraMax 400 filled an important everyday role. It’s far less expensive than Portra 400, and for local shooting the difference rarely justified the cost. However, that calculus will likely change for travel photography.

Phoenix 200, Ektar 100 and Portra 800 were one-off rolls and not film stocks I plan to revisit.

While the data show a clear nod to ISO 200, ISO 400 is more useable over a wider range lighting conditions. Especially when traveling far from home. To reduce “decision stress” while on the road I’d rather carry one film stock than multiple film stocks. Based on the five rolls of Portra 400 I shot this year I’m considering it, over Ultra-Max 400, as my primary stock for the two trips planned in 2026.

Color Development: Process Over Branding

Color processing was split between CineStill and Arista C-41 kits. I saw no difference in results. The chemistry, times, and process are effectively the same. What matters more is consistent temperature control and repeatable handling when processing.

What 50 Rolls Of Repetition Made Obvious

At this volume, patterns become clear:

• Simpler workflows survive
• Longer development times are more forgiving
• Consistency beats optimization

Anything fragile or overly clever fell away on its own.

The Look I’m Refining

The films and developers I turned to most often all support the same goals:

• Moderate contrast
• Usable shadow detail
• Grain that supports the image
• Negatives that scan cleanly

ISO 400 black and white and ISO 200 color serve the look I seek.

What Carries Forward Into 2026

The lesson of 2025 is simple: fewer choices, used well, produce better work.

Going into 2026:

• Core film stocks remain unchanged
• Tri-X will be my reference for black and white
• Gold 200 will stay on as my color baseline
• Though Portra 400 may likely anchor travel situations 
• DDX becomes my primary black-and-white developer
• I’ll use whichever C41 kit is least expensive

Fifty rolls were enough to make this clear - I’m not expanding the palette, I’m deepening it.

 

Six months with the Fujifilm GF670 Professional

Several years ago, I began shooting and developing medium format 120 film. As previously noted, unrolling wet 120 negatives from a reel is an emotional experience. They are huge, they are glorious and each time I again fall under the spell of medium format photography. Flash forward and I now own four medium format roll film cameras. First purchased was a Yashica Mat 124G. It is a Twin Lens Reflex (TLR) in 6x6. A little later I added an early-1960s Super Fujica 6 folding rangefinder. Later still a mid-1960s Zeiss Ikon Nettar folder with scale focus. Both folders are also 6x6 format. The fourth medium format camera is the subject of this post.

As I shot those cameras on a routine basis I learned three things. 

-       First, I prefer holding the camera to the eye when shooting. While the Yashica TLR is tack sharp, and has a meter, I haven’t bonded with the left-right reversal, nor do I enjoy looking down into the camera to compose a frame. 

-       Second, I prefer rangefinder focusing. The Super Fujica 6 is perfect in this respect and merges neatly with my daily use of Leica rangefinders. 

-       Third, an in-body light meter is a must. While there are a lot of light meters available for hand use, to include many mobile apps for cell phones, several of which are resident on my iPhone 15 Pro Max, nothing beats the convenience of an in-body light meter.

Earlier this year I visited a camera shop about an hour’s drive from me. On that visit I saw and held a Fuji GF670 Professional. I was blown away. The viewfinder was large, bright, magnificent. Range finding was easy, intuitive, and felt the same as on my various Leica M bodies. The built-in light meter was readily viewable in the finder, and it was easy to integrate readings throughout a scene to determine a correct exposure. Best of all it included an aperture priority mode. To achieve that mode the body included an electronic leaf shutter. As with my Leica M7, no power, no camera. However, as I detailed in a recent post on the M7, aperture priority is an important part of my shooting experience, and I am willing to accept that I need to bring along a few extra batteries. I left the shop without the camera but it haunted my dreams for many weeks. You can guess what happened when I revisited the shop… 

I bought the GF670 knowing full well it wasn’t a practical choice by modern standards. It’s a folding medium format film camera released in 2008, which already tells you everything you need to know about how out of step it was when it appeared. But that’s part of what appealed to me.

The camera itself is simple. It folds up, it opens out, and it makes big negatives. All while being small enough when folded to fit easily for travel. The fixed 80mm lens (35 equivalents are 44mm in 6x6 and 38mm in 6x7) keeps me from overthinking things, and the leaf shutter is quiet enough (almost too quiet!) that it never draws attention. Nothing about the GF670 feels flashy or clever. It feels built to do a job and do it well.

Using it slows me down in a good way. Opening the camera and extending the bellows forces a pause before I even look through the finder. Once I do, the rangefinder is bright and focusing feels natural (although sometimes I fiddle around finding the focus tab). The controls are right where I expect them to be, and aperture priority works well enough that I don’t have to think about exposure unless I want to. 

The lens is excellent, but not in a way that shows off. It’s sharp, handles tones well, and gives me negatives that scan and print easily. That matters more to me than corner sharpness or MTF charts. My results are consistent, which is exactly what I want from a camera like this. Or any camera for that matter.

Six months on and the GF670 has become my regular 120 shooter. It matches how I like to work. I don’t shoot fast, I don’t shoot a lot, and I usually know what I want the negative to look like before I trip the shutter. This camera supports that mindset. It reminds me to slow down, pay attention, and make each frame count. That’s enough for me.