My First Leica

In the house where I grew up there was a room that served as a laundry room, a storage room, and — with a bit of re-arranging — a darkroom. Against one wall was a secondhand steel desk, whose drawers contained a multitude of used cameras. They were the spoils of my father’s frequent trips to the pawnshops of the city. Dad was forever in search of a “good deal.”

Most of the cameras that resided within those drawers were useable, but few would be considered rare or collectable, even by today’s standards. They were simply “good deals.” The desk held a virtual history of photography up to that point in time, ranging from ancient Kodak folders to the latest Nikons and Nikomats of the day. Nikomat, the non-export version of the Nikkormat, was a common sight on the shelves of Colorado Springs’ pawnshops, purchased by GI’s overseas and pawned when money was tight.

From within those drawers came the artifacts of my photographic education. Dad started me on the simplest camera and would issue me a new, more sophisticated model when he thought I was ready. All of us drew from those drawers, as photography was a family hobby — my dad having learned it from his father. My education started with a Pax Ruby (my first rangefinder), a Topcon Uni (my first SLR, with its problematic leaf shutter), and so on, until I eventually rose to the rank of Nikon, just as the pros used.

I was forbidden to rummage through the drawers without permission. But that stern warning only emboldened me to delve into its contents when no one was around. I was clever enough to replace everything exactly as I found it, lest my trespass be noticed. I would spend hours sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, running the cameras through their paces, fantasizing that I was on assignment in some exotic location.

The jewel of the collection was a Leica M3. I didn’t know much about Leica at that time, only that it was a very expensive and highly desirable camera. As pawnshop finds go, this was more than just a “good deal”. Its previous owner had carefully custom fitted a wooden briefcase with feltcovered dividers, which at one time held a small Leica system. Now, the case just held an M3 body, a 90/4 Elmar and two Leitz filters — red and green. All were in pristine condition. Judging by the Auf and Zu on the baseplate it had probably been acquired by a soldier stationed Germany, who had pawned it for cash upon his return.

I was fascinated by the Leica. It was unlike any of the other cameras within those drawers. I marveled at the silkysmooth advance and shutter release, and a viewfinder that was brighter than any other camera. The Leica was an early model, a double-stroke M3, but at the time I didn’t understand why you had to advance the wind lever twice. Perhaps Dad had gotten a good deal on it because it was broken? It didn’t matter. I simply marveled at the barely-audible “snick” when the shutter was released.

Of course I begged and pleaded with Dad over the years to let me use the Leica, but he never gave in. Like many of the other cameras in those drawers it just stayed there, unused, after he purchased it. Years went by, and my hobby grew into a career as a newspaper photographer. One day, out of the blue, Dad offered me the M3 and lens. Normally he would have haggled with me endlessly over the price. Instead, he just gave it to me. I thought it odd at the time, but perhaps it was his stoic Norwegian way of acknowledging that I had finally earned it.

I would occasionally use the Leica during interviews, where the 90mm focal length and the M3’s nearly-silent shutter were an advantage over an SLR. But the skinny little Elmar and M3 looked like an unprofessional toy next to the motor-driven Nikons of that era, so I rarely used it. Then one day while I was on assignment I happened to look through a colleague’s 21mm finder — and the view suddenly changed my perspective on everything. The M3 and 90 quickly became trade-in material for a used M6 and a 21/2.8 Elmarit-M. From then on my use and appreciation of the M-system only grew.

Many years later I purchased an identical 90/4 Elmar of the same vintage because it too was a “good deal”. Was this a genetic trait, or was I unconsciously obtaining the lens as a touchstone to my past? Whatever the reason, my current 1958 Elmar (a year older than I) continues to serve as a compact, pocketable lens, which can produce images worthy of any lens made today, just as my first Elmar had done so many years ago.

My father passed away last year and I sometimes regret that I never kept my first Leica. But, more important than the camera itself was the photographic education that my father passed along to me — through the contents of those drawers — which ultimately lead to my career as a photojournalist. My first Leica from within those drawers was at the heart of that journey.