Friction as Intent, Part Two: A Dead Kodak in Liverpool

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Kodak Advantix / Fujifilm Nexia APS

Friction, Intent, and a Dead Kodak in Liverpool

^{It’s just before two in the afternoon. I’m sat in the back room of a pub in Liverpool, John Lennon staring down at me from the wall, expression equal parts disinterest and derision. Unsurprising, given I’ve just placed a Kodak from 1996 on the saloon bar table.}

^{There’s no point taking any pictures in here, it’s too dark and I’m using a roll of Fujifilm that expired 20 years ago. Old film stock is unpredictable, so better not waste the shots in badly lit rooms. Shooting outside gives a fighting chance of results.}

^{I’m here to put a thesis to the test; friction and intent make up a good product. Removing friction removes intent, and removing intent makes an experience worthless.  Easy to write about, but meaningless until you’ve tried it. So I dug out a 30 year old Kodak Advantix from the back of a drawer, and the friction starts immediately.}

^{There were no USB-C rechargeable lithium-ion batteries in 1996, and the Duracell inside is long dead. So nothing happens when I turn the dial to ‘On’. Drop the battery out, read the code, order a new one. A wait of three days until it arrives - no instant gratification. While I’m waiting I need to order film too. More friction - this camera uses the short-lived APS format film that was meant to be the future, but collided with the launch of digital point and shoots - it was obsolete within a couple of years. No-one has manufactured APS since 2011, so I have to find expired stock  - £9.95 a roll and no guarantee how the images will turn out, or even if they’ll turn out at all. At least it’s Fujifilm though - I might get those cold-tinged colours and cool-contrasts that defined the 90s.}

^{By Tuesday I’ve got the film and the battery, and drop them in the camera. Turn the dial and something happens that I’d long forgotten - the winding motor fires up and the camera starts shaking as it loads the film. Clatters like the knees of a calf staring down the barrel of an electrode.} 

Light contrast in the shadows

^{Why Liverpool as location? Because APS launched with an innovation; Classic, Hi-def and Panoramic modes burnt into the film electronically. The old docks on the Mersey were the only place wide enough to test Panorama mode.} 

^{The accepted wisdom with analogue is that you shoot less because each exposure costs money. But that’s too simplistic. You shoot with intent. You know how many frames are left the same way a soldier knows how many rounds are in the mag; you’re acutely aware of the count, but you don't let it freeze your trigger finger.}

^{There are no exposure triangle controls on this type of camera, you point, you shoot. See the shot, compose it and pull the trigger. What happens in practice though is counter-intuitive - the intent results in fewer shots. So you find yourself fretting about using up the last shots on the roll, a prerequisite of this era where you couldn't send the film to be developed before exhausting the roll.} 

^{The frictionless part here is the point-and-shoot itself. It's the lack of control. It's how light the camera is. It's how no one is going to bother punching you between the eyes to steal a plastic camera from 1996. It’s how you just point, and shoot, without chimping at an LCD screen or histogram.}

^{The friction manifests everywhere else instead. Get to the end of a roll and that motor fires up again. I'm stood on the docks near the Liver Building, with a crowd of Brazilian tourists staring at me. The camera sounds like a Panzer starting up as it winds the film back.} 

^{Drop a new roll in, shoot again.} 

Lens flare

^{The unexpected part is talking to people. Why are you shooting with that? Will it work? What, you don't even know? A tattooed hipster outside a coffee shop is shooting Ilford HP5. As he basks in the sun like an omniscient reptile, he states that ‘nothing after 1978 was any good anyway’.} 

^{I use the roll up in a disused warehouse where I parked the car and head home. Next day I drop the film off for developing in the basement of a disused mill in Manchester. Friction again… I have to go there, ring the bell and stand round waiting to get let in, before shelling out 20 quid a roll because APS is such an oddity.} 

^{Two days later the JPEGs arrive in my inbox. Opening them up felt like tearing the wrapping off on Christmas day, hoping for Ghostbusters and not anything educational.} 

^{Then it’s like a time slip, back to opening Truprint envelopes in the 90s. The quality is horrific and sublime simultaneously. The shots are technically terrible, but look exactly like those prints we used to get from holidays and trips out. All blur and grain, over-exposed skies, even lens flare. And those Fujifilm colours; cool-tinged greens and blues, rejecting spoon-fed golden-hour warmth.}

^{Then friction one more time. I have to go and collect the negatives in person. No problem, excuse for a day in town and a talk with the staff at the lab. I can write this piece on Oldham Street to the strains of Neil Young singing Cowgirl in the Sand.}

^{Did friction improve things? Yes. I went places, spoke to people, waited with anticipation for batteries, film and JPEGs. I learned why APS failed in spite of being a good idea on paper. I'll remember that shoot. And I don't have to edit either. Because I can't.} 

^{Was it a pain? Yes. I wouldn't do this if the phone bill depended on it. But as an experience it proved the point. The snake shed its skin. If you strip away every ounce of friction, you strip away the ritual. Without the ritual, the experience becomes disposable.}

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David Turner is the founder of Kói, an independent technology and creative consultancy, whose work explores analogue and digital product convergence alongside advisory work for investors, founders, and boards.

You can reach him at: enquiries@dkoi.design

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