Through a 1940s Lens: First Images with the ANSCO Field Camera
These are my first 5x7 photographs with a 1940s ANSCO military field camera, a machine that demands both strength and patience. At 35 pounds, it is no casual instrument. Carrying it into the field feels like stepping back into a time when photography was not just an art or a craft but a logistical operation. Every exposure is deliberate, every movement slow, and the weight alone makes each image feel earned.
The ANSCO itself is a remarkable survivor. Manufactured in Binghamton, New York, ANSCO was once Kodak’s most formidable American rival. The company’s lineage stretches back to the 19th century, when Anthony & Scovill merged to form ANSCO and began producing cameras, lenses, and film stock. During World War II, ANSCO’s expertise was enlisted by the U.S. military. The field camera I now use was originally designed for reconnaissance, technical mapping, and battlefield documentation. Its rugged wood frame, brass fittings, and reinforced bellows were built to endure field conditions where precision carried real consequence. The 5x7 negatives it produced offered a level of sharpness and scale that smaller formats could not provide, making them especially valuable for enlargements and analysis.
Even in its current state, the durability is evident. Before I could load it with film, I had to rebuild the bellows, sealing light leaks that had crept in after nearly eighty-five years. The leather was brittle, cracked from time, but with some care it is once again light-tight. Restoring and working with this camera is a reminder that photographic tools were once built to be repaired, not discarded.
When I shoulder this camera, I often think of Seneca Ray Stoddard. In the late 19th century, Stoddard carried even larger cameras into the Adirondacks, along with boxes of glass plates, chemicals, and a collapsible darkroom. He produced thousands of images that shaped public perception of the Adirondack wilderness, influencing conservation and tourism alike. Compared to his ordeal, my 35-pound field camera is almost forgiving. Yet the principle remains the same: the camera becomes both a physical and imaginative weight, pressing you to see differently.
The reactions from passersby have been telling. More people have stopped to ask about this camera than with any other I’ve worked with. Many said they had only seen one like it in films, never in person. To carry such a machine today is to bridge two eras of photography, one where cameras were rare, revered tools, and another where they are as common as phones in our pockets.
This is just the start of a larger project. I plan to create a series of images that look as though they might have been captured at the turn of the century, using the ANSCO’s deliberate pace and large negatives to echo an earlier photographic vision. In doing so, I hope to explore how photography collapses time: how a tool built for military reconnaissance in the 1940s can still produce images that might be mistaken for something made in 1900. The landscapes and subjects I choose will be familiar yet slightly unmoored, inviting viewers to step into a space where past and present blur on a single sheet of film.
Photography has always been about more than recording. It is about perspective, patience, and the way technology shapes vision. Working with this ANSCO field camera is my way of reconnecting with that history, not only preserving the image, but honoring the weight carried to make it.
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