The Manteca Portfolio

With the death of my grandfather and the failing health of my grandmother, I realized that my grandparents' ranch is in danger of being lost forever. As the ranch has been part of the family for 80 years, I decided to document the place, and by doing so document a part of my family's history.

The 30-acre ranch stands in the midst of the California Central Valley. Though the nearby town of Manteca has grown and changed, in 80 years this property has remained farmland. Occasionally it has shifted crops, from vineyard to zucca farm to its current almond orchard. What has stayed the same in that time is my family, always living on or around this property, less than a mile from where my now 88-year-old grandmother went to school as a girl.

I started photographing the ranch with my 7"x17"camera about six years ago, first focusing on my grandfather's orchard and garden as standard exercises in photography, hoping to make some beautiful images. But as my grandfather got sick with cancer, the photographs evolved into more of a documentary project.

Since his death three and a half years ago, I found myself spending more and more attention on his workshop, where he spent a lot of his time. And since then, the images have taken on a different meaning for me. I have come to realize that this casual documentary may be all that the family will have left once my grandmother passes on, as the ranch may no longer be ours.

In the workshop, Grandpa repaired his farm equipment and puttered on various projects for the ranch. He left it loaded with various objects, all pieces of Grandpa in different ways. Having never really been cleaned since it was built, the workshop wears decades of cobwebs, oil, and dust. All of the objects - old cigar boxes, jars, and coffee cans filled with various nails, washers, and bolts - carry the weight of those years.

Two light sources fill the workshop photographs. Two grime-caked skylights create a soft fill, but the primary light source leaks in through cracks in the walls of the shop. As a result, the place is pretty dark. To compose an image, I usually wait under the dark cloth until my eyes adjust.

Exposing with such a large format and such close-up work is kind of complicated. Apertures of f/45 or greater for depth of field in a dimly lit space equate to serious reciprocity. Exposure times are usually upwards of 45 minutes. The results of such long exposures are soft and subtle detail with the cracks in the walls blowing out, ideally creating a nostalgic looking flare.

Because all of my work is personal in nature, using the 7 x 17 and printing with hand-coated platinum/palladium is a perfect match. The printing process itself, having the warm tonalities, and the soft mat surface, as well as the simplicity of the direct contact print work so well together to complement the ideas I'm trying to communicate.

With the ranch photographs, I exploit the platinum printing's long tonal scale, which is able to pull everything from the bright blown-out cracks in the wood to the dark subtle tones of the oil and dust-covered objects. Eighty percent of my prints are straight, with no manipulation done during the printing; the natural warm brown coloring of the prints brings out the dusty years of the workshop on its own.

Combining the technique of platinum printing with the long exposures keep my documentation of the ranch personal. I prefer this to cold documentation, as it makes me remember who gathered these things, and what this place means. Every aspect of the project, in fact, carries personal weight for me.

My mentor, Richard Lohmann, a veteran of extra large format cameras and platinum printing, introduced me to the platinum process and then the 7 x 17 format. From Richard I learned about the family of banquet cameras and the possibilities of larger direct contact prints. As I experimented early on with the process, I quickly found that I loved the beauty and simplicity of the contact print, but hated the tiny prints from my 4 x 5-crown graphic press camera.

I had always been attracted to a wider angle of view, using 65 and 90mm lenses on my 4 x 5 camera. Composing with such wide lenses became a problem. The angle of view was right but the aspect ration just didnÕt really work with what I wanted. I either had too much sky or too much foreground.

Richard encouraged me to experiment with a larger format, and 7 x 17 ended up being the perfect size. Not too big to carry on my back, it was still big enough for a contact print to be easily approachable and, with the wide angle I like to use, easily readable.

I sold my medium format equipment to get money together for my first 7 x 17 camera, an old Korona panoramic view. It came with two funky film holders and bellows. Probably 80-90 years old, all its joints were loose and worn. The simple clicking of the ilex shutter was enough to make the front standard shake.

After a few months of struggling to make this camera usable, I came to the conclusion that the Korona was just too delicate, too heavy, and most damning of all, too expensive.

A year before, I had seen a fellow photographer make an 11 x 14 camera. Done over a few months, it seemed to be pretty solid. Though my own woodworking skills were limited to junior high school woodshop, I thought I could make my own camera if I just sat down and planned it out.

Because the basic Phillips view camera has its rear standard fixed in the horizontal position, I decided that would be the easiest design to pursue. It would be necessary because the extreme aspect ratio of 7 x 17 would be kind of an awkward revolving back.

Determined not to look back, I sold the Korona but kept its two film holders. Having those, I was able to make the rear standard to the necessary specifications. In addition, I studied old View Camera magazine articles on types of wood for field cameras and how to construct bellows. I pored over old ads for cameras, using the photographs of the cameras themselves to get ideas of what to include.

It took me about a month and a half to make the camera, with the biggest problem being the bellows. My first attempt didnÕt actually work, but through failure I learned what to do. Ultimately, the bellows I made aren't pretty, but they work.

As for lenses, coverage was the biggest factor. Basically, anything that covers 11 x 14 will cover 7 x 17, so I started my search from there. Richard Lohmann turned me on to Goerz Dagor lenses, with their small size, big coverage, and the ever-crucial cheap prices. From Dagor I started with a 10 3/4" lens, but found I needed something a little wider. Eventually I got a hold of a Schneider 210mm Angulon. This lens barely covers the 7x17 format, but for close-up work and with the limited bellows draw of my camera, it is really nice to use. I also have a 12" Dagor, which gives me a less wide angle of view. All three lenses are very small in size, unlike modern lens designs. When you carry all the equipment on your back, this becomes a blessing.

Since 1995, I have used this homemade camera on a regular basis. It has traveled on buses throughout Mexico (facing down Federales), been to Canada, and about 22 states in the U.S. In that time I have had to make one more bellows, but beyond that, the camera has worked just fine.

My equipment is as personal as my work. If anything breaks, I know I can repair it. This camera has half the weight of my old Korona, less size, and 1/10 the price. After it was all said and done, the materials for the camera set me back less than half the cost of a new film holder for the format. In fact, I felt so comfortable with my construction skills that for a trip to Ireland in 1998, I made a 5x12 camera, not wanting to lug around that 7x17.

But still I go back to the 7x17 and my work at my grandparent's ranch. I don't know when I will be done saying all I can about this place, but the process has taught me how precious time is when the people and places you love are slipping away. In a small way, through these photographs, I am doing what I can to hold on to them.

-Chris McCaw
San Francisco, CA

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