The Monday Ritual

It's Monday morning, and I've just completed a ritual that has been part of my weekly routine since January 2019. I've refilled my Parker 51 fountain pen. 

It didn't need refilling, even though I do use it several times daily, adding things to my twice-weekly shopping list, or simply making casual notes on a notepad. Using a pen still makes sense for temporary and disposable notes, and there's always the odd birthday card to deal with of course. Or for making purchase notes in books, or on the back of paintings that come into my possession.

Admittedly, any kind of pen would do for such things; but I like the feel of a fountain pen, the mark it makes on paper, and the extra style it brings. 

So it's worth the effort of filling it once a week. I am perfectly happy to put up with any slight inconvenience, and I don't mind all the care and attention this well-made but nevertheless delicate writing instrument requires. It can be accidentally damaged quite easily. Neglect can lead to its clogging up with dried-up ink. Indeed, using the wrong kind of ink will kill it (what ink to use is a deep subject all on its own). So I stick to the 'official' Parker Quink ink, and keep that fresh by weekly refilling, in the process flushing out its internal tubes and fins. 

As to the 'ritual', I take off the cap, unscrew the barrel, dip the nib end into the ink bottle, and press a metal bar slowly four times. Then I withdraw the pen from the bottle, and with a tissue or piece of kitchen roll carefully wipe excess ink off the nib and the area around it. Then I put the pen together again. I do this every Monday morning, without fail, at home or on holiday. Every Monday since January 2019. It's a satisfying little task that I like doing, and I'm keeping my fountain pen healthy with the weekly frequency.

I could easily get away with, say, a fortnightly refill. My pen's internal ink reservoir is large, and it would take an awful lot of writing to run it dry. It was designed to cope with a full day of handwriting -  long screeds of it - the kind of usage common in schools, colleges and offices before ballpoint pens were invented and became totally reliable and prestigious in their own right. An era when a pencil was the only other kind of writing instrument. It was all long before the computer age. 

People didn't mind messing about with ink bottles (and it could be very messy!) when there was no alternative. Even if you could type, nobody typed a personal letter: it was always handwritten, as a minimum courtesy to the receiver. Love letters especially - any sort of billet doux - required the personal touch of a fountain pen. When growing up I was always impressed by a card or letter written with a 'proper pen', and felt second-rate if the writer had written me off with a ballpoint. So using a fountain pen had a social significance that even today hasn't entirely evaporated.  

Of course, Parker - and other pen manufacturers - invented various ways to add style and convenience to refilling a pen, and make the procedure good for the Jet Age. I came across this ad from 1957, showing a sophisticated cocktail-drinking man-of-the-world (is he a famous actor?) watching his new Parker 61 fountain pen - placed backwards into a bottle - automatically suck up the ink. The first 61s contained an absorbent core of special material that drew the ink inside without the owner having to press anything - so there was much less potential for getting inky fingers. Look at the thoughtful fascination on his face. 

Message: real men buy Parker pens, and get a kick from the latest capillary refilling method - not just from champagne! 

That version of the Parker 61 wasn't a success, as the capillary action gradually became inefficient. Later 61s reverted to conventional filling methods. And not far ahead was the era of disposable plastic cartridges prefilled with ink, a student's dream. I never used those. Even when young, I preferred the ink-bottle ritual. Partly because I liked the smell of the ink, and still do.

Production of the Parker 51, a pen conceived immediately before the Second World War and perfected afterwards, didn't cease when the 61 was launched. The 51 was a best-seller and had a very long life, going though a number of design phases right through to the 1970s, all well documented and which help to date any pen that one might buy nowadays. 

I had to learn all about various little functional and styling changes in order to be quite certain that mine was indeed wholly original, and not merely a 'frankenpen' - that is, a credible-looking fake put together from pen parts of various ages. A single indication of age wasn't adequate. Everything had to belong together, with no ifs and buts. 

One of the more conclusive age-indicators - if it survives, as it might rub away over many years - is a tiny date mark on the barrel that (provided it is truly contemporary with the rest of the pen) precisely records in which quarter of which year one's pen was manufactured. My pen has such a mark. It's the 'dot 5' visible just below the metal ring in the shot below. 

'5' meant '1955', and the single dot to the left meant 'third quarter'. Parker made a fresh metal stamp annually for impressing the plastic with a manufacturing date. The first quarter of the year would show three dots, then they'd file off a dot for the second quarter, leaving two dots. Then for the third quarter another dot would be removed, leaving only a single dot. That last dot would then be removed to indicate the final quarter. So if there are no dots, you know it was a pen manufactured with the Christmas market in mind. By 1955 only the Newhaven factory was date-marking in this way.  

I didn't see this 'dot 5' at first, and the dealer probably didn't spot it either. It was rather faint.

Thus my own Parker 51, made at Parker's former UK factory in Newhaven in Sussex, dates from the 'third quarter of 1955'. In other words, it was made in July, August or September 1955. It's rather a shock to realise that this object - which looks modern, and is in daily use - is actually sixty-eight years old. Not many things last this long! It's only three years younger than myself. Of my personal possessions, only Teddy Tinkoes, my teddy bear, and a silver serviette-ring, are older. So my Parker 51 (named Water Dragon) is by its age alone very special to me. 

But otherwise it's simply a good example of a fountain pen produced in its millions, although acknowledged to be one of the best designs ever. There are plenty still around to buy - all of them pre-owned of course. I fancy the 'old fountain pen' market remains healthy and has had a modest revival in recent years, retro stuff in general being in vogue as a reaction to soulless all-electronic gadgetry. Certainly, prices have gone up significantly since I bought my pen online in 2019 for £125. A very similar one in the same colour on the same website is presently being offered at £175 - that's a 40% increase in four years.

Here in fact are screenshots of my pen on that website (Vintage Pens of Hornsea in East Yorkshire) just before I decided to buy:

No doubt even a proper dealer hasn't the time to do very detailed research on all the pens that pass through his hands. He was wrong about the 'mid-sixties' date for mine, although it was pleasant to play the girl detective, do the footwork, and successfully establish for myself an unmistakable list of indications that proved its true date of manufacture. Anyway I bought this one, and have been its proud owner ever since. 

On receipt I had the ink bottle ready! This was it in the shop.

I had only to put ink into the pen. It had been serviced by the dealer - the pen dismantled; the rubber ink sac replaced; the nib adjusted; and the pen flushed out with water. So there should have been no functional issues whatever, and there were none.

I soon made a new pen case from leather offcuts. I wanted very good protection for my new treasure.

Filling time!

If that looks like a set-up full of potential disaster - ink bottle tipping over, pen dropped onto the floor and nib terminally bent - bear in mind that I usually fill Water Dragon before breakfast and not long after waking, so that I'm still half-asleep. There have been no mishaps yet, after more than two hundred fillings. So it can't really be the exacting performance you might think. I'm saying that if you need a proper retro start to your week, a fix of reality, few activities beat filling a fountain pen. 

Go to it.

Black and White

Some years ago Leica started a trend, offering a version of each successive M-Series rangefinder camera that could take pictures only in monochrome. They are no longer the only manufacturer to market such cameras. Black and White is becoming mainstream again. 

Originally B&W was of course the only way to take pictures, and despite early experiments in colour film, it remained the chief way until 1960 or so - certainly if one did one's own developing and printing at home. And until that date, reproductions of colour photos in books and magazines were something special. Then gradually colour became commonplace everywhere, and B&W photography morphed into a branch of pictorial art. I may be wrong, but I think its final eclipse as a major medium coincided with the arrival of colour TV in 1969. Kodak and Ilford continued to support the ongoing development of new B&W emulsions that gave ever sharper and subtler renditions (remember the introduction of Kodak T-Max in the 1980s and Ilford Delta in the 1990s?), but the main market was in colour film, and the prime thrust for an entire range of manufacturers was on perfecting their colour products. 

Then digital photography arrived and, in the space of only half a dozen years, overtook film and eventually drove even Kodak to the wall. It didn't take long for digital technology to surpass the old chemical method of capturing an image, although it remained true that a good film image had 'something' about it - a certain look - that was to many superior to the unnaturally sharp digital rendition. And that remains the case. Digital photography is by now capable of producing super-detailed pictures in almost any circumstances, which was never true of film photography. And the thing is, most recent smartphones can provide a taste of that. Indeed, the market for 'proper' cameras - and of course their lenses and other supporting accessories - has shrunk drastically. Hence the closure of most High Street photo dealers, and the shift to online business. Hence the concentration on expensive but pro-standard equipment, to maintain an adequate revenue stream with decent profits. 

New models supersede old ones very quickly, as it is essential to get customers to upgrade as often as possible. And the psychology employed is correct. An awful lot of amateur photographers drool over online photo news and reviews and persuade themselves that they 'must have' the latest and best equipment in order to feel 'professional' - which in turn may, they hope, enable them to take better pictures. Or at least give them the appearance of being pros with the right kit. 

Of course that is not true. Great kit does not turn a person with no talent into a master. All you need is the right tool for the particular job in hand, and the personal skill and imagination to turn out something arresting. 

It's only my own opinion, but I think one should be realistic and honest about what kind of pictures one ever takes, and get hold of a camera that suits that limited purpose. It's a waste of money to buy stuff that will never be needed, no matter how sexy it might be. And an older camera, so long as it's capable enough, can be as good for that as the latest wonder-machine.  

This said, there are plenty of people around - men mostly, I'm thinking - who believe that impressive-looking and, above all, expensive equipment makes an important statement about their commitment to photographic excellence, and by extension their worth as human beings. Just as there are those who must have large and powerful cars to express their personal value and importance. Ownership is all; practical usage is very secondary. I don't mock serious collectors, if they have the cash to indulge themselves. But I am sorry for lesser mortals who spend money on a dream, spurred on by the hype churned up for every new product. Unless genuinely need-driven, that money could be better spent. 

In my own case, I have put together a sufficient kit. I can't justify further purchases, at least not for a long while, or unless circumstances force me to replace something lost or damaged. For the next few years I intend to hone my skills, such as they are, on what I have got. 

Returning to the opening of this post, the appeal of (very expensive) monochrome-only digital cameras is that the light coming in through the lens and onto the sensor does not have to pass through the usual array of filters that analyse the colour-components of the light. It goes straight in. Nor is there a filter to smooth out any of the jagged edges associated with cameras with only a small number of megapixels: it isn't needed, as the megapixel count on these monochrome-only cameras is so high. 

The result is astonishing sharpness, and a full range of grey tones from the blackest black to the whitest white, and everything in between. These are digital pictures with a very special look - the ultimate in high definition. It's no mystery at all why professional-level photographers want that look. Especially those who incline to fine art photography, or dramatic documentary pictures. 

Leica, as I say, started the current trend for offering monochrome-only cameras. And such has been the resurgence of B&W photography, I would say that in 2023 the B&W man or woman commands greater respect and accolade that those still working in colour. B&W is fashionable; but it also has a certain 'purity' about it. Need I also add that it takes a higher level of skill to produce stunning B&W images, compared to colour? One reason why I won't personally be buying one of these specialist monochrome-only cameras, even second-hand, is that I haven't the skill, and am never likely to develop it.

That said, I do occasionally take B&W shots when I feel the scene or subject in front of me would look good in monochrome. I have two 'User Profiles' set up on LXV, one for colour shots, one for B&W, and it isn't too much trouble to switch between them. The profile for B&W has extra contrast. I could of course take everything in colour, and then select shots for conversion to B&W when post-processing.  The end result would be the same, or could be made so. But the world looks different if you compose the picture in B&W mode, and I think the most successful B&W pictures are generally those that looked great on the screen before actually taking the shot.

How many of that kind of 'composed and taken in B&W mode, and not converted later from colour' pictures do I take? Not many! I can't put an exact figure on it. If the shot doesn't work, I discard it. I don't know how many have been deleted. I do know how many have made it into my 'Most Important Photos' collection - which contains about a fifth of all my pictures - during the last twelve months. Just 71 pictures. And I do know how many pictures I've taken in the last twelve months: 23,031 with LXV, my Leica X Vario; 787 with the little Leica D-Lux 4; and 996 with Prudence, my Samsung Galaxy S20+ smartphone - a total of 24,814 shots. 

71 B&W pictures saved (and considered decent) compared to 24,814 taken altogether is hardly worth working out as a percentage. Obviously, only a tiny part of my output is purely B&W. I'm surprised it's not more. Perhaps it should be!

Few of those 71 are exhibition-quality shots. I'm easily satisfied. But let's look at some of them, to see what scenes or subjects made me set up B&W mode and press the shutter button.

Clearly strong shapes, strong lines, strong shadows and various light-effects make me think on B&W lines.

Stone is a natural subject for B&W!

I've only taken the rare B&W shot of myself, and nothing of my friends.

Lately I've been much drawn to taking moody pictures of the sun and passing clouds. And in general, I think I've been leaving the shadows dark, to maximise contrast. The reader will have to be the judge as to whether that has led to photos with more punch. 

Although I do like the effects that B&W pictures bring out - the accentuation of shape and texture for instance - I still prefer colour photographs. Here are some taken on the South Downs, close by to the last four of the B&W pictures above, and on the same occasion.

I prefer colour because not only is it a richer, more refreshing, stimulation for the eye, it conveys so much extra information about what is in the picture. If you are history-minded and want to take record shots of places you have been to, or things that you saw, then a colour photo is better. I value the colour photos I took with slide film (Kodachrome) in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s. They bring back those scenes so vividly. I don't think B&W would have been the right choice, even if it would had been the more 'artistic' medium.

When looking for pictures to illustrate this post I came across some pictures that appeared to have been taken in B&W, but in fact had been taken in colour. But such was the stark lighting, or the lack of any strong colour in the shot, that some of them are virtually monochrome. Pictures like this:

And then there were pictures taken in B&W, but tinted a little (or a lot) in post-processing, such as this:

But then I don't think these tinted shots really count as 'Black and White', do you?