I bought a VERY cheap Lubitel 166B medium format 120 film camera............I don't know why!!!

There is a point in every man’s journey, particularly as one approaches the sexagenarian threshold, where the sheer accumulation of years begins to assert a non-negotiable gravitational pull. For some, this manifests as a slowing of pace; a measured, perhaps, even prudent, withdrawal from the extremes of life. For myself? It's the persistent, almost compulsive, pursuit of the sublime austerity of the Scottish wilderness. I continue to haul myself into the landscape - across all four seasons I might add, under the gamut of the Koppen climate classification, be it driving hundreds of miles in a single diurnal cycle or using my vehicle as a makeshift bivouac - all while my musculature and skeletal frame registering increasingly emphatic dissent.

And yet, as if this high-ISO existence wasn't enough of a self-imposed technical challenge, I have committed a baffling act of photographic atavism: the acquisition of a bloody medium format film camera.

I confess, the reasoning appears almost clinically unsound. Film, as a medium, is an exercise in finesse, friction, and expenditure. It is the absolute, polar opposite of the instantaneous, highly parameterised efficiency of the modern digital sensor.

My initial claims of not knowing why are, to employ the appropriate vernacular, unmitigated technical drivel. I do know why. The "why" is a deep-seated fascination that has resonated for many a fiscal quarter now, with the inherent qualities of the 120 film format. The allure lies in the 6x6cm square negative, the resultant increased resolution and tonal gradation afforded by the larger emulsion area, and the captivating, often dream-like quality - the very signature of medium format - that such a large-area capture imparts. Most compellingly, I am enchanted by the prospect of absolute technical authorship - the granular, methodical deconstruction and reconstruction of the shot from a tabula rasa state.

The Instrument of Affliction: A Soviet TLR

My tool for this foray into the Stone Age of image capture?

The laughably inexpensive Lubitel 166B.

Yes, a Soviet-era Twin Lens Reflex (TLR).

I can already feel the collective, orbital velocity of the eye-rolls from the seasoned purists; the analogue of the whirring film advance on a dilapidated fruit machine. The price point was so absurdly low that my only immediate MTBF (Mean Time Between Failures) expectation is that the bloody thing even manages to successfully cycle a roll of film without incurring a terminal light-leak or complete mechanical seizure. The outcome of this analogue gamble is, as yet, an unknown variable, pending the inevitable darkroom processing.

The Lubitel 166B is, to state it plainly, a study in mechanical minimalism. There is zero on-board photometric functionality - no automated exposure compensation, no evaluative or matrix metering whatsoever. It operates with a total absence of auto-focus servos, features a fixed focal length, and lacks any form of exposure or focus bracketing. Its 1/15s to 1/250s leaf shutter speeds and aperture range from f/4.5 to f/22 demand total manual input.

This, however, is precisely the source of its intrinsic joy. This enforced manual operation - this reversion to the mechanical - places the emphasis squarely back onto the fundamental principles of photography: an intimate understanding of the Exposure Triangle (the symbiotic relationship between shutter speed x aperture times x ISO), the meticulous application of compositional geometry, and the precise manipulation of Depth of Field (DOF) via the selected f-stop.

Technically, the TLR designation is critical. The camera employs two coupled lenses of identical 75mm focal length: the lower taking lens (the photographic objective, often a simple T-22 triplet design) and the upper viewing lens (f/2.8). The viewing lens projects the image, via a 45 degree planar mirror, onto a matte ground-glass focusing screen at the camera's waist-level apex. The gearing ensures that the focal plane established on the screen is isomorphic with the image plane on the film. It is a slow, methodical, and anti-digital process.

The Imperative of Intentionality: A Disciplinary Tool

Why, then, this deliberate retrograde manoeuvre back into the Neolithic era of optics?

The answer is a pursuit of enhanced creative integrity. While I will, initially, outsource the chemical processing of the negative (my motivation for setting up a dedicated darkroom is currently trending towards zero), the appeal of meticulously pre-visualising and engineering the shot - composing, framing, calculating the exposure parameters, and achieving critical focus - is overwhelming.

This shift in methodology serves to authenticate my photographic practice. With the digital capture systems—my trusty Canon M100 mirrorless and the venerable Canon 60D DSLR - the marginal cost of an error is negligible. One can simply fire-and-forget a burst of frames, relying on the high-speed buffer and post-capture evaluation to triage the results.

The film world, particularly with a mechanically unsophisticated vintage instrument like the Lubitel, dictates a complete paradigm shift. Each shutter actuation must be justified. A roll of 12-exposure 120 film, costing about £7, coupled with a £20-£25 development charge, makes the cost-per-image a financially relevant metric. Waste, therefore, becomes an expensive indulgence.

This financial constraint imposes a necessary discipline and a clear sense of purpose to the workflow. One is forced to assess the light, perform the requisite calculations, confirm the focus, and commit to the image before pressing the release lever. This disciplined, deliberate approach, I hope, will organically cross-pollinate into my digital work, leading to a something of a demonstrable improvement in my overall photographic capability. It’s a return to first principles, a demanding but essential re-calibration of the eye and the mind.