Lomo: Clunk Click Every Pic...

Manufactured in Russia, the LOMO LC-A is to photography what the Trabant is to driving. Yet, it has spawned a worldwide cult known as 'Lomography'. And as Bren O'Callaghan found, once you welcome this low-tech camera into your heart, your life will never be quite the same again.

The LOMO LC-A is a camera born in the thick of the cold war, developed with covert technology and possessed of mind-altering properties. Simply point, click and shoot from the hip.

LOMO stands for Leningradskoye Optiko Mechanichesckoye Obyedinenie (Leningrad Optical & Mechanical Enterprise), an organisation which tumbled forth from Mother Russia's unshaven loins back in 1914.

Its original remit was as a manufacturer of goods with military applications for the Russian army, though it also produced cameras for the masses. Without exception, these were serviceable-but-ridiculously clunky objects of desire. But that all changed in 1980, when a General Igor Petrowitsch Koritzky, got his khaki knickers in a twist over a miniature Japanese camera -- the Kassina --- and approached the then head of LOMO with the brief to copy and improve upon the design.

Three years later, the first batch of 6,000 LC-A 35mm cameras were distributed to the delegates of XXVII Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, where they were seized upon with all of the rabid glee of a sherry tasting in Marks & Spencers' food hall. Indeed, one can only imagine the celebratory fun that was had, as Boney M's Ra-Ra-Rasputin hit the turntable and someone stuck a party hat on old Lenin himself who had been propped in the corner for the occasion, as camera shutters clicked all around the Kremlin.

the first batch of LC-A 35mm cameras were   seized upon with all of the rabid glee of a sherry tasting in Marks & Spencers

And so, the LC-A became the camera of choice across the pan-Communist community, from Vietnam to Cuba and back, amongst the neuter class of East Germany, Bulgaria, Red China and Siberia's vinter vonderland. If there was a potato queue to be found you could be sure that those moustachioed Babushka's were vogueing for snapshots in thermal bras, long before Reader's Wives hijacked the bear's arse aesthetic. Why, even uncle Vanya's pot-belly at the Black Sea could now be preserved for posterity and provide evidence for the prosecution in the case of Male Gender versus too small Speedos.

But as the USSR wheezed its final deathrattle and trade barriers burst, allowing in a flood of dirt-cheap, battery-powered imports from Asia, production of the LC-A wound down with a view to halting completely. That was until 1991, when a group of Viennese students on holiday in Prague, stopped by a Bagpuss-stylee junk shop, purchased a bunch of the sad black bricks and fired off reams of film which were then developed on their return to Austria.

With its sharp glass lens, the Russian LC-A had successfully mimicked its Japanese forbear not only in terms of looks, but also in its unusually high light sensitivity. So, on receiving their garishly-coloured, blurred, peculiarly atmospheric prints, the future of the LC-A was assured. But forget Victor Kiam and his 'bought-the-company' claptrap. This bunch of astute Austrians immediately went and secured exclusive export rights to the camera, via a liaison with the mayor of St Petersburg at that time, a certain Mr Vladimir Putin. With continued production of the camera assured, they then   conjured up a cunning little marketing ruse under the moniker of The Lomographic Society. Purchase an LC-A from them (at a price significantly higher than you would pay in Russia), and you also get automatic membership of the global LOMO family, a corner of the web to display your own work and a general fuzzy feeling of belonging.

And so we come to what both appeals and repulses the owners of this totemic, frustratingly appealing little turd. Because let's not mix metaphors here -- the LC-A is a piece of shit. Sure, there are unique benefits or I wouldn't be jamming my foot in your door, but remember that no matter the self-sucking PR schlurp, this is an inferior, poorly assembled piece of Perestroika kitsch. That said, it is still kinda' cool.

Firstly -- appearance. Midnight black, pleasantly weighty in the palm, finished in faux-leatherette. A sliding device beneath the lens protects both it and the viewfinder until ready for use with a guillotine screen. A manual wind-on mechanism and re-spooling knob mean lots of fiddly finger action and mucho clunk-click, rat-at-at-tat audio accompaniment akin to a satisfactory post coital sigh.

Secondly -- results. The heart of any camera is the lens, and what makes the LOMO so special in a spastic sense is the determination to flare its front-facing sphincter as long as is required to allow enough light to hit the film inside.

Although known as 'automatic program exposure', this is only mechanised at a very basic level. What rescues the LC-A from remedial relegation is the ability to muck about and experiment with distance, shutter speed and movement, rather than relinquish control entirely.

The LC-A is an inferior, poorly assembled piece of perestroika kitsch. That said, it's still kinda cool

The outcome for the final print (remember kids: matt finish good -- gloss finish naff), is that the fraction-too-long approach results in a gaudy haemorrhage of colours, a blurring of movement, and   an indefinable sense of immediate nostalgia. The latter is largely due to a vignetting or tunnel vision effect in which the corners of the snap fill with shadow. It's like peering through a keyhole or the wrong end of a telescope; a form of frame that bestows emotive significance upon the most mundane of objects: a lost mitten; a mouthful of toothpaste drool; a squashed spider on the sole of a flip-flop.

Thirdly -- handicap. The LC-A is useless for portraits,   tourist snap-shots, landscapes and other credible subjects. Oh, and as for close ups -- sorry but no can do. This ain't no replacement for more effective photographic fare but a lo-fi accompaniment. A deliberate embrace of the crappy and the no-frills, capturing the essence of a mood; the moments between more legitimate events.

If after all the warnings you rather like the idea of welcoming an LC-A into your home and heart, then be warned -- your life will never be the same again. Bus stops will become street sculpture and TV soaps will lose their appeal in favour of an evening hunt for illuminated kebab menus and 'interesting blue things'. Then the screws will start to fall out of the camera, so you have to stick it together with duct tape. At least I did. And when the film ripped twice in a row, I swore blind that was it. Never again! But what was the alternative -- shuffle back into line and leave it to the experts? I think not. Photography should be a democratic art, and by ditching perfection for moronic tonsil-shots the censure of perceived worth holds no further hurt. Let someone else get into a flap about it. So I tried one more time. And there was Davey, blowing bubbles the day we got lost looking for the water park. A pink sofa dappled with light. Someone's shoe. Vapour trails that made a perfect triangle in the sky...

Of course it's a scam, a shrewd marketing coup re-packaged and flogged to mugs like myself in search of a double choc-ironic fix. But all bashed up as I am both inside and out, it suits me just fine. My next photo project? Technicolor Pavement Pizzas, as sponsored by the Carrot Advisory Council.

© 2003 Bren O'Callaghan. Originally published in Nude Magazine # 1, August/ Sept 2003.
Pictures by Bren O'Callaghan.