Helsinki Through Bellows and Blizzards: A Love Letter (or Cry for Help) from Kiribane and a Plaubel Makina 67

Let me begin with a disclaimer: I did not come to Helsinki looking for enlightenment. I came with a backpack, a questionable choice of boots, and my ever-trusty (read: fragile and emotionally unstable) Plaubel Makina 67. What followed was a glorious mix of creative ambition, mild frostbite, and the kind of analogue madness that can only be born from hauling 1.3kg of folding German-Japanese pain across an icy northern city.

If you’re a film shooter thinking, “Should I take my Makina 67 to Helsinki?” — allow me to be your prophet, or at least your cautionary tale. Spoiler: the answer is yes. But also dear God, are you sure?

Senate Square: Where Snow, Tourists, and Existentialism Collide

The adventure began at Senate Square, that pristine slice of neoclassical heaven. The white of the Helsinki Cathedral glowed like a Scandinavian Photoshop filter, which would’ve been perfect… if not for the snow coming at me sideways like nature’s own slapstick routine.

Here’s your first film photography tip: Always bring a microfiber cloth. And then bring six more. Snowflakes look charming until they land on your lens, melt, and dry into artistic smears of doom. I shot a portrait of the cathedral so misty and vague I now sell it as an “abstract interpretation of spiritual space.”

Makina Tip #1: Don’t extend the bellows during precipitation unless you want to learn the word “mildew” in multiple languages.

Ullanlinna: Art Nouveau and Frostbite, Together At Last

Ah, Ullanlinna, the Instagrammer’s promised land. Rows of pastel buildings so pretty they made my Makina weep with joy (or maybe that was a light leak forming, I’ll never know). I shuffled along Huvilakatu, surrounded by whimsical balconies and my own crunching footsteps. It would’ve been romantic if I weren’t fighting to focus through a fogged-up rangefinder patch and swearing quietly into the wind.

Kiribane’s Photography Rule #23: If your camera doesn’t make you curse at least once every 30 minutes, you’re not doing it right.

Pro tip: Stop by Observatory Hill Park. It’s peaceful, offers great views, and you can lie to yourself about catching the “golden hour” even when the sun hasn’t fully risen since October.

Design District: Where Style Meets Hypothermia

If Apple Stores had souls, they’d be born in Helsinki’s Design District. It’s a candy box of creativity: modern architecture, niche museums, and more concept cafés than your memory cards can handle.

Makina Tip #2: Meter like your life depends on it. Helsinki’s winter light is less “illumination” and more “divine suggestion.” My incident meter had an identity crisis halfway through the day and refused to participate. I shot most rolls at box speed with a prayer.

Also: beware the hail. One moment I’m photographing a shadowy stairwell outside Oodi Library, the next I’m being pelted with tiny ice bullets. The Makina, folded neatly into my bag, survived. My fingers, less so.

Kruununhaka: Coffee, Cobbles, and Camera-Induced Existentialism

Kruununhaka is beautiful. Quiet. Neoclassical. I strolled into a café looking like a weathered Soviet mountaineer and ordered something hot enough to unfreeze the shutter button. The local barista asked if my camera was a Geiger counter. I told him it was more dangerous.

There’s joy in walking these streets with a big, folding camera. People either respect you or keep a safe distance — both ideal outcomes. Kruununhaka also taught me the importance of changing film in a sheltered spot. Nothing says “oops” like unspooling 120 film in sub-zero wind while your camera sulks open like a broken briefcase.

Makina Tip #3: Practice your film loading. Blindfolded. In a meat locker. While someone shouts Finnish verbs at you.

Uspenski Cathedral: Where Your Light Meter Goes to Die

Climbing to Uspenski Cathedral felt like a pilgrimage, and not just because I slipped three times. This Orthodox behemoth is a gift to photographers: red bricks, golden domes, and the kind of moody interiors your Portra dreams about.

But here’s the twist — inside, it’s dimmer than your last date’s personality. I shot handheld at 1/15 with the steadiness of a monk and the nerves of a gambler. Every shot was a roll of the dice. Would the shutter fire? Would the meter lie? Would the bellows implode mid-exposure? Yes. Probably. Almost.

Still, the photos were glorious. One in ten. But oh, that one.

Helsinki Survival Guide for the Analogue Insane:

Bring silica gel. Helsinki is damp. Your bellows hate it.
Zone focus like you’re in 1973. Your frozen fingers will thank you.
Use a sling bag. Or embrace the chiropractor bills.
Shoot Portra 400. Or HP5. Or anything forgiving. You’ll need mercy.
Don’t be afraid of bad weather. Snow, hail, fog — they’re just free atmosphere.

Conclusion: Cold, Tired, and Utterly Worth It

So was it worth it? The freezing winds? The hailstorm in my lens hood? The moment I dropped a roll of Kodak Gold into a snowbank and cried quietly for 30 seconds?

Yes. A thousand times yes.

Because film is irrational. The Makina 67 is irrational. And Helsinki — cold, beautiful, endlessly photogenic — is the perfect playground for the analog faithful who don’t mind a bit of suffering with their art.

So go. Take your fragile cameras, your expired film, your wildly impractical hopes. Shoot in the snow. Curse in the hail. Pray for your light seals.

And remember: every Makina frame you capture in Helsinki is a triumph over common sense.

— Kiribane, analog dreamer, frostbitten enthusiast, Makina martyr