The Pentax Celebration

Sometimes the best stories begin with the worst decisions. Or with flea markets. Which, in essence, is the same thing.

I was wandering through one of those markets that look more like a household liquidation than a treasure hunt. A sea of porcelain, pots, books, vinyl records nobody plays anymore, and objects that lost their purpose decades ago. And then there it was. A piece of wood. A grip. A grip that looked as misplaced as a samurai at the Cologne carnival.

I recognized it immediately: the wooden grip for the Asahi Pentax 6x7, my old medium format queen from the era when cameras doubled as gym equipment. It had been sitting on my shelf for years, covered in dust, offended, probably moments away from considering self-recycling. But this grip… it stirred something in me. Pride, perhaps. Or poor judgment.

The seller was young, friendly, and very clearly not a historian of camera equipment. When I asked what she wanted for it, she replied:

“I don’t know, maybe 30 euros?”

That was the moment my imagination took over.

I explained, completely straight-faced, that it must belong to an old iron I supposedly owned. Fifteen euros seemed reasonable for such a “handle.” After a brief diplomatic exchange, we settled at twenty.

What she didn’t know: that grip was the missing key to something I had quietly abandoned. The Pentax needed only this one piece to return to service without permanently damaging my wrist.

And just like that — she was back.

The Only Proper Way to Celebrate

You don’t simply reactivate a camera like that. You celebrate it.

So I decided the comeback deserved a proper ritual: a photoshoot. Not a quiet test roll. Not a cautious experiment. A full outing. Film loaded. Grip mounted. Pride restored.

And because no celebration should happen without a worthy subject, a Japanese model joined the day. Calm, precise, composed. The kind of presence that makes even a stubborn 6x7 behave.

Act I: Cologne — Resurrection

We began in Cologne. The Rhine cut through the city with its usual indifference, and the Kranhäuser stood like oversized design statements pretending to float.

The Pentax did not whisper. It announced itself. Every mirror slap echoed with the confidence of a machine that had been underestimated for too long. Passersby turned. Good. Let them.

The Japanese model moved effortlessly through the cold light. Between wind, concrete, and glass, she created calm geometry against the restless urban backdrop. Frame by frame, I could feel the camera asserting its relevance.

It wasn’t just functioning.

It was performing.

Act II: Düsseldorf — Grand Finale

A proper celebration deserves a second act. So we crossed into Düsseldorf, diplomatic tensions between cities politely ignored for the sake of medium format art.

The Medienhafen, with its leaning Gehry buildings and polished surfaces, felt like the perfect closing stage. The light softened. The rhythm slowed. The Pentax kept working with stubborn mechanical dignity.

Film advanced. Shutter fired. The grip felt natural in my hand, as if it had never been missing.

The model remained composed, steady, subtly powerful in her movements. The camera responded like an old musician rediscovering an audience.

And somewhere between frames, it became clear:

This wasn’t just a celebration.

It was a reintroduction.

After the Dust

That forgotten camera, once left to gather dust, had been given a second beginning by a random piece of wood lying between porcelain plates. The flea market had unknowingly hosted a resurrection.

The results were strong. The day was effortless. And the Pentax — once neglected — now feels like it belongs back in regular rotation.

She waited patiently.

Now she will work again.

Probably more often than strictly practical.

And honestly, she deserves it.