So in a sense, the F6 is the final expression of 35mm camera technology, and by extension, the last holdout to make a case for 35mm film as a viable medium for real photographers.īut even though the F6 is among the most important cameras ever made, it’s also among the most peculiar.
#Nikon f6 discontinued professional#
But what’s even more remarkable is that the F6 remains the very last professional 35mm SLR still in production in today’s age of DSLRs and mirror-less marvels (its competitors threw in the towel shortly after its introduction). This range of cameras has been the standard bearer in professional-grade SLR cameras for the latter half of the twentieth century. The Nikon F6 is the last in a long, storied line of Nikon’s professional F-series of SLRs. But there it was, right in front of me, waiting patiently for its first roll of film.īut before I get to deep into this write-up, and to quell the chorus of readers who are certainly rolling there eyes at my excessively reverential tone, let me explain the reason for my shock and awe. I couldn’t believe I was getting the chance to shoot Nikon’s final professional film camera, the swan song of the analog era, and possibly the greatest film SLR ever made, the Nikon F6. Nothing really prepares a person for the truly extraordinary moments in life, and this moment was no exception. I took off the top cover and, somehow, I knew immediately. I carefully pried open the box, and after sifting through a few bits of paper packaging, the cardboard mold of the F6 revealed itself. It was gold, and emblazoned with words I thought I’d never see in the flesh – Nikon F6. What greeted me from inside this innocuous box was another, prettier box. When I saw that its origin was CP founder James, I immediately carried it into the house, grabbed some scissors, and sliced through the packaging.
Its presence was a little strange, as I hadn’t ordered anything, but I was mostly sure it wasn’t a bomb. It was just a few weeks ago that I discovered a benign looking package sitting on my front porch. I shifted between grief and remembrance, and wandered around the house aimlessly as the memory of a truly great camera still lingered in my brain. The rest of the day was spent in a silent stupor – the muted shock which occurs when someone or something truly special is taken from us. I drove home, the familiar presence of a bulky, black camera sadly absent from my passenger’s seat. I headed to the post office and reverently handed the package to a clerk, who unceremoniously stuffed it into a shopping cart and distractedly ordered me to have a nice day. I shut the gold box for the last time and laid it into a bigger, blander box, a Priority Mail shipping label from Los Angeles to Boston its only decoration.
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